Doc glanced over at the two open Wells Fargo strongboxes in the corner of the shack, their contents scattered across the floor.Bundles of unwanted letters lay among the debris, abandoned after the robbers stripped away whatever gold or valuables had been inside.
Doc had heard enough stories over the years about road agents kidnapping wealthy travelers for ransom.Occasionally the victims were returned alive.
But not often.
Smith—a miner Doc barely knew except by sight—had come for him yesterday morning claiming there’d been an accident outside town.The man had been twitchy as a cat in a thunderstorm, but that alone meant little in silver country.Digging in the earth made men a mite strange sometimes.Mining had a way of twisting fellows inside out.
So Doc grabbed his medical valise and went with him.
They had barely cleared Elkhorn when two grim-faced gunslingers came out from behind a clump of pines.
Their clothes showed the grime of long use, and their boots were scuffed and worn from the brush and brambles of the Colorado terrain.Each wore a brace of Remingtons on his gun belt.One man had a Winchester in his rifle scabbard.The other, a Henry rifle.
The sight itself didn’t truly surprise Doc.Road agents haunted the Rockies same as wolves haunted the forests.The real shock came less than thirty minutes later when one of the gunmen abruptly shot Smith and sent him tumbling lifeless into the ravine beside the trail.
Stone-cold killers.
Doc looked away from the memory and adjusted the lantern wick slightly lower.Outside the shack, the night wind sighed softly through the pines.
The outlaws had ridden east for hours after that, leaving the Denver road and winding through forests of fir and cottonwood.Sometimes they followed a roaring river through narrow valleys.Other times they climbed ridges carpeted in pale green lichen.Along the way, Doc spotted abandoned mining camps, weather-beaten cabins, and collapsed shafts that looked like broken teeth jutting from the mountainside.
Eventually they emerged from the timber, and Doc saw Devil’s Claw towering against the Colorado sky.The mountain earned its name honestly.Its jagged peaks stretched upward like the claws of some ancient beast.
Doc knew there had once been mining camps beyond the northern pass, though most had long since emptied out.He never ventured this far from Elkhorn himself.
The ride continued for hours more.
By the time they reached the deserted mining settlement hidden beyond the Claw, darkness was already settling across the mountains.
The camp consisted of perhaps a dozen collapsing shacks clustered around the remains of an abandoned claim.Unlike the other ghost camps, however, this one showed signs of life.Horses filled a rough corral, and smoke drifted from cooking fires.
And inside one of the cabins waited a wounded woman.
Doc stretched his stiff shoulders and glanced around the shack again.Someone had been living here for some time.Sacks of flour and beans sat stacked near the wall.A battered potbellied stove, a rough bed, a scarred table, and a few barrels for chairs completed the furnishings.
The place smelled of smoke, damp wood, and old fear.
An outlaw standing beside the doorway watched him constantly.The others called him Lucas.
Lean and tough as buffalo tendon, the young man was staring at him, his dark eyes hard as coal.He carried himself with the dangerous stillness Doc had learned long ago never to underestimate.
Including this Lucas fellow, Doc had counted four gang members so far.
The wounded woman stirred faintly beneath the blanket, drawing his attention back to her.She was plainly a woman of refinement from the quality of her clothing, though the journey and blood loss had left her pale as ash.
Doc rested the back of his hand gently against her forehead.Warm, but not dangerously so.
When he first examined her, all his years of medical experience had pointed toward one conclusion.If he did not operate immediately, she would die.She’d lost a lot of blood even before he arrived, and she looked as gray as the blanket she lay on.
In New York before the war, Doc Burnett had never once treated a gunshot wound.
Then came the Union Army Medical Corps.
By the end of the war, he had removed more bullets from flesh than he cared to remember.
And some memories never stopped following a man.
Even now, years later, certain sounds and smells still carried him back to those low groans and cries of wounded men.The floors slippery with blood.The endless rows of suffering boys so far from home.
