The Last Good Day, стр. 51

“No,” B.W. said. He jerked the Colt out of Tommy’s hand and shot Travers four times before he could fall.

“There goes the railroad,” B.W. said and passed out.

Rance kneeled down beside B.W. and checked his breathing. “You got a doctor in this town?” Rance asked the man against the wall.

“Yes,” he said, keeping his hands in the air.

“Go get him,” Rance said. “Hurry!”

The man bolted for the door and out of the saloon. The people that were still in the bar were hugging the floor. Rance could see people standing outside the saloon, looking in as the swinging doors flew open.

“Is he gonna die?” Tommy asked.

“Don’t know,” Rance said. “Got to stop the bleedin.’”

The little whore came out from behind the piano and over to B.W. “Let me see,” she said. “Use to take care of two brothers after battles.” She stuck out a leg and ripped a piece of her petticoat off, folded it, picked up the bottle of whiskey on the bar, soaked the cloth in it and squatted down beside B.W. She placed the cloth in the wound and pressed her hands on it.

Less than five minutes later, a little gray-haired man carrying a doctor’s bag came in with the sodbuster and saw B.W. on the floor with the little whore pressing the cloth on the wound.

“What the hell?” the doctor asked, looking around at all the dead men.

“Think he’s the only one alive,” Rance said.

“There’s a bullet in his side,” she said and stood up.

The doctor nodded. “Name’s Meeks,” he said and started working on B.W. “Looks like it missed the kidneys but it’s goin’ to have to come out. The head wound’s not serious, more like a punch that just knocked him out.”

“Thought so,” she said, looking down at B.W.

“What’s your name, lady?” Rance asked.

“They call me Little Sugar, real name’s Maggie Pruitt. Heard what you said about the boy’s mama. ‘Fore my time but nothing Church did surprised me. Did some bad things to me, too, said he’d kill me if I told anyone.”

“Thanks for your help, Maggie,” Rance said.

“You’re welcome. Thanks for killin’ that bastard.” Rance didn’t say anything and just nodded he understood what she meant.

“Gotta go pack, no work here anymore,” she said, walked by Church, spit on him, climbed the stairs to a room and went in.

“The bleeding is under control thanks to Little Sugar. Let’s get him to my office,” Doc Meeks said.

Rance looked at the man standing against the wall. “You just volunteered,” Rance said to the sodbuster. “Think I can hold his legs with my arms, you get his upper body. Tommy, bring his hat and guns.”

“What about the tomahawk?” Tommy asked.

Rance looked at the tomahawk in the sheriff’s head. “In a good place where it is.”

Most of the people in town had emptied out into the street and were watching as Rance and the sodbuster carried B.W. across the street to the doctor’s office.

“Thanks,” Rance said to the sodbuster as they laid B.W. on the bed.

“Wait in the other room,” Doc Meeks said, rushing them out and closing the door.

“Thanks for what ya did back there,” the sodbuster said. “I’m glad ya’ll killed them no-goods.”

“Better go ‘fore the Yankees show up,” Rance said and the man left.

“Tommy, I think it’s okay to go to the livery,” Rance said. “Go tell them what happened.”

“I don’t want to leave B.W.”

“I know, but I’m sure they heard the gunfire and need to know we’re still alive. Tell them to stay there for now. I’ll keep a close watch on him till you get back.”

“Alright, I’ll be right back,” Tommy said.

“It’s okay, go ahead,” Rance said and Tommy took off.

Doc Meeks came out of the back room wiping his hands on a towel. “Got the bullet out,” he said. “He’s out right now. Needs rest. Don’t think it did any permanent damage, though. If you got a place to take him I think you should. Gonna be more trouble.”

The front door swung open and a tall stout-looking man dressed in a Union officer’s uniform with captain bars on his collar and a nervous look on his face was standing in the doorway, his saber in one hand and a Navy Colt in the other. Two soldiers were standing behind him with carbines.

“Drop your guns, mister,” the captain said. Rance dropped the Colt from his belt and unbuckled his gun belt and let it fall to the floor.

Two soldiers walked in from the back room. “There’s a wounded Indian on a bed back there, Captain Welch. I left Private Ferguson to watch him.”

“You know anything bout this, doc?” Welch asked.

“No, got there after it was all over. Been treatin’ the Indian.”

“Looks like a war zone over there, bodies everywhere,” Welch said. “You a Yank or a Reb?” he asked, looking at Rance’s arm.

“Neither now, captain. The war’s over.”

“That Indian part of your band?” Welch said.

“He’s my friend, yeah,” Rance said.

“He killed Travers, didn’t he?”

“He did, after Travers pulled a gun on him.”

“What’s your name?” Welch asked.

“Rance Allison.”

The doctor’s office door came open again and a broad-shouldered man with intense brown eyes and a neatly trimmed black beard walked in with silver leafs on the collar of his shirt. All the soldiers snapped to attention and saluted.

He returned the salute and stared at Rance, rubbed his chin. “Wasn’t you at West Point? Class of fifty-eight?”

“Sure was,” Rance said. “Thought I remembered you. William Smith, right? We had some Calvary tactics classes together.”

Colonel Smith nodded. “Rance Allison, been a while.”

“Was a different world back then,” Rance said.

“That it was,” Smith said, “Heard you switched sides.”

“I resigned my commission. Union troops murdered my wife and baby, my Pa and ma for no reason.”

“There’s a wounded Indian in the back room that helped him kill those men,” Welch said.

“On your West Point word of honor, Rance, who started it?” Smith asked.

“They did,” Rance said. “Church shot the bartender and Travers’ men drew down on us and the sheriff