"Patch me up, Wilkins! I ain't waitin' weeks!"
The doctor's eyes narrowed. "You'll follow my medical advice, Mr. Smith, or possibly end up permanently lame. As it is, that knee is going to take some time to mend. Weeks! And you will stay off a horse until I say – or I wash my hands of you and your treatment."
Smith bit his lip, but made no reply.
The doctor turned away, reaching to the top shelf of the rows of cabinets for a bottle. The bullet would be the very devil to remove, where it was lodged. Allison Taylor couldn't have delivered a more debilitating shot. The shattered kneecap would keep Arnie Smith from walking at all for at least two weeks; with crutches, he'd be able to get around in a limited capacity in the following two to three weeks, and walking unassisted would not happen for at least six weeks – if all went well.
He poured a few drops onto a white cloth and walked back to where Smith lay on the table.
"Doc, if you don't need me—" Zach Anderson began.
But the doctor shook his head, giving him a wry smile. "Oh, no, Zach. You're not running out on this; you nor Tom, either." His gaze moved to Tom's for a moment, then back to Zach. "Y'all helped set this in motion. Now, you've got to see it through. You should've paid Brandon Gabriel his money," he said succinctly, "and then you should've let him go on his way."
"That was a thousand dollars, Wilkins!" Smith muttered through gritted teeth.
The doctor's gaze held him scornfully as he lowered the cloth to cover his patient's nose. "You're a damn fool, Smith. It's gonna cost you a helluva lot more than that before this is over."
****
Jay had put the horses in the barn and rubbed them down. The gunman's horse was a beautiful solid black stallion. At first, he'd been skittish, but Jay knew he could calm him, win him over. He offered a lump of sugar, and the horse delicately took it from his upturned palm
Jay gave the black a pat. "Good boy," he soothed. The shadows were deepening in the dim recesses of the barn. Jay reached for the nearby lantern and took it off the nail carefully. It was almost too high for him, but he managed. Last year, he couldn't have done it. The matches were in a notch in the wood pole. He lit the lantern carefully and put the matches back in the notch, then carried the light closer to the horse. He wanted to do a good job, currying this beautiful animal. He took the brush down from where it hung and began to gently stroke it across the black's shoulders and sides.
A light-colored line on the horse's flesh caught his eye, and he leaned close to look. Whip marks! Beneath the dark coat the horse's flesh was faintly marked with white scars.
Jay's dark brows slashed together. Would the stranger have treated his animal this cruelly? Or had this been done before the horse came to be owned by him? Jay shook his head. He knew what it was like to be badly treated. Though most of it was beginning to fade, he would never forget it completely. It was before he'd come to live here, with Mama.
He ran his finger gently over the scarred flesh. Even as young as he'd been, he was familiar with the slicing fire of a well-placed riding quirt. Being caged… That was before his mama had taken him away from the bad men. He didn't like to remember that time.
He shuddered and began once more to brush the sleek animal, taking care with him, being extra kind, as if to make up for all the injustices and cruelties they'd both suffered.
After he fed and watered the horses, he carefully blew out the lantern. He started for the house. With the gunman there, bad hurt as he was, there probably wouldn't be any supper – just leftover biscuits from the morning meal.
Mama would have to see to the wounded man, and Jay would remind her about Big Mack – in case she'd forgotten.
He wanted to tell her what he'd learned in school that day. They'd started their multiplication tables. And he'd learned a new word. Jurisdiction.
Jay was careful not to close the front door too loudly. The man might be sleeping. He was hurt something fierce. Jay's brows drew together. He'd never seen anyone bleed so much. The gunman was in worse shape than Big Mack, and he'd tangled with a wildcat.
Jay came into the bedroom where his mother was wrapping the gun hawk's hand. The stranger was looking some better, Jay decided. Cleaner. Mama must've washed him up good. She was a hard one about washing up – he knew that from personal experience.