Gasher Creek Part 25

Charlie collapsed onto the street.

Jack scrambled to his feet and rushed over. Charlie's sleeve was drenched in blood. Ripping it open, Jack found a deep graze on the outside of his left shoulder.

"I shot him," Charlie said, shivering.

"Lay still," Jack said. "I'll get you some help."

"I-I shot him."

"Jack!"

Silas leapt off the sidewalk and ran to their side. His shirt and boots were missing. His trousers hung under his backside. "What in h.e.l.ls bells!" he exclaimed.

"Charlie saved my life," Jack said.

"Who'd he shoot?"

Jack nodded at the crumpled body of Cole Smith. Silas whistled. "Good shot redskin. Who shot Charlie?"

"Same man."

"A Double Dixie," he marveled.

"He's losing blood," Jack said. "Go find a doc."

"d.a.m.ned if a white doctor will take a look at him," Silas said, hitching up his trousers.

"Just do it!" Jack shouted. "I'll not let him die."

Brush had one doctor, and he was hard to find. Three people didn't know where he was, and the fourth said he did know, but he'd never go to him on account of he was odd, and Irish.

Reporting back to Jack, Silas said, "I know how to find him. He's odd, but he's Irish, so that should balance things out."

Doc O'Malley lived in a small log cabin he'd built when Brush was still a village. He liked Brush when it was a village but now it was full of eejits and he hated the winters so he was thinking of going back to Ireland but that was no one's d.a.m.ned business but his own.

"Didn't ask you in the first place," Silas said. Leaning toward Jack, he whispered, "Sorry. I think the oddness won."

They stood inside the doctor's cabin: a pile of wood and mud that sagged to one side and creaked in the wind. A chair, a cot, and a fireplace gave it the appearance of a home, but Jack figured most rats wouldn't fix on staying. It smelled like onions.

Charlie lay on the doctor's dinner table next to a crusty roll and a half-eaten bowl of stew. O'Malley stood over Charlie, frowning as if he'd never seen a shoulder wound before. He was a big man with messy red hair and a bulbous nose splotched from drinking. He wore thick gla.s.ses that gave him the owl eyes.

"What have we here," he said, poking the wound with his finger.

"Don't hurt him," Jack said.

"He's out," O'Malley said, still poking. "Can't feel a thing."

"Just st.i.tch him," Silas said.

"Oh, st.i.tch him, will I? And I suppose you're a doctor."

"No, but I know enough not to rub my dirty finger into an open wound."

O'Malley sniffed his finger. "It's not dirty."

"We're sorry," Jack said. "Please, continue."

"Continue, will I?" O'Malley said, throwing up his beefy hands. "I was dreaming about a field of naked women and you woke me. I'm hungry but you won't let me finish my meal. Now you want me to rush. Well I can't rush. If I rush, your friend might perish. You want me to rush?"

"No," they said.

"Cause I'll gladly finish me dinner."

"No."

"Are we civil?"

"Yes."

"Grand," he said, grinning.

After a careful examination (which consisted of poking the wound several more times), O'Malley held a rag to the gash until it stopped bleeding. Then he started st.i.tching. Despite his thick fingers, he worked the thread with the dexterity of a seamstress.

"Blood," O'Malley said. "We need plenty of it. This Indian has lost most of his. He'll need to rest a few days."

"But he'll be fine?" Jack asked.

"Tough breed," O'Malley said, turning to face them. "Almost as tough as the Irish."

Silas smiled.

"Thought you'd like that one," O'Malley said. He finished st.i.tching the wound and wrapped it in a bandage.

"I'm much obliged," Jack said. "How much do we owe you?"

"Two dollars," the Doc said, wiping his hands with a rag.

"Two dollars!" Silas exclaimed.

"I don't do Indians."

"But you just did."

"I know, that's why it's two dollars."

Jack dug into his pockets but knew he wouldn't find anything. "I don't have it," he said.

O'Malley looked at them over his gla.s.ses. "I understand, lads. Times are hard." He moved back over to Charlie, lifted the cloth bandage, and started to pull out the thread.

"What are you doing!" Jack shouted.

"Taking my thread back."

"But you can't-"

"No money, no st.i.tchy," he said.

Charlie groaned as the wound started to leak.

"Stop," Silas said, pulling a handful of bills and coins from his pocket. "I got your money."

Jack stared at it. "You have two dollars on your person?"

"I was planning on doing more humping tonight."

"How much more?"

"Plenty," he said, holding the money out to the doctor.

O'Malley took it. "Always trust a Cork lad," he said.

"I was born here," Silas said.

"But your da was from Cork."

"How'd you know?"

O'Malley shook his head and sighed. "I need to go back home."

Charlie lay unconscious beside the campfire. Billy, Silas, and Jack sat watching him. They drank coffee and ate stale corn bread. Mary had gone to bed in the wagon.

"h.e.l.l of a thing he did," Silas said. "Saving your life like that."

"Yeah," Jack said. "I was a dead man."

"Why'd that bounty hunter want you so badly?" Billy asked.

Jack shook his head. "Mistook me for someone else. Kept calling me Brenner."

"Didn't you correct him?"

"Tried to," Jack said, and took a sip. He'd never been much of a liar, but Charlie needed a place to rest. If a lie provided a few hours of sleep, so be it.

Billy nodded. "Strange folk, bounty hunters. Most of them squirrelly from the beatings they take." He chewed his bread. "Think they'll put a warrant on Charlie for the shooting?"

"I don't think so," Jack said. "He shot the man who shot the sheriff. Half the town tried to shake his hand on the way to the doc's house."

"I'll be mighty glad to leave come morning," Billy said. "First, I nearly got stabbed over a sack of sugar at the dry goods store, and now Charlie gets shot. Towns rot people."

Jack chewed his bread, waiting for it.

"You coming with us to Lone Pine?" Billy asked.

"He has till morning to decide," Silas said.

"If he hasn't made up his mind by now, a few hours of sleep won't change things," Billy said. "He ain't as slow witted as you are."

Jack stared into his coffee, wishing Billy had waited until the morning. He reckoned it made sense though. Cole was dead, but that didn't mean other bounty hunters weren't looking for him. The farther north he went, the further his chance at freedom. And when he got there, he'd have his own plot of land. Virgin land. Rich, black soil, free of rocks. He could plow the dirt and plant some crops, maybe even raise a few pigs. He could become respectable, a man in favor. No one would ask about his past. And even if they did, the Dorgans would vouch for his character. Perhaps, after the farm was working and his belly was fat, he could finally, at long last, have his bite of peace.

Hearing a groan, Jack looked up from his coffee cup. Beside the fire, Charlie grimaced in his sleep.

But then there was Charlie. He was in pain, and it was Jack's fault. Charlie didn't even like the sound of a gun, yet he'd killed a man to protect his friend. If Jack left with the Dorgans, what would happen to Charlie? Come sun up, he'd be just another wounded Indian without a penny for food or a place to stay. No one would help him. He'd have to try for his pa's ranch on foot and that would kill him.

Jack stared into the fire and saw his land burning up.

"I have no choice," he finally said.

Silas leaned over and clapped him on the back. "Well all right then-Jack's coming north." He raised his cup. "To lone Pine. May my brother find fertile land, and we find fertile women."

"That's not what he means, you seed," Billy said.

"Charlie saved my life," Jack said. "I have to make sure he gets home."

"Nonsense," Silas said. "We'll take him to his ranch, hand him over to his pa, and then carry on north."

"We can't," Billy said.

"Is Mary still in hitches?" Silas said. "Our redskin's tame. He didn't even want any of the girls at the Turtle Dove, and they were fine as wine, let me tell you-"

"It's not that, you fool," Billy said. "It's his wound. You can't carry a wounded man in a wagon. All the rumbling and bouncing will tear his st.i.tches open. He's got to lay still and heal."

"Then we'll wait!" Silas shouted, throwing his cup. "That Indian got us here in one piece and I'll not repay his kindness with a fart and a fine good morning."

"We can't wait," Billy said. "See all these other wagons? They're headed for the same land we are. If we don't keep moving, we'll lose our chance."

Silas kicked a clump of dirt.

"Stop throwing and kicking things."

"Go dig a ditch."

Shaking his head, Billy said, "You could always follow us after seeing him home."

Jack nodded, although he had no money for a horse and wasn't about to steal another one. Enough people wanted him dead already.