Marcia Muller: Crucifixion River

“Yes. I have it in another pan on the stove.”

I used a towel to sponge blood from the wound. It was as I’d surmised from my cursory examination in the common room-serious but not necessarily life-threatening. Hoover moaned and his eyelids fluttered, then popped open. Pain clouded his eyes, but he managed to focus on me.

“Rachel,” he whispered.

“Lie still, Mister Hoover.”

“I have to know…she all right?”

“Yes. Unharmed.”

“Kraft?”

“He’s dead,” Murdock said. “The peddler, Shock, shot him.”

Hoover muttered something, a sound of satisfaction, and his body relaxed and his eyes closed again.

I drew the Murdocks aside. “We’ll need a bottle of whiskey,” I said. “For anaesthesia. I can’t probe into him unless he’s partially sedated and held still.”

“I’ll get it,” Murdock said.

“Another lamp, too. More light.”

The three of them hurried out, leaving me alone with Hoover. He looked so young and vulnerable, lying there-like one of my own sons. He may have been a thief, as that man Kraft had said, but he was personable and he seemed genuinely to care for Rachel Kraft.

The Murdocks returned with the rest of the items I had requested. I positioned them, one on either side of the bed. Murdock lifted Hoover’s head and administered a large dose of whiskey. I sponged more blood from the wound, cleaned it with alcohol-he groaned again but lay still-and then stood staring at the sterilized kitchen knife gleaming on a cloth beside the pan of boiled water. My hand was not steady and perspiration beaded my forehead.

Sophie Murdock looked keenly at me, her tired eyes searching mine. “You’ve never had cause to do this before, have you?”

“No.” My voice was as unsteady as my hand.

“But you have assisted with similar procedures.”

“Yes…once.”

“Then you’ll manage. Won’t she, Thomas?”

“I have no doubt of it,” he said.

I drew several deep breaths. Mrs. Murdock was right-I would manage to do what was necessary to save this young man’s life. I would because I must.

My hand no longer trembled when I reached out for the knife.

After the wounded wife stealer was carried out, I ambled over for a look at the gent I’d shot. Drilled dead center above the bridge of the nose, by grab. Never knew what hit him. Never expected a banjo-strumming peddler to have a hideout gun, or in the blink of an eye to draw and fire with perfect aim. He wasn’t the first to suffer the consequences of underestimating James Shock, and like as not he wouldn’t be the last.

As I turned away, the Murdock girl, Annabelle, came near and caught hold of my arm. Her face was bloodless, but nonetheless attractive for her fright. She wouldn’t look at the dead man; her eyes were all for me. “That was a brave thing you did, Mister Shock,” she said, all breathless. “Truly it was.”

I smiled down at her. Her body was pressed so tightly against my arm I could feel the swell of her breasts. What a sweet little piece she was, all tender and dewy-eyed and ripe for the picking. But not by me, alas. Not in these surroundings and under these circumstances. Underage she was, too. Jailbait. Pity.

“I couldn’t let him fire his weapon a second time,” I said. “He might’ve shot someone else…even you , my dear.”

I felt her shiver and squeeze tighter, tight enough to bring a stir to my loins. Seventeen and surely a virgin. I sighed, licking my lips, and reluctantly eased her away from me. No sense in allowing such warm flesh to torment me, eh? Besides, I had more important matters on my mind. Percolating there, you might say.

Murdock and the sharp-eyed gent named Nesbitt returned from wherever they’d carried Hoover. Annabelle stepped farther away from me as Nesbitt approached. Murdock went to the buffet for a bottle of whiskey, then picked up one of the coal-oil lamps. Annabelle said to him, dipping her chin in the direction of the dead man: “Dad, will you please take… that outside. He…it’s making me ill.”

“I can’t right now. Nesbitt?”

“Shock and I will do it.”

I shrugged. “For the lady’s sake, yes.”

“We’ll put him in the barn.”

“All that distance in this weather? Why not just lay him out front?”

“Cold, aren’t you, Shock?”

“Not at all, brother. Practical is the word. After the way he busted in here, a raging threat to all of us, his remains don’t deserve consideration.”

“The barn. Come on, let’s get it done.”

Well, I might have argued with him, but I held my tongue. Peace and harmony, now the crisis was ended-that was the ticket. I shrugged and winked at Annabelle and went to put on my rain gear.

And out we went into the storm, my hands full of the dead rancher’s scuffed boots, and across a mud field to the barn. The stage driver had gone back out there earlier to sleep in his coach and the storm had prevented him from hearing the gunfire. He woke up quickly when we came staggering in and laid the corpse in one of the empty stalls. Nesbitt gave him a terse explanation of the events inside. Dell said he’d fetch Kraft’s horse and went out to do that.

On one knee, Nesbitt ran his hands over Kraft’s clothing. Searching for a wallet or purse, mayhap, but he found nothing of the sort. When he stood up again, he said: “You’re quite a marksman, aren’t you, Shock? For an itinerant peddler.”

“A man’s profession has little to do with his ability with firearms.”

“True enough. Still, it was pretty risky, firing as you did in there. Suppose you’d missed?”

“But I didn’t miss.”

“But you could have.”

“Not at that range, with the element of surprise in my favor,” I said. “No, brother, the only danger was that Kraft might have had a notion to fire his weapon again, as drunk and raging as he was. I did what I had to do for all our sakes. You’d have done the same, given the opportunity.”

“Would I? Why do you say that?”

“You wear a sidearm. Before I drew and fired, I saw you ease the tail of your coat back.”

“Very observant. But I wouldn’t have drawn unless Kraft turned his gun in the direction of the table.”

“Might’ve been too late by then. I chose to act immediately. The right choice, eh, brother?”

“As it turned out.”

He gave me a long, searching look. As if he were trying to take my measure. It was the scrutiny of a lawman, one I’d seen too many times in my life to mistake. Well, if a lawman was what he was, no matter to me or my plans. I was not wanted anywhere for any sort of crime. A few close calls here and there, that was all. And no one could dispute the fact that I’d plugged the rancher in self-defense; half a dozen witnesses could attest to that. I had nothing to fear from the law. And wouldn’t after I left here, if I were careful.

On the walk back to the roadhouse, I thought again of what Luke Kraft had said after shooting down the wife stealer. Bastard stole my wife and three thousand dollars out of my safe. $3,000! No one other than the ever-vigilant James Shock seemed to have paid attention to those words. And where were the $3,000 to be found? In the wife’s or the cowhand’s luggage, possibly, but more likely it was on the cowhand himself. As he’d lain there on the floor, with the Devane woman ministering to him, I’d spied a cowhide pouch fastened to his belt. What better place to keep greenbacks or gold specie or both?

Heigh-ho! And who better to lay claim to those $3,000 than the resourceful Mr. James Shock?

After James Never Jim Shock and Mr. Nesbitt took the dead man away, I went over to where Mrs. Kraft slumped in a chair in front of the fireplace. Even though the room was warm, she was shaking as if she had the ague and her eyes were unfocused. Well, of course she was in bad way. She’d just seen her husband shoot her lover- that had been a surprise, Joe Hoover being her lover, even though the two of them hadn’t really acted like cousins-and then her husband shot dead right afterward.