Powder Burn

by William W. Johnstone

  “Why, that would be lovely,” he said, flashing another smile for her. “You’re a regular angel.” Then he tipped his hat to her and ambled unsteadily on his way to Texas House. This was where Will found him.

  * * *

  Sheldon Tate looked up from his breakfast when the tall sandy-haired lawman walked in the front door of his dining room. “Well, ain’t seen you in a while,” Sheldon said. “What brings you to town? You lookin’ for some breakfast?”

  “I’m lookin’ for Doc O’Shea,” Will answered. “The lady that works for him said I’d find him in your place.” He looked around at the empty dining room. “Has he been here?”

  “He’s here,” Sheldon said, and nodded toward the door at the back of the room. “He’s doctorin’ a hangover with the hair of the dog that bit him.”

  “Well, I need him to treat a patient,” Will said, and headed toward the door.

  “You know I don’t sell no whiskey,” Sheldon called after him. “There’s just some I offer friends and members of the club.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Will said, and opened the door. Inside, he found Doc seated at a table with a bottle of whiskey in front of him and a glass half-full. The doctor looked up slowly, too hungover to be startled.

  “Well, if it isn’t Deputy Marshal Will Tanner,” Doc announced grandly. “Sit down and have a drink, Marshal.”

  “Thanks just the same, Doc,” Will replied. “And you’ve had a-plenty, too.” He took the glass sitting before Doc and tossed the contents on the floor, at the same time grabbing the bottle from the table. “You’ve got a patient to tend to, and I need you sober.”

  Looking in alarm at the wet spot on the plank floor, Doc seemed at a loss until he regained some composure. “I’ll be happy to see your patient,” he said. “I’ll be in my office around ten o’clock. Bring him in then.”

  “There’s a badly wounded man waitin’ in your office right now, and he can’t wait any longer to be treated, so get on your feet,” Will ordered, “and I’ll do my best to try to sober you up.”

  “I don’t need your help, sir,” Doc insisted. “I’m as sober as a judge right now. So I’ll have that bottle back. I’ve already paid for it.” He held his hand out for the whiskey.

  Will grasped his wrist and jerked him up out of the chair. The surprised doctor was able to remain on his feet, although more than a little wobbly. Will released his wrist and watched to see how drunk he really was. “Come on, Doc,” he said. “I think with a little help you might make it.” He reached down and picked up Doc’s hat from the table and plopped it down on the confused man’s head. Then he grabbed the back of his coat collar and walked him out of the room. “You’ll get your bottle back after you’ve done a good job on Tom Spotted Horse.” He walked him through the dining room, where Sheldon Tate sat astonished, a fork full of fried ham suspended before his mouth. Outside in the cold morning air, Will hurried the doctor along up the street, still holding him by the back of his coat collar.

  “I would ask you to slow down a little,” Doc complained. “My legs are not nearly as long as yours.” He almost stumbled, but Will caught him and kept him going. “I’m thinking I must report your outrageous conduct to the district office in Fort Smith.”

  Will had no patience with a man of Doc’s skill and training who drowned it all in a bottle. And at the moment, he didn’t give a damn if he contacted Dan Stone or not. When they struggled past Dixon Durant’s general store, the horse trough near the corner of the building caught his eye. That might help, he thought, if it doesn’t kill him. He grabbed the back of Doc’s neck and plunged his head into the water, breaking through a paper-thin film of ice on the surface. Flailing helplessly, the doctor struggled frantically, but was unable to escape the powerful hand that held him submerged in the icy water until he was snatched out gasping and sputtering for breath. “No!” he screamed when Will, still holding him by the neck, threatened to repeat the treatment. “I’m sober! I’m all right now!” he cried out in alarm, terrified that the stoic lawman might drown him.

  Will doubted the icy plunge was enough to sober O’Shea, but he was satisfied that it was enough to set him on the road to getting there. “All right,” he said. “Step lively now and we’ll get you home before you catch pneumonia.” He picked up Doc’s hat, which was floating on the water, and clapped it down on the shivering man’s head, causing him to shutter anew.

  “Oh my stars!” Myra Skinner exclaimed in disgust. “What was it this time? You’re soaking wet!”

  “He decided to clear his head in the horse trough,” Will said. “What he needs now is a dry towel and shirt, and about a gallon of hot coffee. How’s Tom doin’?”

  “He’s no better than he was when you brought him in,” Myra said. “And he’s no worse, either. I cleaned him up a little with his wife’s help, so he’s about as good as we can get him before Doc examines him.”

  Will took a look at Doc, who was still dazed from the dip in the horse trough. In a moment, he recovered his senses enough to threaten Will. “Your superior in Fort Smith will receive my full report on your barbaric behavior. I doubt you’ll be a deputy marshal much longer.”

  “Marshal Daniel Stone is the man you wanna contact,” Will replied. “He’s my boss. Now how ’bout it? Can you get yourself sober enough to take care of Tom Spotted Horse?”

  Doc didn’t answer for a long moment. When he did, he replied softly, “I can,” suddenly losing his initial outrage and beginning to get a grip on his intoxication. He gave Myra Skinner a questioning glance then.

  Understanding his unspoken question, she responded, “On your operating table. I’ll get you a dry shirt and some coffee.”

  “Better bring the pot,” he said, becoming more sober by the second, only because he had not had time to drink much of the bottle of whiskey before Will found him. His major problem at the moment was a splitting headache, a result of the prior night’s indiscretions. Turning back to address Will, he said, “I’ve got work to do, and I can’t do it with you standing around in the way. So go somewhere and come back later this afternoon.” Nodding toward Sarah Little Foot, he said, “I’ll do what I can for your husband, ma’am. Of course you’re welcome to stay.”

  “Fair enough, Doc,” Will said. He looked at Sarah then. “You want something to eat? Want me to build you a fire, so you can fix something?” He knew she had not eaten since the night before.

  She shook her head. “I not hungry. Maybe I cook you something?”

  “For goodness’ sakes,” Myra said. “If she wants something, we can fix it in the kitchen.”

  “’Preciate it,” Will said. “I’ll get outta your way now.” He left the wounded policeman in the care of the half-sober doctor, knowing he had no better option. He could only hope O’Shea could sober up enough to treat the unfortunate Indian policeman. After taking care of the horses, he thought he might as well go back to the Texas House to get some breakfast. But first, he decided to go to the telegraph office and bring Dan Stone up to date on the search for Jack Lynch and his men.

  At the telegraph office in the small railroad station, he wrote out his message as briefly as possible and gave it to the clerk to send. “I’ll be in town a while in case I get a reply. I’ll either be at the Texas House or the doctor’s office.” After his message was sent and paid for, he headed back to the Texas House to see if Sheldon Tate had a decent cook. Much to his satisfaction, it turned out that Tate’s cook knew how to rustle up a breakfast of bacon and eggs that equaled those fixed by Ruth Bennett. The thought triggered another, one that he purposely tried to keep in the back of his mind. Most likely Sophie cooked a big breakfast for her husband, Garth, on this morning as well. When, he wondered, am I going to quit thinking about Sophie Bennett? I mean, Sophie Pearson. He was spared from lingering on these thoughts when Tate’s cook, Beulah, brought the coffeepot around again.

  He was still drinking coffee, and his breakfast dishes cleared away, when a young boy from the telegraph office found h
im with a reply from Dan Stone. Stone instructed him to continue his search for Jack Lynch and emphasized the need to take him alive if possible. It was the response he expected, however, it was the second part of Stone’s message that struck a sobering note.

  RECEIVED IDENTIFICATION OF MAN YOU KILLED IN FRONT OF JAIL STOP PRISONER RELEASED STATE PRISON NAMED MIKE LYNCH STOP SON OF MAN YOU LOOKING FOR STOP DEPUTY BOB HARDY FOUND DEAD IN WOODS OFF LITTLE ROCK ROAD STOP HARDY’S HORSE FOUND DEAD NEAR WARD’S CORNER STOP THINK LYNCH RESPONSIBLE STOP

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Will exhaled slowly. “Bob Hardy dead. The son of a bitch killed Bob Hardy—no wonder he didn’t wanna go to jail.” He had never worked with Bob Hardy, but he knew who he was. That explains a helluva lot, he thought then. Little wonder Lynch wanted to find him. But how did Jack Lynch find out that he had killed his son? This put a different light on things. He was not only the hunter, he was the hunted as well. It might explain the blood lust with which Jack Lynch went after Tom Spotted Horse. So now his pursuit of the outlaw had become a personal thing. It might make it difficult to honor Dan Stone’s request to capture Lynch. This new turn of events made it even more urgent for him to get on the trail of the two outlaws that had fled Tishomingo. Even if he could start after them right now, he would be a day behind. That is, if they had decided to run, instead of seeking the revenge Jack Lynch desired. The problem that presented itself immediately was what to do about Tom and his wife. He got up at once, paid for his breakfast, and hurried back to the doctor’s office.

  * * *

  Sarah Little Foot found herself in a most confusing and fearful condition. Like her husband, she had never had a great deal of trust in the white man. And now she was forced to trust the fate of her husband to the hands of the drunken white doctor. Although reluctant to defy her instincts, she was less distrustful of the deputy marshal, Will Tanner, since he had taken it as his responsibility to take Tom to the doctor. Even more, Tom had told her that Will had saved his life, so she was grateful for that. She decided that Will Tanner was a good man. But that didn’t prevent her from distressing about the care Tom was receiving from a man who had shown no sign of compassion for his serious condition. She had been especially alarmed when Doc applied the ether that put Tom to sleep, thinking that the doctor had killed him. It had taken Myra Skinner some time to calm her down and reassure her that Tom was only asleep so that Doc could go in after the bullet. Sarah was reluctant, but could see that there was nothing she could do about it, so she decided to trust Myra. It was only after Will returned and checked on the progress of the operation that she decided Tom was in good hands.

  Doc spent a great part of the morning trying to dislodge the bullet that had buried itself deep in the muscle around Tom’s hip bone. When Will stuck his head inside the heavy curtain that closed off the operating table from the rest of the office, Doc gave him a curt, but encouraging, report on the patient. “He’s better off than you thought. That bullet did a lot of damage, but it didn’t break his hip as it first appeared. And it’s a damn good thing it didn’t because I probably wouldn’t have been able to fix it.” He paused to scowl painfully. “Especially with this god-awful headache,” he continued. “Now get the hell outta my surgery, so I can finish this mess.”

  “Will he walk again?” Will asked.

  “Not for a couple of weeks,” Doc answered. That sounded like good news to Will, so he pulled his head back from inside the curtain. “I’m gonna need that bottle you took,” Doc yelled after him, “just as soon as I finish him up.”

  “Soon as you finish,” Will assured him, and went through the office to the living quarters behind, where he found Sarah and Myra seated at a small table near the stove. As he stepped inside, Sarah looked up at him, her eyes pleading for reassurance. “Good news,” he said. “Doc says his hip ain’t broke. It’ll be a couple of weeks, but he oughta heal up enough to walk and ride again.”

  Sarah’s troubled frown relaxed immediately. “You are good man, Will Tanner. I think your words are true.”

  “And mine ain’t?” Myra huffed. “I’ve been tryin’ to tell you Doc knows what he’s doin’.” She paused, then added, “Drunk or sober.” She had been trying to keep the Indian woman from worrying so much, afraid she might get some crazy notion to rescue her husband. I hope to hell Doc doesn’t lose him now, she thought. That woman might try to scalp all of us. Since Sarah seemed to have calmed down, Myra got up and went back to see if Doc needed her. “There’s coffee on the stove,” she said as she closed the door.

  “No thanks,” Will replied. “I drank about a gallon of it at the Texas House.”

  * * *

  It was another hour before Doc came into the kitchen, leaving Myra to clean up after the surgery. He told Sarah she could go in and help clean up her husband. “He survived,” he said, still grumpy, but seeming more sober. “But I don’t know how. I gave him enough ether to kill him. You can carry him back home. Best take a bottle of laudanum with you to help him with the pain. He’s gonna have a lot of pain for a few days, but don’t go lettin’ him drink a lot of that medicine. A teaspoon or two at a time. Give him too much, you could kill him.” He paused and waited for her questions, but she was too confused to ask them. She looked at Will for help, and he nodded and said he would make sure she understood what to do. Looking back at Will then, Doc had a question or two. “Who’s gonna pay my bill?”

  “I reckon I am,” Will said, “if it ain’t too much.” Sarah understood that question. She said nothing, but looked at the tall deputy with undisguised appreciation. She scurried off to the office to take care of her husband.

  Doc grunted his approval. “Now, where’s that bottle of whiskey? I need something to fix this infernal headache.”

  “I reckon you earned a drink,” Will said. “I gave the bottle to Myra.” Doc’s face sagged, knowing Myra would hide it from him in an effort to keep him sober. “She put it in that cabinet behind that tin of lard,” Will continued, unable to keep from grinning at the triumphant smile that immediately replaced the frown on Doc’s face.

  Although Sarah and Will were both eager to lay Tom in the wagon and start back for home, Doc insisted that they wait until Tom was fully conscious, so he could evaluate his handiwork. Once he decided the wound was sewed up properly and Tom was going to survive the wagon trip back to Tishomingo, he discharged his patient. “Take him outta here, and don’t go tellin’ all those crazy Indians over there that I’ll treat all their ills unless you plan to keep payin’ my bills.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Will chided. “Don’t forget, Dan Stone is the man you wanna talk to in Fort Smith.”

  “I ain’t forgettin’,” Doc snorted. “Maybe one day I’ll get you on my table.”

  “That’ll be the day,” Will replied.

  * * *

  It was a late start, but they finally set out for home in the late afternoon. As before on the trip to the doctor, Will planned to travel straight through the night with one stop to eat and rest the horses. However, because of the obvious discomfort their patient was suffering by the motion of the wagon, Will decided it best to stop for the day when they were about halfway back. Another day lost, he thought. So they set up camp when they came to a stream with a good flow of water, and Sarah built a fire to cook supper. Tom didn’t feel much like eating, but he was well enough to drink some of the coffee Sarah brewed. The delay was difficult for Will because he couldn’t help thinking about the cold trail he had to follow once he got Tom and Sarah home safely. He had no choice, however, for their safety held priority over running Jack Lynch and his gang to ground. In the back of his mind he kept a cautious thought about the man he was hunting. There was still the possibility that Jack Lynch was looking for him. For that reason, he had helped Sarah make a bed for her and Tom under the wagon in case they had visitors during the night. In the meantime, he positioned himself between them and the wagon road they had been traveling. He intended to stay awake most of the night, counting on Buster and the
other horses to alert him in the event he dozed off. He figured that when he got Tom and Sarah back to their cabin they’d be safe because Lynch might be looking for him, but he should have no reason to go after Tom.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Look comin’ yonder!” Tater Smith exclaimed when he spotted the two riders approaching. Rubin looked toward the bluffs where Tater pointed. He saw Lynch and Hannah riding their horses hard. The two outlaws in the abandoned trading post stared out the window looking for others, but there were only two riders. “Where’s Mace and Rafe?” Tater wondered aloud.

  “Uh-oh,” Rubin muttered. “They went lookin’ for Will Tanner. Looks like they mighta found him.” He remembered well the fateful encounters with the deputy that had taken the lives of his brothers. It was best to avoid the man if at all possible because something bad always happened. Almost certain he knew what Lynch and Hannah were going to report, he followed Tater out the door to meet them.

  “We got ambushed,” Jack Lynch blurted as soon as he reined his horse to a stop and dismounted. “They got Mace and Rafe. We didn’t know they was all set up waitin’ for us.”

  “Was it that deputy, Tanner?” Tater asked. “Did he get both of ’em?”

  “No,” Lynch said. “That damn crazy Injun shot Rafe.” He raised his arm to display the ragged holes in his coat. “He damn near got me with the same shotgun blast, though.” He went on to describe the confrontation in front of the Chickasaw police office and the consequent flight to save his and Hannah’s life.

  Rubin looked to Hannah to hear his sister’s version of the ill-fated attempt to corner Will Tanner. “That’s pretty much what happened,” Hannah said. “We smoked that damn Injun out in the street. Mace put a bullet in him and he was crawlin’ like a sick hog, but Lynch took so long to finish him off that we got ambushed while he was flappin’ his jaws about what he was gonna do.” She shifted her eyes toward Lynch and smirked. “I reckon it was Tanner,” she went on. “The shots came from down near the stables. We had to get outta there in case he had a posse with him. I didn’t wait to see if he did or not.” She paused to reconsider. “Now that I think about it, there weren’t that many shots fired. I think maybe we ran too soon. It mighta been just one rifle doin’ the shootin’.”