Medicine Wheel

by Ron Schwab

  Max staggered into the room. “I said I’ve had enough of this shit. You’re my wife, and I’ve got fucking rights. And I’m claiming them right now.”

  “I’m done being your wife. I’ve seen a lawyer. Now leave me alone, you drunken asshole.”

  Suddenly, he charged her like a raging bull. She turned to run when his shoulder rammed into the small of her back and she crashed to floor with Max on top of her. His fingers latched onto her short-cropped hair and yanked her head back so abruptly she felt her neck crack. “Now, bitch, I don’t give a shit what you’re dreaming up with some shyster. You’re my woman, and you’re going to come to our bed and spread your legs like a proper wife.”

  He slammed her face into the floor and released her head before moving off of her and clumsily struggling up from the floor. While she lay motionless, he kicked her sharply in the ribs and she groaned and, for a moment, blacked out from the excruciating pain.

  When her senses returned, she sprung up and started to race for the Colt six-shooter that was suspended in its holster from a wall peg near the door. She was pulled up short, however, when Maxwell’s hand closed around her wrist and jerked her back.

  “You bitch. I think you’d use that gun.”

  “You’re damned right I would if you don’t leave me alone. Go back to the bedroom and stay away from me. We’ll talk about this in the morning when you’re sober.”

  His fist hammered into the side of her nose, and then releasing her wrist, he attacked her ferociously with both fists, pounding her face and body relentlessly until she blacked out and her legs crumpled and she sunk to the floor.

  Her next awareness was of Maxwell’s string of expletives as he fumbled with the buttons of her shirt and finally, in one sweep, ripped them off. She realized then he had already pulled off her britches and was now tearing at the undergarments. He had evidently dragged her into the bedroom. She was disoriented and she tried to shake off the pain that throbbed in her skull and to clear the fog as he finished yanking off her remaining garments. Naked on the bed now, she saw his shadowy figure standing there as he unbuttoned his undershorts before they slid down his legs. He stood between her and the doorway; there was no escape.

  He knelt above her now, his knees pried between her thighs. She wanted to drive her knee into his balls, but her legs seemed made of straw, so her hand found its way to the target, grasped and squeezed. Max howled in agony, but drove a fist into her throat, and she reflexively released her grip. Then his teeth sank into her breast and he tore at the flesh like a badger engaged in mortal combat.

  She faded from consciousness briefly again, and when she came back she could feel his thrusting and found it no longer mattered. She heard him sigh when his release came, and when he pulled away and dropped onto the bed, she remained still and silent, wondering vaguely if there was any place on her body she did not hurt. She decided her feet were free of pain.

  In a matter of minutes, he was snoring. That had been the pattern of their conjugal relations for almost two years now. He was on and off and asleep in a matter of minutes, leaving her to her own imagination for satisfaction.

  When she was certain he was asleep, she got out of bed and slipped quietly from the bedroom. She could hear Killer whimpering from beneath his hiding place under the kitchen table.

  “Thanks, Killer,” she said softly, “for nothing.”

  She retrieved the Colt from its holster and made her way through the dark room back to the bedroom. She stood next to Max’s side of the bed and lit the oil lamp on the bedside table.

  “Max,” she said. He did not respond, so she spoke louder. “Max, wake up.”

  He rolled over and looked up at her. “Now what? Can’t you see I’m sleeping?”

  “I’ve got something for you, Max.” His eyes widened in terror for just a moment before she squeezed the trigger.

  She walked out of the room and returned the gun to the holster before lighting another lamp and finding a robe to toss over her naked body. Only then did she become aware of the blood dripping from her face and the red mass that was saturating the cotton robe.

  She turned back to the entrance door and opened it. “Killer,” she commanded, “fetch Chet.” The dog crept cautiously from beneath the table and then rushed for the open door and disappeared.

  Kirsten suddenly felt lightheaded and faint, stumbled to the nearby rocking chair and sagged into it exhaustedly. Her strength was ebbing, and now she just wanted to go to sleep and make the hurt go away.

  “Oh my God in heaven!” came the high-pitched voice from the doorway.

  Kirsten’s eyes opened and through the haze saw her wiry, diminutive foreman and only full-time ranch hand. “I’m not feeling too perky, Chet. Can you find some rags and maybe get a half bucket of water from the pump. A shot of whiskey would be nice, too, if Max hasn’t sucked it all up.”

  The white-haired cowboy moved as fast as his gimpy leg would allow and began searching through the kitchen drawers, plucking out a handful of dish towels. He limped over to Kirsten’s side.

  “Jesus Christ, Kirsten, you look like you were run through a slaughter house, I don’t know where to start. Your left brow seems to be bleeding worst.”

  “Hand me a towel. I’ll press it on the cut while you get the water. First, check the cookie canister for a whiskey bottle.”

  The cowhand retrieved the half-full bottle and set it on the floor beside the chair before he hurried back outside to fetch the water. Killer crept into the house and joined his mistress, whining worriedly. She patted him softly on the head. “You did good, Killer. You got Chet.” She picked up the whiskey bottle and flinched when she pressed it to her bruised and swollen lips. She took a good swig, and the burning sensation in her throat perked her up a little, but the taste was unpleasant. Why the hell Max would dedicate his life to drinking this crap was beyond her.

  Chet returned with the water, and she wet a cloth and gingerly began to dab at her face. The coolness revived her some, but her touch triggered waves of pain. Meanwhile, with her other hand, she kept a cloth pressed to the slice on her brow.

  Chet looked on helplessly. “Ma’am, I knew there was trouble. Killer was kickin’ up a terrible fuss outside the bunkhouse and nearly scratched his way through the door. What happened here?”

  “Max beat the shit out of me. That’s what happened.”

  “Your . . . uh . . . chest seems to be bleeding something fierce. Did he knife you?”

  “No.” She decided not to elaborate and embarrass the old cowboy.

  “Where is Max?”

  “He died. He’s in the bedroom.”

  “Oh Jesus.” Chet began to shuffle his feet nervously. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I’m at a loss here. I want to help, but I ain’t much of a doctor, especially for women folks. You’re going to have to tell me what I should do.”

  “I’ll be okay for a while. Do you know where Cam Locke’s place is?”

  “I sure do. About three miles southeast of here. Less as the crow flies.”

  “I want you to saddle up and ride as the crow flies as fast as you can. Tell him what’s happened here. Then do whatever he asks.”

  “But I can’t just go off and leave you like this. You could bleed to death.”

  “And what are you going to do about it?”

  “Well, I can do something if you’ll tell me what you want done,”

  “Chet?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Can you stitch a chewed up tit?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  7

  CAMERON LOCKE HEARD what seemed to be a frantic pounding on the thick door of their expansive two-story, stone house. He rolled out of bed, pulled on his undershorts, groped for the oil lamp on the table next to the bed and lit it, turning the glow up only a bit, so as not to awaken Pilar. She had apparently been oblivious to the knocking as she slept in naked, sated bliss on the opposite side of the bed. Oh, well, she’d damn sure earned her rest.

  He
slipped his Army Colt from the holster that hung from the peg next to the bedroom door and made his way down the stairs that led to the entryway on the main floor. With only brief pauses, the knocking continued. When he reached the door, Cam yelled, “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Locke? It’s Chet from the C Bar C.”

  Cam opened the door and lowered the revolver. He stepped aside, waving the cowboy in. “God, Chet, it’s just after four o’clock. What’s going on?”

  “Miss Kirsten’s had the livin’ shit beat out of her. Bleedin’ like a stuck hog all over the place.”

  Cam closed the door and turned and hollered up the stairway, “Pilar, I think you’re going to be needed. Get dressed for riding and rustle Myles out of bed.”

  He swung back to Chet. “What happened?”

  Chet shrugged, “I don’t rightly know, Mr. Locke. Miss Kirsten sent Killer—that’s her dog—to get me up to the house, and when I got there she was sittin’ in her rocker, blood runnin’ down her mashed up face and soaking up her gown at her . . . her chest.”

  “Her chest? Was she shot? Or stabbed?”

  “Uh, no sir. Think she was bit or something. Talked about being chewed on.”

  “You’re not making sense, Chet, but we need to get over there. What about her husband?”

  “Think he’s dead. That’s what she said.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Don’t know about that neither. Miss Kirsten just said he died. I didn’t see him.”

  Pilar Locke moved quietly down the stairway, followed by a sleepy-eyed Myles Locke, their fourteen-year-old son, who showed no enthusiasm for being awakened at this early hour of the morning. Cam turned to his wife, a slender Mexican woman who was seven years younger than his own forty-two. She was a stunning beauty even at this hour of the morning, Cam thought. Damned if he wouldn’t like to take her back upstairs for another go. He quickly shook off the thought.

  “Pilar, can you come with me? I think you may be needed at the C Bar C. Kirsten Cavelle may be in a bad way. Myles, get dressed and saddle up and make a beeline for your Uncle Thad’s. Tell him I said to get his ass over to the Cavelle place and that it’s for a human patient not a critter. Apparently, the lady’s been badly beaten.”

  The black-haired boy’s eyes were instantly alert and he wheeled to head back upstairs to get dressed, Pilar not far behind. “I’ll be out of the house in five minutes, Dad.”

  “And, Myles?

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  “Tell your Uncle Thad to bring his photography gear. Tell him I said it’s very important. And you stay with him to help carry whatever he needs.”

  “I’ll help him however he wants.”

  He turned back to Chet. “Chet, I need you to ride on in to Manhattan. Find the sheriff and let him know what’s happened. No hurry. Don’t run your horse into the ground. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  The grizzled cowhand cocked his head and looked at Cam with a glint in his eyes. “If there’s one thing I’m damned good at, Mr. Locke, it’s movin’ slow. Manhattan’s a good eight mile ride, and I’ll probably have to rest my mount. Might even get lost with the dark and all.”

  “Thanks for everything, Chet. Now I’d better get dressed and head over to Kirsten’s.”

  8

  CAM AND PILAR rode side by side, their Appaloosas, his gelding and her mare, forced to pick their way in the darkness up the rocky slopes that rose eventually to the C Bar C ranch buildings. Cam took comfort in having Pilar nearby. Her quiet competence was always calming, and he marveled sometimes how, after sixteen years of marriage to this woman born and raised in a great hacienda on the Texas side of the Mexican border, she was as exciting and beautiful and beguiling to him as when he first met her on his way home from the war.

  Pilar had been only fifteen then, and he had been a young cavalry captain, reeling yet from bitter defeat, when he stopped at the Sanchez ranch to see the fine Appaloosa stock bred and raised by Pilar’s father, Guillermo Sanchez, the only herd Cam was aware of outside the northwestern United States. Sanchez had invited him to stay over a few days, and the tired soldier took him up on it. During the stay, he had encountered the dark-eyed beauty whose visage haunted him all the way home to Kansas.

  “Ben and Sarah were sleeping soundly when I left the house,” Cam said. Ben was their seven-year-old and Sarah was eleven.

  “Yes. I stopped by the bunkhouse and told Cookie we were riding out. He said he’d get up to the house and be there when they awaken.”

  Cookie was an old scraggly-bearded trail cook who cooked for the seasonal wranglers and year-round hands, as well as the Locke family. Everybody on the ranch at any given time took their meals in the dining room of the big ranch house, so Cookie more or less ran the domestic side of the household with Pilar’s occasional assistance.

  Pilar, of course, had saddled both of their horses by the time Cam got to the barn, and they had ridden hard and fast until they neared the C Bar C and the terrain turned rough. They finally reached the more level ground of the ranch site and galloped into the yard and dismounted.

  Cam knocked softly on the door before opening it and entering the house. He immediately saw Kirsten slumped in the rocking chair, either unconscious or sleeping. He rushed to her side. “Kirsten. Kirsten.”

  She did not reply.

  Pilar pushed him aside and, pointing to the bucket next to the rocker, ordered, “Get some fresh water from the well.”

  When Cam returned and set the bucket down, Pilar took one of the cloths Chet had left behind, dipped it in the water, and began to bathe Kirsten’s battered face. Then she started to open the robe and examine the chest wound, which was the obvious source of so much of the blood. “Go away,” she told Cam.

  Cam began surveying what he thought of as the slaughter house. He spotted the open bedroom door and peered in. The sun was beginning to rise and some of its rays sifted in through the window, sprinkling some light on the bed. He walked over to the bedside. “Holy shit,” he whispered, as he met the glassy stare of Maxwell Brannon’s dead eyes, separated neatly by a bullet hole seeping only a trickle of blood. “He died all right.”

  When Cam returned to the living area, Kirsten was regaining awareness. Pilar had washed some of the blood from her face and retrieved another robe, but blood was still leaking through the fabric. Her face was swollen and red, waiting to morph to purple and blue, with a gash on the chin and a nasty slice on her left brow, he noted. Her nose seemed lopsided.

  He moved closer. “Kirsten, can you talk?”

  “I can talk, but I don’t feel too sociable at the moment,” she murmured groggily.

  “Don’t talk; just listen. My brother Thad’s on the way. He should be here soon. He’s a physician, and he’ll tend to your injuries.”

  She looked to Pilar, who nodded reassuringly.

  “Okay, I guess. I can’t patch it all myself . . . but the only Dr. Locke I know is a vet.”

  Cam replied, “It’s complicated.” He changed the subject. “The sheriff likely won’t be here for a few hours. I’ve been in the bedroom. Maxwell’s dead.”

  “I know that. I—”

  “Stop. You say nothing about this in the presence of anyone. I’m the only person bound by confidentiality. Pilar, my brother, or anyone else can be forced to testify to anything you say. You and I will talk later, when no one else is present. Understand?”

  “I do.” She met his eyes evenly.

  “The sheriff’s a good man, but he will want to ask you questions.”

  “I won’t answer.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  There was a commotion outside, and soon Thad walked through the doorway. He nodded at Pilar and Cam and then went directly to Kirsten’s side. “I’m Doctor Locke. Remember me? I was on your place to castrate some bull calves last fall?”

  She looked up at him warily. Then she glared at Cam. “This is the brother you said was going to look after me? He’s a damn horse doctor. I don’t
think so.”

  Cam saw he had a client on the verge of rebellion. “He’s a licensed medical doctor, Kirsten. He graduated from a fine medical school . . . the University of Pennsylvania. Top of his class.” He had no idea what kind of a scholar Thad had been but decided it had a convincing ring.

  “Well, shit, why not? I don’t much care who works me over at this point.” She leaned back in the rocker resignedly. “Have your way with me, Doc.”

  Thad set his big leather bag down. “Pilar, will you help me? Cam, you can wait outside.”

  “I’m getting used to getting kicked out of here. Let me know when you’re finished. And when you’re done, I want you to take a look at her husband.”

  “Her husband?”

  “Former husband. Don’t worry; he’s not going anyplace.”

  Cam started out the door and then paused. “I’m going to want some pictures, too.”

  “Pictures of what?”

  “Her.”

  “Get out.”

  9

  “MA’AM, I THINK we need to take a look at the chest wound first.”

  “I figured as much.”

  Maybe he should bind up her mouth first, Thad considered. She was going to be an annoyance very quickly, he feared.

  “There’s fresh blood showing through your robe, and we need to stop the bleeding. Have you seen the wound, Pilar?”

  “Yes, and it needs attention.”

  Before Kirsten could object, Thad’s fingers deftly pulled the top of the robe back to expose the wounded breast. It looked like she’d got it caught in a meat grinder. “Knife?” he asked.

  “Teeth.”

  He looked at her in disbelief.

  “Teeth,” she repeated.

  “Pilar,” Thad said. “We’re going to need some boiling water before I do my work. Could you ask Cam or Myles to get a fire going in the wood stove?”

  “I’ll Call Myles in. Cam’s in another world thinking about his case. He’s worthless in dealing with mundane tasks when he’s absorbed in a case.”