Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Caleb pushed aside the curtain of the window in Doc Burnett’s front parlor and peered out into the approaching night.
The thunderstorms that threatened earlier had come in hard, bringing a gloomy twilight, rain, and wind that beat against the house.
In the dim light beyond the porch, he could see the streets had been reduced to muck and mire.
Earlier, there had been no way he was going to send Sheila and the boys out onto the trail alone with a storm like this bearing down. So he'd ridden back to town with them and waited for the weather to make up its mind.
The rain had only grown heavier as the evening wore on.
By rights, he ought to have been halfway back to the ranch by now. But then, there was the wounded gunman. Caleb had wanted another look at the man before heading home.
On the porch, one of Zeke’s men sat on a rocker with a Parker shotgun across his lap. The hat was tipped forward over his eyes, his duster pulled tight against the wet and the chill. His chin rested on his chest, which was rising and falling with the regularity of a man fast asleep.
He was the same no-account deputy who used to work for Sheriff Horner. Caleb rapped on the window, causing him to sit forward, look around slowly, and then settle back into his previous position.
Caleb shook his head and crossed the room, going through an open archway into the back parlor. In the alcove to the right, Doc sat at a table with the chessboard in front of him. Three brass wall sconces held oil lamps, illuminating the game being laid out.
“Is he the only one that’s been out there?”
Doc shook his head and paused, the knight in his hand. “No, the sheriff had a couple of his deputies taking turns out there. And he stops in himself several times a day to check on the condition of my patient.”
“You mean, his prisoner.”
“That’s right,” Doc scoffed. “I stand corrected.”
The gunman Caleb shot in the street during the attack on the judge had survived, thanks to the doctor’s skill.
As soon as he’d arrived at the house, Caleb went to check on the wounded man himself. He was relieved to see the gunman’s chest and wrists and ankles were strapped to the bed. He motioned with his head toward the surgery where the hired gun was being kept.
“When I looked in on him before, he was out cold.”
“He comes to now and then.”
Doc finished arranging the chess pieces on the board.
A fierce blast of wind-driven rain slapped against a nearby window, rattling it.
The storm and the early darkness had pushed their game inside tonight.
A chair for Caleb sat facing his friend.
A third one had been pulled near, in case Sheila decided to join them later.
The sight of it made Caleb think of her sitting on a log near the unfinished barn earlier that afternoon, listening to his story about Bear while the boys hung on every word.
Somehow, she'd looked perfectly comfortable out there.
Back here at Doc’s house, she’d disappeared into the kitchen after their supper, and even now he could hear her banging pots and pans around. He wondered what she was doing. Mrs. Lewis, Doc’s housekeeper, had cleaned up and gone after serving them dinner.
Sheila was a woman who seemed interested in everything. She’d spent the entire day asking questions about ranching, cattle, barns, horses, and dogs. Now, she appeared determined to investigate Doc's kitchen with the same enthusiasm.
Caleb wasn't sure there was a corner of Colorado Sheila Burnett wouldn't eventually explore.
He sat across the table from his friend. “So this fella ain’t said nothing to you?”
“Nothing at all.” Doc shook his head. “Other than he’s much obliged that I dug the bullet out of him.”
“As he ought to be.”
“He’s not too happy about being restrained.”
“Then he ain’t gonna be too happy about the restraints Judge Patterson has in mind for that scrawny neck of his either.” Caleb picked up a pawn and turned it around in his hand. The carved wood piece was smooth and cool.
“What drives a man to kill for a living?”
“Money.”
“Of course. But there has to be something else.” Doc’s forehead had two creases in it so deep, he could hide a silver dollar in each one.
“For some fellas, it’s just a job,” Caleb replied. “No different in their eyes than clerking in a store or panning for gold or turning tricks in a saloon or being President of the United States.”
Some people built things. Some people protected things. Others spent their lives tearing them apart.
“Maybe,” Doc said, obviously not convinced.
“These gunhawks all probably figured they were damn good at what they were doing. Till they ran into some bad luck.”
“It was bad luck for them that you happened to be walking beside the judge.”
“Sometimes a hand don’t play out like you think it will.”
Caleb hadn’t thought about it, but Elkhorn would be a different place tonight if it had only been Frissy Fredericks trailing along with Patterson.
Like him or not, trust him or not, the judge was the bull in these parts.
If he’d been gunned down, the rest of the herd would be easy pickings for wolves like Eric Goulden or whoever was behind the attack.
“You’d think a man could find some positive use for his God-given talents,” Doc said.
“What if he’s got none? Life don’t always throw much more than scraps at a man. He’s got to survive.”
Doc had seen his share of killing, and Caleb knew he didn’t support it in general. But there was a time and a place for everything.
“Maybe that’s so, but to choose killing as a profession. I don’t understand it.”
“Some fellas ain’t the best at making good choices, Doc. I’d wager that patient of yours could be rethinking some of his, right now.”
Both men stared at the chess board as if some answers to their questions lay hidden amid the opposing lines of tan and brown warriors.
Caleb shook off his thoughts and looked across at his friend. “We playing this game or setting and jawing all night? Cuz if you’re afraid…”
“Ha! Lay on, Macduff.”
From the smells beginning to drift in from the kitchen, it appeared that Sheila Burnett was doing more than just punishing pots and pans.
Doc won first move and pushed a pawn two spaces ahead on his king’s side. It wasn’t his customary opening, so Caleb paused for a moment and considered his next couple of moves before playing.
“You reading a new book on chess, Doc?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man.”
When it came to chess, the two men were fairly matched in ability, but they had completely different philosophies regarding strategy.
In contrast to his gruff but peace-loving personality, Doc always attacked like a mad dog, drawing blood in every direction and at every opportunity.
He would willingly and wildly sacrifice his own pieces to take out one of Caleb’s.
He loved to strike unexpectedly, but as some old poet said, there was a method to his madness.
Caleb was a more of a thoughtful strategist. Lay back, set the trap, and then reap the rewards.
He liked to plan ahead, try to see every possible response.
He considered everything from the movement of the first pawn to the formation of a mating net to finish off his opponent.
He had come to sense that his friend’s chuckles and occasional shouts of triumph at some violent move were intended to interrupt his thoughts, but Caleb wasn’t about to let on about it.
The sound of a plate clacking on a counter reached him from the back of the house. Having Sheila in the house was a definite distraction, and Caleb’s game had suffered for it since she arrived.
The door to Doc’s surgery was down the wide central hall near the back of the house, beyond the stairway leading to the upper floors.
The surgery entrance was situated near the back door and the kitchen.
Caleb wondered if Doc had warned Sheila against feeding or going near the gunman by herself.
Of course, she was more likely to do the exact opposite of what she was told.
Better to stay out of it, he reminded himself.
“Your patient. Did he tell you his name?”
Doc scoffed, not looking up from the board. “He’s not quite ready to trust me with that kind of information.”
“Do you feel safe keeping him here in the house?”
Doc moved a chess piece. “Safe enough. What makes you ask?”
Because your daughter is under the same roof, Caleb thought.
“If he’s mending, it might be a good time to move him on down to the jail.”
“Are you concerned because I’m living here, Mr. Marlowe?” Sheila asked as she swept into the front parlor, graceful as a hawk in flight. She carried a tray and stopped beside the table. “You know better than anyone that I can protect myself. No?”
Both men came to their feet, and Sheila set the tray down on a nearby table.
She'd changed out of the dusty clothes she'd worn to the ranch. Her hair was neatly pinned again, and for one ridiculous moment Caleb found himself missing the loose strands the wind had pulled free that afternoon.
“I ain’t worried about you protecting yourself, Miss Burnett,” he lied.
Actually, he was worried about that hired gun being in the house while she was here. But he’d sooner stir up a nest of rattlers than get her going on that subject.
Besides, after watching her stand up to Frank Stubbs and handle herself around the ranch, Caleb knew exactly how this conversation would end.
Sheila Burnett would do as she pleased.
And somehow, that fact seemed to bother him and impress him in equal measure.
After the events following the robbery of the Wells Fargo stagecoach last month, she’d become more confident about what she could handle, and how suitable she was for frontier life.
In Caleb’s opinion, a little too confident.
Sheila poured coffee for the two men. When she handed Caleb a cup, his fingers brushed against hers. He looked into her blue eyes and nodded his thanks.
For some reason, he became aware of how quiet the room had suddenly grown.
“What is it, then?” she asked.