by Jeff Guinn
Gabrielle said, “You’re sure?”
“I am. His head is gone.”
“Good,” Gabrielle said, sounding savage. Then she said crisply, “We need to be going. Joe, we’re taking you somewhere there’s help. All right, how many horses do we have? The three we rode here must still be tethered, and isn’t that another over there?”
“Brautigan’s horse,” McLendon said.
“Then we’ll all have mounts, if someone will fetch them.”
Because Mulkins couldn’t see and Gabrielle had to keep Saint’s tourniquet in place, that task fell to McLendon. First, he used the shotgun to kill Goyathlay’s crippled horse. As he gathered the other horses he kept thinking, Brautigan’s dead, he’s really dead, and I’m alive. It didn’t seem possible.
When he brought the horses, Gabrielle continued taking charge.
“We’ll have to lift Joe up very carefully. Cash, will you find a blanket in one of the saddlebags—yes, that one will do—and let’s cut some strips, bind up Joe’s foot tightly. There’s still some bleeding but not as much.”
Once Saint was on a horse, though slumped in the saddle, Gabrielle said, “I’ll ride beside Joe and hold him steady. Cash, you’ll have to lead the Major’s horse.”
“I’ll stay with Joe and bolster him,” McLendon said. “I’m bigger than you, it will tax me less. You guide the Major.”
“I’ll ride beside Joe,” Gabrielle said in a tone that brooked no denial. “You see to the Major.”
It was only when everyone was mounted that they realized they weren’t certain where to go.
“Mountain View’s perhaps five days’ ride northwest, maybe even six what with the mud and probably flooding,” McLendon said.
“Not possible,” Mulkins said. He tipped his head back and pushed his chin forward, as though he might see with it while his eyes were swollen shut. “Those Apache are likely waiting for us on that side of the mountains.”
“They’ve scattered, Major.”
“I doubt it, C.M. What they are, is wily. They’ll lurk out of sight for a while, then rush in to catch us unaware. And even if there weren’t Indians between us and Mountain View, it would still take too long to reach. Maybe you’ve got a full belly, but the rest of us are in a bad way regarding food. We’re too hungry to last long on the trail without a meal. We must ride east. I estimate Silver City’s not far in that direction.”
“There’s a few cans and some biscuits in Brautigan’s saddlebag,” McLendon said. “That might tide you over a while. Silver City’s a dangerous place. The authorities there are in league with Brautigan.”
“Were in league,” Gabrielle corrected. “He’s gone now, his deals are off. We can’t ride for Mountain View in any event because Joe needs a doctor as soon as possible. So it must be Silver City.”
They rode out of the canyon and down into the valley, going very slowly. Saint swayed so much in the saddle that Gabrielle had to ride on one side of him and McLendon on the other, both helping to keep him in the saddle. McLendon had to use one hand for that and lead Mulkins’s horse with the other. He was a poor horseman at best and almost fell off a few times himself. Soon Saint began mumbling incoherently. They had nothing to give him for the pain. Twice his horse stumbled and he screamed. Gabrielle talked constantly to him, a low stream of positive words about how she wouldn’t allow anything else to happen to him, everything was going to be all right, and she promised that he would be fine.
After a few hours, the rain slackened and finally stopped altogether. They rode through mud and circumvented crevices and gullies filled with standing water. Mulkins had estimated that Silver City was perhaps thirty miles away, but they only made about ten miles before dark.
When they camped, Gabrielle used all their blankets to make a soft, dry bed for Saint, and to cover him snugly. He refused food. The others split two cans of peaches, saving the half-dozen biscuits for morning. When McLendon and Mulkins were about to stretch out on the still-damp ground and rest as best they could, Gabrielle sat next to Saint and held his hand.
“You need to sleep yourself,” McLendon said.
“Not with Joe in this precarious condition,” Gabrielle said. “I’d never forgive myself if he needed me and I was asleep.” They’d been able to kindle a small fire with matches and brush. By the light of its few flames, McLendon saw that Gabrielle had lost whole patches of her beloved hair. Numerous bare spots, some the size of silver dollars, stood out in stark contrast to the remaining long, dark locks on the top of her head. There was an indescribable weariness in her eyes.
“How’s your shin?” he asked, mostly for something to say.
“I’m fine,” Gabrielle said, as though she answered a general rather than specific question. It was obvious that she wasn’t. He touched her hand and she smiled faintly, then turned back to Saint, who was groaning.
McLendon sighed and lay down next to Mulkins. The Major said, “What’s wrong, C.M.?”
“You can’t see me because your eyes are swollen shut. How do you know something’s wrong?”
“Don’t need to see you; I heard you just now. What is it?”
“Hard to say. I’m alive and that’s a surprise. But there seems no joy in it.”
Mulkins sat up. Swollen flesh covered his face from brow to cheekbone. His flattened nose pressed in between. He looked barely human, and his voice wheezed.
“It’s likely to take some time for you and for all of us,” Mulkins said. “We’ve experienced terrible things and it’s natural to feel unsettled. Let’s get Joe to a doctor in Silver City, and worry about everything else after that.”
It took McLendon a while to even doze. The rope burns on his neck stung badly, but when he considered the injuries suffered by Saint and Mulkins, his own hurts seemed trivial. Even though it had in no way been his intention, technically he and not Brautigan had shot and crippled Saint—McLendon felt some guilt from that. Would Saint hold a grudge because of it? More important, would Gabrielle? He tried comforting himself with the thought that Brautigan was dead, and he was finally safe. But what next?
Finally, McLendon slept a little. He woke in the middle of the night from indistinct, troubling dreams, and looked around. Mulkins snored beside him, loud blatting noises from his mouth rather than his smashed nose. The fire was almost out, but in the glow of its remaining embers he saw that Gabrielle was still awake and seated beside Joe Saint, holding his hand and staring into the darkness.
34
They stayed in Silver City for five days. As soon as they arrived, they inquired after doctors. There were two in town. One was drunk and sleeping it off. The other was on a hot streak in a poker game and didn’t want to be interrupted. His name was Hutcheson. When McLendon insisted that he step away from the card table because a terribly injured man needed immediate treatment, Doc Hutcheson said he’d do it for a hundred dollars cash, or twice the amount of the pending pot. When McLendon reported this to the others, Major Mulkins produced the wad of greenbacks McLendon had given him before surrendering himself to Brautigan.
“We’ve got a degree of financial comfort, C.M.,” he said. “Tell that doc to tend to Joe at once.”
Doc Hutcheson cauterized what remained of Saint’s foot to prevent infection. Beyond that, he said, there was nothing to do but wait until the wound healed and then “buy the poor bastard a stump. It’ll be pricey because it’ll have to be special-fitted, ’less you want me to trim it all off back to the ankle. Then you could buy a plain wood foot and strap it on, which’ll set you back considerably less.” They said they’d wait and see.
Hutcheson also treated the Major’s broken nose. He said there were always lots of these in Silver City. He twisted the cartilage this way and that while Mulkins tried not to scream. When he was done, the Major’s nose was shaped almost normally. Hutcheson said the bridge would always be somewhat crooked. Mulkins’s facial swelling subsided quickl
y, and he could see again.
The doctor judged Gabrielle’s shin badly bruised but not broken. He raised his eyebrows at the rope burns on McLendon’s neck but made no further comment. Hutcheson prescribed a salve that stung worse than the untreated wounds had. McLendon used it once, then discarded it.
Saint couldn’t travel until his foot scabbed over sufficiently. They took two rooms at a shabby place called the Estes Hotel, which, despite its cobwebby corners and oilcloth curtains in lieu of windows, was still one of the better places in town. McLendon shared with Mulkins. Gabrielle insisted on staying with Saint. The crippled schoolteacher spoke very little, except to indicate he was in constant pain. Even then he usually ignored the other two and talked only to Gabrielle, keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard. Mulkins and McLendon took their meals in Silver City cafés, then brought food back to the hotel for Saint and Gabrielle. Saint moaned that he was too weak to go out, and she wouldn’t leave him.
After two days, Gabrielle was finally persuaded to go shopping for a little while. She needed a dress to replace the ragged men’s clothing she wore, and also a kerchief or bonnet to cover the bald spots on her scalp. She insisted that both Mulkins and McLendon stay at Saint’s side while she was away; one of them should run and fetch her if Joe took a bad turn in her absence.
Mulkins had speculated to McLendon that Saint’s moodiness could probably be attributed to embarrassment: “He’s brooding on how he froze up during the fight, I believe.” So while Gabrielle was gone, they sat on either side of Saint’s bed and took turns reassuring him that there was no cause for shame. Mulkins told of how many brave Union soldiers suffered temporary paralysis before rushing into battle and distinguishing themselves, “just like you did, Joe. I’m told that you threw yourself right into Brautigan when he went for Gabrielle.” McLendon described his own hesitation as Brautigan crawled toward him at the bottom of the crevice. Saint lay impassively on his bed, giving no sign that he heard. When Gabrielle returned, he held out his hand to her. She dropped her bundles and rushed to his side.
“You can leave now,” she told McLendon and Mulkins. “Joe’s upset that I left him.”
That evening after Saint was asleep, McLendon insisted that Gabrielle come down to the hotel lobby with him. There was one dusty couch to sit on and McLendon led her there.
“What is it? I can’t leave Joe for long,” Gabrielle said.
“That’s just it. You hover over him constantly. We haven’t talked at all.”
Gabrielle self-consciously adjusted the kerchief around her head. She thought, hoped, that all the hair would grow back, but as yet there was no sign that it was. “We will. For now, I’ve got to get Joe safely home.”
“And after that?”
“Don’t do this to me. I need time to think.” With that, she left, saying that Saint’s dressing needed to be changed.
Later, Mulkins and McLendon were walking back to the Estes Hotel after a tasteless chili supper when they were stopped in the street by a short man wearing a gun on each hip.
“I’m Wolfe, the sheriff,” he said, gesturing to a badge on his vest. “People tell me you and a couple others came into town in poor condition, with someone shot up pretty bad. What occurred?”
“We ran into Apache,” Mulkins said.
“I’d heard some were off the San Carlos agency. Kill any?”
“I got one,” Mulkins said.
“Good for you. I wish ever’ last damned one of them was dead. Maybe someday.” The sheriff looked thoughtful, then said, “Which direction did you arrive from? Possibly the north?”
“We came in from the west, though the mountains,” McLendon said.
“From Tucson?”
“That direction, yes. Why do you ask?”
Sheriff Wolfe hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt. “I’ve been expecting someone coming from the north for some time. Big man, deputy lawman out of St. Louis. Probably have a prisoner with him. You happen to encounter any such?”
McLendon said, “I believe we’d remember if we had.”
“Well, I hope he shows soon,” Wolfe said. “The bastard owes me money.”
—
AFTER ONE MORE DAY, and for another fifty dollars, Doc Hutcheson pronounced Saint fit to travel. They wired Rebecca Moore in Mountain View that they were on the way, and purchased stage tickets. It was a difficult trip. They traveled from Silver City to Tucson, from Tucson to Florence, and from Florence finally to Mountain View. Because Saint needed to ride with his wounded leg extended, they had to purchase five seats instead of four. The constant rocking of the stage seemed to cause him considerable discomfort. Gabrielle dabbed his brow with a dampened bandanna and urged him to be brave just a little longer. McLendon’s heart sank. It was obvious to him what was happening. If Gabrielle had a blind spot in her heart for McLendon, a willingness to overlook his faults and believe in him beyond the limits of credulity, she had one for Joe Saint too.
—
AS SOON AS they arrived in Mountain View, Gabrielle put Saint to bed in his house and then rushed to the White Horse Hotel to see her father. Mulkins and McLendon walked to Garth Gould’s livery, and informed him that the three horses they’d rented were now in Silver City. They gave him money to pay for the animals’ return, and said that there was a fourth horse in Silver City with them. Gould could have that one too. Then they went back to the White Horse. Mulkins immediately met with staff there, checking on what happened while he was gone. McLendon went upstairs to the room he shared with the Major. He took off his boots and lay down on the bed. Thinking was too upsetting and sleep seemed impossible. After an hour he got up and walked to the Ritz. It was early evening. He took a table toward the back and ordered whiskey. He drank that, then another, and as he was finishing the second Sheriff Jack Hove came over.
“I just saw Major Mulkins at the White Horse, and his face was somewhat battered,” Hove said. “I asked what transpired, and he said it wasn’t worth discussing. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”
“I’ve nothing to add,” McLendon said. They’d agreed not to discuss with Hove anything that had happened. If the sheriff traced Brautigan back to Rupert Douglass, that would only cause more problems.
“I’m glad Miss Tirrito is back safe,” Hove said. “I’d like to know more about how she vanished in the first place.”
McLendon stared into his tumbler and swirled the last drops of whiskey with a forefinger.
“There’s a rumor Joe Saint’s resting at his house with his whole leg shot off,” Hove continued. “Think he or Gabrielle might be more forthcoming?”
“Sheriff, I’m asking you to let this thing be,” McLendon said. “Don’t talk to Gabrielle or Joe about it. Can you please take my word that, whatever happened, justice eventually was done? No one’s going to say any more.”
Hove regarded McLendon, taking in his exhausted posture and sad eyes.
“All right, at least for now,” he said. “So long as I’ve got your word that whatever trouble it was, hasn’t followed you back to my town.”
“No,” McLendon said. “There’s no chance of that.”
“Will you and Gabrielle be going on to California as planned?”
McLendon waved for a third whiskey and said, “At least I will, anyway.”
—
GABRIELLE PUT McLendon off when he tried to speak privately with her. She always claimed that she was too busy. She’d resumed her old desk job at the White Horse, she had her father to care for, and now Joe Saint too. Doc Vance did some surgery on Saint’s foot, removing bone splinters, stitching up open wounds, measuring for a wooden partial foot to be ordered at considerable expense from a special place on the East Coast. Orville Hancock said he’d pay for it, because Joe Saint was a good man who contributed to the town’s well-being. The wooden foot might take six months to arrive, but once it did and Joe got used to it, Doc Va
nce predicted, Joe would walk nearly normally again. Doc thought that right now the schoolteacher could get around on crutches and resume his job, too, but Saint claimed he was still in too much pain. The schoolhouse remained vacant and the town children ran around the streets instead of being in class. Out of respect for Saint, their parents chose to wait until he could return to duty rather than hire another instructor. Everyone agreed he was a fine schoolteacher, better than anyone else they could get.
Because he was broke again, McLendon looked for work. Mayor Camp’s feed store and bowling alley were still shut. Orville Hancock said he’d take on McLendon in some administrative position at his mining operation, but that was more of a commitment than McLendon would make. He was hired by Tim Flanagan to help out at his livery. McLendon mostly handled horse rentals. As had been the case at Camp’s bowling alley, people liked doing business with the hero of Adobe Walls.
At night, Gabrielle was always with Saint, cooking him dinner, helping him to bed, reading to him to help him fall asleep. McLendon went to the Ritz saloon, sitting with Major Mulkins and listlessly drinking beer. Sometimes they were joined by Rebecca Moore, but never by Marie Silva, who had unexpectedly left town. They talked of various things—the weather, the opening of a new Chinese laundry, the latest alleged assassination by the Witch of the West as reported by Mac Fielding in The Mountain View Herald. But it was understood that Gabrielle was not to be discussed.
Finally, after nearly three weeks, McLendon intercepted Gabrielle one evening on her way to Saint’s house.
“It’s time to talk,” he said. “I’ve been patient. But I need you to tell me what you want to do.”
“You’re presuming that I know myself,” Gabrielle said, fussing with her kerchief. Her hair was growing back, but slowly.
“I understand what you went through, at least some of it. I can imagine the rest. It was because of me. I’ll spend the rest of my life making up for it.”
Gabrielle looked down the sidewalk. People were lined up outside the new Chinese laundry, which advertised a special opening-for-business rate of five cents a shirt.