by Ralph Cotton
“Who gulched you?” Sam asked.
“Who do you think?” said Hardaway.
“Are we going to do it this way?” the Ranger said, eyeing him sharply.
“Garand and his gun monkeys,” Hardaway said. “I caused it, leading you up here . . . causing Carter to get in a big hurry, you dogging us.”
Sam just stared at him.
“I saw what you did . . . X-ing my horse’s shoes. Real funny. Ha-ha,” he said with sarcasm.
“You wasn’t sticking to your part of the bargain, Fatch,” the Ranger said.
“I would have,” said Hardaway. “Sooner or later . . . most likely, maybe—”
“See what I was dealing with?” the Ranger said, cutting him off.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Hardaway said. “I expect I’m dead . . . before I can take you to them.”
“How bad are you hit?” the Ranger said.
“Gut-shot,” Hardaway said grimly. “What does that tell you?”
The Ranger shook his head in regret. But then he asked, “How are you feeling?”
Hardaway gave him a dark stare. “Is that you taking . . . some kind of cruel, sick revenge on me for me not—”
“No, Fatch.” The Ranger cut him off again. “I mean how do you feel right this minute? Are you wishing you had died an hour ago?”
Hardaway still gave him the dark stare.
“No, I wish . . . I could sit awhile . . . get up and go on an hour from now,” he said, crossly.
“Then you’re not gut-shot,” the Ranger said with a sense of relief that Hardaway did not yet share.
Hardaway sighed deeply and raised his hand from over the bloody wound.
“Here’s my gut. . . . Here’s the bullet hole,” he said.
“You’ve got a bullet in your belly, Fatch,” Sam said. “That doesn’t mean you’re gut-shot.” He leaned his rifle against the dead dun’s belly, reached out both hands and took Hardaway by his shoulder and started to pull him up.
“What the hell, Ranger?” Hardaway cried out painfully.
“I’m getting you on your feet. If this doesn’t feel like a knife turning in your gut, you’re not gut-shot.”
“Jesus, please no!” Hardaway screamed. But up on his feet for a second, he took on a strange look of surprise and said, “Whoa, that didn’t hurt nothing like I figured on.”
“Now sit down,” Sam said, giving him a little nudge back down onto the dead horse’s side.
“Damn it, make up your mind!” Hardaway barked. “I said it’s not as bad as I figured. . . . I didn’t say it felt good!”
“Easy, Fatch,” Sam said. “I can get you patched up some. But you’re going to have to take me to the Traybos. The doctor from Maley is there, remember?”
“Lord God Almighty,” Hardaway moaned, shaking his bowed head. “Had I known I was going through all this . . . I could have just drawn you a map . . . and stayed at the Bad Cats. . . .”
“What about that reward? Don’t forget about that,” the Ranger said, wanting to keep his spirits up until he got medical treatment.
“That was all . . . a made-up story,” Hardaway said. “Everything you told me . . . was a damn lie.”
“Huh-uh. I X’d your horse’s shoes so I could follow you, and I unloaded your rifle so you couldn’t shoot me in the back,” Sam said quietly. “But I didn’t lie about the reward. It’s there waiting for you.” He pushed himself to his feet and started to turn and walk to the barb.
“Think about this,” he added, gesturing toward Claypool’s body. “If you’d shot me in the back, or if I hadn’t been able to follow your horse’s tracks, where would you be right now?”
Hardaway shook his bowed head again.
“Obliged, Ranger,” he said in a dejected tone. “Now I feel even more like an ass than I did.”
• • •
An hour later the Ranger wrapped a cloth around Hardaway’s wound to slow the bleeding and sat him on a rock while he dragged Carter Claypool’s body to the side of the trail and covered it with stones. He lugged the bodies of Fain Elliot and Artimus Folliard to the edge of the trail and rolled them off. As they tumbled down into brush and rock, he recalled the cheerful look on the old Mexican’s face when he’d performed the same act earlier that day, but with a steeper fall to better fuel his amusement.
“The horse will have to lie there for now,” he told Hardaway when he walked back to where he sat, his hand resting on his bandaged wound. “I can’t wear these horses out dragging it.”
Hardaway looked sadly at the body of Charlie Smith lying center-trail.
“Carter Claypool loved that cayuse something fierce,” he said reflectively. “There’s no way of knowing it, but I believe if a horse can love a human, ol’ Charlie Smith loved Claypool in return, no matter the tough life he put that animal through.” He breathed deep and the Ranger thought he saw his eyes well up a little.
“How’s your belly?” the Ranger asked, to break his sad train of thought.
“Hurts like hell,” Hardaway said. He stood up, seeing the Ranger getting ready to leave. “Anyways,” he added, nodding toward the stones covering Carter Claypool, “there lies one of the toughest, most loyal, bravest hombres to ever throw on a long rider’s duster and take up the gun.”
The Ranger only nodded, allowing him to finish his coarse eulogy for the departed.
“How much did you know about him?” he asked.
“Not much, really,” said Hardaway. “He snuck off and fought the War of Secession when he was going on fifteen—lied about his age. I don’t know which side he fought on. I always got a feeling it wouldn’t have mattered which side, he just wanted to fight. He left the war and fought ever since. You’ve got to admire a man like that. He was not a man of peace, nor did he make any phony pretense at being one.”
The Ranger watched and listened until Hardaway stopped talking, put on his hat and leveled it.
“Let’s go, Fatch,” he said. “Don’t start trusting my doctoring skills more than I do.”
They mounted their horses and rode on, upward toward a hill line only a few miles above them. When they got to a place where a thinner trail turned off between the walls of stone, they stopped at the sound of horses’ hooves clopping along at a walk on the narrow trail winding toward them.
“Hold it up, Fatch,” the Ranger said. He took Hardaway’s horse by its bridle and led it aside out of sight behind the edge of a tall chimney rock of iron-stained sandstone.
Hardaway sat bowed and silent, as he had for the last few minutes, his left arm cradling his wounded stomach.
“Whoever it is, shoot them,” he murmured. “Get me on up to the doctor.”
“Shhh,” the Ranger said, hushing him.
“Careful this ain’t some of the Traybo Gang coming,” Hardaway whispered quietly in a pained voice. “This stone valley . . . winds on ahead, right to their front door.”
The Ranger just looked at him.
“We’re there to the doctor,” he said haltingly. “I figured I best tell you . . . in case I pass out.”
“Hola the trail,” the Ranger called out, turning, seeing the two riders come into sight. “I’m Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack,” he followed up quickly, opening his duster so they could see his badge.
At first the two riders had stopped abruptly and appeared ready to bolt away. But when they noticed the badge, they eased a little.
“Ranger, we are happy to see you. I’m Dr. Dayton Bernard, from Maley. This is Rosetta, also from there,” the young doctor called out. “Have you come searching for the two of us?”
“I’ll be damned,” said Hardaway, realizing if he’d waited one minute longer he would not have had to reveal the Traybos’ hideout in order to get treatment from the doctor.
“We are searching for you both, Dr. Bernard,” the Ranger sai
d, nudging his barb closer, checking the trail behind the two. “But right now we’re in sore need of your medical skill. I’ve got a man shot in the belly here.”
“Gut-shot,” Hardaway corrected in a pained voice.
As the doctor and Rosetta stepped their horses forward, the doctor looked at Hardaway’s hand resting against his bandaged stomach.
“I doubt very much you would be sitting in that saddle if you were gut-shot, sir,” he said. “But let’s get you down from there and take a look.” He took Hardaway’s horse by its bridle and led it off the trail, through a stand of brush, into a small clearing.
Chapter 24
In the afternoon, the Ranger and the woman had both helped hold Hardaway down as the doctor sliced into his back near his spine and squeezed out a bullet that had entered his lower front side, circled beneath the skin and stopped against a small lateral muscle. As soon as the bullet was out and lying in the doctor’s bloody hand, Hardaway relaxed on the blanket he lay on and let his folded trail glove fall from between his teeth.
“Obliged, Doctor,” he groaned. “I thought . . . I was a goner.”
“You might yet be,” the doctor said. “If you don’t keep this wound clean and the bandage properly changed for the next few days.”
“Can I—can I ride right away?” Hardaway asked, already feeling better.
“If you feel strong enough and can stand the pain, of course you can,” the doctor said matter-of-factly. He worked as he spoke. “I advise against it, but do as your body will allow. I prefer you take at least two or three days of bed rest, but . . .” He gestured a bloody hand at their surroundings.
“I’ll take it easy, Doc,” Hardaway said.
The Ranger moved back and sat watching from a few feet away. He took a cup of coffee the woman poured and handed it to him as the doctor began preparing a bandage for Hardaway’s back. As the Ranger sipped his coffee, the woman kneeled on the blanket, grabbed the bandage from the doctor and took over the task of dressing the wound, front and rear.
Dr. Bernard stood up and stepped back as she worked.
“How did things go for her?” the Ranger asked, holding an open canteen up for Bernard. He tapped the canteen against the doctor’s leg to get his attention.
Bernard turned to him. He reached for the canteen, poured water onto his bloody hands and washed them.
“She wasn’t harmed,” the doctor said, drying his hands on a bloodstained cloth hanging over his shoulder. “Neither of us were. We did as we were told, and caused the outlaws no trouble.”
Sam watched him and listened closely, noting that the doctor kept his eyes averted from him as he spoke. He recognized an edginess in Bernard’s voice, a reluctance to discuss the matter any further.
“If you and the woman are all right, I’ll be riding on to the Traybos when we leave here,” Sam said. “Is there anything you can tell me that might make my job easier?”
The doctor squatted down beside him and propped his forearms on his knees. He let his damp hands dangle, as if resting them.
“You’re going to kill them, aren’t you, Ranger Burrack?” he asked in a manner that indicated he already knew the answer.
“Not if I can keep from it,” the Ranger said. “They weren’t known as killers until this robbery in Maley.”
“What happened in Maley was a terrible misfortune,” said the doctor. “Wes Traybo told me about it. It’s true Wes killed the detective posed as a bank teller. But the detective’s shotgun went off and killed Widow Jenson.”
A misfortune. . . . The Ranger looked at him, seeing the man struggle with something inside himself.
“And you believe Wes Traybo because . . . ?” he said, leaving the question hanging.
The doctor gave a slight chuff and shook his head.
“All right, I asked for that,” he said. “I just don’t think the Traybos are that bad. At any rate I don’t think they deserve to be shot down like mad dogs.”
“Neither do I,” the Ranger said. “But would you rather they get a trial, be found guilty and hanged? Or maybe dragged out of their cells in the middle of the night—swung from an overhead timber until they choke to death, slowlike?”
The doctor breathed a slight sigh and considered the matter for a moment.
“Law is a gruesome, ugly business,” he said quietly, still not making eye contact.
“I can’t argue with that, Doctor,” the Ranger said. “And I suppose it looks all the worse to a man whose business is saving lives.”
The doctor only nodded, studying the small flames in the fire they’d made to boil water and make coffee.
“I don’t know that I will be in this business of saving lives much longer, Ranger,” he said.
“Oh?” Sam said. “That’s too bad. The folks in Maley will hate to hear it. You appear most handy at what you do.” He gestured toward Hardaway as the woman ran a wrapping of gauze around him, covering him from his lower belly up to his rib cage.
The doctor hesitated for a moment, then turned and looked directly at the Ranger.
“I won’t lie to you, Ranger,” he said. “Being held hostage by the Traybos caused something to happen to me. It’s as if I wasn’t a hostage at all, I was actually riding with them—a member of the gang, so to speak.”
The Ranger only watched and listened.
“I—I found myself wanting to do my part, put my efforts into helping them elude the law.” He paused, then said, “I found myself shooting it out with Mexican soldiers. I wounded some of them.” He shook his head. “I hope to God I didn’t kill any of them.”
“You’ve been through a lot, Doctor,” the Ranger said. “You and the woman both. The way I’m going to report this is that you and this woman were held hostage, that you both cared for a wounded outlaw and were then released. I met you on the trail back to the border and saw no reason not to send you on your way.”
“And anything further that I feel like mentioning about it is up to me, eh, Ranger?” the doctor said.
“That’s as fair as I can call it,” the Ranger said. “Whatever you did, it was done for the purpose of saving your life and the woman’s. You can’t be prosecuted just because you did a good job of it.”
The doctor started to speak, but the Ranger continued without allowing him to.
“You’re not the first young man to look at men like the Traybo Gang and see something admirable, even enviable, in the way they live. But they are gunmen and thieves. You just met up with them on the edge of what they’re turning into. Another year of robbing, a few more misfortunes, as you say, they won’t be the same people. That’s why I wanted to bring them in before it all got too far out of hand.”
“You could be wrong,” the doctor said. “After the killing they might see where this road is taking them. They might stop here and drop out of sight, live respectable lives, never be heard from again.”
“They could,” said the Ranger. “It’s happened before. But the odds are against it, the longer they go unchecked. The law can’t wait to see if they might change. The law has to act and act swiftly. What happened to the widow in Maley might have been caused by a detective’s shotgun going off. But the fact is, the detective wouldn’t have been there wielding a shotgun had it not been for the Traybos.”
“I can suppose you’ve had lots of time alone to work all this out for yourself, Ranger,” the doctor said, glancing at the big Colt on the Ranger’s hip, at Carter Claypool’s Colt shoved behind his gun belt. “So I doubt if anything I can say on the Traybos’ behalf will make much difference to you.”
“You’re right—it won’t,” said the Ranger, gesturing toward Hardaway as the woman helped him put his shirt on over his bandages. “He’s been saying much the same for them ever since we’ve been on their trail.”
“Perhaps I have said too much,” the doctor said. “Perhaps I need some time alone
myself to think about these things.”
“Thinking never hurts, Dr. Bernard,” the Ranger said wryly. “I’m sure that’s something we both agree on.” He stood and slung grounds from the empty coffee cup. “If we’re all through here, Dr. Bernard,” he said, “I’ll help him into his saddle and we’ll be on our way.” He looked over at the woman and said to her, “Carter Claypool killed three slavers and set some women free. I understand they’re headed home toward the southern Mexican border. If you take a cutoff down the trail, it’ll put you at the trailside hovel. The women started from there. If you can ride, you’ll catch up to them.”
Rosetta grew excited. She swiped a loose strand of hair from her face.
“Sí, I can ride a caballo like a bird rides the wind, Ranger,” she said, “’specially if I go home.”
“Thank you, Ranger Burrack,” said the doctor. “She most certainly rides. I’ll see to it she gets to the hovel and that she’s well on her way.”
“Obliged, to both of you,” Sam said, touching the brim of his sombrero, first toward Rosetta, then toward the doctor. “Go home, Doctor—find the good in yourself.”
Hardaway, seeing the Ranger standing, struggled up himself, buttoning his shirt.
“I still hate doing this,” he said, looking at the Ranger.
“So do I, Fatch,” the Ranger replied. “Let’s go.”
• • •
In the afternoon, Rubens had walked out to the barn, his bottle of rye in his hand, to keep watch on the trail for Carter Claypool, who should have arrived hours ago. Wes Traybo stood looking out a window, seeing Rubens stagger only slightly as he walked through the barn door and closed it behind himself. His brother, Ty, sat on the side of his bed, holding a bowl of warm elk stew, eating it with a large spoon.
“I’ve never seen any man drink as much as Baylor can and still get around as well as he does,” Wes said over his shoulder.
“He told me once that he hadn’t been what you’d call dry-eyed sober in over fifteen years,” Ty replied. He blew on the stew and sucked it from the spoon.
“I have no cause to doubt it,” Wes said. “A man can stay drunk so long he’s better off staying that way.”