Cross Draw (13 page)

“Fine?” she asked.

“I'm finding dexterity in the hand.”

“Which means what?” Clint asked.

“Well, that mechanically, the hand is fine.”

“Then why can't I move it?”

“I don't think your hand is getting the message.”

“What?”

“From your forearm,” he said, “or your brain. See, your brain sends a message to your hand to move.” The doctor leaned forward and waved his hand over Clint's forearm. “I don't think the message is getting past here.”

“What does that mean?” Rosemary asked.

“Let's say the tendons in your arm are like telegraph wires,” Shale said. “I'm sayin' that one of the wires has been cut.”

“But . . . with a telegraph wire you can fix it,” Rosemary said.

“Exactly.”

“Are you saying you can fix it?” Clint asked.

“Well, theoretically, with surgery, I should be able to reattach the tendon.”

“Well, that's great,” Clint said. “When can you do it?”

“Who, whoa,” Shale said, sitting back, “I should have said that theoretically,
someone
should be able to reattach the tendons.”

“Someone?” Clint asked.

“Someone better than me.”

“The doctor in Big Rock didn't mention any of this,” Rosemary said.

“Doctor Jacobs?”

She nodded.

“He's a good man, but this would be beyond him,” Shale said.

“And beyond you?” Clint asked.

“Well . . . I have the knowledge. I mean, I went to medical school in the East, learned a lot of new procedures that somebody like Doc Jacobs wouldn't know, but . . .”

“But what?” Clint asked.

“Would you want to put your arm in the hands of the man you found facedown on the floor an hour ago?” Shale asked.

“I'd want to put myself in the hands of a good doctor who knows what he's doing,” Clint said.

“You could probably find a doctor in another town . . . or back East . . .”

“I don't have the time,” Clint said.

“Why not?”

“I may not live that long, Doctor.”

Shale scoffed.

“This wound is not fatal—”

“It is to me,” Clint said.

“I don't understand.”

“I told you my name is Clint,” Clint said. “My full name is Clint Adams.”

“Clint . . . Adams?” The doctor sat back, stared at Clint. “I see,” he said finally, “I see now what you mean.”

“Can you do it, Doctor?” Rosemary asked.

The doctor ran his hands over his face, frowned when he felt the stubble there.

“It could make you famous—” Rosemary started.

“No, no,” Shale said, waving her off, “that doesn't come into play in my decision. In fact, I'm sure Mr. Adams would not want the word to get out.”

“No, I wouldn't.”

“No,” Shale said, “but there would be a certain amount of personal satisfaction for me . . .”

“And I'd pay you, of course,” Clint said. “Anything.”

“Anything within reason,” Rosemary said.

“No,” Clint said, looking the doctor in the eye, “anything!”

“We're what?” Abigail asked.

“Not we,” Rosemary said, “me.”

They were all gathered in one of the hotel rooms—the one Rosemary was sharing with Abigail.

“But you can't abandon us,” Abigail said.

“I'm not abandoning anyone,” Rosemary said. “Clint is going to have a surgery on his arm. I want to be here to see if it works. And to support him. I'll join you all in California.”

“No,” Jenny said.

“What?” Rosemary asked.

They all turned and looked at the youngest of the group.

“If you're staying,” Jenny said, “I'm staying, too. I want to support him, also.”

“Well,” Morgan said, “I might as well stay, too.”

“If you're all staying,” Delilah said, “I am, too. I say we all stick together.”

“You're all crazy,” Abigail said. “We don't owe this man anything just because he fixed a wheel.”

“He did more than that,” Rosemary said.

“He saved us from those men,” Jenny said. “Risked his life.”

“We'll still go to California,” Morgan said. “Just later.”

“Where is he?” Jenny asked Rosemary.

“In his room.”

“You better go and tell him that we'll support him,” Jenny said. “All of us.”

“Unless Abigail wants to take the wagon and go ahead alone,” Morgan said.

“Don't be ridiculous!” Abigail said. “You all know I can't and won't do that.”

“Then it's settled,” Jenny said with a big smile. “We're all staying.”

“When will the surgery be done?” Morgan asked.

“We don't know that yet,” Rosemary said. “It's up to the doctor.”

“Is there a problem?” Delilah asked.

“There might be one.”

“What is it?” Jenny asked.

“Well,” Rosemary said, “the doctor is, uh kind of a drunk.”

 

Clint was in his room, lying on the bed with his boots off, his gun hanging on the bedpost as usual, but on the left side.

He was staring at the cracks in the ceiling, thinking of each as tendons in his arm. Doctor Shale said he could open Clint's arm and reattach the tendon that was damaged. Then they'd just have to wait and see if movement returned to his hand.

There was no guarantee.

 

Doctor Shale sat in his office, thinking about what the day had brought. His drunken stupor had begun the night before, and apparently lasted until morning. Or until Clint Adams and the woman, Rosemary, found him and revived him.

Revived.

Could fixing the Gunsmith's arm revive him, as well? Perhaps revive his whole life?

It wouldn't bring back the woman he loved, who had left him, but it might just bring him back to life.

 

Rosemary knocked on Clint's door. When he opened the door, he looked tired.

“I'm sorry, were you asleep?”

“No,” he said, “counting cracks in the ceiling. Come on in.”

He let her enter and closed the door. She turned to face him.

“I wanted to tell you that we all decided to stay and see you through this.”

He smiled. “That's really nice, but there's no need for that,” he said. “You ladies have a trip to finish—”

“We can put it off for a few days,” she said, “or a while. However long it takes you to heal.”

“Rosemary—”

“Please,” she said, “this is something we'd like to do. We still feel responsible for the way you got hurt. We'd like to know that you're going to be all right.”

“Well . . . okay,” he said. “Thanks. It would be nice to have some support.”

He felt sure he would have been fine without them, but for some reason this seemed to be something that they needed. All but Abigail.

Dillon stared at the town ahead.

“Small town,” he said.

“We shoulda took them on the trail,” Raymond said.

“Town's better,” Dillon said.

“Why?” Raymond asked.

“More witnesses,” Quentin said.

“You want witnesses when you kill a man?” Raymond asked.

“When it's a fair fight, you do,” Quentin said.

“And this is gonna be a fair fight,” Dillon said.

“What if his right hand ain't hurt. Like they said?” Raymond asked. “What then? You still gonna try him?”

“We'll have to see,” Dillon said.

“We goin' in?” Raymond asked.

“We're goin' in,” Dillon said. “We're only about half a day behind them. They can't be too settled.”

“Shouldn't we go in one at a time?” Raymond asked.

“No,” Dillon said. “Three strangers riding in one at a time might even attract more attention than three men riding in separately. Let's go.”

The three men started their horses forward.

 

Clint entered the sheriff's office and found it empty. He took a look into the cellblock, found two cells, doors wide open. When he stepped back into the office, a man was coming in. He wore a badge and looked like he was in his late twenties.

“Sheriff?” he asked.

“Deputy,” the man said, “but I guess I'm the temporary sheriff.”

“Where's the regular one?”

“He had to leave town, go to the county seat,” the deputy said. He walked around behind the desk, but didn't sit. “My name's Web Kane.”

“Clint Adams.”

The deputy rocked back on his heels. “The Gunsmith?”

“That's right.”

“In this town? Why?”

“Just passing through,” Clint said. “I'm escorting five women traveling in a wagon.”

“Five women?”

“They were traveling alone for a while, and then we met up,” Clint said. “I thought they needed some protection.”

“Well, lucky for them,” Kane said. “How long will you be stayin' in town?”

“The women need some rest,” Clint said. “Two or three days, I guess.”

“You ain't here lookin' for anybody, are you, Mr. Adams?” Kane asked. “I mean, you ain't lookin' for trouble?”

“Deputy,” Clint said, “I'm never looking for trouble.”

 

Clint went back to the hotel and found Jenny in the lobby.

“You told us to keep watching the street,” she said.

“That's right,” he said. “I told you to take turns.”

“Well, it's my turn and I saw three men ride into town.”

“When?”

“A few minutes ago.”

“Half a day behind us,” he said. “They could have been following our trail.”

“But it wasn't the same three men,” she said. “The Mexican and the other two. Maybe they're just passing through?”

“We came to town today, and then they come in? Too much of a coincidence for a small town like this.”

“So what do we do?”

“We'll just have to keep an eye out for them,” Clint said.

“What about the sheriff?”

“He's out of town,” Clint said. “There's only a young deputy.”

“Can he help?”

“If he's any good at his job,” Clint said, “which I doubt.”

“We need guns,” she said.

“No,” Clint said. “No guns. In fact, none of you should even be seen with me outside the hotel.”

“Why not?”

“If there's shooting on the street, you might get hurt.”

“But we have to back you up.”

“No, you don't,” Clint said. “The five of you just have to stay out of the way, and safe. Leave the rest to me.”

Clint figured if the three men were after him, they were going to take a look around town, first. Before they did anything they'd have to check out how much law was in town. So he was pretty safe for the night. Still, he took precautions. He laid the pitcher and basin on the windowsill, and was jamming the back of a chair underneath the doorknob when there was a knock.

It was difficult to open the door and hold his gun at the same time, so he stuck the gun in his belt and then opened it. It was Rosemary.

“May I come in?” she asked.

“Sure.”

She stepped in and he closed the door. She looked at the chair standing next to him.

“Oh, I was just locking up for the night,” he said, “being careful.” He indicated the windowsill, where the pitcher and basin were. “I was putting the back of the chair beneath the doorknob.”

“Well, go ahead and lock up, then,” she said, sitting on the bed. “I wasn't planning on leaving.”

He stared at her for a moment, then stuck the back of the chair beneath the knob.

 

Rosemary removed Clint's shirt, careful not to jostle his right arm.

“You carry this well when you're dressed,” she said. “Nobody can tell you have an injured arm.”

“If they can tell, I'd be dead,” he said.

“What about you wearing the gun with the butt forward?” she asked. “Is that necessarily a giveaway?”

“No,” he said. “I've known a few men who have worn it that way, even though they're right-handed. I've never understood it, though.”

He was lying on his back on the bed; she was next to him, still fully dressed. She undid his belt and unbuttoned his pants. He lifted his hips so she could slip them off. He had already removed his boots—with difficulty—before she got there.

She discarded the pants and lay back down next to him. She traced a pattern over his chest with her fingers, moved them down to his belly, around his belly button. “You're a fascinating man,” she said. “I thought that from the start.”

“Even before the wagon fell on me?”

“Oh yes,” she said, “even before then. How did you know how to fix the wagon? How did you know what a—what did you call it?”

“A carter key?”

“Yes, how did you know what a carter key was?”

“I used to ride around in my own wagon,” he said. “Had to fix it plenty of times.”

“What kind of wagon?”

“A gunsmithing wagon,” he said.