The Dangerous Land

by Ralph Compton

  Enticing wasn’t exactly the way Paul would describe the liquid’s color, but it didn’t smell like anything with much kick to it. “Drinking this is supposed to help with a knife wound?”

  “Not as such, but it can’t hurt,” Prescott admitted. “The vitamins will strengthen the system. Poured directly onto the wound will put the healing herbs right where they need to be, however.”

  “Sounds helpful,” Dorothy said.

  “And you say this is mostly water?” Paul asked.

  “Pretty much.”

  Now that his blood had stopped boiling, Paul felt as if he was about ready to collapse. As far as the tonic went, he reminded himself that Prescott wouldn’t do anything to harm a child. “The lot of you can drink whatever you want,” he sighed. “I’m going outside to make sure those Indians aren’t coming back.”

  “They’re gone,” Prescott said. “Trust me. It’s not like there’s anything left around here for them to break.”

  At that moment, a narrow door at the back of the room creaked open. The sound startled both Paul and Prescott so much that they drew their weapons and took aim at that end of the kitchen.

  A narrow, pale face peeked halfway from behind the door as a set of bony fingers gripped its edge. “Did you say they’re gone?” he squeaked. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes, Trace,” Dorothy said. “They’re gone. It’s safe for you to come out.”

  The owner of the largest portion of the trading post stepped out from a small closet filled mostly with brooms and buckets. He wore a rumpled white shirt, gray pants, and a greasy apron tied around his waist. Dust covered him from head to toe, most likely from cowering in the closet. “Glad to see you folks are all right. I suppose I’ll take a look at what those savages did to my place.”

  Paul, his children, Dorothy, and Prescott all watched as Trace strolled through the kitchen. Stopping short of the door to the dining room, he said, “You all seemed to have everything well in hand before, so that explains why I tended to . . .”

  “The broom closet?” Abigail asked.

  “That’s right.” Trace then turned around and looked at Prescott. “You got any of that healing tonic left?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Good. Save me a few bottles.” With that, Trace left.

  It did Paul a world of good to laugh at such a bold display of cowardice.

  Chapter 9

  If the visit to the trading post had been as uneventful as it was supposed to be, Paul would have made it back home well before nightfall. Since Abigail needed a bit of time to rest, Paul and David helped clean up some of the mess the Comanche had left behind. They would have been kept busy if they’d stayed until the next day, but Paul loaded up his wagon and headed back to town before it got to be too late. By coaxing his team a little harder, he managed to catch sight of Keystone Pass as the last glow of sunlight was fading away. Familiarity with the trail and pure necessity allowed him to make the rest of the ride in darkness.

  David and Abigail had been mostly silent all the way home. When he rolled to a stop and set the brake in front of his house, Paul looked over his shoulder and said, “This is where you get off, boy.”

  “No,” David said. “I want to come with you.”

  “You’ll stay put.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I said so! That should be enough for you,” he barked. With that, Paul snapped his reins to get the wagon moving again.

  They were halfway down the street that cut the town in half when Abigail said, “He doesn’t like being alone.”

  “Well, he’ll just need to get used to it.”

  “He helped me at the trading post. He wants to help some more.”

  Paul drew a deep breath. “I know,” he said as he pushed that breath out again.

  After a few more moments, Paul turned a corner and steered toward a narrow building stuck between a dentist’s office and the funeral parlor. Paul didn’t need to see the hours painted on the front window of that building to know the doctor’s office was closed for the night. He made a sharp turn down a wide alley and rode to the lot behind the office.

  “Ummm . . . ,” Abigail said softly. “David followed us.”

  “I know that too.”

  “Don’t be mad at him.”

  “I’m not.” Raising his voice, Paul asked, “Do you really want to help?”

  Almost immediately, the boy replied, “Yes, Pa!” as he ran to catch up to the wagon. Since he’d been walking behind it all the way from their house, his normally limitless supply of breath was coming in heavier gulps.

  “Then go on up those stairs, knock on the door, and tell Doc Swenson about your sister.”

  David looked up at the top of the narrow stairs attached to the back end of the doctor’s office. His eyes widened and his mouth hung open as if he were gazing into the black maw of a monster’s cave. “I . . . I want you to come with me,” he said.

  “No,” Paul replied sternly. “Go up there and do as I told you.”

  Although he was reluctant to disobey his father’s command twice in one evening, David also wasn’t in a hurry to climb those stairs. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Paul snapped, “Get moving, boy!” Using one fear to temporarily overcome another, David took off running and climbed the stairs amid the loud knock of his boots against weathered wooden planks.

  “I wish you’d let up on him sometimes,” Abigail said.

  “And I wish you’d let me do the fathering without blindly taking his side.”

  “I hardly ever take his side,” she pointed out.

  “No. Just when I least want you to.”

  “You don’t ride me the way you do him.”

  “Yeah,” Paul said as he watched his son finish the climb and timidly approach the door. “But you ain’t gonna grow up to be a man. Unless I spur him on every now and then, neither will he.”

  After a short series of frantic knocks, David pulled his hand back as if the door had grown fangs and bitten him. Soon the door was opened by a man of average height dressed in a long nightshirt. He nodded as David talked to him, patted the boy’s shoulder while saying a few things to him, and then walked back inside. David wore a beaming smile and came down the stairs two at a time. “He’s unlocking the front door,” he said before he’d reached the bottom stair.

  Paul climbed down from the wagon, walked around to the back, and scooped his daughter into his arms.

  “I can walk on my own,” she said.

  “I’m sure you can, but you shouldn’t. Besides, you used to love it when I carried you.”

  She not only rolled her eyes at him, but threw in a heavy sigh to boot. Her indignity only lasted until she’d been brought to the front of the office, where they were met by the man in the nightshirt. Doc Swenson was less than an inch shorter than Paul and had a thick crop of dark red hair sprouting from his scalp. At the moment, the crop was poorly tended and flattened on one side. “Pardon my appearance,” he said. “I was sleeping.”

  “I can tell,” Paul replied.

  Shifting his attention to Abigail, the doctor asked, “What happened here?”

  Thanks to a good amount of help from his son, Paul told him about the Comanche raiding party that had descended upon the trading post and was finished by the time they’d been shown to one of the small examination rooms in Swenson’s office. The doctor put Abigail on a bed covered in starched linens and peeled away the dressing on her leg so he could get a look at the wound. After using a damp cloth to wash away some of the blood, he asked, “How did she receive this injury?”

  “She was shot by an arrow,” David told him. “A big one!”

  “The wound itself appears to be superficial, but I’ll need to stitch it shut.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Paul said. He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder and said, �
��Let’s give the man some room to work.”

  As eager as he’d been to follow his sister before, David was more than willing to leave her once the doctor had a needle in hand. Once outside, however, he came to a halt that couldn’t have been more abrupt if he’d been tied to a chain. “Is she going to be all right, Pa?”

  “She’s already made it through the worst of it. Sooner or later, everyone has to get himself stitched up for something. She’ll pull through just fine.”

  “Does getting stitched hurt?”

  “Sure, but it ain’t bad.” Seeing the exaggerated wince on his son’s face, Paul took hold of the boy’s shoulders so he could look straight down into his eyes. “Pain ain’t a bad thing, son. It just . . . is.”

  “But I’m—”

  “You can’t be afraid of something like that,” Paul said sharply. “Nobody lives a life without pain. Not a life worth living anyway. You can’t be afraid of pain. You can’t be afraid of the nighttime. You can’t be afraid of dyin’.”

  Despite his father’s insistence to the contrary, David looked to be growing more afraid by the moment. “How can you not be afraid of those things?”

  “Because they’re all going to happen to all of us sooner or later. There’s nothing to be done about it. You just have to get on with your life and stop shivering like a dry leaf every time you see a shadow.”

  David frowned and hung his head. “I know, Pa. Everybody dies. Just like Mama.”

  Paul hunkered down to his son’s level. “Some things may be scary, but that won’t make them go away. And other things . . . most other things . . . are only scary because you make them scary. You understand?”

  The boy nodded. He didn’t understand but was as close to it as he would get that night. For the next hour or so, David was content to simply sit outside with his father and watch the stars appear in an ever-darkening sky. He was just starting to nod off when Doc Swenson stepped outside. His nightshirt was tucked sloppily into the trousers he’d thrown on and he wiped his hands dry on a frayed towel.

  “She’s tuckered out,” Swenson reported, “but she’ll live.”

  “Any problems?” Paul asked.

  “There may be some sort of aggravation around the wound, but I doubt it’s anything serious. Bring her back here in a day or two so I can have a look. As far as the stitches go, she took them better than some grown men I’ve had in my office.”

  Paul smiled proudly. “How much do I owe you?”

  “We can settle up later. The three of you just got back from a long day’s ride and must be ready to fall over.”

  “I’ve got the money on me now. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to square up with you and then get some sleep.”

  Swenson and Paul settled the bill for a small amount of money and the remainder in credit at Meakes Mercantile. Paul carried his daughter to the wagon and into her bed without her waking up for more than a few dreary seconds. David insisted on sleeping on the floor in her room, and Paul had no reason to object. After both children were tucked away, Paul stood outside Abigail’s room to watch them for a spell.

  When Joanna was alive, she’d been the one to watch the children that way. Paul never saw the sense of it. As long as they were where they should be and not making too much noise, he was satisfied. Even now he looked over them with a steadfast eye to make certain no harm befell them. He lingered because that’s where Joanna would have been standing if she was alive.

  Right in that very spot.

  When he closed his eyes and drew a slow breath, he could almost smell the sweet, fresh scent of her hair.

  Chapter 10

  The next day, bright and early, Paul and David unloaded the wagon. David went to school as Paul stocked the shelves in his store. When David came back from school, he dallied about as much as he could and then finally helped his father.

  They went home. Supper was made, the dishes were cleared away, and the floors were swept. Abigail remained in bed most of that time. Paul brought her some water, made sure she was still breathing well enough and her wounds weren’t bleeding, and then let her be. David did some reading. Paul put him to bed and Abigail still slept.

  The day after that was much the same, but Paul wasn’t content to let his daughter sleep. While David was answering nature’s call outside, Paul stood at Abigail’s bedside and gave her a shake.

  “Come on,” he said sharply. “Time to get up.”

  “. . . tired,” she groaned.

  “I’ll bet you are. You slept too much. I shouldn’t have let you be so lazy yesterday, but I spoil my little girl. No need to tell you that,” he chuckled. “Ain’t that right, Dumplin’?”

  When she didn’t respond to that in any way, Paul knew something was wrong. He dropped to one knee and shifted so he could put his face only a few inches away from hers. “Abigail? Wake up, sweetie.”

  She stirred. Her eyes shifted beneath their lids. She pulled in a few quick breaths but didn’t even try to sit up.

  Paul grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Abigail! Wake up.”

  Her mouth opened, but all she could get out was a soft, panting groan. Sweat glistened on her brow, and when he felt her skin, Paul’s heart skipped a beat.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he said as a way to air out some of the thoughts racing through his head. “Why are you so damn hot? Can you hear me? Abigail! Abigail!”

  Her eyes opened, but she seemed to have trouble focusing on any one thing.

  Lifting her to a seated position, Paul held her there with one arm behind her back. He used the other hand to force her eyes open so he could get a look at them. Normally such a task was a joy. When he saw barely any recognition from her and plenty of red smeared within the whites of those eyes, he felt anything but happiness.

  There was nobody close enough to respond to his voice, so Paul laid her down again before rushing outside. Along the way, he grabbed a cup from the kitchen, which he filled at the pump out back. Paul was in such a hurry that most of the water wound up on the floor or his shirt by the time he made it back to Abigail’s side. He set the cup down and dipped a trembling hand into it so he could dab his fingers onto the girl’s brow. “Come on, now,” he said in a fierce whisper. “Look at me like you used to. Just one look and I’ll be happy.”

  She looked at him weakly, which was just enough to let him know she was still in there somewhere.

  “D . . . Daddy?”

  “I’m right here. How do you feel?”

  “Dizzy.”

  “You’ve got a fever,” he said while picking up the cup of water and trickling it directly onto her face and neck. “Lie on your side. I’m getting a look at that wound.”

  “But . . . it doesn’t hurt.”

  “Just sit still.” Paul lifted the hem of her nightgown until he could see the fresh bandages wrapped around her upper leg. The dressing wasn’t soaked through with blood, which he took as a good sign. After only getting a portion of the bandages off, however, he saw something that wasn’t so good.

  “Is it all right, Daddy?”

  Paul wrapped the bandages loosely in place and pulled down her sleeping dress. “I’m taking you back to Doc Swenson.”

  “Why?”

  “Hopefully it’s nothing,” he said as he picked her up and headed outside. She didn’t seem to hear him very well, which was for the best since Paul scarcely believed what he was telling her anyway.

  The expression on Doc Swenson’s face was nothing like the one he’d worn a few nights before. Before, he’d been easygoing with just a hint of tiredness showing around his eyes. Now his eyes were sharp as tacks and his scowl dug deep trenches into his forehead. “How long has this been going on?” he asked.

  “Has what been going on?” Paul snapped. “I only just noticed.”

  “The fever, Mr. Meakes. How long has she had the fever?”


  “Since last night.”

  “And what about the inflammation around her wound?”

  “The what?”

  Abigail lay on the same bed where she’d received her stitches. This time, however, she was drenched in sweat and growing pale. Paul might have been fretful, but he was thankful when he was dragged out of that room.

  “Mr. Meakes,” Swenson said as he took Paul through the front door, “please calm down. Your daughter isn’t doing very well and you spouting off that way isn’t helping.”

  “I’ll calm down,” Paul said as he stepped outside the office, “once you tell me what’s going on with my little girl.”

  After closing the door behind them, Doc Swenson said, “I want to check a few things. I’ll need to watch her for a while. It would be best if she stayed here with me for a while so I can check in on her whenever necessary. She’ll most likely vomit whatever she’s been eating. If not, I’ll want to try to get her to vomit, so it would be a big help if you could bring me some clothes for her to change into just in case these get too dirty.”

  Paul started shaking his head, which didn’t help to clear it. Soon the movement only made things worse and he reached for the closest thing that might support his weight. It wasn’t until he allowed his head to hang forward that he realized he was looking straight down into a water trough. Watching his own reflection as he spoke, Paul asked, “You know for certain she’s going to get worse?”

  “I . . . have my suspicions.”

  “Just a suspicion?”

  As if sensing the trace of hope in Paul’s voice, the doctor quickly said, “It’s a very well-founded suspicion. More of a professional . . .”

  “Educated guess?”

  “If you like.”

  “And what’s your guess?” Seeing that the doctor was searching for his next words very carefully, Paul said, “Just tell me. It ain’t like I could feel much worse.”