Diamond Duo (28 page)

Her eyes busy with this spectacle, Sarah missed how Doc Turner and Sheriff Vines got the jump on the other two. By the time she
thought to look, both bad men had dropped their weapons and raised their hands out of respect for the guns buried in their backs.

Mr. Stilley, cold sober and looking right proud of his acting skills, glared at the crowd. “Don’t stand there gawking like fools. Someone go fetch Sheriff Bagby.”

Cook’s boy, who had remained on his horse the whole time, most likely to see better, whirled his poor horse and sped away in the direction of the jailhouse.

Sarah felt the knot in her stomach unwind like a child’s whirligig and feared she might lose control of her bowels. She rushed toward Henry, fully expecting one of the white men to order her back. They didn’t, and she made it to the wagon bed, scrambled on, and stretched up to remove the loathsome rope from around Henry’s neck. When she couldn’t quite reach it, she began to cry for the first time since laying eyes on her husband’s plight.

Thomas leaped up beside her and gently pulled her hands away. “Here, let me, Miss Sarah.”

She hadn’t been able to look at Henry’s battered face since that first horrid glimpse but dared a peek while Thomas lifted off the noose. What she saw stabbed grief to the center of her heart.

Henry stared straight ahead, as he had since she first saw him. His busted face wore shame forged there like a mask. His lips, chin, cheeks, all trembled, and silent tears welled in waves that spilled over and tracked down his face.

Unable to look any longer, Sarah pressed her belly against Dandy’s back and tore at the ropes on his hands. “Don’t you fret, Henry King. You hear me, now? Don’t you fret no more.” She heard her own babbling voice, teetering on the edge of hysteria, but couldn’t stop. The need to comfort raged too strong. “Don’t let them whip you down. Don’t you dare let them win. Those men gon’ be at someone’s mercy now. They’ll be bound in cuffs and shackles, but you’ll be free.”

She got his hands loose and cringed when his arms fell to his sides like wilted celery stalks. Thomas jumped down and wrapped Henry around the waist to pull him off Dandy’s back. Several other
men, black and white, rushed to help lower him to the ground. Not until Henry’s knees buckled did Sarah realize he had injuries she couldn’t see. She leapt to the ground and rushed to his side to help Thomas hold him up.

Cook’s son rode up with Sheriff Bagby. The sheriff sprang from his horse and joined Sheriff Vines where he held Griswald at gunpoint. “Thought sure you fellows would take fair warning and clear out of town.” He glanced around at each of them. “Ain’t too bright, are you?”

After all she had suffered at the hands of the haughty gang leader, Sarah deemed him above the law and impossible to break. She held her breath and waited for him to spin like a whirling dervish, guns blazing. Instead, he ducked his head and gave in without a peep. Sarah’s jaw went slack.

The two lawmen shared a guilty look; then Sheriff Bagby stepped closer to Henry. “I’m real sorry this happened, son. But like I told you this morning, we had nothing solid to hold them on. Had no idea they were capable of something like this.”

Sheriff Vines took the handcuffs from the other lawman. “We know now, and we have enough to hold them for a very long time.”

Sarah stared up at a stone-faced Henry. So that’s where he’d gone that morning. But why? And how did he wind up on Dandy’s back with a noose around his neck?

Thomas left the job of holding Henry to Sarah and the others and moved out front to clear the way. “Let us pass, folks, so’s we can get him over to my wagon.”

Dr. J. G. Eason, in his long black coat and stovepipe hat, pushed through the crowd waving both hands in the air. “Hold up there, Thomas. Where are you taking this man?”

Thomas looked baffled. “We ’bout to take him home.” He sought out Sarah behind him. “Ain’t that right, Sarah?”

The doctor shook his head. “He needs medical attention.” He glanced at the owner of the Commercial Hotel. When the man nodded, Dr. Eason pointed toward the rear entrance. “All right, you men take him inside so I can examine him.”

The gang of helpers shifted directions and carried Henry toward the door. As they passed where Mr. Stilley stood holding the spineless Edward captive with his own gun, Sarah gazed over her shoulder and met her hero’s eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Mr. Stilley winked and gave her a warm smile then returned his attention to Edward.

Sarah surrendered her place at Henry’s side to a man for the hard trek up the steps. The last thing she saw before ducking inside was a parade of men–Mr. Stilley, the lawmen, and some others–marching the prisoners off to jail.

Sarah expected the men who carried Henry to go straight to the kitchen and put him in a chair near the servants’ pantry, but they trudged on through to the parlor. Henry shook his head when they steered him toward the pretty settee, nodding instead at a straight-backed wooden chair. It angered Sarah that even in his busted-up state, he felt unworthy to sit on the beautiful couch. When they settled him on the chair, he found a spot in the corner and fixed his eyes there, refusing to face them.

Besides the two who bore Henry’s weight, a group of curious and concerned folks had followed them inside. Sarah stepped around them to tend to her husband, and Henry tilted his head toward hers, muttering something she didn’t quite make out.

She leaned closer. “What’s that?”

He shifted his eyes to hers then right back to the corner. She bent down and put her ear against his lips. “What is it, Henry? Tell me.”

She felt him shudder. “Take me home.”

Before she could decide how to answer, Dr. Eason swept through the parlor door with his medical bag under his arm. He stopped short and looked at Henry sitting upright. “What’s going on here, gentlemen? I can’t examine a man in a chair. Let’s get him stretched out on this couch.”

Henry didn’t protest this time, and Sarah wondered if the pain he felt had anything to do with it. She sent up a quick prayer that nothing serious might be going on inside him.

Thankfully, Dr. Eason ordered all but Sarah to wait outside. When the last of them shuffled through the door, the doctor pulled up a chair, raised Henry’s shirt, and commenced to poking and prodding his chest. Henry winced and rolled away from his hands, and the doctor nodded. “Thought so.”

Sarah moved closer. “What, Doctor?”

“It’s a fractured rib, Sarah. Maybe two.”

“Is he gon’ be all right?”

He mashed Henry’s stomach for a long time before he answered. “No sign of injury to the internal organs.” He asked a few questions, and Sarah felt relieved when Henry answered every one.

Finally, the doctor stood up and smiled. “He’ll be all right. Just sore for a spell. We’ll wrap him up tight and send him home to bed. You make him rest for a few days, you hear? Don’t let him get out there chasing behind that mule tomorrow. It’ll be a month or so before he’s fit for hard work.”

Henry frowned.

The doctor pulled a roll from his bag and wound yards of white cloth around Henry’s chest then offered a hand so his patient could sit up. He grimaced before moving gentle fingers over Henry’s nose. “Nothing much we can do for this sort of thing, I’m afraid. Just clean it up when you get home and pray it heals without causing you any problems.”

Sarah searched his eyes. “Problems?”

The doctor shrugged. “Trouble breathing, excessive snoring.” He glanced back at Henry. “You won’t be as pretty as you were before if it heals crooked or bumpy.”

Sarah cringed at the thought. She liked her husband’s nose just the way it was.

Dr. Eason lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ll be happy to bring out a bottle of wine to cut the pain, Henry. I make it myself on my own winepress. The grapes come from a vineyard I set up near the old Welch Bridge.”

Henry struggled for something to say. Sarah said it for him. “No, thank you, sir. We’re abstainers.”

He gave her a thoughtful nod. “Well, it’s there if you need it.”

Henry raised his pain-filled eyes to the doctor. “Can’t I go now?”

Dr. Eason nodded. “I’ll get someone to help you to your wagon. Go home and rest, now. You hear?”

Henry nodded.

The doctor picked up his bag. Sarah couldn’t imagine what other instruments lay in the depths of the shiny black satchel and didn’t care to know. Not if it came to using them on Henry.

Wincing, Henry scooted to the edge of the settee so Sarah and the doctor could help him to his feet. She couldn’t help wondering why he seemed so weak if his injuries weren’t that serious.

Dr. Eason seemed to read her mind. He gripped her husband’s arm and gave him a gentle shake. “Henry, the human body wasn’t designed to suffer what happened to you. In episodes of great pain, fear, or humiliation, the mind shuts off, like when your old mule decides he won’t take another step.”

He waited for Henry to speak. When he didn’t, the doctor carried on. “Just like that mule, as soon as you get a little food and plenty of rest, you’ll be good as new again. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Henry nodded and even tried to smile. The sight of it lifted Sarah’s heart.

Dr. Eason left after giving her a few more instructions but kept his promise to send someone to help Henry out to the wagon.

Thomas and his usually rowdy sons slipped into the room, the boys so hushed at the sight of the fancy parlor that Sarah didn’t recognize them. The oldest, though only sixteen, stood as tall as Thomas and likely weighed more. Plenty big enough to help support Henry’s weight. Thomas’s eyes lit up to see Henry acting more like himself. He hustled over, ready to brace him.

Henry held up his hand. “I’m obliged, Thomas, but I can make it on my own now.”

Sarah clutched his arm as he passed. “Wait, Henry. Let them help you.”

He turned–slowly, deliberately, with eyes so scary her scalp tingled. “Don’t touch me, woman. I said I can make it.” He limped around the settee and stumbled for the door, leaving Sarah unable to breathe.

T
had picked up his bag and strutted closer to Darius Thedford. “On second thought, mister, I reckon I got some time to kill. Where’s this poker game of yours?”

Darius tried in vain to hide a satisfied smirk. “That’s my boy. Follow me.”

Something told Thad he’d regret heeding those words. He fell in line with Darius and retraced his steps to the same place where he’d spent the night. No surprise when Darius slowed his stride and pushed past the swinging doors into the saloon.

A collection of men still huddled around the card table. Likely the same bunch, considering their bloodshot eyes and stubbly chins. Gone the boisterous laughter and loud arguments of the night before–fatigue had reduced them to nods and grunts. When Darius approached, the gamblers squinted up at him through a haze of cigar smoke and nodded.

“What you got there, Thedford?” growled a man in a wide-brimmed black hat. “Did your cur throw her pups?”

None of them spared the energy to laugh, but they all grinned and nodded their approval. Darius clutched Thad by the shoulders and guided him closer to the table. “Make room for two more players, gents.”

A scruffy man, tobacco-stained teeth visible behind a bushy gray mustache, tilted his head up at Darius. “What you doing back here? Thought you was all tapped out.” His voice ground out like iron on gravel, probably hoarse from smoking, if not from shouting all night.

Darius poked a sleeping man in the ribs then moved in to take his seat when he stumbled away. He motioned for Thad to take the empty chair next to him.

Thad complied, tucking his travel bag securely between his feet.

Darius picked up a deck of cards, shuffling so fast his hands blurred, and nodded at Thad. “My good friend here has enough to guarantee my stake.”

Thad’s head whipped around. “What?”

Darius leaned close to whisper. “Just a few dollars until I’m back in the chips. Don’t worry, old boy. I’m good for it. Now ante up.”

Before Thad could protest, the other players had their money down. The raspy-voiced man tapped the end of his cigar on the leg of the table and scowled. “Well, pup? You in or out?”

Thad glared at Darius.

Still shuffling, he winked and smiled. “Go ahead, boy. We’ll be all right.”

Feeling snookered, Thad turned his back on the players and dug out his kerchief-wrapped bundle. He counted out double the required amount and slid it into the pot. He’d scarcely drawn back his hand before cards were flying and the first bets were placed.

Just as fast, Thad found himself down to his last silver dollar.

He never expected the excitement of the game to snare him, never expected the same old flutter in his stomach or the familiar surge of heat through his body each time he held a fair hand of cards. As a boy, he’d read of Homer’s Sirens, beautiful women who perched on the shore and lured sailors onto the rocks to shipwreck and enslave them. Sitting at a card table in a gaudy, smoke-filled saloon, Thad could hear the Sirens’ song. And it scared him.

More than that, it stripped him of every last coin in his
possession, save the one in his hand. Hardly enough for a train ticket south.