* * *
“What did you do to it?” Lorena demanded. “You musta got some dirt or something in it for it to get so red and swollen.”
“I didn’t do nothin’ to it,” Jake rasped painfully. “You’re the one done all the diggin’ around in it.”
“I dug the bullet outta Clint’s shoulder, too,” Lorena insisted, “and his wound don’t look like yours. You musta rubbed something in it.”
“What are you two bellyachin’ about?” Barfield asked.
“Ah, it’s ol’ crybaby here,” Lorena answered. “He’s gone and got that bullet hole infected.” She reached over and felt Jake’s forehead. “He’s got a fever, too. He’s burnin’ up. We’re gonna have to get him to a doctor.”
“A doctor?” Barfield responded. “There ain’t no doctor around here. He’s just gonna have to hold on till the fever leaves him.” It was bad enough that both sons were hampered with shoulder wounds, enough to discourage him from retaliation against the Triple-P right away. And now this. He bent over Jake and examined him closely. Lorena was right, her brother was not looking good.
Lorena took another look at the inflamed wound. “He’s gonna have to die to get better,” she opined callously. “I bet there’s a doctor in Stevensville. They oughta be gettin’ big enough to have a doctor.”
“Hell, that’s on the other side of the mountains in the Bitterroot Valley,” Barfield complained. He took another look at Jake. “I ain’t sure he could stay on a horse that long.”
“I ain’t sure I can even get on a horse right now,” Jake muttered, his voice weaker still. “Just let me lie here awhile.”
Almost a spectator until then, Pearl Barfield knelt down beside her son. She held a basin, filled with water from the stream, which she set on the floor beside him. Then she took a cloth from the basin, wrung the water out of it, and placed it across Jake’s forehead. “This’ll help you cool down some,” she said.
“We’ll see if his fever breaks in the mornin’,” her husband decided. “If it don’t, then maybe we’ll see about haulin’ him over to find a doctor.”
The decision upset Pearl. Never one to question her husband before, she felt she was compelled to plead for her youngest. “Randolph,” she implored, “he’s in a bad way. What if he gets worse tonight? We need to take him right away.”
“You talk like a crazy woman,” Barfield replied. “Hell, it ain’t long before dark now. We’d play hell tryin’ to find our way through those mountains in the dark. Nah, you heard what I said, he’ll be better in the mornin’. He ain’t got nothin’ but a shoulder wound. Most men walk around with a shoulder wound like it never happened. Hell, look at Clint. Jake’ll be all right after he gives it a little time.”
“You hear that, Jake?” Lorena taunted. “We’re gonna decide what to do with you in the mornin’. Either you’re gonna get better, or we’re gonna dig a hole in the ground and bury you. Or we could take you to that little gully on the south end of the mountains. They probably got room for one more. So I reckon you’d best start gettin’ better.” She thumped him on the head, causing him to groan. She seemed to find humor in his reaction.
Her japing wasn’t appreciated by her father and he was quick to let her know. “Damn it, Lorena,” he cursed, “I’ve told you to keep your mouth shut about that gully. Next time, I’m gonna slam you in the mouth with the butt of this rifle.” She responded with a taunting cackle. The gully he referred to held the tattered remains of five innocent souls who had had the misfortune of having a cabin in a remote valley right at the time Barfield needed one to start up his ranch. His only regret was how small the herd of cattle was the man had acquired. Henson, he tried to recall, I think his name was Henson.
* * *
Two nights had passed since the confrontation with Randolph Barfield with no sign of any attempt to retaliate against the family or the ranch hands of the Triple-P. There were also no cows missing. It was too soon to assume it was the end of the trouble with Barfield, so the nightly posting of a guard continued. It was natural to think that Barfield couldn’t risk any kind of attack against the Triple-P, however, for the simple reason he had no one to back him but two sons, and both of them were wounded. For Hawk, it was a slow time, even though he tried to make himself useful. He had just finished splitting some firewood for Lily’s stove when Monroe came out of the barn looking for him. “You ever been to Stevensville?” Monroe asked.
“Nope, can’t say as I have,” Hawk answered. “Where is it?”
“About four miles south of here. Thought you might want to see it.”
“I reckon I wouldn’t mind,” Hawk allowed, since he had no serious responsibilities at the ranch that would prevent him from going.
“Good,” Monroe said. “Pete’s taking Dora into town to pick up some supplies. Rachel wants to go with her. Pete’s a good man, but I’d feel better if you went with them.”
“Well, all right.” Hawk shrugged. “I reckon I could handle that,” he said, although he was beginning to get the feeling that Monroe was starting to use him as a hired gunman. He didn’t see himself in that role and he wondered if it had been a mistake to come to the Triple-P. He was a scout, a tracker, and a hunter. He had no desire to be anything else. He could not in good conscience run out on the Pratts until this conflict with Randolph Barfield was put to rest, however. He was in it too deep, considering he was the one who shot the two sons. At least I’m drawing pay for hanging around, he thought.
Further speculation along those lines was interrupted when Pete came from behind the barn, driving the wagon. “Boss said you’re goin’ with me,” Pete said as he pulled the wagon up to a stop.
“Looks that way,” Hawk replied.
“You ridin’ with me in the wagon, or on a horse?” Pete asked.
“On a horse. Rascal’s gettin’ lazy just standin’ around doin’ nothin’. He might get to expectin’ it all the time.”
“All right, then, I’ll drive on up to the house to fetch the ladies while you saddle your horse.” He gave the horses a gentle slap across their croups with his reins and headed for the front porch.
By the time Hawk saddled Rascal and rode up from the barn, Pete was already helping the two women into the wagon. Dora seated herself on the wagon seat and brought a pillow to fashion a seat for Rachel behind her in the wagon bed. “I was wondering if we were going to have to help you get ready to go,” Dora teased when Hawk rode up. “It’s usually the women who are the slowpokes about that.”
After this short time, Hawk was already aware of Dora’s fondness for japing, so he responded in kind. “It took a little time to persuade Rascal to go. He thinks women are bad luck.”
Dora threw her head back and laughed, delighted that a man who looked so rugged and somber could still have a sense of humor. Sometimes she wished that Monroe or Thomas could waver slightly from their humorless poses. Then she had to remind herself that these were not humorous times, what with Jamie’s death and cattle trouble with the Barfields. The thought of Jamie caused her to glance at Rachel. Such a delicate little woman, Dora wondered if she would ever recover from seeing her husband murdered right before her eyes. She knew it would be a while yet, for she had heard her crying in her room at night. A woman like Rachel should be thinking about marrying again. She was still young enough if she didn’t wait too much longer. There’s precious little chance she’ll meet another man as long as she’s on this ranch, she told herself. She thought then about Monroe, considered that as a possibility, then decided he might be closer to a father than a beau. There was not that much difference as far as actual number of years. But responsibility had aged Monroe since he had been obliged to take over as the head of the family with the death of his father. Having a wife might be what he needed to take some of the stiffness out of his personality. He was always so serious. It wouldn’t hurt him to smile once in a while. It isn’t my concern, she finally told herself, and dismissed it from her thoughts.
* * *
&n
bsp; Stevensville was a town still in the early stages of growth and didn’t distinguish itself from a hundred other little developments Hawk had seen. There was a general store, a post office, a stable, a barbershop, a saloon, and several other small enterprises that included a rooming house and a doctor. Pete’s eyes wandered quite naturally toward the saloon as he drove the wagon past, causing Dora to comment, “Just keep your eyes on the general store, Pete. And if we get finished with our list of supplies in good time, maybe we’ll take a few minutes for you two to have one drink.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Pete replied obediently.
Dora looked over at Hawk, riding right beside her. “I know that’s what Pete has been thinking about all the way from the ranch. I expect you’re no different.”
Hawk responded with a patient smile. “I enjoy a little drink once in awhile. I hadn’t thought much about it today, though.” His response jogged her memory and she recalled then that Monroe had made a comment that Hawk was not much of a drinker. That’s probably one reason he wanted Hawk to accompany us to town, she told herself.
Dora went about the buying of supplies in a businesslike manner, calling off her list and directing Pete and Hawk in carrying her purchases to the wagon. She took time to help Rachel pick out some dress material, however, since the young widow sorely needed clothes. All finished, she told Pete to have that drink he desired while she and Rachel looked at some ladies’ shoes that Louise, the store owner’s wife, wanted to show them. As the men started out, Dora pulled Hawk aside and whispered, “Make sure he doesn’t have more than two drinks, or we might end up hauling him home in the back of the wagon.” He nodded and followed Pete out the door. He didn’t bother to tell her that Monroe had told him the same thing just as they were leaving the ranch.
* * *
“Why on earth did you wait so long to bring him in?” Dr. Garland Smollet scolded. “That whole arm is infected—looks like gangrene is already setting in. I swear, I can’t understand why it hasn’t spread to his heart. It’s just a matter of time. If you’d have brought him in sooner, I could have stopped it. Maybe we can still stop it, but I’m gonna have to take his arm off to do it.” Smollet knew what he was talking about, having amputated more limbs than he could remember during the war. He was a young surgeon then, and it had been many years ago, but he still recognized the deadly signs when he saw them.
“Hah,” Lorena snorted, “Jake ain’t gonna like that too much. I coulda brought him in sooner, but we thought he’d get better. His brother got shot, too—in the shoulder, just like Jake. And he’s walkin’ around just fine. We thought Jake would, too.” She shrugged indifferently. “I reckon you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. How long will it take you to cut his arm off? I’d like to get back to the house before dark.”
Amazed by the woman’s callous attitude regarding the amputation of her brother’s arm, Dr. Smollet could only stare, speechless for a moment before explaining. “This is a lengthy operation to remove his arm—hours, at least. You’re going to have to leave him here for a while after the operation, too, so I can watch the progress of his recovery.”
This was unwelcome news to Lorena. It meant she would likely have to make another trip to town to pick Jake up. It also meant Jake’s treatment was going to cost more than her father expected. He might want to take his chances that Jake would recover on his own and keep his arm, too. “What the hell . . .” She shrugged. “Do what you think best.”
“All right,” Smollet said, “but you might as well not come back until day after tomorrow. He’s gonna take a little time to recover.” He knew it was going to take Jake longer than that to recover, but he figured he could be moved day after tomorrow without too much risk. “My fee for amputating an arm is usually one hundred and twenty-five dollars.” He paused when she cocked her head back at that. “But seeing as how it’s your brother, I’ll do the job for seventy-five.”
She didn’t reply right away, instead gracing him with a knowing smile. “Seventy-five, huh? I’ll see if we can scrape up that much. We might have to let you hold him for a while till we raise the money.” She walked over to the examining table to take a look at Jake before leaving him in the doctor’s care. He looked in a bad way, lying there with his eyes closed and his arm all blue and bloated. She poked him in the side, causing him to grunt painfully, just to make sure he was still alive. If he wasn’t, she didn’t want the doctor to tell her Jake died after a day or more of doctoring and wanted to charge her for it.
Well, I reckon I can go on back home, she thought when she left the doctor’s office and walked back down the walk to the hitching rail. She hesitated a moment while she decided whether or not she desired a drink of whiskey. It was a treat she never got at home, because her father thought drinking was a man’s right and not a woman’s. Anytime she felt she wanted a drink at home, she had to sneak it out of the cupboard and pour a little water back in the bottle. After climbing up into the saddle, she took a look at the saloon and decided. “What the hell?” Leading the horse that Jake had somehow managed to stay on, she headed for the saloon only to stop before she got there, all thoughts of a drink forgotten. It’s him!
The man with the feather! The man she had seen from the window of the cabin was walking with another man. They were coming from the general store. Frozen stone-still in the middle of the street, she stared, hardly believing her eyes. Taking no notice of the woman on a horse, standing motionless in the street, the man with the feather and his friend walked into the saloon. As soon as Hawk disappeared through the saloon door, Lorena recovered from the shock of seeing the man responsible for wounding her brothers. “That son of a bitch,” she muttered, and nudged her horse forward. A whirlpool of confusion spun around in her brain as she tried to decide what to do. Her initial inclination was simply to walk into the saloon and shoot him down, but she had to consider the potential consequences of such a move. Stevensville had a sheriff, also there was another man with Hawk, who might be a problem. Lorena, by nature, was not one to sacrifice her life to avenge an attack on her brothers. But also by nature, she was not willing to let a man’s attack against her family go unpunished. Still undecided, she continued on to the saloon and tied her horses to the rail while she thought about it. One thing she was certain of was that she was going to take a good look at this man with the rifle and the feather. She was strangely drawn to see him up close and it occurred to her that she could approach him without fear. She had seen him that morning at the cabin, but he had not seen her and likely did not know of her existence. That thought brought a devious smile to her face, for she realized the advantage it gave her.
Taking a quick moment to untie the cord holding her hair back from her face, she let it drop around her shoulders. With no comb or brush, the best she could do was to run her fingers through it and pinch her cheeks for a little color in her face. Hell, she thought, too bad I ain’t wearing a dress. She dismissed the thought as quickly as it occurred. I ain’t no beauty, but I ain’t hog’s-ass ugly, either. Ready to go then, she hesitated to decide whether or not to pull the rifle out of Jake’s saddle sling. Whatever surprise she might have for the man with the feather would surely be compromised if she walked in carrying a rifle. She thought of the .44 Colt in Jake’s saddlebag and decided that was her best bet. But it would be better if she could hide it some way. So she took the small canvas bag hooked over her saddle horn and dropped the weapon in it. Satisfied that she had options, she walked into the saloon, confident that she would know what to do if an opportunity presented itself. She couldn’t help thinking of the satisfaction she would enjoy if she was the one who put the Pratts’ hired gunman in the ground. That would be hard for Pa and the boys to swallow, she thought.
* * *
Hawk and Pete stood at the bar, talking to Ed Wiggins, the bartender, while he poured them another shot of whiskey. Pete picked up his glass and downed it while Hawk let his sit for a while. As was his custom, he planned to drink no more than two shots, and if Pet
e decided to have a third, he intended to cut him off there because he didn’t want to have to drive the wagon back to the ranch. While Pete became engrossed in a conversation with Ed about the recent passage through the valley by the Nez Perce, Hawk turned to gaze over the half-filled barroom. At that moment, several heads were turned toward the door when a young woman walked in. She created a natural curiosity since she was not dressed like one of the usual “painted ladies” who usually worked in saloons. She was wearing pants. Hawk gave her a few moments’ scrutiny, the same as he would for a deer or a man, then shifted his gaze to watch reactions of the men seated at the tables before returning his attention back to his glass.
Lorena paused in the doorway to look the room over. It didn’t take much searching to spot the man she sought. Standing at the bar, he stood as tall as a pine. She would have recognized him even without the buckskin shirt and the feather. Walking as casually as she could affect, she strolled over to the end of the bar close to Hawk, who only glanced in her direction. Ed interrupted his conversation with Pete and walked down the bar to serve her. “Can I help you, miss?”
“I think I’d like a drink of whatever this gentleman is drinkin’,” she replied, giving Hawk a smiling nod.
“Ma’am, that’s straight corn whiskey he’s got there,” Ed said. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“Unless you got something stronger,” she came back brashly, and thought it would be an ironic occurrence to have a drink with a man she was about to kill, for she had already discarded the precautions she had concerned herself with before. It was too great an opportunity to let pass, one she could crow about to the boys. “Make it a double,” she said, intent upon remembering every move leading up to the assassination she had in mind. The more time she hesitated, the more details she would be able to tell her family.
Hell Hath No Fury Page 18