Medicine Show Page 12

  "What money?" Stump said.

  "All the money those men took," Naomi said, holding up the flour sack. "Well, nearly all. They got sixty-three dollars at the medicine show. I expect they still have that."

  She looked over at Storey as if to apologize for not having retrieved that money as well, but all Storey could think of was that even a woman was a better man than he was. She had gotten away from Sam and Ben Hawkins, and she had taken their money while he had again done nothing.

  Naomi then glanced over to where The Boozer was treating Wilson. "There's something else," she said.

  "Absolutely correct," The Boozer said. "We need to get this man to a doctor. I'm not sure I can get the bleeding stopped completely, and we need to get the bullet out of his side. There may be one in his shoulder as well."

  "And where might we find a doctor?" Stump said.

  Storey thought they might find one in New York City, but he didn't say so. He had lost any inclination he might ever have had to make smart remarks.

  "There is no doctor in town," Stump went on. "Just a woman who sometimes serves as a midwife. She does do a bit of doctoring, but not for anything serious. Mostly colds and the like. The sort of thing your Indian Miracle Oil would work just as well for."

  "You're a doctor," Storey said to The Boozer.

  "I was once. Not now," The Boozer said.

  "There's no one else," Stump said. "If you were a doctor at one time, you can't have forgotten everything."

  The Boozer did not look happy about the situation. "I don't know."

  Storey looked at Stuartson's hands. They had started shaking again.

  "You've still got your medical bag," he said. "I've seen it in the wagon."

  "A medical bag doesn't mean a thing," The Boozer said. "Anyone can buy one."

  "Your instruments are in it. I know you've taken care of them."

  The Boozer nodded. It was true that he still had enough pride to make sure that his instruments remained polished and sharp. He checked them fairly often.

  "All right, then," Storey said, as if everything were settled. "We can borrow the preacher's buggy; we'll take the sheriff back to the wagon. You can get your bag and work on him there."

  "I don't know," The Boozer said. "I'm not sure--"

  "You're the only chance I've got," Wilson said, surprising them all. "You can't just let me get infected and die."

  "He's right," Stump said. "You have to do what you can."

  "It might not be enough," The Boozer said.

  "It'll have to do," Storey said. "Let's see if we can get him in the buggy."

  Naomi watched and listened to all this without trying to finish what she had been about to say. The men had thought she was talking about the sheriff, and she was, but she hadn't been thinking about his wounds.

  Nevertheless, getting help for him was what really mattered now, not what she had overheard. She could tell them about that later.

  Stump and Storey loaded Wilson into the back seat of the buggy, lifting him as carefully as they could. He moaned with pain as they let him down.

  The Boozer stood by, watching gloomily. He was not at all sure he could do anything for the sheriff. In fact, he was afraid that he might be as likely do him ill as to do him good. It had been a long time since he had tried any kind of surgery at all, even something as simple as removing a bullet, and that was a job that was not always as simple as it seemed.

  He realized with a pang of disappointment that he was actually worried more about himself than he was about the wounded man. The Boozer had sunk to a low point, but there were still depths below him. If the sheriff died as a result of The Boozer's ministrations, those depths might open.

  Where they might lead, The Boozer did not know, nor did he want to find out.

  "Now then," Storey said when they had the sheriff safely stowed. "Let's get him back to the show wagon. That is, if you don't mind, taking him, Preacher."

  "I don't mind," Stump said. "It's the Lord's work." He helped Naomi into the front seat and climbed in beside her.

  "Don't drive too fast," Storey said. "You don't want to bounce him around."

  "You may set the pace," Stump said.

  As they left the yard of the shack, Naomi watched the broad back of the tall young man in buckskins. Earlier she had wondered how it might feel to be crushed in his arms, but now she no longer even cared. It was her own husband who had come to her rescue at the last, gun blazing. She snuggled close to him, holding tight to his left arm, and she hoped the Vitality Pills hadn't been damaged when she hit Ben in the head with her purse. She was certain now that she was going to use them later, one way or another.

  As for himself, the Reverend Stump was a bit confused. He was a man of peace, not a man of violence. He believed in the Lamb of God and the peace which passeth understanding, not in gunpowder.

  But when prayer had not availed him, gunpowder had. He had not actually shot anyone, of course, but he had tried, and the feeling of potency the pistol had given him was almost intoxicating. He would have reached to touch its handle had not Naomi been clasping his arm.

  He felt the nearness of her, the heat of her body as she pressed against him, and he was not repelled. On the contrary, he found himself enjoying very much the softness of her cheek as it rested on his shoulder, the even more tender softness of her breast as it flattened against him.

  He thought of what it might be like to hold her to him, to press her to his breast and kiss her.

  The thought was good, and for some reason no guilt accompanied it. For the life of him, he could not quite figure out why.

  Those who lived by the sword died by the sword, he knew that, and he knew that the saying was just as true for the gun as for the sword. Knowing it, however, did not affect the way he felt, not a bit.

  For the first time in his life, Lawton Stump began to wonder if the things that he had always preached were true.

  * * *

  Carl Gary had sent the town's undertaker, Tal Thurman, to the medicine show for the bodies, and Thurman was surprised to find that there was only one.

  Barclay Sanders took advantage of the opportunity to hitch a ride back to town, since his own horse was nowhere to be found, having no doubt vanished during the shooting skirmish.

  After they had loaded the dead man in the back of Thurman's wagon and covered him with a tarpaulin, the Colonel asked Sanders where Ray Storey was.

  Sanders was sitting on the seat of the wagon. He looked down at the Colonel, who was standing nearby. "You mean the man who was watchin' me?"

  "That's the one," the Colonel acknowledged.

  "I thought his name was supposed to be Kit Carson."

  "That is his stage name," the Colonel explained. "Ray Storey is his baptismal name."

  "Oh," Sanders said. "Well, I don't know where he went. He went out of the tent to get you, I guess, and he never did come back. The next person to show up was you, and I didn't see him again."

  "It doesn't matter," the Colonel said, thinking that perhaps Storey had gone to see about Dr. Stuartson. "I'll find him later. If your head begins to hurt you again after you return home, you needn't hesitate to take several doses of the Miracle Oil."

  "I'll do that," Sanders said, who had already taken a couple of hefty swallows at the Colonel's instigation. "It's mighty tasty stuff, all right."

  "And good for many ailments," the Colonel said. "Including nausea, catarrh,--"

  "Never mind all that," Thurman said, speaking for the first time. He was a heavyset man with thick black eyebrows and looked more like a blacksmith than an undertaker. "I got to get this dead fella on back into town."

  "Of course," the Colonel said. "I did not mean to delay you. I hope you will be at our show tomorrow night. And you, two, Mr. Sanders."

  "You mean you're gonna give another show after gettin' shot up and robbed by the Hawkins brothers once already?" Thurman said.

  "Naturally," the Colonel said. "That was our original plan, and we will not
be intimidated by any such display of wild hooliganism."

  "Then you got less sense than I thought you had," Thurman said. He clucked his tongue and slapped the reins against the neck of his team.

  The Colonel watched the wagon roll away for a moment and then started to the trees. He thought that Dr. Stuartson might be there with the mules. The doctor seemed to prefer the company of the animals to that of human beings most of the time, and the Colonel wasn't sure he blamed him.

  But neither Storey nor Stuartson was with the mules, and in fact one of the beasts was missing. So was Storey's horse.

  Wondering what was going on, the Colonel turned back to the wagon.

  Louisa was standing at the rear of the wagon when he got there.

  "Did Mr. Storey mention going anywhere when he spoke to you?" the Colonel said.

  "No. Why, is he gone?" Louisa's tone implied that she did not care much one way or the other.

  "He appears to have departed, and Dr. Stuartson with him."

  "Where do you suppose they could have gone?" Sophia said, sticking her head out the back of the wagon.

  "Maybe they went to rescue that woman," Louisa said, her eyes brightening in the moonlight. She hoped that she was right. If she was, then much of her faith in Ray Storey would be restored.

  "Perhaps we are about to find out," the Colonel said. "There are riders coming."

  Sophia climbed down from the wagon, and they all looked off down the road to where the advancing figures could be seen as dark silhouettes against the night sky.

  The figures grew larger, and Louisa said, "It's Ray and Dr. Stuartson. But someone's with them."

  So it is "Ray" again, is it, the Colonel thought.

  "I wonder who's in the buggy," Sophia said.

  It did not take long for them to find out. When the buggy arrived, Stump introduced himself and Naomi, and Storey explained that the sheriff had been wounded in a gunfight.

  "There's no doctor in this town," he said. "The Boo--Dr. Stuartson's going to look after him."

  "We can put him in the tent," Stuartson said, dismounting from the mule and handing the reins to Storey. "He has a bullet in his side, and possibly one in his shoulder. I need to examine him more closely."

  "Do you think that you--?" the Colonel cut himself short and changed tacks. "Drive the buggy over to the tent, Mr. Stump. We can unload the sheriff there."

  Stuartson knew what the Colonel had been about to say, but he took no offense. He had the same doubts himself. While the others followed the buggy to the tent, he stepped into the wagon for his medical bag.

  It was in a cabinet on one side of the wagon, along with the rest of the doctor's meager worldly goods: a pair of doctor's saddle bags; another suit of clothes, somewhat shabby; and a daguerreotype of his former wife.

  He looked at the picture for a moment, thinking that it did nothing to reveal the chestnut color of his wife's hair, the green of her eyes. He felt a familiar warmth as a powerful surge of self-pity flowed over him.

  If only his wife had not left him. If only she had stood by him in his need. If only--

  Tears stung his eyes as he held the picture and stared into the unseeing eyes of the woman he still loved. He set it back in the cabinet and looked around for something to drink.

  * * *

  Louisa watched as Storey and her father gently lowered the wounded sheriff onto the bench under the lantern. She noted the way the buckskin shirt strained across Storey's back as his muscles worked.

  "What about the men who robbed us?" the Colonel said when Wilson was lying safely on his back. "Did they do this?"

  "They certainly did," Naomi said. "And they kidnapped me, as well."

  "But you were rescued," Louisa said. "Was it the sheriff who saved you?"

  Naomi looked down at Wilson, whose eyes were screwed shut with pain. "He came to do it," she said. "But the Hawkins brothers shot him."

  "But you were rescued," Louisa insisted.

  "Yes," Naomi said. She turned her eyes to Stump. "My husband came to save me. He was wonderful, firing his pistol at those men and never flinching when they fired back."

  Stump stood a bit straighter and pulled in his stomach as much as he could. Louisa noticed the pistol that was stuck in his belt.

  "But what about you, Mr. Storey?" Louisa said. "Weren't you there?"

  "I was there," Storey admitted, not meeting her eyes. "And those two men? Did you kill them?"

  Stump naturally thought that the question was addressed to him, since he had been the only one doing any shooting.

  "No," he said. "I did not kill them, though I have to confess that I tried. Since I am a minister of the gospel, perhaps it is just as well that my marksmanship is not nearly so skilful as Mr. Carson demonstrated his to be at your show this afternoon."

  "And he didn't kill them, either," Louisa said.

  "Why, no, he didn't," Stump said, somewhat surprised, now that he thought about it.

  "Oh, he probably hadn't reloaded his pistol," Louisa said, but her words missed their target.

  Storey had already left the tent.

  13

  Sam Hawkins reined Wilson's winded horse to a stop at a clearing and stood in the stirrups, looking back over his shoulder to see if he was being followed.

  He did not like the sensation that he had experienced at the shack as the bullets were flying around him, the sick feeling that he might die at any moment. The fact was that he did not like for his life to be in jeopardy. He might have a pretty miserable existence, but he had no wish to exchange it for no existence at all.

  He had spent a good deal of his life engaged in dangerous pursuits, and he had been shot at more times than that one, but he had always taken care to eliminate as many of the risks as he could. He always liked to have the element of surprise on his own side, the way it had been in his and Ben's sudden ride on the medicine show or in their unexpected attack on Wilson.

  In cases like that, Sam had learned, there was really very little chance that he would be the one who got hurt. By the time the victims figured out what was going on, Sam was usually in control of things, one way or the other.

  Only a couple of times had things worked out the wrong way. One of them had been the time Wilson rode down the kid who ran into the street after the bank robbery. Some idiot in the bank had decided to be a hero, and after that it seemed like the whole town had come running. He and Ben had been damn lucky to get away that time.

  And then tonight. Who would ever have thought that the preacher would come riding in like that, blasting at them like he was some damn gunfighter? It had been a surprise, all right, and Sam didn't like surprises.

  And then that other bastard in the fancy outfit had tried to ride him down. Didn't draw his guns, though, just like he didn't at the medicine show, which was just as well as far as Sam was concerned. If he'd been shooting too, Sam might not have gotten away without a few bullet holes punched through his skin.

  And speaking of bullet holes, Sam wondered if Ben had escaped. It had been a lucky thing for Sam that Wilson's horse was standing there and hadn't tried to take off on him, but Ben hadn't had that advantage.

  Sam settled back down on his saddle and listened for any sounds of pursuit. Hearing nothing of that nature, he decided that he might as well wait for a while. Maybe Ben would show up, and now that Sam was ready, he wouldn't mind if that buckskin-wearing dude came along. Sam was always ready to take on a man who was afraid to draw.

  There was a deadfall near the clearing. A tall pine had been struck by lightning about three-quarters of the way down its trunk, and the top had fallen to the ground, dragging several smaller trees with it.

  Sam rode behind the deadfall and waited, his pistol drawn and cocked. He was good at waiting.

  The moon was going down now, but it was still quite bright, and it threw long, dark shadows into the clearing. A faint breeze rustled the tops of the pines, and back in the trees a raccoon skittered across the pine needles. Sam hardly noticed
these things. He concentrated on watching the clearing through the branches of the fallen trees.

  In a few minutes, there was a louder noise than a small animal like a raccoon could make, that of a horse running as fast as it could through the thick growth.

  There was another noise, too, the sound of a man yelling.

  "Stop, goddammit! Stop right now, you lop-eared son of a bitch!"

  Sam recognized Ben's voice, eased his pistol off the cock, and slid it into its holster.

  Just then, Ben's horse hurtled into the clearing, Ben hanging onto its neck for dear life.

  Sam rode out from behind the deadfall, and Ben's horse, as if finally deciding to obey his shouted commands, planted its front feet solidly, coming to a dead stop.

  Ben, however, did not stop. He kept right on going, sailing ass over elbows out into the middle of the clearing, where he landed in a sprawl, his face buried in pine needles.

  He sat up and looked around, feeling himself to see if he was all in one piece. His face, what could be seen of it, was scratched where tree branches had lashed him, or where the cat had scratched him, and one eye was tearing, but otherwise he seemed to be all right.

  He saw Sam sitting on the sheriff's horse and looked at his brother reproachfully.

  "You could've waited and let me ride double," he said. "I didn't have time to saddle up, and that damn fence-crawler there ain't used to being rode without a saddle. Damn near like to have killed me."

  He stood up and brushed himself off, wincing as he hit a bruise.

  "You shouldn't ought to run off and leave your brother like that, Sam," he said. "Even if you didn't want to ride double, you coulda waited for me."

  "You got away, didn't you?" Sam said. "Don't whine so much."

  "I ain't whinin'. I just don't think--"

  "Never mind what you think. What happened back there? Did you shoot any of 'em?"

  "Hell, I don't think so. It was all I could do to get away before somebody shot me. I didn't stick around to count any bodies."

  "It was that preacher that came in shootin', wasn't it?" Sam said. "The same one who preached about us in his church that time?"

  "It sure looked like him," Ben agreed. "And one of them others was from the medicine show. The one in that fancy outfit. I didn't know that other one, the one on the mule."