Six Gun Justice (15 page)

“Are you the doctor? Jake asked.

“Yes, and I can see you need some attention to that wound. Is it a gunshot?” his voice was gentle as he asked the question.

Jake nodded and sat on the chair the doctor motioned him to, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it out of his trousers. He winced in pain, as the doctor pulled the kerchief from the wound and probed around with his fingers. Taking off his glasses, the doctor shook his head.

“You’re luckier than most mister,” he said with a shake of his head. “A fraction of an inch more and you would have taken a hit through an intestine. That would have cost you your life young man, before you could have ridden two miles, not to mention a great deal of pain.”

“Can you take care of it for me?” Jake asked.

“Sure thing! Just have to take a couple of stitches in the front and the back, where the bullet went through and put a clean bandage on it and you should be as good as new in a couple of days. That is, if you don’t do something foolish and tear the stitches loose.”

The doctor held out a bottle of laudanum and said, “Here, take a drink of this. It will deaden the pain some.”

Shaking his head, Jake said, “No thanks Doc. I prefer to keep a clear head. Got a might of work to do.”

“All right. It’s your funeral,” he mumbled and ran a long cotton swab dipped in some sort of disinfectant through the hole the bullet had made and pinched the skin of the wound closed with two fingers, and pierced the flesh to one side with a long sharp needle.

Jake grimaced with pain, as he felt the thread being pulled through his flesh, but he clenched his teeth against it, holding his breath against any outcry. The sensation was of a searing hot iron being drawn across his side, but it brought renewed alertness to his mind, which had been sluggish from the loss of blood. Keeping his right arm held high took a tremendous will, and he could see the admiration in the doctor’s face when he looked up to see how his patient was faring.

“I’ve treated a lot of wounds in my day, but I have to admit that you got more guts than most of my patients. Most of the cowboys that come in here pass out when I run the swab through the wound, and you never heard such yelling and cursing as they do,” he mumbled as he worked at sewing up the front and moved to the exit wound.

“You have quite a few scars. Do you make your living with a gun?” the doctor asked absently.

“Nope, just been a might unlucky.”

The doctor looked up from his sewing, but said nothing. This was a man with a strong will and plenty of grit, he thought. One thing he was sure of; this taciturn man sitting on the chair before him was searching for someone, and it was not someone he would stop searching for until he killed him. He would not want to be on the receiving end of the hatred this man carried in his heart, nor the drive that made him hunt a man with such a vengeance.

“I think that will about do it,” the doctor said with finality, as he pinned the tight bandage around his waist. “I suggest you get a couple of days rest, eat plenty of fruit and just take it easy.”

“Sounds good Doc. I’ll do that. Just as soon as I take care of a little unfinished business.”

“That will be two dollars,” the doctor said, shaking his head again.

Jake paid the man and thanked him for his trouble, then turned to leave. He could no more bring himself to give up his hut at this stage of the game than he could fly. Murdock had caused him too much pain and misery for him to stop now. It was all or nothing. The law was not even in his list of options the way he thought. True he wanted justice, but he would let Judge Colt do the presiding for him.

He led his horse to the nearest saloon; a place called the Maverick and tied him outside. He stepped into the cool of the building, which smelled of whiskey and stale sweat, leaving the oppressive heat that was already making itself felt, outside. There was no one in the saloon at this early hour. It was probably not past eight yet, so the locals were not out and stirring. The only people who would be looking for a drink at this time of day would be the town drunks, or someone who needed a belt to build their strength, as he did.

He motioned for the bartender to pour him a drink and leave the bottle. After pouring his drink, the bartender made himself busy at the other end of the long polished bar, wiping glasses. This was fine with Jake, since he had no desire for conversation. He tossed off three quick drinks, dropped a dollar on the bar and pushed back through the batwing doors to the street.

He would find himself a place to eat, and then see if he could get a line on Murdock. Following his tracks was out. They would be mixed with hundreds of other tracks entering and leaving the city. He would have to make the rounds of the saloons and other establishments and hope to run across his trail. if he knew Jake was on his trail, he would probably lay an ambush for him. He would have to stay on his toes, or he may be the one that wound up six feet under the ground.

He remembered a sign he had passed on one of the few side streets called the Ox Tail that advertised breakfast, steaks and pie on their front windows. He led his horse to the eatery and tied him in front. Inside, he ordered a large breakfast and a pot of coffee. He devoured the food with gusto, along with five cups of strong black coffee and felt some of the strength return to his pain wracked body. His arm shoulder was not yet fully healed, and the pain from the recent sutures in his side were giving him some discomfort, but all in all, he was sin pretty good shape.

He dropped a half dollar on the table to cover his meal and a tip for the waitress, stood up, standing in one spot for a few seconds to let the wave of dizziness pass. He must be in worse shape than he figured. Moving slowly, allowing himself time to regain his equilibrium, he made it to the door and went outside into the heat that had climbed a few more degrees since he had entered the restaurant, but at least he was quickly regaining his strength.

He spent the rest of the day making the rounds of the saloons, eating establishments, mercantile and the like, asking if anyone had see a man fitting Murdock’s description, but with no luck. At noon he stopped into the Ox Tail again for a lunch of steak and potatoes, then continued his search of the town. Either Murdock had not been on the way to Phoenix, or he had turned back at some place along the trail and headed for the Mogollan. Jake did not think he would go back to his ranch though, until he had some backing.

By late evening, the sun had sapped what little strength he had regained and the lack of sleep had taken a toll as well. He would have to bed down for the night and try again tomorrow. Heading for the Trail Drive hotel on Grant Street, he stopped off at the livery, stabled his horse for the night and paid the hostler fifty cents for him to have him rubbed down and grained well. From there he walked the half block down the street to the Trail Drive, and registered for a room, taking time to glance over the register for Murdock’s name. The only person who had registered since the day before was a lady.

A couple of questions to the clerk convinced him that he had seen nothing of a man fitting the description Jake gave him. Climbing the stairs to his room, he could now feel the pain in his side, and the loss of blood that had weakened his knees, making his climb arduous. He could feel his head start to spin as he opened the door and leaned back against it for support.

He stood like that for a few minutes, letting the nausea pass before he moved on to the bed and sat gingerly on the edge. He shucked his gunbelt and fell back on the bed, looking up at the bare white ceiling, with its dancing shadows. He was so tired, he did not want to rise again, but he made the effort after a good half hour and slipped out of his boots and shirt. The rest would have to wait, he thought, as he lay back on the bed again and closed his heavy eyes.

He dreamed of his wife, waiting for him at the ranch, as least he hoped she would be there when he returned. She stood on the front porch motioning to him frantically as he rode in, trying to tell him something, but he could not hear her voice. As he drew near the porch a shot rang out and he could see the puff of smoke from a hidden gunman among the trees and felt the bullet strike him in the stomach.

Waking in a well of cold sweat, he wiped his hand over his eyes, trying to wipe away the last vestiges of sleep and the dream that seemed so real. The wound in his side was hurting and he could feel a slight dampness when he touched the bandage. He was bleeding a little. He got up, lit the lamp that sat on the bureau and inspected the bandage. There was only a small amount of blood there, but the pain was like a hot poker against his side and stomach.

He lay back down on the bed, closing his eyes and trying to rest. It didn’t take him long to regain the sleep from which he had awakened, this time without benefit of the nightmare. It was a fitful sleep that left him drained in the morning. He sat for a long time on the side of the bed, trying to clear his head and get up enough energy to make it the rest of the way up.

It was a great effort for him to slip into his shirt and bend to pull on his boots, but he finally accomplished the chore without passing out. He splashed cold water on his face, shocking his senses back to a semblance of reality and buckled on his gunbelt, feeling the weight of the instrument hanging heavy at his side as he forced himself to don his hat and head for the door.

He had paid for his room in advance, so he stepped into the street in front of the hotel, feeling as though he had been hit in the stomach with a mallet. Ignoring the pain was not new to him, since he had had some practice in the war. Wounds were common then and medical attention was very rare, especially when the Yanks had them on the run most of the time.

He walked to the livery, collected his horse and strolled down the street, just as the sun peeped over the horizon to the east, driving away the shadows of early morning and bringing in a bright new day. He knew it would be another hot one, just like all the days in this part of Arizona Territory. He led his horse to the rail in front of the Ox Tail and went inside.

He gave his order to the young man in an apron, and sat back, rubbing at the bandage around his middle. The steak and eggs helped with some of the weakness, but did nothing to alleviate the pain he felt.

The doctor had offered him a bottle of laudanum before he left his office, but he had refused it. He had seen too many soldiers succumb to the addictive drug during the war and wanted nothing to do with it. He drank three large glasses of milk with his meal, which seemed to give him a better lease on life, and tried to ignore his discomfort as much as he could. It was going to be a long day.

He lingered over his meal, relishing the sustenance and the small comfort he derived from the still cool air of the morning. After he had finished, he rolled a cigarette from the makings in his shirt pocket and sat smoking as he watched the other patrons enter, one by one for a morning meal. He watched all the faces the entered, hoping against hope that he would see Murdock enter the establishment, but it was a wish that din’t come tp pass.

The rest of the day was spent making the rounds of the hotels, saloons, eating establishments and people that Murdock was likely to make contact with. The day grew hotter, but Jake’s strength increased with the rebuilding of the blood he had lost. He was about to give up the search, thinking that his man had not come to Phoenix after all, when he happened onto a Mexican doctor near the south end of the town.

He would have missed the place completely, it he had not been watching the pretty Mexican woman in the side yard of the adobe building hanging out a number of sheets on a clothesline. It started his mind wandering to why so many sheets. Then his eyes fell on the small hand painted sign on the post of the front veranda of the house.

He decided to try once more, and walked through the entrance of the tiled patio, which was shaded by a huge Mexican Elder, lending coolness to the well-appointed courtyard. He knocked on the door and waited for an answer. When none was forthcoming, he tried the door and found it unlocked. Sticking his head inside, he quickly scanned the room, noting that it had a worn couch, a small examining table with a clean white sheet pulled tightly across the pad and a small pillow gracing one end.  

There were paintings on the walls that depicted a bullfighter, a Spanish lady in a mantilla, and a diploma issued by a prominent university in Mexico. The place was spotlessly clean, and showed the touches of a woman, probably the young woman that had been hanging the sheets. He took another step inside the door, the tinkling of the bell bringing a man through a curtain hug doorway.

“May I help you Senor?”

“Maybe,” Jake responded dejectedly. “I’m looking for a gent that might have come this way. I think he might have been wounded. If it was bad enough, he might have needed some doctoring.”

“And what, may I ask do you want with this man?” the young doctor asked, he Mexican accent pronounced and very apparent to Jake.

“Im hunting him. He’s a killer,” Jake said simply.

“Are you a law man Senor?”

“Nope, just a rancher. This man killed a lot of innocent people.”

“What do you intend to do with him when you find him?”

Jake looked into the kind eyes of the doctor, sizing him up instantly as a bleeding heart. If he told him he would gun the man down, he would get no information from him. On the other hand, if he told him he wanted to bring him to the law for justice, he just might get some help.