The Eagles Legacy

Chapter Twenty-five

Sky Meadow

Elmer Gleason, bathed, shaved, his hair cut, fingernails trimmed, and wearing some clothes Duff had provided, sat on the porch drinking a cup of coffee.

“I forgot how good coffee was,” he said.

“How long has it been since you have had a cup?” Duff asked.

“I don’t know,” Gleason said. “I don’t know what year this is.”

“It is 1887,” Duff said.

“1887? Well now, I’m goin’ to have to do some cipherin’ here,” Gleason said. He counted on his fingers and mumbled to himself. “I reckon it’s been eleven years.”

“And you’ve lived in that mine all those years?” Falcon asked.

“Purt’ much,” Gleason answered. “Some years ago I spent some time with the Cheyenne Injuns. I even married me one of ’em, but she died when she was birthin’ our youngin’, and the youngin’, he up and died a couple days later. So I left. I wandered around a bit, then come back to the mine. Not sure when that was, but I know I spent six, maybe seven winters there.”

“Mr. Gleason, you said you killed Lonnie Post and Sam Hodges in self-defense,” Falcon said. “What about Arnold Brown? Did you kill him in self-defense, too?”

“I never heard of a feller named Arnold Brown,” Gleason said. “Who is he?”

“According to Mr. Guthrie, he is a man who went out to the mine to look for gold, and has never been heard of since.”

Gleason laughed. “So that was his name,” he said. “There was a feller come out there not too long after I kilt them two men. But I scairt him off and he never come back.”

“How much gold did you find?” Duff asked.

“I ain’t found much more than you have found,” Gleason said. “But I know it’s there, I can smell it.” Gleason laid his finger alongside his nose.

“But in all the years you spent there, you never found it,” Duff said.

“That don’t mean it ain’t there.”

“Why didn’t you file on it?” Falcon asked.

“I never got around to it,” Gleason replied. “Now you’re a’ tellin’ me that this here fella owns it.” He pointed to Duff.

“He does own it,” Falcon said. “He filed a claim on this land and all its environs.”

“That there word, ‘environs.’ That means he owns the mine?” Gleason asked.

“Yes.”

“Well then, there ain’t much more I can do, is there?”

“You can sell the mine to me,” Duff said.

“What do you mean I can sell it to you? Didn’t you just tell me you already own it?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you have no claim whatever. You were here first.”

“I wasn’t first. It was either the Spanish or the Injuns that was first.”

“When you tried to sell it before, how much did you ask for it?”

“I wanted five hunnert dollars,” Gleason said. He chuckled. “But I couldn’t get nobody interested in it.”

“Suppose I give you two hundred dollars, and twenty percent of anything the gold mine ever makes?” Duff suggested.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I am more interested in getting a ranch started than I am in poking around in a mine, and this way you could keep looking. Only, you would be working for me, and you wouldn’t have to eat bugs, rats, and the like.”

Gleason laughed. “I don’t mind tellin’ you that sounds pretty good to me.”

“We’ll build you a cabin down by the mine,” Duff said. “You can live there, and, anytime I am gone, you can keep an eye on the ranch.”

Gleason smiled broadly, then he spit in his hand and held it out. “Sonny, you got yourself a deal.”

Duff looked at the extended hand, then looked at Falcon. Falcon laughed. “If you want to close the deal, shake his hand.”

Duff started to extend his own hand.

“Un-huh,” Falcon said. “You have to spit in it.”

“My word,” Duff said. “Ye Americans be quaint people indeed.” He spit in his hand, then grasped Gleason’s in his.

Tie Siding, Wyoming

The pain in Garcia’s wound had eased somewhat and a warming numbness set in. Garcia was thankful for the numbness because it allowed him to stay in his saddle as they rode away from the bank holdup. But he had lost a lot of blood and was getting weaker and dizzier with every passing moment. By the time they rode into the tiny town of Tie Siding, Garcia was barely able to stay in his saddle.

“Hey, Malcolm, Garcia’s not going to make it if we don’t find a doctor pretty soon,” McKenna said. McKenna was riding alongside Garcia as well as leading Garcia’s horse, because Garcia needed to hold on to the saddle pommel with both hands just to keep from falling off.

“He’ll be all right. He was just hit in the shoulder,” Pettigrew said.

“No, he ain’t goin’ to be all right if we don’t find us a doctor soon to patch him up,” McKenna said. “He’s a’ bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”

“Maybe we can find a doctor here,” Malcolm suggested.

“We don’t have time,” Pettigrew said. “You know damn well they’ve got a posse together by now.”

“We rode outta town headin’ east,” McKenna said. “We’re west of town now. It’s goin’ to take ’em a while to figure out that we swung around and come back to the west. And I’m tellin’ you, Garcia can’t go on much longer if we don’t get him a doctor.”

“Hell, as much blood as he’s lost, he’s probably goin’ to die anyway,” Pogue said. “Seems to me like takin’ him to a doctor just to have him tell us that Garca is goin’ to croak is a’ goin’ to slow us down more.”

“Pogue, what kind of thing is that to say?” McKenna asked.

“Yeah, well, I’m with Pogue,” Pettigrew said. “I don’t plan on gettin’ myself caught by the law ’cause I’m wastin’ my time tryin’ to save a Mex who is more than likely goin’ to die anyway, no matter what we do.”

“I’m with McKenna,” Carter Hill said.

“Me, too,” his brother, Johnny, said. “What if it was you that was shot?”

“If it was me, I wouldn’t be complainin’ about it,” Shaw said.

“If you notice, Shaw, he isn’t complaining,” Moran said.

“We’ll find a doctor,” Malcolm said.

“If it was up to me, I’d just leave him there,” Shaw said.

“We’re going to stay with him,” Malcolm said.

“Anyway,” McKenna said. “Maybe we can get somethin’ to eat there.”

“How we goin’ to get somethin’ to eat?” Moran asked.

“More’n likely the doctor is married,” McKenna said. “We’ll have his wife fix us some food.”

“What if she doesn’t want to?” Johnny Hill asked.

Pettigrew laughed, a sharp, evil-sounding laugh. “I think we can talk her into it,” he said.

It was early, just before noon, as Malcolm and the others rode through the street. Tie Siding was a quiet, sleepy little town with very few people out in the street, and even fewer who paid any attention to their presence. Malcolm saw a boy of about seventeen painting a fence. Separating from the others, he rode over to him.

“Good morning, lad,” he said as pleasantly as he could.

The young man didn’t reply vocally, but he nodded his head at Malcolm, then looked by him at the other eight riders.

“Are you fellas cowboys lookin’ for work?” the boy asked. “’Cause if you are, you ain’t likely to find nothin’ here. Mr. Lyman Byrd, he owns a ranch twixt here ’n Walbach and I was ridin’ for ’im, but he let a bunch of us go last month. Said he couldn’t afford to keep us on.”

“’Tis grateful I am, lad, for your report on the availability of employment, but our quest is to find a doctor.”

“We ain’t got no real doctor here, ’cept for Dr. Tillman, and he’s an animal doctor is what he is. But seein’ as we ain’t got no doctor, well, he sometimes treats folks, too.”

“And where is he domiciled?”

“What?”

“Where may I find this doctor?”

“Oh, he has a house that’s about a mile out of town.” The boy pointed. “Just keep on a’ goin’ that way ’till you run out of buildings and houses, then keep on a’ goin’ some more till you’ll come to a white house on the right side of the road. It’s got a sign out front that has a picture of a horse on it. That’s in case you can’t read the words that say veterinary doctor.”

“Thank you, lad, you have been most helpful,” Malcolm said. He rode back to join the others.

“Did you find a doctor?” McKenna asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” Malcolm replied.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I found a doctor,” Malcolm said without going into further detail.

Following the directions the boy gave him, Malcolm led the men to the doctor. His office, which was also his home, was a low, single-story building that sat at least a hundred feet back from the road. A wisp of wood smoke rose from the chimney, carrying with it the aroma of frying pork chops.

“This is it,” Malcolm said.

“Wait a minute, what do you mean this is it?” McKenna asked. “Can’t you read? This here is a veterinarian.”

“There are no physicians available, but according to the lad in town, the veterinarian also treats people,” Malcolm said.

“But an animal doctor?”

“What choice do we have, McKenna?” Moran asked.

“Yeah,” McKenna replied. “I reckon you are right.”

“Before we ride up there, take a good look around,” Malcolm said. “Make sure there is no one in sight.”

The saddles squeaked as the riders twisted to look around. “There is no need for all us to go inside,” Malcolm said. “I’ll go in with Garcia and McKenna. The rest of you move around behind the house. I don’t want anyone riding down the road and getting curious as to why so many horses are here.”

“Wait a minute,” Pogue said. “I thought we was goin’ to get somethin’ to eat here.”

“Yeah,” Pettigrew said. “That’s the only reason I come. I sure don’t care nothin’ about the Mexican. He can die as far as I’m concerned. But I ain’t a’ goin’ to wait around outside iffen there is a chance we can get us somethin’ to eat inside.”

“All right, Johnny, you and your brother take all the horses around back. The rest of you can come in with us.”

“What about us gettin’ somethin’ to eat?” Johnny asked.

“We’ll bring something out to you,” Malcolm said. “Let’s go.” Malcolm clicked to his horse and they rode up to the front of the house, then dismounted.

That is, all but Garcia. Now too weak to dismount on his own, he sat in his saddle until McKenna and Moran helped him down from his horse. The Hill brothers took the horses, then moved them around back as the remaining seven men stepped up onto the doctor’s front porch.

Malcolm didn’t bother to knock, he just pushed it open. McKenna and Moran helped support Garcia as they walked into the house.

“What the . . . ? What is this?” the surprised doctor asked, looking up from a chair where he was reading the newspaper. His wife was standing at the stove frying pork chops, and she looked around in alarm as well.

“Doctor, please forgive us for startling you,” Malcolm said. “We were doing some target shooting a bit earlier, and one of our number was inadvertently shot. ’Tis wondering, I am, if perhaps you could patch him up so that we may complete our journey.”

“And maybe while you’re at it, your woman could fix us somethin’ to eat,” Pettigrew suggested.

“My woman?”

“That one there, standin’ over by the stove,” Pettigrew said.

“She is my wife.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Have her cook us somethin’ to eat. Them pork chops smells pretty good.”

“You do know, do you not, that I am a veterinarian? I’m not a people doctor. What makes you think I could take care of your friend?”

“Animals, people, they are pretty much the same when they get a bullet in ’em,” Pettigrew said. “I’ve seen bullets get took out of a horse and I’ve seen bullets get took out of people. Looked pretty much to me like there wasn’t no difference.”

The doctor looked at the men for a long moment. “You weren’t taking target practice, were you?” he asked. “Are you outlaws on the run?”

“What if we are?” Malcolm asked. “Doesn’t the Hippocratic Oath say that you have to treat him anyway?”

“I told you, I am a veterinarian. I don’t take the Hippocratic Oath. That is for physicians,” the doctor said. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “Never mind, take him over to the bed and let me take a look at him.”

Moran and McKenna lay Garcia on his back on the bed.

“Where was he shot?”

“In the back, just inside the shoulder blade, I think,” McKenna said.

The doctor opened Garcia’s shirt. “That’s not good,” he said.

“What?”

“The bullet didn’t go all the way through him. It’s still inside. I need you to turn him over so I can have a look. And do it carefully. It is going to be quite painful for him.”

With help from McKenna and Moran, Garcia was turned over, but the doctor was correct in suggesting that it would be painful, and Garcia grimaced as they moved him.

“Well, he’s lucky in one thing,” the doctor said. “I don’t think there’s any festering. But, I expect he has lost a lot of blood, and like I said, the bullet is going to have to come out.”

“Hell, why bother?” Pogue asked. “He’s goin’ to die anyhow, ain’t he?”

“Probably,” the doctor agreed. “But it’s not an absolute. I can at least try.”

“You want to waste your time on him, go right ahead,” Pettigrew said.

Turning, Pogue saw the doctor’s wife standing close by. “Lady, I ain’t seen you put no more pork chops in that skillet,” he said.

“I don’t have any more pork chops,” the doctor’s wife answered, her voice quivering with fear.

“Well what have you got?”

“Fix them some bacon, Pearl. We’ve got a whole slab of bacon,” the doctor said.

“Is bacon all right?” Pearl asked.

“Hell, bacon is fine. Just get to cookin’ it,” Pogue said.

“I have a basket of fresh eggs, maybe two dozen or more. I can scramble them. And I have a couple of loaves of bread I baked yesterday, if that’s all right. I had no idea there would be so many to feed.”

“Woman, quit talkin’ so much and get to cookin’,” Shaw said.

“And, don’t forget,” Malcolm added, “there are two more outside.”

“Actually, whenever my husband doctors a person, I have to help. I’ll cook you some food as soon as he is through attending to his patient.”

Pogue pulled his pistol and pointed it at Garcia, who, by now, had passed out.

“Well hell, if that’s all that’s stoppin’ you, I can take of that. I’ll just shoot the son of a bitch now and get it over with.”

The doctor stepped between Pogue and Garcia. “If you shoot him, you’re goin’ to have to shoot me, too,” he said.

“Hell, that’s all right by me,” Pogue said easily.

“And me,” Pearl said, stepping in front of her husband.

“I don’t have no problem with that, either,” Pogue said, and he cocked his pistol.

“No, Pogue,” Pettigrew said. “You ain’t goin’ to shoot either one of ’em.”

Malcolm, who had been surprised by the sudden turn of events, was glad that Pettigrew had spoken up. He didn’t want to shoot the doctor and his wife, but it wasn’t because of any sense of compassion. He knew that if they did kill the doctor and his wife, the entire territory would be after them. He wondered for a moment how he had gotten himself into this position. He had come to America to deal with one man, and though he had no real police authority, he did have some cover for what he was doing because Duff MacCallister was wanted back in Scotland. That was before. Now, he was an outlaw pure and simple, a bank robber, a party to murder, and in league with the most disreputable bunch of men he had ever known, or even heard about.

Malcolm was supposed to be in charge, but was he? He knew that he had no wish to challenge these men—especially Shaw, Pogue, or Pettigrew. He was glad that, on this issue at least, that of not killing the doctor and or his wife, Pettigrew was on his side.

Pogue looked at the defiant doctor and his equally defiant wife for a moment longer, then he eased the hammer back down. “All right, have it your way. McKenna, you fix the food.”

“Why me?”

“Why you? ’Cause you’re the one that was so determined to get Garcia to a doctor. Now, fix the damn food like I told you to.”

Pogue’s voice was cold and demanding.

“All right, all right,” McKenna mumbled.

“Doc, you got yourself a brave woman there,” Pogue said. “She’s pretty, too. Makes a fella wonder how someone like you ever managed to come up with a woman like that.”

When the doctor didn’t answer, Pogue smiled at both of them, then left them and walked over to join the others. By now McKenna had carved off several pieces of bacon and they were twitching and dancing in the frying pan.

The doctor slapped Garcia in the face.

“Here, what did you do that for?” Moran asked.

“I have to wake him up,” the doctor said. “I have to give him some laudanum. He’s goin’ to need it when I start probing for the bullet.”

Garcia opened his eyes, and the doctor held the bottle to his mouth.

“Drink this,” he said.

Garcia took the liquid, then closed his eyes again.

“Help me get his shirt off, Pearl.”

The doctor and his wife removed Garcia’s shirt. Then the doctor picked up a long, slender instrument and began probing for the bullet. As the doctor and his wife worked on Garcia, the others began to eat the bacon and scrambled eggs McKenna had cooked for them, totally unconcerned with the ordeal Garcia was going through.

“Mr. Moran, would you be for making a couple of bacon and egg sandwiches and taking them out to the Hill brothers?” Malcolm asked Moran when he saw that Moran was finished eating.

“All right,” Moran said as he went about his task.

“How are you progressing, Doctor?” Malcolm asked, calling over to the bed where the doctor and his wife were busily attending to Garcia.

“We are doing quite well, thank you. The bleeding has stopped, and digging for the bullet hasn’t initiated any new hemorrhaging.”

“Good. Continue with your task.”

For the next several minutes the doctor and his wife bent over the unconscious form of the wounded outlaw, talking quietly between themselves, using words that none of the men could understand. “Good, I was worried about secondary atelectasis, but despite the bullet insult, I don’t think the lung has collapsed,” Dr. Tillman said.

“I don’t think so, either,” Pearl said. “He seems to be aspirating normally.”

After what seemed like several minutes, the doctor announced that he had successfully removed the bullet and he dropped it with a clink into the pan of warm water. The bullet lay in the bottom of the pan with tiny bubbles of blood rising to paint a swirl of red on the water’s surface. None of the eaters seemed particularly interested in his announcement.

“So, you’re finished up, are you, Doc?” Pogue asked, coming over to stand by the bed.

“I’ve got the bullet out.”

“Good, hurry up and get him patched up so’s we can put him back on his horse and get out of here.”

“Are you insane? If you move him now, it will kill him.”

Malcolm came over to join the conversation. “What is going on?” he asked.

“This fool wants to put this man on a horse and leave,” the doctor said. “I just told him that he can’t do that. If he tries to move him, it will kill him.”

“Doctor, you don’t seem to understand our situation,” Malcolm said. “We must be going. We can’t stay around while Mr. Garcia recovers.”

“Then, by all means, go. Leave your friend here. I will take care of him until he is recovered.”

“And, no doubt, turn him over to the law,” Malcolm said.

“Suppose I do turn him over to the law? Isn’t incarceration preferable to dying?”

“You ain’t never been incarcerated, have you, Doc?” Pettigrew asked.

“Of course not.”

“It ain’t necessarily preferable,” Pettigrew said.

“Come on, Garcia. Get up!”

Garcia blinked his eyes a couple of times, then closed them again.

“He can’t even hear you now,” the doctor said. “He has passed out.”

“Why don’t we leave him here, like the doc said?” McKenna asked.

“We can’t do that. He knows where we’re goin’, He might talk.”

“Garcia won’t talk,” McKenna said. “He’s a good man, he won’t talk.”

“We killed two people in that holdup,” Pettigrew said. “That means if we get caught, we’re goin’ to hang. If they tell him they won’t hang him if he’ll help ’em find us, are you tellin’ me he won’t talk?”

“We didn’t kill two people in the holdup, Pettigrew,” McKenna said. “You did.”

Malcolm listened to the discussion between the two men and knew that there was only one thing to be done. He knew also that, if he was to maintain the position of leadership among these men, he was the one who was going to have to do it. He walked over to the bed and picked up a pillow, then pushed it down over Garcia’s face.

“Here, what are you doing? Stop it! You are killing him!” Pearl shouted. She reached for pillow, but Malcolm continued to press it down over Garcia’s face.

“Doctor, do you want your wife to risk her life to save an outlaw?” Malcolm asked, sharply.

“Pearl, come away!” the doctor said.

“But, John, don’t you see what he is doing?”

“Yes, he is killing the patient,” the doctor said. “But better him than us.”

Malcolm smiled. “You have more sense than I gave you credit for, John,” he said.

Garcia offered no struggle at all, but Malcolm saw him arch his back slightly, as if trying to breathe. Malcolm held the pillow for at least two more minutes, then he pulled it away.

Garcia’s eyes were open but blank, and his face was slightly purple.

“John, if you would, sir, please confirm for me that he is dead,” Malcolm said.

The doctor picked up Garcia’s wrist and felt for a pulse. There was none. Then he put his hand to the carotid artery. He nodded.

“Mr. Garcia is dead,” he said.

Pearl crossed herself.

“Thank you, madam,” Malcolm said. “I am sure that Mr. Garcia needs all the prayers he can get.”

“I have to hand it to you, Malcolm,” Pettigrew said deferentially. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Malcolm said, starting toward the back door.

The others obeyed instantly.