Please help us, Lord! Please spare my good-hearted man.
Sarah raised her head when the babble around her died. Certain it meant the dreadful men were about to finish their grizzly task, she jerked her head in Henry’s direction, but he still sat slumped on Dandy. Her gaze darted, searching for the reason the crowd had stilled.
Drunken singing swelled from the alley, lifted on the morning breeze, and carried into the hotel’s backyard. A man’s voice, loud and getting louder, neared the back corner of the building. Even Henry’s tormentors paused and stared.
Thomas craned his neck. “What’s going on? What is that?”
Sarah stood up on her toes. “I don’t know. I can’t see.”
The source of the racket shot bobbing and weaving from the shadows, singing an Irish chantey in a rowdy bawl. Behind Sarah, a woman gasped and a youngster giggled. Muttering voices uttered shocked surprise.
“Is that Mr. Stilley?”
“Sure is!”
“Can’t even walk a straight line.”
“Drunk as a skunk.”
“Can’t be. The man’s a deacon.”
“And a teetotaler.”
Mr. Stilley wore his hat shoved down so far it covered his eyes. The buttons of his coat were fastened into all the wrong holes so that the lapel flapped under his chin on one side and the tail hung to the ground on the other. He carried a big bottle of scotch in his left hand and a broken umbrella in his right. He plodded with a lurching, halting gait, still singing the sailor’s song at the top of his lungs.
Sarah prayed for God Himself to steady Dandy.
Oblivious to the meaning of the scene he had stumbled upon, the stodgy owner of the dry goods store meandered straight toward the thin, pock-faced young man and his pistol.
Skinny Boy raised his free hand. “Hold up there, grandpa. Where you think you’re going?”
Mr. Stilley tipped his head back and peered from under the brim of his hat. “Heard a party,” he slurred in a loud voice.
By the way they snickered and shot each other looks, this tickled the men’s funny bones to no end. Their evil leader stooped down on the wagon and jumped to the ground. “Don’t think you want an invite to this party, old man.” He nodded at the nervous Edward, who waved Mr. Stilley away with the barrel of his gun.
“Move along, now, pop,” Edward ordered in an important voice. “Go somewhere and sleep it off.”
Sarah bit her lip and tasted blood when Mr. Stilley lumbered past the mule, headed straight for Edward. “Now see here, young man,” he slurred. “I won’t be spoken to like that. Don’t you know who I am?”
With the quickness of a striking snake and the boldness of a senseless man, Mr. Stilley clutched Edward’s shotgun and raised the business end toward the sky. In the same instant, he grabbed Dandy’s halter and held him fast.
Her eyes busy with this spectacle, Sarah missed how Doc Turner and Sheriff Vines got the jump on the other two. By the time she thought to look, both bad men had dropped their weapons and raised their hands out of respect for the guns buried in their backs.
Mr. Stilley, cold sober and looking right proud of his acting skills, glared at the crowd. “Don’t stand there gawking like fools. Someone go fetch Sheriff Bagby.”
Cook’s boy, who had remained on his horse the whole time, most likely to see better, whirled his poor horse and sped away in the direction of the jailhouse.
Sarah felt the knot in her stomach unwind like a child’s whirligig and feared she might lose control of her bowels. She rushed toward Henry, fully expecting one of the white men to order her back. They didn’t, and she made it to the wagon bed, scrambled on, and stretched up to remove the loathsome rope from around Henry’s neck. When she couldn’t quite reach it, she began to cry for the first time since laying eyes on her husband’s plight.
Thomas leaped up beside her and gently pulled her hands away. “Here, let me, Miss Sarah.”
She hadn’t been able to look at Henry’s battered face since that first horrid glimpse but dared a peek while Thomas lifted off the noose. What she saw stabbed grief to the center of her heart.
Henry stared straight ahead, as he had since she first saw him. His busted face wore shame forged there like a mask. His lips, chin, cheeks, all trembled, and silent tears welled in waves that spilled over and tracked down his face.
Unable to look any longer, Sarah pressed her belly against Dandy’s back and tore at the ropes on his hands. “Don’t you fret, Henry King. You hear me, now? Don’t you fret no more.” She heard her own babbling voice, teetering on the edge of hysteria, but couldn’t stop. The need to comfort raged too strong. “Don’t let them whip you down. Don’t you dare let them win. Those men gon’ be at someone’s mercy now. They’ll be bound in cuffs and shackles, but you’ll be free.”
She got his hands loose and cringed when his arms fell to his sides like wilted celery stalks. Thomas jumped down and wrapped Henry around the waist to pull him off Dandy’s back. Several other men, black and white, rushed to help lower him to the ground. Not until Henry’s knees buckled did Sarah realize he had injuries she couldn’t see. She leapt to the ground and rushed to his side to help Thomas hold him up.
Cook’s son rode up with Sheriff Bagby. The sheriff sprang from his horse and joined Sheriff Vines where he held Griswald at gunpoint. “Thought sure you fellows would take fair warning and clear out of town.” He glanced around at each of them. “Ain’t too bright, are you?”
After all she had suffered at the hands of the haughty gang leader, Sarah deemed him above the law and impossible to break. She held her breath and waited for him to spin like a whirling dervish, guns blazing. Instead, he ducked his head and gave in without a peep. Sarah’s jaw went slack.
The two lawmen shared a guilty look; then Sheriff Bagby stepped closer to Henry. “I’m real sorry this happened, son. But like I told you this morning, we had nothing solid to hold them on. Had no idea they were capable of something like this.”
Sheriff Vines took the handcuffs from the other lawman. “We know now, and we have enough to hold them for a very long time.”
Sarah stared up at a stone-faced Henry. So that’s where he’d gone that morning. But why? And how did he wind up on Dandy’s back with a noose around his neck?
Thomas left the job of holding Henry to Sarah and the others and moved out front to clear the way. “Let us pass, folks, so’s we can get him over to my wagon.”
Dr. J. G. Eason, in his long black coat and stovepipe hat, pushed through the crowd waving both hands in the air. “Hold up there, Thomas. Where are you taking this man?”
Thomas looked baffled. “We ’bout to take him home.” He sought out Sarah behind him. “Ain’t that right, Sarah?”
The doctor shook his head. “He needs medical attention.” He glanced at the owner of the Commercial Hotel. When the man nodded, Dr. Eason pointed toward the rear entrance. “All right, you men take him inside so I can examine him.”
The gang of helpers shifted directions and carried Henry toward the door. As they passed where Mr. Stilley stood holding the spineless Edward captive with his own gun, Sarah gazed over her shoulder and met her hero’s eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Mr. Stilley winked and gave her a warm smile then returned his attention to Edward.
Sarah surrendered her place at Henry’s side to a man for the hard trek up the steps. The last thing she saw before ducking inside was a parade of men–Mr. Stilley, the lawmen, and some others–marching the prisoners off to jail.
Sarah expected the men who carried Henry to go straight to the kitchen and put him in a chair near the servants’ pantry, but they trudged on through to the parlor. Henry shook his head when they steered him toward the pretty settee, nodding instead at a straight-backed wooden chair. It angered Sarah that even in his busted-up state, he felt unworthy to sit on the beautiful couch. When they settled him on the chair, he found a spot in the corner and fixed his eyes there, refusing to face them.
&n
bsp; Besides the two who bore Henry’s weight, a group of curious and concerned folks had followed them inside. Sarah stepped around them to tend to her husband, and Henry tilted his head toward hers, muttering something she didn’t quite make out.
She leaned closer. “What’s that?”
He shifted his eyes to hers then right back to the corner. She bent down and put her ear against his lips. “What is it, Henry? Tell me.”
She felt him shudder. “Take me home.”
Before she could decide how to answer, Dr. Eason swept through the parlor door with his medical bag under his arm. He stopped short and looked at Henry sitting upright. “What’s going on here, gentlemen? I can’t examine a man in a chair. Let’s get him stretched out on this couch.”
Henry didn’t protest this time, and Sarah wondered if the pain he felt had anything to do with it. She sent up a quick prayer that nothing serious might be going on inside him.
Thankfully, Dr. Eason ordered all but Sarah to wait outside. When the last of them shuffled through the door, the doctor pulled up a chair, raised Henry’s shirt, and commenced to poking and prodding his chest. Henry winced and rolled away from his hands, and the doctor nodded. “Thought so.”
Sarah moved closer. “What, Doctor?”
“It’s a fractured rib, Sarah. Maybe two.”
“Is he gon’ be all right?”
He mashed Henry’s stomach for a long time before he answered. “No sign of injury to the internal organs.” He asked a few questions, and Sarah felt relieved when Henry answered every one.
Finally, the doctor stood up and smiled. “He’ll be all right. Just sore for a spell. We’ll wrap him up tight and send him home to bed. You make him rest for a few days, you hear? Don’t let him get out there chasing behind that mule tomorrow. It’ll be a month or so before he’s fit for hard work.”
Henry frowned.
The doctor pulled a roll from his bag and wound yards of white cloth around Henry’s chest then offered a hand so his patient could sit up. He grimaced before moving gentle fingers over Henry’s nose. “Nothing much we can do for this sort of thing, I’m afraid. Just clean it up when you get home and pray it heals without causing you any problems.”
Sarah searched his eyes. “Problems?”
The doctor shrugged. “Trouble breathing, excessive snoring.” He glanced back at Henry. “You won’t be as pretty as you were before if it heals crooked or bumpy.”
Sarah cringed at the thought. She liked her husband’s nose just the way it was.
Dr. Eason lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ll be happy to bring out a bottle of wine to cut the pain, Henry. I make it myself on my own winepress. The grapes come from a vineyard I set up near the old Welch Bridge.”
Henry struggled for something to say. Sarah said it for him. “No, thank you, sir. We’re abstainers.”
He gave her a thoughtful nod. “Well, it’s there if you need it.”
Henry raised his pain-filled eyes to the doctor. “Can’t I go now?”
Dr. Eason nodded. “I’ll get someone to help you to your wagon. Go home and rest, now. You hear?”
Henry nodded.
The doctor picked up his bag. Sarah couldn’t imagine what other instruments lay in the depths of the shiny black satchel and didn’t care to know. Not if it came to using them on Henry.
Wincing, Henry scooted to the edge of the settee so Sarah and the doctor could help him to his feet. She couldn’t help wondering why he seemed so weak if his injuries weren’t that serious.
Dr. Eason seemed to read her mind. He gripped her husband’s arm and gave him a gentle shake. “Henry, the human body wasn’t designed to suffer what happened to you. In episodes of great pain, fear, or humiliation, the mind shuts off, like when your old mule decides he won’t take another step.”
He waited for Henry to speak. When he didn’t, the doctor carried on. “Just like that mule, as soon as you get a little food and plenty of rest, you’ll be good as new again. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
Henry nodded and even tried to smile. The sight of it lifted Sarah’s heart.
Dr. Eason left after giving her a few more instructions but kept his promise to send someone to help Henry out to the wagon.
Thomas and his usually rowdy sons slipped into the room, the boys so hushed at the sight of the fancy parlor that Sarah didn’t recognize them. The oldest, though only sixteen, stood as tall as Thomas and likely weighed more. Plenty big enough to help support Henry’s weight. Thomas’s eyes lit up to see Henry acting more like himself. He hustled over, ready to brace him.
Henry held up his hand. “I’m obliged, Thomas, but I can make it on my own now.”
Sarah clutched his arm as he passed. “Wait, Henry. Let them help you.”
He turned–slowly, deliberately, with eyes so scary her scalp tingled. “Don’t touch me, woman. I said I can make it.” He limped around the settee and stumbled for the door, leaving Sarah unable to breathe.
Thad picked up his bag and strutted closer to Darius Thedford. “On second thought, mister, I reckon I got some time to kill. Where’s this poker game of yours?”
Darius tried in vain to hide a satisfied smirk. “That’s my boy. Follow me.”
Something told Thad he’d regret heeding those words. He fell in line with Darius and retraced his steps to the same place where he’d spent the night. No surprise when Darius slowed his stride and pushed past the swinging doors into the saloon.
A collection of men still huddled around the card table. Likely the same bunch, considering their bloodshot eyes and stubbly chins. Gone the boisterous laughter and loud arguments of the night before–fatigue had reduced them to nods and grunts. When Darius approached, the gamblers squinted up at him through a haze of cigar smoke and nodded.
“What you got there, Thedford?” growled a man in a wide-brimmed black hat. “Did your cur throw her pups?”
None of them spared the energy to laugh, but they all grinned and nodded their approval. Darius clutched Thad by the shoulders and guided him closer to the table. “Make room for two more players, gents.”
A scruffy man, tobacco-stained teeth visible behind a bushy gray mustache, tilted his head up at Darius. “What you doing back here? Thought you was all tapped out.” His voice ground out like iron on gravel, probably hoarse from smoking, if not from shouting all night.
Darius poked a sleeping man in the ribs then moved in to take his seat when he stumbled away. He motioned for Thad to take the empty chair next to him.
Thad complied, tucking his travel bag securely between his feet.
Darius picked up a deck of cards, shuffling so fast his hands blurred, and nodded at Thad. “My good friend here has enough to guarantee my stake.”
Thad’s head whipped around. “What?”
Darius leaned close to whisper. “Just a few dollars until I’m back in the chips. Don’t worry, old boy. I’m good for it. Now ante up.”
Before Thad could protest, the other players had their money down. The raspy-voiced man tapped the end of his cigar on the leg of the table and scowled. “Well, pup? You in or out?”
Thad glared at Darius.
Still shuffling, he winked and smiled. “Go ahead, boy. We’ll be all right.”
Feeling snookered, Thad turned his back on the players and dug out his kerchief-wrapped bundle. He counted out double the required amount and slid it into the pot. He’d scarcely drawn back his hand before cards were flying and the first bets were placed.
Just as fast, Thad found himself down to his last silver dollar.
He never expected the excitement of the game to snare him, never expected the same old flutter in his stomach or the familiar surge of heat through his body each time he held a fair hand of cards. As a boy, he’d read of Homer’s Sirens, beautiful women who perched on the shore and lured sailors onto the rocks to shipwreck and enslave them. Sitting at a card table in a gaudy, smoke-filled saloon, Thad could hear the Sirens’ song. And it scared him.
More than that, it stripped him of every last coin in his possession, save the one in his hand. Hardly enough for a train ticket south.
Mama’s scowling face rose up in his mind, but her pointing finger and well-earned “I told you so” paled in comparison to Papa’s angry eyes.
He opened his mouth to tell the men he’d made a dreadful mistake, that he hadn’t meant to play, and could he please have his money back. But the ruthless gamblers seated around him weren’t kids playing Lanterloo for buttons. His money would pad their pockets, and he wouldn’t be seeing it again. The realization struck that he’d simmered other men in the same stew he found himself in, and it shamed him.
Thad felt the weight of the dollar he held, enough to see and call the last wager. Should he fold and leave the table with enough for a much-needed bath and a plate of food or throw all his lot toward recouping some of his losses? He stared at the pair of kings in his hand and decided they weren’t good enough.
When he moved to lay down his cards, he felt a bump against the side of his boot. Convinced it was an accident, he moved his foot. A pointed toe followed and nudged him again, so he stole a glance at Darius’s unreadable face. Without looking at Thad, he gave a barely perceptible nod.
Since Thad couldn’t exactly lean over and ask what Darius meant for him to do, he had to assume he should stay in the game. He grimaced and laid down his dollar. “I see your bet, and I call.”
“That’s it, then,” Darius announced and threw out a pair of jacks. “Beat those or fork it over, friends.”
With grumbles and rude remarks, the others folded their cards and threw them facedown on the table.
Thad stared at the cards in his hand until the spots ran together. Then his gaze moved to the mounded pot. He’d won. All his money back and then some. Grinning like a youngster at a birthday party, he slapped down the two kings with a satisfied shout and reached to draw in his loot.
A hand shot out and latched onto his wrist so hard he winced.
Diamond Duo Page 21