Medicine Wheel (4 page)

“Hand me a towel. I’ll press it on the cut while you get the water. First, check the cookie canister for a whiskey bottle.”

The cowhand retrieved the half-full bottle and set it on the floor beside the chair before he hurried back outside to fetch the water. Killer crept into the house and joined his mistress, whining worriedly. She patted him softly on the head. “You did good, Killer. You got Chet.” She picked up the whiskey bottle and flinched when she pressed it to her bruised and swollen lips. She took a good swig, and the burning sensation in her throat perked her up a little, but the taste was unpleasant. Why the hell Max would dedicate his life to drinking this crap was beyond her.

Chet returned with the water, and she wet a cloth and gingerly began to dab at her face. The coolness revived her some, but her touch triggered waves of pain. Meanwhile, with her other hand, she kept a cloth pressed to the slice on her brow.

Chet looked on helplessly. “Ma’am, I knew there was trouble. Killer was kickin’ up a terrible fuss outside the bunkhouse and nearly scratched his way through the door. What happened here?”

“Max beat the shit out of me. That’s what happened.”

“Your . . . uh . . . chest seems to be bleeding something fierce. Did he knife you?”

“No.” She decided not to elaborate and embarrass the old cowboy.

“Where is Max?”

“He died. He’s in the bedroom.”

“Oh Jesus.” Chet began to shuffle his feet nervously. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I’m at a loss here. I want to help, but I ain’t much of a doctor, especially for women folks. You’re going to have to tell me what I should do.”

“I’ll be okay for a while. Do you know where Cam Locke’s place is?”

“I sure do. About three miles southeast of here. Less as the crow flies.”

“I want you to saddle up and ride as the crow flies as fast as you can. Tell him what’s happened here. Then do whatever he asks.”

“But I can’t just go off and leave you like this. You could bleed to death.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

“Well, I can do something if you’ll tell me what you want done,”

“Chet?”

“Ma’am?”

“Can you stitch a chewed up tit?”

“I’m on my way.”
 

7

C
AMERON
L
OCKE
HEARD
what seemed to be a frantic pounding on the thick door of their expansive two-story, stone house. He rolled out of bed, pulled on his undershorts, groped for the oil lamp on the table next to the bed and lit it, turning the glow up only a bit, so as not to awaken Pilar. She had apparently been oblivious to the knocking as she slept in naked, sated bliss on the opposite side of the bed. Oh, well, she’d damn sure earned her rest.

He slipped his Army Colt from the holster that hung from the peg next to the bedroom door and made his way down the stairs that led to the entryway on the main floor. With only brief pauses, the knocking continued. When he reached the door, Cam yelled, “Who is it?”

“Mr. Locke? It’s Chet from the C Bar C.”

Cam opened the door and lowered the revolver. He stepped aside, waving the cowboy in. “God, Chet, it’s just after four o’clock. What’s going on?”

“Miss Kirsten’s had the livin’ shit beat out of her. Bleedin’ like a stuck hog all over the place.”

Cam closed the door and turned and hollered up the stairway, “Pilar, I think you’re going to be needed. Get dressed for riding and rustle Myles out of bed.”

He swung back to Chet. “What happened?”

Chet shrugged, “I don’t rightly know, Mr. Locke. Miss Kirsten sent Killer—that’s her dog—to get me up to the house, and when I got there she was sittin’ in her rocker, blood runnin’ down her mashed up face and soaking up her gown at her . . . her chest.”

“Her chest? Was she shot? Or stabbed?”

“Uh, no sir. Think she was bit or something. Talked about being chewed on.”

“You’re not making sense, Chet, but we need to get over there. What about her husband?”

“Think he’s dead. That’s what she said.”

“What happened to him?”

“Don’t know about that neither. Miss Kirsten just said he died. I didn’t see him.”

Pilar Locke moved quietly down the stairway, followed by a sleepy-eyed Myles Locke, their fourteen-year-old son, who showed no enthusiasm for being awakened at this early hour of the morning. Cam turned to his wife, a slender Mexican woman who was seven years younger than his own forty-two. She was a stunning beauty even at this hour of the morning, Cam thought. Damned if he wouldn’t like to take her back upstairs for another go. He quickly shook off the thought.

“Pilar, can you come with me? I think you may be needed at the C Bar C. Kirsten Cavelle may be in a bad way. Myles, get dressed and saddle up and make a beeline for your Uncle Thad’s. Tell him I said to get his ass over to the Cavelle place and that it’s for a human patient not a critter. Apparently, the lady’s been badly beaten.”

The black-haired boy’s eyes were instantly alert and he wheeled to head back upstairs to get dressed, Pilar not far behind. “I’ll be out of the house in five minutes, Dad.”

“And, Myles?

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Tell your Uncle Thad to bring his photography gear. Tell him I said it’s very important. And you stay with him to help carry whatever he needs.”

“I’ll help him however he wants.”

He turned back to Chet. “Chet, I need you to ride on in to Manhattan. Find the sheriff and let him know what’s happened. No hurry. Don’t run your horse into the ground. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

The grizzled cowhand cocked his head and looked at Cam with a glint in his eyes. “If there’s one thing I’m damned good at, Mr. Locke, it’s movin’ slow. Manhattan’s a good eight mile ride, and I’ll probably have to rest my mount. Might even get lost with the dark and all.”

“Thanks for everything, Chet. Now I’d better get dressed and head over to Kirsten’s.”

8

C
AM
AND
P
ILAR
rode side by side, their Appaloosas, his gelding and her mare, forced to pick their way in the darkness up the rocky slopes that rose eventually to the C Bar C ranch buildings. Cam took comfort in having Pilar nearby. Her quiet competence was always calming, and he marveled sometimes how, after sixteen years of marriage to this woman born and raised in a great hacienda on the Texas side of the Mexican border, she was as exciting and beautiful and beguiling to him as when he first met her on his way home from the war.

Pilar had been only fifteen then, and he had been a young cavalry captain, reeling yet from bitter defeat, when he stopped at the Sanchez ranch to see the fine Appaloosa stock bred and raised by Pilar’s father, Guillermo Sanchez, the only herd Cam was aware of outside the northwestern United States. Sanchez had invited him to stay over a few days, and the tired soldier took him up on it. During the stay, he had encountered the dark-eyed beauty whose visage haunted him all the way home to Kansas.

“Ben and Sarah were sleeping soundly when I left the house,” Cam said. Ben was their seven-year-old and Sarah was eleven.

“Yes. I stopped by the bunkhouse and told Cookie we were riding out. He said he’d get up to the house and be there when they awaken.”

Cookie was an old scraggly-bearded trail cook who cooked for the seasonal wranglers and year-round hands, as well as the Locke family. Everybody on the ranch at any given time took their meals in the dining room of the big ranch house, so Cookie more or less ran the domestic side of the household with Pilar’s occasional assistance.

Pilar, of course, had saddled both of their horses by the time Cam got to the barn, and they had ridden hard and fast until they neared the C Bar C and the terrain turned rough. They finally reached the more level ground of the ranch site and galloped into the yard and dismounted.

Cam knocked softly on the door before opening it and entering the house. He immediately saw Kirsten slumped in the rocking chair, either unconscious or sleeping. He rushed to her side. “Kirsten. Kirsten.”

She did not reply.

Pilar pushed him aside and, pointing to the bucket next to the rocker, ordered, “Get some fresh water from the well.”

When Cam returned and set the bucket down, Pilar took one of the cloths Chet had left behind, dipped it in the water, and began to bathe Kirsten’s battered face. Then she started to open the robe and examine the chest wound, which was the obvious source of so much of the blood. “Go away,” she told Cam.

Cam began surveying what he thought of as the slaughter house. He spotted the open bedroom door and peered in. The sun was beginning to rise and some of its rays sifted in through the window, sprinkling some light on the bed. He walked over to the bedside. “Holy shit,” he whispered, as he met the glassy stare of Maxwell Brannon’s dead eyes, separated neatly by a bullet hole seeping only a trickle of blood. “He died all right.”

When Cam returned to the living area, Kirsten was regaining awareness. Pilar had washed some of the blood from her face and retrieved another robe, but blood was still leaking through the fabric. Her face was swollen and red, waiting to morph to purple and blue, with a gash on the chin and a nasty slice on her left brow, he noted. Her nose seemed lopsided.

He moved closer. “Kirsten, can you talk?”

“I can talk, but I don’t feel too sociable at the moment,” she murmured groggily.

“Don’t talk; just listen. My brother Thad’s on the way. He should be here soon. He’s a physician, and he’ll tend to your injuries.”

She looked to Pilar, who nodded reassuringly.

“Okay, I guess. I can’t patch it all myself . . . but the only Dr. Locke I know is a vet.”

Cam replied, “It’s complicated.” He changed the subject. “The sheriff likely won’t be here for a few hours. I’ve been in the bedroom. Maxwell’s dead.”

“I know that. I—”

“Stop. You say nothing about this in the presence of anyone. I’m the only person bound by confidentiality. Pilar, my brother, or anyone else can be forced to testify to anything you say. You and I will talk later, when no one else is present. Understand?”

“I do.” She met his eyes evenly.

“The sheriff’s a good man, but he will want to ask you questions.”

“I won’t answer.”

“You’ve got it.”

There was a commotion outside, and soon Thad walked through the doorway. He nodded at Pilar and Cam and then went directly to Kirsten’s side. “I’m Doctor Locke. Remember me? I was on your place to castrate some bull calves last fall?”

She looked up at him warily. Then she glared at Cam. “This is the brother you said was going to look after me? He’s a damn horse doctor. I don’t think so.”

Cam saw he had a client on the verge of rebellion. “He’s a licensed medical doctor, Kirsten. He graduated from a fine medical school . . . the University of Pennsylvania. Top of his class.” He had no idea what kind of a scholar Thad had been but decided it had a convincing ring.

“Well, shit, why not? I don’t much care who works me over at this point.” She leaned back in the rocker resignedly. “Have your way with me, Doc.”

Thad set his big leather bag down. “Pilar, will you help me? Cam, you can wait outside.”

“I’m getting used to getting kicked out of here. Let me know when you’re finished. And when you’re done, I want you to take a look at her husband.”

“Her husband?”

“Former husband. Don’t worry; he’s not going anyplace.”

Cam started out the door and then paused. “I’m going to want some pictures, too.”

“Pictures of what?”

“Her.”

“Get out.”

9

“M
A
’
AM
, I
THINK
we need to take a look at the chest wound first.”

“I figured as much.”

Maybe he should bind up her mouth first, Thad considered. She was going to be an annoyance very quickly, he feared.

“There’s fresh blood showing through your robe, and we need to stop the bleeding. Have you seen the wound, Pilar?”

“Yes, and it needs attention.”

Before Kirsten could object, Thad’s fingers deftly pulled the top of the robe back to expose the wounded breast. It looked like she’d got it caught in a meat grinder. “Knife?” he asked.

“Teeth.”

He looked at her in disbelief.

“Teeth,” she repeated.

“Pilar,” Thad said. “We’re going to need some boiling water before I do my work. Could you ask Cam or Myles to get a fire going in the wood stove?”

“I’ll Call Myles in. Cam’s in another world thinking about his case. He’s worthless in dealing with mundane tasks when he’s absorbed in a case.”

While Pilar and Myles worked at getting a fire going, Thad explained the procedure with Kirsten. “You’ll need some stitches above your eye and on your chin, but they’ll wait. Your breast has a nasty wound. If you look, you’ll see that your nipple was nearly amputated.”

She looked down at her breast. “Oh shit. What a mess. The son-of-a-bitch about ate it off. I don’t have more than a mouthful anyway, if you haven’t noticed.”

“I haven’t,” he lied.

“Liar.”

She might be small-breasted, he thought, but her breasts suited her lean, hard body that seemed devoid of wasted flesh. She had an interesting face, he recalled, more angular than soft with a generous sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Of course, none of this could be seen through her battered and swollen face now. All in all, she was a striking woman, not one who bore Serena’s flawless beauty but an eye-turner nonetheless. He compared every attractive woman to Serena, and they always came up short. After this many years, he supposed this was a flaw in his own character.

“Doc, you were going to explain things to me.”

“Uh, yes. I’m going to stitch up your breast. It will take some time, and I’d like to do the surgery with you lying flat. Could we use your bed?”

“It’s occupied.”

He hesitated and looked at her quizzically.

“My late husband’s using it.”

It seemed like everybody was talking in nonsensical riddles tonight. “We can use your dining table. It’s a little short, but I suspect you’re hurting so much you won’t notice if your feet hang over the edge a bit.”