This old, abandoned mining camp the road agents were using as a hideout lacked the provisions that he’d need if he were to save this woman’s life.Still, he wasn’t about to do nothing while she suffered an increasingly unpleasant end.
He had spent too many years watching men die because the battlefield gave him too little time, too little light, and too little hope.He would not simply sit beside this woman and surrender her to infection because a gang of thieves had dragged him into the mountains without the proper instruments.
Since Doc arrived three days ago, the outlaw called Lucas had been the one who spent the most time in here, watching him.He’d made no mention to the young man of the fisher that came calling yesterday.There was no point in doing so, and the animal hadn’t made another appearance, anyway.
Through the window and open door, Doc could hear the others, though their conversation was often just a dull blur in the background of his mind.Even so, he had learned a few things.
He couldn’t quite determine the exact number of men in the gang, but they were using one or two of the other shacks for sleeping.They seemed to argue almost all the time—about the food, the remoteness of the camp, the quality of one horse over another, the boredom of waiting, the lack of women.None of them liked taking a turn going out and watching the trail for unwanted visitors.That task seemed to have begun after the appearance of the traveler who was shot dead the night Doc got here.
The lean one, Lucas, was something of a lone wolf.He didn’t take a turn standing guard, which made Doc think he was in charge.He didn’t appear to give the others orders, even though they often called him outside to get his input on something they were arguing about.
But if he was their leader, his hold on them was not a strong one.Silent and morose, he lacked the bullying bravado one would expect of an outlaw leader.Mostly, he just sat on a crate in the corner of the shack, watching Doc and the patient while the others spent their time elsewhere.
It seemed to him that the young gunslinger showed more concern about the condition of the ransom victim than any of the other road agents.He guessed that Lucas may have been the one who shot her.
Guilt, Doc had learned long ago, could look a great deal like vigilance.
Doc took the bottle of morphine out of his bag and inspected the few drops that were left.The woman moaned in pain, but he placed the precious bottle back in the bag instead of administering a dose.He had to stretch what was left.
Half an hour ago, he’d had Lucas replace the water in the tin bowl he carried in his valise.He dipped the wet cloth he was using as a compress into the bowl and wrung it out.Patting it over her face, he wiped away the beads of sweat standing out on her heated skin.
She had a familiar face, though he was fairly sure she wasn’t someone from Elkhorn.She had fine symmetry to her features.A high forehead beneath thick, auburn hair.A straight nose between high cheekbones.Thin, pallid lips, slightly parted as she took shallow breaths.
Though she was probably in her forties, she had not gained the weight often added in one’s middle years.Her eyes, when she’d opened them, were deep brown.
Before being shot, she had to be enjoying general good health, otherwise she couldn’t stand the extreme strain on her system now.She’d need every ounce of her strength to pull through.
Rinsing and wringing out the excess water from the compress again, Doc laid it across her fevered forehead.
Her eyelashes fluttered, her lips moved, and another moan escaped her throat.She was fighting a battle while she slept.
Carefully pulling back the collar of the dress, he lifted the dressing away from the wound.The flesh around the incision he’d made when he dug out the bullet was gray and shot through with red.The wound itself was oozing, and the fluid emitted a faintly fetid smell.
He had seen that look before.Too many times.It brought back the old army hospitals with their rows of cots, the sour smell of infection, and the terrible knowledge that a man—or woman—could survive the bullet and still be taken by the horrors that followed.
He called Lucas and waited until the young man came over.
“Do you see this pus?”
The road agent nodded.“What of it?”
“This fluid would be classified asvile, as opposed tolaudable.”
Lucas was staring at the woman’s face, rather than at the damage he’d inflicted.His eyes flicked back to Doc.
“I ain’t no sawbones.Speak English.”
“Laudable pus is considered a sign that the wound should heal.It means that nature is putting up a bold fight against infection.It isn’t festering.”
“But…?”
“But that’s not what we’re looking at.”
The young man’s eyes were troubled, and a pair of furrowed lines creased his brow.“What are we looking at?”
“This fluid is watery and tinged with blood.You can see it if you look closely.And there’s a hint of a foul smell that is going to get worse,” Doc told him.“If that wound has not already become malignant, it will be soon.And that will kill her.”
“So you’re saying she’s a goner?”The outlaw’s voice had taken on a steely edge.
