Faithful Heart (22 page)

“Ain’t there somethin’ you can give me to ease the pain? Whiskey, maybe?”

“No whiskey on this wagon train,” John said. “However, this lady whose life you threatened is a nurse. I think she can help you.”

Feaster gave Breanna a pleading look with his pain-filled eyes. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We didn’t mean you no harm. Please … can’t you give me somethin’ to take this pain away?”

“She can do more than that, mister,” John said. “She can set your shoulder and bind you up so your broken collarbone will heal properly.”

“Please, ma’am, do it!” Feaster begged, looking at Breanna again. “I can’t stand to hurt like this!”

“First, I want your name,” John said. “And don’t lie to me.”

“My name’s Edgar Wilson.”

“Where you from?”

“Arizona. Phoenix.”

“What’s the name of the mountains forty miles east of Phoenix?”

“Uh … Dragoons.”

“You’re lying, mister. You’re not from Phoenix. Forty miles east of Phoenix are the Superstition Mountains. I want the truth. Tell me your name.”

“Man, I’m hurtin’, can’t you see that?”

“Yes. And I’m waiting.”

“Okay, okay. Name’s William Becker. I’m from Carson City, Nevada.”

“How long you lived there?”

“I don’t know—’bout twelve years I suppose.”

“Twelve years? Then you know that the town wasn’t called Carson City until just over ten years ago. What was its previous name?”

Feaster gave him a blank look.

“You’re not getting any relief till I hear the truth, mister. What’s your name, and in how many states and territories are you wanted by the law?”

“What’re you talkin’ about? I ain’t no outlaw!”

“No? Then why did you put guns on us, threaten our lives, and try to steal my horse?”

“Well … I needed the animal to get me down to Placerville. Got a business appointment there.”

“You must like that pain,” Stranger said.

“I ain’t lyin’! I’m a legitimate businessman.”

“Legitimate businessman? Would a legitimate businessman run with skunks who hide in rocks and threaten innocent people? Looks like you’re going to have to just keep hurting.”

“No! Please … let her do somethin’ to help me!”

“Sure. When I get the truth.”

“All right! All right!” he gasped. “I’m Wayne Feaster. Wanted by the law in Idaho, Nevada, Arizona, and California.”

“For what?”

“Robbery.”

“What kind? Banks? Stagecoaches? Trains? Little old ladies?”

“Banks and stagecoaches. C’mon, mister, what more do you want—I need help!”

“So what’s your business in Placerville?”

Wayne Feaster gave in and spilled it all to Stranger and the few gathered near.

Stranger eyed him with disdain. “So you were going to make a big haul with Chick Dubb, eh? I know about Dubb. Bad company for you, Wayne. You should’ve learned that in prison. Now look what he’s got you into. We’re taking you with us, and I’m going to turn you over to the law at Placerville.”

“Right now, all I care about is this pain. Please let the nurse—”

“In a minute. What about your three cronies? Will they go ahead and meet Dubb in Placerville?”

“How should I know? They ran out on me, didn’t they? Maybe they’ll meet up with Chick at Placerville and maybe they’ll go somewhere else. Please! This pain is killin’ me!”

Wayne Feaster was carried to the rear of Curly Wesson’s wagon and laid on the tailgate. Breanna put him under with chloroform, and with John’s help, snapped the shoulder back in place. Using what material she had, she bound up his arm and shoulder and suspended the arm in a sling. When Feaster came to, he was placed in one of the wagons. Breanna gave him laudanum to dull the pain, and soon he was in a deep sleep. Breanna left Feaster and found the people of the wagon train gathered in a circle, listening to John.

“Feaster’s henchmen just might look in on us further along the trail and decide they want their leader back. I don’t have to tell you they’ll use force if it serves their purpose. I want all of you—men, women, and children—to keep on the lookout. If
you see anything that looks like Feaster’s pals are near, give a holler. We’re all in this thing together, and we’ve got to watch out for each other. Since one of the three is wounded, they may be trying to find medical help for him. If so, they might be too busy to bother us. Besides, they don’t know whether their boss is dead or alive. But we need to stay alert in case they show up.”

The people agreed to keep their eyes open for any sign of Feaster’s men, then the gathering broke up so they could get ready to roll out.

Breanna moved up to John, smiled, and said, “I’m proud of you, darling. You really handled Feaster well. I hated to see him suffering so, but you did the right thing in making him tell you the whole story.” There was a pause, then she said, “I love you, John.”

John embraced her. “I love you, too, sweet lady. Now let’s get you into the wagon.”

Stranger took her by the hand, walked her to Curly’s wagon, and lifted her onto the seat. Before he backed away, Breanna leaned forward, looked into his eyes, and said, “Thank you for making sure that man up in the rocks couldn’t get a shot at me.”

John grinned. “Don’t have to thank me for protecting the greatest treasure I have in this world.”

Breanna watched as John strode to his big black horse. Ebony nickered at his master’s approach.

Stranger stroked Ebony’s long face, then patted his neck and said, “Good boy. You sure took care of that outlaw.”

The magnificent animal bobbed his head and whinnied as if he understood what his master had said.

T
HE THREE OUTLAWS
reached the place where their horses were tied, and Les Pate and K. D. Wilhite helped a wincing Brad Cahill into his saddle. Pate pulled a dirty bandanna from his hip pocket and handed it to his wounded friend. “Here, use this,” he said. “We’ll get higher up, then stop and take a better look at the wound.”

The trio rode hard up the steep slopes for a half hour, then pulled into a enclosed area that was out of sight from the trail. Cahill was dizzy and needed to rest. Wilhite and Pate laid him on the ground and examined the wound carefully, tossing the bloody bandanna away.

“The slug’s buried in your shoulder about an inch above the armpit, Brad,” Pate said. “If we don’t get it outta there, you’ll either bleed to death or die of lead poisonin’.”

Cahill licked his dry lips. Fear showed in his eyes. “Either of you know anything about diggin’ a bullet out?”

“Not me,” Wilhite said, shaking his head.

“Me, neither,” said Pate. “But I know somebody in these mountains who does. Remember I told you about the way station at the top of the pass?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s not just a way station, it’s a general store too. Tough old woman runs the place. I’ve heard her tell how she patched up a lotta gunshot wounds when she ran a store down in Placerville durin’ the gold rush days back in the fifties. I’ve met a couple men she patched up. They swear by her … say she’s good as some doctors they’ve known.”

“Well, let’s do what we can to stop his bleedin’,” Wilhite said, “and head on up the mountain.”

“There’s a spare shirt in my saddlebag,” Cahill said. “You can use it … to wrap around the wound.”

While Wilhite tied the shirt around Cahill’s shoulder, he said, “Les, this old woman … she run the place by herself?”

“Yeah. She’s a widow. Her name’s Judy Charley. Her husband was a Mohave Indian they called High Mountain Charley—I guess ’cause he used to run the station at the top of the pass before he met the old girl and they got married. She’s tough as they come. Wears men’s clothes, chews tobacco, and wears a Colt .45 on her hip.”

“Sounds like a real doll,” Wilhite said.

“You won’t forget her,” Pate chuckled.

“All I care,” Cahill said, unable to cover his pain, “is that she can save my life.”

Pate and Wilhite hoisted Cahill into his saddle, then they rode hard up the steep pass, pushing the horses as fast as they could go. Pate told them they could make the top by midnight if they kept moving at a good pace. From time to time they had to stop for Cahill’s sake. After a few minutes rest, they would push on. A clear sky and a nearly full moon gave them enough light to stay safely on the trail.

It was two o’clock in the morning when they topped Luther Pass and hauled up in front of the large log building that was fronted with two signs:

A stagecoach was parked between the log building and the corral, which was situated forty yards away, sided by a large barn. The silver moon showed them several horses behind the split-rail fence in the corral.

“We gotta make up a story about Brad gettin’ shot,” Wilhite said. “What’ll we tell her—it was a huntin’ accident?”

“You must be slippin’ in your old age, pal,” Pate said, helping the wounded man from the saddle. “That bullet’s from a small caliber pistol, not a rifle. This old girl is no fool. She’d pick up on that lie the instant she dug the slug out.”

“Then let’s tell her we were comin’ up the pass and some robbers jumped us. We fought back, but before we drove ’em off, one of ’em shot Brad.”

“That’s better,” Pate said, steadying Cahill, whose knees were about to give out. “The old girl lives in a shack out back. Let’s sit Brad down on the porch, here. You stay with him, and I’ll go wake her.”

Les Pate hurried behind the building and up to the small, unpainted shack that stood in the shadow of a massive pine. He pounded on the door several times. When there was no response, he pounded on it again. He was about to bang on the door a third time when lantern light flickered against the old lace
curtains that adorned the windows on either side of the door.

There were footsteps as the glow of light grew brighter, then the door rattled and came open. A short, skinny form clad in a man’s woolen nightshirt and wearing men’s work shoes was outlined against the yellow flare of the lantern. “What is it, young feller?”

“You probably don’t remember me, ma’am,” Pate said. “I’ve been over the pass and in your store on several occasions.”

“Shore I remember you, sonny. Cain’t recall your name, but I never fergit a face. It’s a little late … er should I say it’s sorta early? Anyway, since ya done got me outta bed, what do ya want?”

“I remember you tellin’ about some doctorin’ you done on miners who got shot up back in the gold rush days when you were runnin’ a store in Placerville.”

“Yep. Done that. Took out a lotta bullets. Some of ’em made it, an’ some of ’em kicked the bucket. Done the best I could. Weren’t no doctor around them parts fer quite a spell. You got somebody shot up needs doctorin’?”

“Sure do, ma’am. Good friend of mine. He’s in pretty bad shape too, or I wouldn’t have woke you up.”

“All right. Gimme a minute, an’ I’ll git some proper clothin’ on.”

The wagon train made camp on the steep incline of Luther Pass about a mile above the spot where Wayne Feaster’s horse lay dead on the trail. Since there was no open area large enough for the wagons to form a circle, they were strung out snake-like at an elevation of about forty-five hundred feet.

People built campfires along the line and huddled around them, wearing heavy coats. The temperature had begun to drop sharply when the sun went down, and the night wind had a bite to it.

Carolyne Fulford volunteered to feed the outlaw so Breanna could eat her supper with John. Rip Clayson stood at the rear of the wagon where Carolyne sat beside Wayne Feaster and fed him broth with a large spoon. The laudanum Breanna had given him made his stomach sour. Broth was all he could tolerate.

After their meal, John and Breanna walked through a stand of wind-swept pines to the edge of a massive canyon. They could see the white foam of a river far below. Breanna wore a scarf to protect her ears from the cold wind, and though she was in a heavy coat, she felt a chill seeping to her bones.

John put an arm around her, pulled her close, and said, “Maybe this will keep you warm.”

She looked up and smiled. “I feel warmer already.”

He bent down and planted a soft kiss on her lips.

“Mmm,” she said. “Now I feel even warmer.”

“I love you, Breanna,” he said. “I always will. You know that, don’t you?”

She reached up and stroked his scarred cheek. “Yes, I know that. You’re so different than Frank Miller was. I’ll never doubt your love, darling.”

Huddled together, they let their eyes roam the granite walls of the canyon sprayed silver by the moon. The stars twinkled like windows in a fairy palace overhead. The sweet scent of pine was on the wind.

“Isn’t that a beautiful sight?” Breanna said, snuggling close.

“I was just thinking—
In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.”

“Mm-hmm. And Solomon says in Ecclesiastes,
“He hath made everything beautiful in his time.”

John grinned. “And He saved His finest work till it was time for you to be conceived and born.”

Breanna stood on her tiptoes, kissed his cheek, and said, “You say the nicest things, John Stranger.”