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“I can tell you that much,” Sam, tossing the reins up on the driver’s box, volunteered. “My shotgun—Elander Ward—is flat down with a bullet crease acrost his head. Doc did his best to stop the bleedin’, till he got winged his own self.”
“Ahuh. And didja see just who did all this shootin’?”
“Well, yeah.” The driver seemed surprised by the question. “And I returned fire, as soon as I got a chance. It’s yon dead man, on the floor. Lawrence Pope.”
“Pope?” The sheriff, on the other hand, rarely showed surprise at anything he saw or heard, let alone this. “You positive about that?”
“Still got my sight, ain’t I? Toldja, I let fly
a coupla rounds myself, whilst he was busy shootin’ everybody else. Your stagecoach bandit, I’m thinkin’.” Sam pulled more harness free and began moving his team inside, one by one, to be cared for once Abel returned.
“Paul.” Gabriel’s croak shifted attention once more. “Get my—my bag out here, willya? And, if Elander is awake, you better—“ he let out a soft groan, “—man, this hurts like a son of a gun. I ain’t never been—shot—b’fore... Better haul Elander out, too. Need to—have that—wound looked at.”
It wouldn’t be Gabe doing the looking, however, since he had once again succumbed to dizziness and loss of blood. His eyes were closed, his head lolled; his appearance, all in all, was frighteningly ghastly, as if he were dying but just didn’t know it yet.
“Oh, dear Lord in Heaven!” Letty, having gathered up what supplies she could from the examination room in the house at Apothecary Lane, came pelting frantically onto the scene.
Even having been warned about the doctor’s condition, she was appalled by what she saw. Good thing she hadn’t laced her corset very tightly this morning, came the irrelevant and totally inappropriate thought. Otherwise, between exertion and shock, she might have been laid out on the ground next to Gabe.
Abel was right behind her, carrying what she hadn’t been able to carry, in a canvas pouch that had seen better days. After one glance at the gruesome, semi-comatose man on his bench, he decided to do what he did best: disappearing inside the stable to curry and comb his equine charges.
“I brought what I guessed might be needed,” the medical assistant burbled, kneeling down before her patient. “But I’m not sure—Gabe? Gabe, can you hear me?”
His breathing was hitched and clotted, but he managed to mumble, “Elander. Head. See to him—first...”
“I’ll see to the most grievous case first,” she informed him tartly. “And that, from what I can tell, would be you.”
Letitia began carefully pulling away the shreds of cloth, powder-burnt and odious, and already beginning to stick fast to the wound underneath, accompanied by Gabe’s muffled groans. Through a disgusting, disheartening slurry of multicolored fluids, she tried how she could to examine the wound. Or wounds. Who could tell?
She had just made a decision as to what must be done next when Paul appeared, with even his mighty strength loaded down by the almost dead weight of Elander Ward dragging alongside. Ward’s one arm lay draped loosely over the sheriff’s shoulders, as added support.
“Nothing will work here, out in the open,” she announced crisply. “I can’t take care of either of them without better conditions. We have to take both these men over to Gabe’s office.”
“Right. That means gettin’ the stable’s surrey and a horse. Ain’t no way either of ’em are gonna be fit to walk that far.” Paul broke off to call loudly, “Abel! I need your services, man!”
Somehow, over a space of time whose passage seemed interminable, plans were made, procedures set in place, and details arranged—with the eager and willing assistance of a number of volunteers crowded around to see what was going on. It was the dinner hour, after all; and, with more temperate weather, residents were out in force.
Eventually, those most concerned were trundled along to the house on Apothecary Lane, and inside.
While Paul settled the lesser-hurt victim onto a straight-backed chair in the outer waiting room, and both Colton, called from duty at the sheriff’s office, and Abel struggled to manhandle Gabe onto the examining room table, Letty readied herself for work. She pulled on an apron, pinned her hair back under a kerchief, and fetched a basin of hot water.
Elander, a paunchy, silver-haired cowboy who had taken on the job of riding as guard during recent stagecoach runs, showed signs of great relief that the bullet groove across the top of his head would cause no permanent damage to his luxuriant mane.
“The ladies like the way it looks,” he explained to Letty, who was absorbed in carefully washing away grit and clotted blood. “And I like the ladies. Uh. That’s a mite tender there, ma’am.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said tartly. “You came within an inch of losing most of your scalp, and the brains underneath. Paul, bring that lamp closer, if you would, please.”
Impatient to finish, so that she could move on to the patient more grievously injured, yet her fingers were gentle and her manner comforting as she toiled. Soon, with the wound cleansed, disinfected, and bandaged, Letty put aside her tools to remark upon how dashing he looked.
“Like a pirate, huh?”
As he r
eached for his Stetson, which unfortunately looked like neither a pirate nor dashing due to the prominent hole in its crown, she shook her head.
“Uh-uh, Mr. Ward. Just a warning, but I recommend you forego the hat for a few days. Have you pain anywhere else?”
“Nope. Just in my—uh—backside, where I took a tumble off the stage.”
