by Jack Ballas
Cantrell let a smile break the corners of his mouth. “Figgered to do just that.” He went to his blankets, and using his bowie knife slit strips from one of them, then went to his saddlebags, took a full bottle of whisky from them, poured some into the raw hole in Lingo’s thigh, bound his leg tight, watched the bandage a few moments to see if it bled through, then put on the coffee. Lingo had taken the burn of raw whisky in the hole in his leg better than Cantrell thought he himself could have.
While he was busy, he became aware of Lingo watching him. He twisted to look at him. “Whatcha lookin’ at me for?”
Lingo flashed him a pain-filled grin. “Just wonderin’ how long it was gonna take you before you looked at your own hide. Dang you, Cantrell, why didn’t you take care o’ yourself ’fore you messed with the coffee?”
Bartow again groaned. Cantrell looked over and found the Easterner staring at him. “What were you two chasing me for? I never did anything to you.”
“Weeel, let’s just say, we don’t like stagecoach robbers; an’ even more, we just flat out hate those who figger to mistreat our womenfolk.” While he talked, Cantrell poured Lingo a half cup of coffee and filled the rest with whisky. Then he twisted to look at Bartow again. “Figger I’m gonna get a right good feelin’ when I see you swingin’ at the end o’ a rope.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and spiked it as strong as he had Lingo’s.
“I’ve not harmed any women, nor have I robbed any stagecoaches.”
Cantrell grunted. “Save your breath, you rotten bastard. You ain’t gonna have a chance to breathe much longer.”
It wasn’t until then that Quint answered Lingo. “Hell, Barnes, I knowed when his bullet sliced by me it warn’t bad. Figger to git you on down the mountain soon’s I can.”
Cantrell and Lingo drank the coffeepot dry, along with a goodly part of the whisky; then Quint went up the trail and collected Bartow’s horse. Then he wrapped up their bedrolls and packed them on their horses.
Lingo weighed over two hundred pounds, but Cantrell lifted him to the saddle as though he was a young child. When they headed down the mountain, it was still short of midnight.
Riding slowly so as not to give Lingo more pain than he had to, Quint looked across his shoulder at his friend. “Gonna ride ’til you figger you done had all you can take; then we’ll rest awhile, then go on. Want to git you to that doc soon’s I can.”
“You’re callin’ the shots, amigo. I’ll let you know when I figure I need to stop.”
Bartow, slung across his saddle like a gunnysack full of meal, groaned. Cantrell grinned at Lingo.
Barnes never asked to stop, but Quint stopped anyway, every two hours. When day broke, cold and gray, Cantrell cast a worried look at Lingo, whose entire expression bespoke of having taken about all he could take. He sagged in the saddle, his face had a gray cast to it, and his chin rested on his chest. “You gonna be able to make it, mi amigo?”
Without raising his chin from his chest, Lingo looked at Cantrell and in a voice little above a whisper said, “Gonna make it.”
They rode all that day, and on into the night, stopping only for Cantrell to fix a meal and coffee. When they got to Silverton, the saloon still showed lantern light. Quint went in, bought another two bottles of whisky, asked if there was a doctor in the town, found there wasn’t, and they rode on. Soon after sunup the next morning, a rider came into view from around a bend in the trail. Cantrell, after studying the approaching man for a few moments, figured out that the rider was Wes Higgins.
The closer they got, the faster Higgins rode. Finally, his horse in a dead-out run, he pulled to a stop at Lingo’s side. “Where’d he take the bullet, Cantrell?”
“In his laig, ’bout halfway ’tween his knee an’ crotch. Didn’t go all the way through. He didn’t want me diggin’ for the slug with my knife, so I’m tryin’ to git ’im to the sawbones in Durango.”
Wes reined his horse around and rode as close to Barnes as he could without bumping him. “How you feelin’, Lingo? You ain’t lookin’ so good; you want us to stop awhile?”
Barnes shook his head slightly. “Git to the doc. Figure I can take it that long.” He twisted his head to the side, only a bit. “Tell Cantrell to give you that bottle, then hold it for me to take a good slug o’ it.”
By the time they rode into the edge of Durango, Lingo was drunk enough he didn’t seem to feel pain—any pain. Wes had fed him the raw whisky every time he looked awake enough to swallow.
Colter sat on the hotel’s veranda. He had sat there every daylight hour since Wes had left to go find Lingo. His memory flashed more frequently now. He hadn’t said anything to Emily, but he remembered scenes from when she was a small child, scenes from when his wife had run off with the salesman who travelled about the country.
His first wife, Emily’s mother, had died when Emily was only two years of age. Then he had married again. That was not a time he wished to remember. Now he studied every person who rode into sight along the dusty street. He hoped they caught Bartow, hoped they didn’t kill him. He wanted to see him squirm.
For some reason he knew, without doubt, that Bartow was not only lacking in humanity, but also had no guts when it came to facing adversity. He recognized Wes when he came around the bend in the trail with three men, one of them hurt, and maybe one of them dead in that he lay across the saddle, tied to his horse.
In front of Marshal Nolan’s office, Wes peeled off, leading the horse with the man who lay across the saddle. Colter stood and headed toward the four men. When he came abreast Cantrell and Lingo, and not having met either of them, he saw that one of them was hurting badly, and had a blood-soaked bandage on his leg. He pointed toward the hotel. “Just saw the doctor go in the dining room there at the hotel. I’m Miles Colter, Emily’s father. I’ll see you soon’s I see what Wes does with that trash you folks brought to town with you.” He headed on to Nolan’s office.
While he walked, scenes flicked through his mind faster than he could process them—and Bartow showed in many of them. He stopped, and standing in the middle of the road let his brain run any way it might. Then the scenes slowed and things began to fall into place: Baltimore, the train and wagon trip out here, his mine, and then he knew how Bartow knew about the vein he’d found in his diggings.
Colter now knew it all. Other than a sharp pain in the top of his head, then having it ease off to a dull ache, he abruptly felt good. He stepped toward the marshal’s office.
He pushed through the door in time to see Nolan turn the key in the barred door to the front cell and close the door behind him. He headed back into his office. “Got the man what done all them bad things to you, Mr. Colter.” Nolan went to the stove, poured a cup of coffee, and held it toward Miles. “Didn’t say it like it happened. I didn’t get ’im, Cantrell an’ Lingo got ’im.”
Wes cut in. “Noticed he had a broken arm, broke slam in two for that matter. You want the doc to fix it?”
Before the marshal could answer, Colter said, “No. Let ’im hurt. From the look on one of those riders who brought him in, I’d say he was hurting badly—and the things Bartow, or whatever name he’s using, did to me makes me more determined to let ’im hurt.”
Wes grinned. “Damn, Mr. Colter, you gonna fit right in out here.” His face lost the grin. He turned to Nolan. “First off, the doc’s gonna be right busy fixin’ Lingo; an’ second, I’m with Mr. Colter. Let the bastard hurt all the way ’til they string ’im up.”
Nolan nodded, then looked at Colter. “Finish your coffee. Reckon we better go see how Lingo’s gittin’ along.”
Miles Colter didn’t let on that his memory had come back; there were things he wanted to tell Emily first, and to get straight in his own mind. They headed for the hotel.
At the desk, they found what room Cantrell had put Lingo in, and the three men climbed the stairs to the second floor and saw Emily, Kelly, Maddie, and Sam standing in the hall outside the room Lingo was in. Wes was the first to speak. “How�
�s he doin’?”
Emily, her face ashen, shook her head. “Don’t know, Wes. The doctor wouldn’t let us stay in there, said it wouldn’t be decent for a woman to see what he had to do, or how he had to undress Lingo to get to his wound.” She shuffled her feet a moment, then looked Wes and her father in the eye. “Don’t care how decent it is or isn’t, I’m going in there if he doesn’t hurry up. That’s my man in there, an’ he’s hurting. He needs me with ’im.” She shrugged after making that admission. “Besides, he let Quint stay in there with him.”
Wes went to her and put his arm around her shoulders. “Honey, gotta tell you, ’sides me, Cantrell’s Lingo’s best friend, an’ ’sides that he’s probably fixed ’bout as many gunshot wounds as the doc has.” He patted her shoulder. “Let the doc do ’is work. Quint stayed ’cause he wouldn’t of left until he figgered Lingo wuz gonna be all right. He’ll be out soon, then you can go in.”
He glanced at Kelly. “Where’s Lion, Venetia, an’ Elena?”
“Venetia an’ Elena were shoppin’ when all this happened, an’ Lion’s over at The Golden Eagle at Miss Faye’s. I figgered it wasn’t any reason to bother ’em ’til we knew how Lingo was doin’.”
“Well dadgum it, woman, don’t you think Elena’s gonna wantta know Quint’s back, an’ ain’t hurt none?”
Kelly gasped. “Oh dear, I hadn’t thought ’bout that. All this plumb wiped it outta my mind. I’ll go find ’em.”
Before she could get to the head of the stairs, the doctor came out, drying his hands on a piece of bedsheet. He smiled tiredly. “He’s going to be all right. Got the bullet out, put some salve in the hole, cut into his leg from the other side to keep from having to probe so deep, and found that chunk o’ lead only two inches or so from goin’ all the way through.” He nodded. “He’s gonna be as good as new in a few days. Right now he’s asleep.” He looked at Wes. “Or passed out from all that whisky you fed ’im after you met them. Let ’im sleep.”
Emily swept them with a look. “He can sleep. You all can go eat, or whatever you want to do, but I’m goin’ in there and sit by his side. He’s not going to waken to an empty room. I’ll send Cantrell to a room for some sleep. He looked about as worn out as did Lingo when he carried him to that room.” She looked at Kelly. “Go find Elena, she’s gonna want to know how her man is.”
Wes grinned. “Don’t know as how Lingo’s gonna be safe in there with you all alone. Heck, weak as he is, you might talk ’im into most anything.”
Emily gave him a soft punch on his shoulder. “Wes Higgins, there’s no way you’re gonna get my goat this time.” She smiled. “Besides, you just might be right. If I can’t get the right words out of him, I might take advantage of his weakened condition—make ’im say what I want to hear.”
She turned the doorknob and went into the room. She shooed Cantrell out. Told him to get some sleep, and that she’d meet him, along with the rest of them, in the hotel dining room for breakfast the next morning.
As soon as Emily disappeared into Lingo’s room, Nolan announced that he would be back to see about his friend, but for the moment he would look for the judge, try to get Bartow’s trial set for the next morning so he could get him hanged by sundown. He looked at Colter. “You gonna testify agin’ ’im?”
Colter frowned, studied his boot toe making circles on the floor, then straightened his shoulders and looked at the marshal. “Tell you for a fact, Marshal, I got a reason, a good reason to not want to see ’im hang.” He nodded. “But yeah, I’ll testify. The world will be better when his kind are all six foot under.”
Nolan shot him a grim smile and left.
Knowing that Lingo and Cantrell were both going to be all right after a decent night’s sleep, they all went to their rooms to get ready for supper. About a half an hour later, Kelly showed up with Venetia and Elena in tow. They stopped, looked toward Lingo’s room, and seeing the hallway empty, Elena asked what room Quint was in. When Kelly pointed to a room across the hall; she said, “Know he’s tired, probably asleep, but I’m going in there. I won’t waken ’im, but I’m gonna curl up beside him and just know he’s all right.” She looked at her mother with a mischievous smile. “See you at breakfast in the morning.”
Venetia shot her a smile right back. “I’m gonna get Lion out of that saloon, curl up beside him—and see you in the morning. Don’t know how ‘all right’ he’ll be, but I’m gonna be fine.” They all chuckled. Poor Lion, but he’d probably show up with a smile, too.
•••
It was close to midnight when Emily—after feeling Lingo’s forehead to check for fever and seeing him still sleeping soundly—went downstairs to find a cup of coffee. She met her father in the lobby. He, too, had been sleepless, so had come downstairs to read The Durango Herald. They sat and talked a while, then Emily went back to sit beside Lingo’s bed. Colter had still said nothing about regaining his memory.
About four in the morning, Lingo stirred, rolled to his side, and opened his eyes. He groaned. Emily stood and went to him, felt his brow, and sighed. His forehead felt cool and free of fever. “Does it hurt so badly, Lingo?”
He shook his head and winced. “Not the hole in my leg—it’s my head. Feels like a double-barreled shotgun went off in it. Wes musta poured a whole bottle o’ that crack-skull whisky down me.”
Emily wet the only towel in the room from the water pitcher, and placed it on Lingo’s brow. “If he hadn’t poured that whisky down you, you might have died from pain and shock. Don’t hold it against him.”
Lingo smiled through the pain of his headache. “Little girl, you should know by now I won’t ever hold it against anybody who gives me a drink, an’ I’ll guaran-damn-tee you I wouldn’t hold it against Wes.” He closed his eyes a moment, then looked at her. “What time is it?”
“About four o’clock.”
“You been sittin’ there all night?”
Emily nodded. “Since the doctor came out and said you were going to be all right.”
Lingo rolled to his back. “You go to your room and get some sleep.” She opened her mouth as though to protest. “Not gonna hear any ifs, an’s, or buts ’bout it. After you get some sleep, come back. I got somethin’ important to ask you.” His face reddened. “What I mean is, I got somethin’ that’s important to me to say to you. Don’t know how you gonna feel ’bout it.”
She stared at him a moment. Her heart had quickened with hope. She pushed her greatest desire to the bottom of her emotions. She frowned. “Are you sure you’ll be all right? You might need a drink of water, or—or anything, and there won’t be anyone to get it for you.”
He chuckled. “If that happens, I’ll get up and get it for myself.” He pinned her with a look. “Em, I been shot before, might even get shot again sometime. This bullet only gonna keep me down ’til breakfast time, then I’m gettin’ up, goin’ down to the dinin’ room, get me ’bout half-dozen eggs, steak, an’ potatoes, eat every bite, then drink ’bout a pot o’ coffee.”
He nodded with a jerky motion, winced, probably from his headache, then said, “If I know the marshal, he’ll have already found the judge, and set up the trial for Bartow in the mornin’, an’ the hangin’ for later in the day. I ain’t gonna miss either one of ’em.”
Emily stared at him a moment, realized it would do no good to argue with him, shook her head, and said, “Lingo Barnes, you’re a stubborn, hard-headed man, but do it your way. I’ll see you at breakfast.” The sound she heard when she went out of the room was a chuckle deep in his chest.
Lingo turned on his side and soon went to sleep. When he wakened, the curtain in his room showed light from outside. He’d slept longer than planned. He was hungry, and intended to do exactly as he’d told Emily he’d do the night before.
Gingerly, he held his leg in both hands and moved it over the bedside. When he lowered his foot to the floor, and the muscles stretched, he thought he’d get sick to his stomach from pain. He choked back a moan, and lowered his other leg. H
is clothes were stacked neatly on a chair, the same chair on which Em had sat the night before. He knew then that she’d come back in to check on him, and at the same time placed his clothes where he could reach them. He dressed, and favoring his leg with every step managed to get down the stairs. He had to stop about every other step to swallow the pain, and ready himself for the next step. He made it.
In the dining room, the only one he saw of his party was Wes. Nolan sat there with him. Each of them had only a few bites left on their plates. Wes rushed over to help him to the table. Barnes waved him away. “Make it on my own, sit, finish eatin’.”
When seated, Lingo looked at the marshal. “You find the judge?” At Nolan’s nod, he smiled. “What time’s the trial?”
“Judge said as how he’d be there ’bout ten o’clock. Didn’t figger it’d take long to reach a verdict. He figgered we’d be outta Miss Faye’s saloon in no more’n an hour; she made The Golden Eagle available to us for whatever time it took.”
Lingo nodded. “Good. I’ll be there. I can testify he tried to rob the stage, an’ ’tween Colter, me, an’ Maddie, we can put him as torturin’ Miles, an’ runnin’ the gang that took Emily off that stage.” He frowned. “Too, reckon if all that isn’t enough, we can stick ’im with murderin’ that other Easterner.”
Nolan glanced toward Lingo’s leg. “Me an’ Wes’ll hep you over to The Eagle.”
“No, you won’t. I’ll get there by myself. Now y’all get on outta here an’ do whatever it is you gotta do.” He looked at his watch. “Still two hours ’til the trial. I’ll eat and be on over. Don’t know if the womenfolk’ll want to be there, or not.”
Wes grinned. “You wouldn’t be able to keep ’em away with a team o’ mules.” He nodded. “They’ll be there.”
When Nolan and Wes left, Lingo ordered, and while waiting, wondered about Emily. Did she care about him, love him? He thought back over the time they’d spent together. Was that enough time to fall in love? He shrugged mentally. It had been enough for him. Then he thought about the feelings, the unsaid things, the touch of their hands, little things, but enough to convince him that there was more there than just friendship.