“Charlie is too good a shot. You sure he’s hurt?”
She felt Benson’s body twist around, his spurs dig into the horse. “Charlie was taking a nap so Cox had the drop on him,” he shouted. “Told Charlie he’d give him the time it took to roll a cigarette to get the money out of the safe or he’d shoot Charlie’s eye out. There was no way for Charlie to get his irons from the end of the couch so he called Cox’s bluff. Shut his eyes and rolled over. That’s when Cox shot him.”
Polly listened disbelievingly. Only the mob of angry miners outside the saloon convinced her of the truth.
“Don’t worry Polly,” the sheriff said, helping her dismount. “Cone’s gone after Cox like a coyote after a jackrabbit.”
He pushed wide the swinging doors and followed Polly into the saloon, his footsteps reverberating in the unnatural quiet. “He’ll get that killer, make no mistake.”
Killer? Then she was too late. Her knees wobbled like those of a newborn calf, and she was glad of the knob to lean on when she opened the door to the back room.
There was blood everywhere. On the couch. The floor. Its pungent, metallic odor overcoming the familiar smells of tobacco and liquor. How could there be so much blood and Charlie still live?
He was lying on the couch. Covered. Except for his face, yellow gray and waxy. A death mask. Polly signaled the sheriff she wanted to go in alone.
She leaned over Charlie. A black hole gaped beneath his right eye and beads of sweat trickled between ridges of clotted blood. There was a dry rattling. The quilt rose imperceptibly, then fell. He was alive!
“Charlie!”
Beneath the quilt she saw movement, a feeble groping. She lowered the quilt and took his hand. “First thing we take you home and clean you up,” she said.
“No. Stay here.” Blood seeped out of his mouth into his beard.
“Shhh. Don’t talk now.”
“Must. Running out of time.” His eyes, dark caverns of pain, opened. “I love you Polly. Marry me.”
The constriction in her chest was unbearable. She lifted a corner of the quilt and wiped the blood from his lips, his beard. “Shhh. Later. We talk later.”
“The saloon, the gold in the safe, everything I have is yours.”
Struggling, he lifted his hand a few inches before it dropped back onto the couch. His eyes rolled and Polly, following his gaze, saw they were not alone. From out of the shadows, Pony Smead, the justice of the peace, stepped forward.
“Doctor. Charlie need a doctor.”
“Troll’s already sent to Grangeville for one, but even riding hard it will be night again before he gets here. By then it might be too late.”
She bit her lips to keep back the sob that choked in her throat.
“No one I know in Warrens would want to cheat you,” Smead continued. “But you know what the law is. It’ll be safer if you marry.”
Polly sank to her knees beside Charlie. “You listen to me, Charlie. You get better. I promise you.”
His eyes, black with defeat, closed. “No.”
She laid her head against his chest. “You got to let me try.”
He did not answer.
She turned to Smead. “You find Troll. Then take the door down and use it for a stretcher to carry Charlie home. I will go ahead and get ready.”
Stumbling back through the crowd to her boarding house, Polly closed her ears to the remarks, angry and sympathetic, forcing herself to think only of what she would need. Something to clean the wound. Cloths. Plenty of clean cloths. And herbs. To stop the bleeding. To replenish the blood he’d already lost. To give him strength. Quickly, she gathered all she had.
She ran over to Charlie’s and put a kettle of water on to boil. Smead and Troll eased Charlie onto the bed. Polly poured some whiskey into a glass and gently lifted Charlie’s head.
“Drink this,” she said, holding the glass to his lips.
She tipped the glass. The liquor spilled into his mouth and over his beard. He did not swallow.
“He’s unconscious,” Troll said.
“I help Smead hold Charlie while you get the bullet out,” she told him.
“Don’t you think we should wait for the doctor?” Troll asked.
Polly, taking a reading of Charlie’s feeble pulse, shook her head. “We lose too much time already.”
Still Troll hesitated. “We have no instruments.”
Polly glanced around the cabin. She picked up her crochet hook. “Use this.”
Troll paled. “A crochet hook?”
“You and Smead hold Charlie. I will clean,” she said.
She worked silently. Digging. Daubing. Staunching. Desperately pretending the tortured moans did not come from Charlie. The hole was closer to the eye and larger than she had thought, and the crochet hook sank deeper and deeper, but she could not find the bullet. Bits of flesh and splintered bone gleamed whitely on cotton swabs blackened with powder and blood. The pile grew. Blood spurted freshly from the wound. She packed it with a poultice of herbs and fresh cloths. The wound was clean, but the doctor would have to get the bullet.
“Thank you. I will wait with Charlie for the doctor,” she told Smead and Troll.
Wearily Polly closed the door behind the men and sank into the chair beside the bed. Charlie groaned.
“Polly’s here,” she soothed. “You okay.”
He tossed restlessly. She cradled him in her arms. He quieted. Dusk deepened into night. The saloons closed. There was a burst of footsteps and noisy talk, the soft whinnying of horses. Hoofbeats. A door slammed. Crickets chirped. A coyote howled. The lamp spluttered, went out. Intending to relight it, Polly half rose.
“No,” Charlie moaned. “No.”
She stayed, not moving, willing her breath, her strength, to flow into Charlie. Light, dusky gray, filtered through the windows. She heard the town come to life. Still she did not move. Sunshine, honey golden, flooded the room, warming her, and through her, Charlie. Friends came and went. But concentrating on pouring all her strength, her life into Charlie, Polly did not speak, did not move. Then, as dusk came again, she heard horses pounding to a halt. Footsteps. The doctor.
Troll held the lamp above Dr. Bibby as he worked on Charlie. The doctor’s three-hundred-pound bulk cast deep shadows, and Polly lit a second lamp and brought it close. On the packing crate beside the bed, metal and bits of bone glowed like red hot coals.
The doctor, his giant body sagging from exhaustion, dropped his instruments into the basin of hot water. “The ball must have hit the cheekbone and split. I can only find half of it.”
“What does that mean?” Troll asked.
“Unless Bemis’ system is strong enough to expel the other part of the bullet, the fragment will induce blood poisoning.”
He washed his hands and dried his instruments. Polly set the lamp down. “You finish, you will not look for it?” she asked, alarmed.
The doctor shook his head. “I’ve probed as deep and as long as I dare.”
“No,” Polly protested. “You can find it. I know. You’re tired. You rest. Then you look again.”
Dr. Bibby snapped his case shut. “I’ve done all I can.”
“No,” Polly denied. “You’re the best doctor. I know. I never see you before, but I hear. I know one time you need special instrument for operation at ranch and you make it yourself in the blacksmith shop. You can do anything. I know. I hear.”
“And I’ve heard what an excellent nurse you are. Too good for me to lie to.”
He took a bottle of laudanum from the table. “The wound will probably be fatal, but this will ease the pain and make the going easier for the both of you.”
She backed away, refusing to take the bottle he offered. “No. He will get well, I tell you. He will.”
TWENTY-TWO
Polly had smelled the stink of death before. Only a faint, teasing whiff two days ago, the sickeningly sweet odor of rotting flesh had become distinct. Soon it would begin to cling, becoming as impenetrable and i
nescapable as a shroud.
She fell to her knees beside Charlie. He was lying as he had since the shooting. Silent and inert. Only now the gaping hole in his cheek oozed yellow green pus. She laid her hand on his.
How often she had felt this hand. This hand which danced in the air when Charlie spoke, split logs for her woodbox, and turned fallen leaves to study the insects below. This hand, familiar and smooth as worn leather, which stroked her body, playing it like he played his violin, making it come alive with joy and longing.
There was a knock at the door. Polly ignored it. She wanted to see no one. Except Charlie. Charlie come alive again, his deep-throated laughter washing over her like clear spring water.
Behind Polly, the door opened. She recognized Bertha’s light tread, but she did not turn.
“Have you heard? Mr. Cone’s arrested Cox! He tracked Cox to Salmon Meadows, found he’d sold his horse and gone by stage to Weiser, so followed him there. Someone in Weiser had seen Cox catch a train, but no one knew where the train was headed. Luckily, Mr. Cone heard it was paytime in Pocatello. He guessed Cox would go there to try and pick up some cash gambling, and that’s where he was! Going by the name of Eaton, but Mr. Cone got him.”
Reaching Polly, Bertha’s excited chatter trailed off into silence. She knelt beside her friend. “What is it?”
Polly laid Charlie’s hand back beneath the quilt. “It’s three weeks, more, since the shooting. The hole should begin to heal, not have pus and smell.”
“What does Mr. Troll say?”
“He think Charlie will die.”
Bertha winced. “What about Li Dick?”
“He give me special white powder, mold, to kill infection. Always before on other people it work. But not on Charlie.”
“Does Li Dick know why?”
“He say the same as Dr. Bibby. The bullet inside Charlie make his blood poison.”
“Then we have to find the rest of the bullet,” Bertha said simply.
Polly fell back on her heels. “How? I look, Dr. Bibby look. We cannot find it.”
Bertha gazed thoughtfully at Charlie. After a few minutes, she turned back to Polly and said, “It was right after the shooting when you and Dr. Bibby tried to find the bullet, and you both looked in Charlie’s cheek. Didn’t Dr. Bibby say the bullet could work its way to another part of Charlie’s body?”
“But where?” Polly, exasperated by Bertha’s naive, well-meaning questions, snapped. “I cannot cut Charlie open to see.”
“No, but you can feel.”
Polly closed her eyes. An overwhelming tiredness pressed her down and she could not move. She felt Bertha’s hands on her shoulders.
“Polly, you were only a girl when your father sold you, but you were strong. Strong enough to cross the ocean to a new world. Strong enough to forge a new life for yourself. Aren’t you strong enough to keep fighting for the life of the man you love?”
Wearily Polly opened her eyes. “My strength is all used up.”
“You’ve both hung on this long, you can’t give up now,” Bertha pleaded, her passion as sincere as Polly’s had been when she had cried, “He will get well. He will.”
She had believed it then. Now she was not sure. The doctor had been right about the laudanum Charlie would need to escape the pain. Was he also right about the blood poisoning? Certainly Troll and Li Dick agreed.
Bertha walked to the foot of the bed. “Charlie was lying down when Cox shot him,” she said slowly. “And Dr. Bibby said the bullet hit the cheekbone. Is it possible the other part went past the bone and down to the back of the head?” She walked back around until she stood opposite Polly. “Let’s turn him and see.”
Unable to prevent the tiny flicker of hope Bertha’s words had ignited, Polly leaned heavily on the bed and pushed herself upright. Together, they turned Charlie. She probed the skull beneath his hair. Nothing. Her fingers worked their way down to his neck. His skin, fiery hot to her touch, was moist. How thin he had become. All bone and flacid muscle. She felt the faint beginnings of a lump. Bone? She brushed aside his hair. Near the center of his neck the skin swelled discolored over the beginnings of a hard, ungiving ridge.
She looked at Bertha. “Is this bone or bullet?”
“It’s close to the backbone but off center from it,” Bertha said, feeling in the area Polly pointed to. Her eyes brightened. “I think you’ve found it. Shall I fetch Mr. Troll?”
He had been unwilling to clean the wound without the doctor. How would he feel about digging for a bullet fragment they only believed was there? Would he insist on sending for Dr. Bibby again?
“I do it,” Polly said, assembling Charlie’s razor, scissors, clean cloths, herbs, and Li Dick’s mold on the dry goods box beside Charlie’s bed.
Bertha put the kettle on to boil. “What about Li Dick?”
“He does not believe in cutting people,” she said tersely, testing the edge of the razor.
She reached for the strop which hung above the washstand and moved the razor across the leather, back and forth, back and forth, the smooth, rhythmic stroking a soothing contrast to the rapid beating of her heart.
“Won’t we need help holding Charlie down?”
Polly tested the edge of the razor. It needed no further sharpening. She dropped the strop. “Charlie is full of laudanum. But to be safe, we can tie him down.”
They tied him down with sheets twisted into soft ropes. Polly gathered back his hair from around the ridge of skin, cutting and shaving the soft tufts she could not pin. She scrubbed her hands in the basin of scalding hot water, turning them a mottled red.
Bertha stationed herself across from Polly, hot water and cloths on the stool beside her.
A loud croaking broke the hard silence, followed by another and another. Cranes migrating south. Croaking orders down the line. Cranes. Birds of Death.
“Ready?” Bertha prompted.
Polly, shuddering at the omen, hesitated. Then deliberately she wiped her hands, dipped the razor into the water and wiped it with a cloth soaked in whiskey. “Ready,” she breathed.
The razor sank into Charlie’s neck, letting loose a gush of red black blood which soaked the pads of white cloth Bertha held ready. Polly dug deeper. The tip touched something hard. Bullet or bone? She withdrew the razor and forced a finger into the hole she had made, trying to ignore the blood spurting over everything. She felt sweat beading her forehead. A wave of faintness washed over her. She forced her finger deeper. It hit something solid. Something small and smooth. Or was it blood that made it slick? She crooked her finger around the object but could not move it. She would have to use the razor to dislodge it.
She withdrew her finger and wiped it clean on the towel Bertha passed her, then picked up the razor. Let it be bullet and not bone, she prayed, easing the razor back into the wound. She felt a slight movement beneath the razor. Her own trembling, Charlie moving, or the bullet loosening? She heard Charlie groan deeply. She would have to hurry.
“Hush,” she soothed, as much for herself as Charlie. “I almost done.”
She probed deeper, forcing the razor against the bit of hardness, jiggling it slightly. Drops of sweat splashed from her forehead onto her hands. Should she have waited for the bullet to surface on its own? Gritting her teeth, she forced the razor against the hardness and pushed up. Charlie groaned.
“You have it,” Bertha said.
Through a haze of moving gray dots, Polly withdrew the razor and bullet fragment. She dropped them into the basin of water. Pink swirls floated from the razor and bullet fragment, turning the colorless water into deepening shades of red, like the sky at dawn.
Again Charlie groaned. Polly quickly rinsed her hands, dried them, and mixed a poultice which she packed into the wound. “You okay now Charlie,” she whispered. “You okay.”
TWENTY-THREE
Polly looked up from the gold pin Bancroft had asked her to make for his daughter, Caroline. A simple pick and shovel, it did not require enough concentr
ation to distract her from her concern for Charlie.
Still weak, but completely healed, he sat hunched close to the stove, smoking his pipe, his forehead creased with worry. Worry about what? Though he had not been to the saloon since the shooting, business had continued brisk, so he could not be fretting about money. The stream of visitors was constant, so he could not be lonely. And he was not a vain man, so it could not be the horribly disfiguring scar, red and raw beneath his right eye. Then why was he becoming increasingly withdrawn?
The off-key strains of a violin tuning up sounded faintly outside the tightly closed windows of Charlie’s cabin. A flute quavered, followed by a series of disjointed spasms from an accordion. Incoherent caroling mixed with drunken laughter rose above the sounds of the orchestra.
Polly pushed back her stool and walked to the window. Her breath added to the opaque film created by the steamy warmth. She lifted her apron and wiped a pane clear. Ice crystals frosted the outside corners of the glass and a layer of fresh snow covered the town, but the night was clear, and she looked expectantly in the direction of Charlie’s saloon.
Since the Christmas Eve dance had broken up two days ago, the Old Crowd Club had been using the saloon to celebrate, and now they were spilling out onto the snow, reeling in a drunken procession. Pony Smead, the torch bearer, keeled over. His torch, fizzling in the snow, was seized by John Divine.
Polly turned from the window. “They will never make it all around the camp,” she laughed.
Charlie, tamping his pipe, gave no indication he had heard her. He knocked out the unsmoked tobacco, refilled the bowl, tamped it down, knocked it out again.
Polly stoked up the remains of the pine knots alight in the stove. She rummaged in the wood box Taylor was keeping filled and added more kindling, a small log. The fire crackled to life, and she inhaled deeply, relishing the fragrant wood smoke.
“Remember the winter of ’88 when it was so cold the horses freeze standing up and you let the fire die? By morning your breath make icicles on your beard, all across the blanket and under your nose,” she chuckled.
The words fell like pebbles into the tense silence. She wiped her hands on her apron, leaving sooty streaks. “I know something is bothering you, Charlie. Why don’t you tell me?”
Thousand Pieces of Gold Page 12