“Gonna get the hawses and wagon back to Norton’s,” the sheriff put in at that point. Although apparently in good health, absent of any random bullet holes, he looked frazzled and exhausted. “Then we’ll mosey on back and see how things are, catch you up on last night’s doin’s. Good day to both of you ladies, and kindly excuse us for a bit.”
He had the presence of mind to tip his hat as the two men exited. The deputy did not, since his hat was helping to hold the bandage in place around his head. Was
it only the imagination, or did both suddenly seem taller, broader, more stalwart, upon their departure into the morning sunlight?
By the time they returned, perhaps half an hour later, most of the details of medical care had been taken care of, and Ben Forrester lay sprawled slack and unknowing, lost in his own world far from reality. He was, at least for the moment, as comfortable as he could possibly be.
Gabe had stripped away the ruined shirt in order to probe deep into his patient’s shoulder for a bullet. His intent, meticulous work had been accompanied by deep rasping groans and an insensible fight against the scalpel. Once he finally achieved success, both he and Ben were wet with the sweat of rigorous toil.
A good dusting of antiseptic powder, a pad of surgical gauze treated with carbolic acid pressed directly over the wound, and a bandage wrapped around the muscular chest to hold everything together, and he could consider himself temporarily off duty.
And a good thing, too. He was as wrung out as someone’s old pair of cotton socks, scrubbed against a washboard and flung over a bush to dry.
Only then did he allow Camellia, who had been hovering agitatedly a few steps away, to wash away the blood and grit with a cloth wetted in its basin of warm water. “He’s been unconscious a long time,” she fretted, kneeling on the floor to gently sponge. “Will he be all right, Gabe?”
Better she ask if he would survive.
“He’s a strong, healthy fellah,” Gabriel, drying off with a convenient towel, said noncommittally. “We’ll see how things go.”
It was a grave, zigzaggy wound, that, whether Ben was strong and healthy or not, had hit too near the heart and might easily be a killer. The man would need plenty of rest, plenty of nursing, plenty of good care and nourishing food. Could his wife, that fragile southern flower straight from luxurious surroundings, provide all that for him?
Meanwhile, Hannah had taken herself to the kitchen to brew a fresh pot of coffee. This morning’s circumstance had been just shocking enough, just stressful enough, that she knew everyone involved would need the aid of a caffeine jolt.
By the time a polite knock at the front door announced the return of the lawmen, an inert, helpless Ben Forrester had been made snug and secure. Freshly washed, with boots tugged off and a light blanket covering his motionless frame, he would probably sleep for some time. Best thing for him, the doctor opined.
A busy Hannah began serving hot coffee in heavy earthenware mugs around the table. Before he himself could put aside medical concerns, Gabe sat Austin Blakely down upon a kitchen stool and began to unwind the layers of bandage from his reluctant head.
“What in tarnation did you use to stanch the blood, anyways?” the doctor demanded irascibly. “Looks to be seven layers of dirt involved.”
“If you must know, I tore off the leg of my long underwear. Didn’t happen to have anything else along. And,” the deputy, being fully conscious and in full control of his faculties, was not about to endure any more rough treatment at the hands of a sawbones, “you’d better have a care of what you’re doin’ there, Gabe. I ain’t in any mood to take guff from you.”
“Huh. You’ll take any guff I give you, and thank me for it later. Now hold still.”
It was the graze left by a bullet, whizzing past, that showed how near death could stalk without actually killing. Did Austin realize just what a close call he’d had? Probably. At some time the memory of this moment might even make him more cautious in his dealings with an enemy. Two men wounded, one grievously. What had happened out there, in the dark of night, in some alien territory?
“I wonder,” said the sheriff quietly, as these ministrations and quibbling were going on, “if we might prevail upon you for some breakfast? Think the last time we ate was some sixteen hours ago, and we’ve had sort of a—a busy time of it.”
“Why, of course,” assented Hannah, with a surprised glance toward her sister. “You must be starving.”
“Well, we could head on over to the Sittin’ Eat, but I figure you’d wanna know first about our little—adventure...”
“Absolutely.” Camellia needed physical activity, just to keep her anguished thoughts away from the recumbent figure sprawled so lifelessly on the settee. Even activity for which she had exhibited, thus far, no real talent. “If you don’t mind eggs and pancakes...”
Austin’s injury had been covered with a respectable bandage (one of Camellia’s treasured tea towels, willingly sacrificed to be torn in half). “Right now,” he drawled, hitching his stool in place, “I’d eat one of my own old boots, and that’s no lie.”
It wasn’t until the pancake batter was mixed and poured, the eggshells were cracked open, and the salt pork cut into thick slices, and everything was cooked, plated, and served, that the sheriff was able to comment on Camellia’s appearance. By then, everyone was seated and digging in with every evidence of enjoyment—a second meal for the doctor, whose appetite seemed never to abate; a mere nibble or two for the ladies.
“I sure am sorry for what happened to you, ma’am,” he said, still in that quiet, unemotional tone. A man probably in his early thirties, rough-hewn and rugged as were so many Texan males, he had laid aside his sombrero to reveal dark brown hair that seemed to have a mind of its own, in its impudent waves and curls. “The Putnam boys have been a thorn in Turnabout’s side for a right long time, now, but they’ve never gone so far as to attack a defenseless woman.”
“How do you know?”
“Well.” He paused in the act of cutting the pseudo-bacon. “No reports of any.”
“Perhaps,” said Camellia softly, “I’m not the first. Perhaps they’ve done this before. And, perhaps, their victims were too frightened, or too ashamed, to tell you.”
The two lawmen, struck, exchanged glances. “That’s as well may be, Mrs. Forrester. But it may be a moot point, from here on.”
“Why’s that, Paul?” Gabriel, watching and listening as if he were a witness at some murder trial, asked with interest.