Owen Family Saga Box Set: Books 1-3

by Ward, Marsha

  The man’s partner grabbed James’s shoulder. “‘Twon’t never be for Danny O’Brien,” he said, his voice whining. “He’s got a crook leg from that war, and it pains him night and day, Rebel.”

  “That’s not my doing.” Irritated, James shook himself loose from the man’s grasp and backed as far as he could into the room, sensing that danger came chiefly from the man called Danny.

  “Liar! Ye’re the man thet just now set it off agin,” Danny shouted, bending over to rub his injured thigh. He started to pour himself a drink with his free hand, but it shook so badly that he raised the bottle to his lips, instead, and took a deep swig of the liquor.

  The tingling and the sense of danger left James, and he shrugged his shoulders. “It was an unhappy accident. I already begged pardon. Now I’ll be about my business.” He turned toward the man’s friend. “Let me pass,” he said in a curt tone of voice.

  The second man backed up a step, then his eyes widened as he looked over James’s shoulder.

  “No, Danny! You canna do that!”

  James whirled to face the Irishman, who held the bottle in his left hand, and a revolver in his right. The blued barrel wavered, describing circles in the air between the two men.

  “Ye’re going to be a’payin’ me back for my pain, Reb,” Danny growled.

  James put out his hand, palm in front of him. “Friend, you picked the wrong man to rob. I’ve only two bits to my name.”

  “I’ve no need a’ yer money. It’s yer blood I want, and that spilled!”

  Danny twisted to his right to set the bottle on the bar. It teetered on the turned edge for a moment, then fell to the floor, the sound shattering the bustle in the room as effectively as the wood planks shattered the glass.

  Silence spread in the room like ripples on the still surface of a pond, widening in circles that soon lapped against the farthest reaches of the room. Then the silence fled as men scattered, scrambling from the chairs nearest the bar to huddle against the walls.

  “I’m unarmed,” James said, lifting his war bag slightly in his left hand and trying to raise saliva in his mouth. The cold and the tingle were back. He silently belabored himself for not buckling his Army model Colt around his hips when he left the cabin. Icy fingers throbbed to feel the weight of the .44 caliber weapon, which was buckled away out of reach in the carryall.

  “Ye canna shoot him down like a dog, Danny,” said a cracking voice behind James. “He has no gun, man.”

  “I can and I will, Liam. He’s a dog of a Rebel, and deserves no better.”

  “Danny—”

  “Quiet, Liam.” Danny laughed. “He’s got his stinking Rebel pride. That’s weapon enough,” he hissed.

  James considered if the man was drunk enough that he would miss his shot. He’s holding pretty steady, he thought. A draining sensation sucked at his belly. This fellow wants to plow a furrow through my chest. The cold gathered in from James’s arms and shrank into a frozen lump that lodged just under his ribs. Ma, this is not the way I want to die.

  Danny’s laughter was a raw sound as he drew back the hammer of the pistol. James heard the click of the action, and the snick of the cylinder moving into place.

  “That’s right, Reb,” Danny whispered. “Ye’re going to pay for this leg, and all the nights I lay crying out in pain, and all the shame it brung me.” His voice rose with his fury. “And then ye’re going to pay for the wife that left me for a whole man.”

  “You’re crazy,” muttered James, and his belly twisted in agony because of a girl who had left him for a broken man. Ellen. No! I can’t think of her now. He wrenched his thoughts away from the girl with the laughing green eyes. The gun stopped moving, pointed at his chest, and James whispered, “Don’t do anything foolish, Danny.” Then the muscles of his upper arms bunched as his mind rehearsed the motion of releasing the catch to the war bag.

  Danny replied with a yell. He squeezed the trigger and a bullet whined over James’s left shoulder and struck the back wall of the saloon. James heard a wild cry of “No, Danny, no!” As he ducked, crouching over the war bag, tearing at the buckle, the man to his left dropped to the floor and huddled against the bar, whimpering, “Don’t do it, Danny boy.”

  “He’s a damnable Rebel, Liam. This is war!” the man howled, re-cocking the pistol.

  Still crouched forward, James managed to open the buckle to the bag as Danny got off another shot, yelling all the while. The lead ball caught the flesh of James’s left arm and slammed him to the floor as he yanked his pistol free.

  James raised his arm, gritted his teeth, pulled back the hammer, and aimed toward the man as Danny’s third bullet struck him in the right side. He jerked the trigger. The clap of the shot smote his ears.

  Danny fell against the bar, screaming, and dropped his gun as a cherry colored stain spread across his left shoulder. The man slid inch by inch down the bar to plop onto the floor as blue powder smoke swirled in the open space. James raised and cocked his gun again as several men stepped forward, muttering. Danny’s friend scuttled across the floor and bent over his fallen comrade.

  “You didn’t have to shoot him, mister,” he complained. “Danny was a good man, up until Rosie left him.” He pulled out a grimy handkerchief and pressed it to the Irishman’s wound.

  “He didn’t give me a choice.” Breath was coming hard against a shattered rib, and James fought to keep his wavering gun trained on the unfriendly group as he tried to sit up.

  “What’s going on here?” A brawny man wearing a pistol in a belt holster and a tin star on a leather vest came through the crowd. “Drop your weapon, boy,” he said, not even bothering to draw his own gun. “I’m the law in this town.”

  “The kid shot Danny,” shouted the friend.

  “Is he dead?”

  “No, but he’s pretty bad off.”

  “I don’t think he’s dying, Connolly. I’d say the boy just clipped his shoulder. Get him down to Doc’s place.”

  The marshal watched as the man’s friends carried him away, then stooped and plucked the gun from James’s hand. Blood gushed from James’s wounded side, and the man plugged his own handkerchief into the hole. “There,” he said, “That should hold you. Got a name, boy?”

  “I’m James Owen,” he said, struggling against a darkness that flitted across his mind like a thousand bats’ wings brushing against his face.

  “Well, James Owen, you’d best come with me,” the marshal said. “Watch it now! Looks like you’re fainting. A couple of you fellows hoist him to his feet and bring him along. Chancy, get the doc when he’s through with Danny. Tell him to meet me over to the office.”

  Two men dragged James to his feet as he strained to keep his eyes open. “Where’re you takin’ me?” he muttered.

  “Guess he’s still alive, boys. Haul him up a bit there. He’s unsteady on his feet.” The marshal yawned, then glanced at James. “We’ve got a nice jail to keep you snug until we find out if you’re a wanted man or just a gun brawler, boy.”

  The man took a step toward the door, then turned back to look at James.

  “Doc’ll be along by and by to patch you up. He don’t mind calling on his patients in a jail cell, as long as they pay him.” Then the marshal turned his back and banged his way through the doors of the saloon.

  Chapter 4

  James came to consciousness with a jerk and a yelp. A long, hard, cold object had entered his side, bringing agony with it. Strong hands pulled his naked shoulders back onto a mattress that crackled with each buck of his body, and the sweet odor of fresh blood filled his nostrils. The hands gripped him tighter than before, inhibiting his struggles, until he sank back, exhausted, on the mattress, his eyes opening slightly. He could see nothing for a red fog that seemed to hang inside his eyes.

  The cold probe brushed a piece of splintered rib and drove it into his flesh, and he cried out, sending echoes around the room.

  “Lie still, lad,” muttered a man leaning over the cot. “I’m comi
ng up on the bullet now.” The probe lunged again into the hole, side by side with another, larger instrument, then James ground his teeth as the two metal objects pushed pieces of his shattered rib into the margins of the wound.

  “Ahhh. There it is.” A lump of metal clanged dully against the bottom of an enamel basin. “I’d best clear out one or two of these chunks of bone. They won’t do him any good, and they will just end up making misery,” the voice went on.

  “Can you work them loose, Doc?” asked someone standing at James’s head. James recognized his voice. It was the lawman from the saloon.

  “I’ll manage,” replied the doctor. Then instruments nipped and tore at James’s flesh, nudging and cutting loose and removing bone fragments to drop into the basin, where they fell with muted clinks.

  “I guess that’s about all of them,” said the doctor, as he slipped the instruments from the wound. Striving to see through the ruddy haze, James blew out his breath in a long, ragged sigh. The enemy had withdrawn.

  “I didn’t know Danny was so poor a shot,” added the doctor.

  James inhaled sharply as liquid flame bubbled into the wound. Then he gasped as it transmuted to ice, and spread down his side onto his back. The doctor dabbed at the spillage with a rough towel. From the fumes that struck his nostrils, James figured the man was cleaning the hole with whiskey.

  “Well, he was drunk. This boy shot true enough. Liam Connolly thinks Danny’s in a sorry state and like to die. Is that so?” asked the lawman.

  James concentrated on forcing a breath into his lungs past the incessantly throbbing pain, expelling air, then taking another lungful as the doctor began to wrap his chest and side with strips of soft cloth.

  “No. All that ails Danny is a bloody flesh wound and a snortful of whiskey. The hangover will pain him more than the shoulder, I wager. This lad’s arm will be fine in a day or two,” the doctor added. “The lead went clean through, just under the skin, and didn’t touch the bone. You know, Danny should have tried a knife if he’d wanted to bag him a rebel. I hear he is skilled with a blade. How many shots did he fire, anyway?”

  “The barkeep said three. Harvey dug one slug out of the back wall. The boy shot once, after Danny’d had his chance.”

  “The lad is lucky. He’ll pull through if he doesn’t take a fever or get infection in the side wound.”

  “You didn’t sew it up.”

  “No. I already have it bandaged. The wound will heal closed if he don’t move around much.”

  The haze before James’s eyes cleared as he blinked, and he glanced around the cramped cell. He was lying on a metal bunk topped with a striped mattress tick. The only other object belonging in the cell was a bucket in the corner for slops.The floor of the room was made of uneven gray granite chunks mortared together, as were two of the walls, and iron bars guarded the window opening. On the inside of the room, one entire wall was fashioned of iron bars set in the floor and ceiling six inches apart, with the exception of a metal plate that framed an opening about a foot wide in the swinging section that marked the door. A wall behind the bars, made of heavy planks, held a wooden door and formed a corridor between the wall and the bars. The fourth wall of the cell was also constructed of bars, dividing it from an identical cell.

  James rolled his eyes upward and saw the lawman standing at the head of the bunk, arms crossed in front of his chest. The doctor sat on a stool, fastening the last bandage around James’s ribs.

  “I see you’ve come to yourself,” said the doctor, and gave him a pat on the shoulder, then stood up, wiped his instruments, and put them away. “That’s a dollar, lad. I’m charging extra for digging out the bone.”

  “You should pay me for holding still,” James whispered, patting his right pocket. It was empty, so he crossed his arm in front to get to the left pocket and winced at the pain the motion sent tearing up his side. He tried to reach the money with his left arm, but that one was bound against his chest, and when he flexed the muscles, he found he didn’t want to move the arm anyway, for pain stabbed sharply under the skin.

  The doctor frowned. “I’ll get it from you later.”

  “I don’t have a dollar,” James said. He looked at the lawman. “All I have is a quarter, Federal.”

  “That’s a pity. I guess I’ll have to add vagrancy to the charges against you, boy.” The marshal crossed his arms.

  “Hunh.” James tried to rise up on his elbow, but the attempt brought nausea, and he lay back, gasping. As the mattress crackled underneath him, he asked, “What are you holding me for?”

  “Liam Connolly wants Danny to press a charge of attempted murder, but that’s nonsense. The barkeep says you defended yourself fair and square. That leaves the offenses of discharging your weapon inside the town limits, and gun brawling. Then too, you’ve got to pay off your bill to the doc or face the vagrancy charge.”

  James closed his eyes. The hammer was at work again in his head, striking sparks behind his eyes as it hit the anvil in monotonous rhythm, pounding until he was sure his body shook with the thunder of it. “I had to disarm him or be killed. He kept firing at me,” he said.

  “Well now, that’s what I figured, but we got the ordinance against gun play.”

  “There was nothing playful about it. I’m not guilty.”

  “Then you’ll have to stand trial.”

  “I’ll work off the doctor bill,” James said through the pounding of his head.

  The lawman laughed. “Was you able bodied, I’d consider it, a strong young man like yourself, but you’ll be laid up for quite a spell now. How long do you figure, Doc?”

  “Anywhere from one week to six. It depends on how that side mends, and like I said before, if he gets infection or fever.” The doctor swirled the whiskey around in the bottle.

  The liquid sounded to James like the whisper made by Ma’s silk petticoats as she walked. But that was long ago, and in another place. He shook his head to clear away the illusion.

  “Will you be back later to tend him, Doc?”

  “He can’t pay me for the work I done just now! Get one of them Southern gals from over to the hotel to change his dressings once a day, and he ought to heal up, if he don’t—”

  “I know, get a fever or infection,” the lawman interrupted, nodding his head. “Thanks for coming by.” He opened the cell door and ushered the doctor to the inner door, then turned back into the cell, his teeth worrying his lip, and frowned down at James.

  “I’m Marshal Tate. I like you, boy. It pains me to see you in such a fix. Now tell me, don’t you have kin close about who can bail you out?”

  James shut his eyes for a moment and lay quietly, breathing slowly. When he looked up again, he rasped, “No.”

  “That’s a pity. I thought you might be kin of that fellow Rod Owen down the country a piece that folks are talking about. They say he trailed a herd of cattle in from Texas. Is that true?”

  James held his breath. To lie wrenched his soul, but hadn’t Pa sent him off, as much as thrown him out? And hadn’t he left the place and the people willingly? He felt only bitterness in the portion of his gut that should swell with Owen pride for Pa’s vision, and a difficult job well done by him and his brothers. Darkness swept through his mind, and he answered, “I don’t know the man.”

  The marshal cleared his throat and paced the cell. “Well, that’s a pity,” he said as he walked. “A deed like that is something to hold pride in.” Soon the marshal came over to the cot and looked down at James. “Can you play poker? Maybe if you’re good enough, when you’re up to it, you can get some cash out of my deputy, Harvey. He purely loves a hand, but can’t play worth beans.”

  James shook his head against the rustling tick and closed his eyes again. The afternoon sun flooding through the barred window lit up the room beyond his ability to bear the strong light. Foul odors invaded his nose from the bucket in the corner. The hammer continued to strike the anvil. Pain from his side and from his soul lapped at the borders of his br
ain. “I never had much time to learn the game,” he said.

  “Well, now you’ve got an opportunity to learn. You’ve got nothing but time here, boy. The circuit judge ought to come through here for your trial about the time you get on your feet. If you could win some cash and clear up the doctor bill, that would be one less charge for him to bang his gavel about.”

  James made no answer, and the man shrugged his shoulders and backed out of the cell. The clang of metal on metal bruised James’s brain.

  ~~~

  James opened his eyes and lay still. The pounding in his head had retreated with the few hours of rest he’d gained, and at present the pain in his side and left arm had receded to a dull throb, so it wasn’t pain that had awakened him.

  He blinked, wondering what had snatched him from the depths of sleep. Then he closed his eyes and tried to sink back into oblivion. But though the room was dark, he couldn’t find sleep as his brain replayed the sight of Danny’s shoulder blossoming crimson like a giant spray of honeysuckle flowers. He opened his eyes again and stared at the ceiling. If his shot had gone five inches lower when Danny’s bullet smashed his rib, he would have snuffed out the life of the drunken man as easily as a man would smash a bedbug. James closed his eyes and sighed.

  Then he heard a distinct, though muted, sound and came wide awake, holding his breath in the night darkened cell as he listened for a repetition.

  After long moments, his body began quivering from tension, and he struggled to relax, exhaled, then took another breath and held it.

  Finally it came: a scraping noise in the alley outside the barred window above his cot. Then came the sound of bits of gravel turning under a carelessly placed boot, accompanied by a shushing noise. Someone was outside the jail, attempting to be silent, and a chill raised the hair on James’ scalp. Whoever they were, they were up to no good.