Chapter Eleven
The Marshal let Lancer pick his own pace. And, since the horse had just been given better than a four hour breather and was feeling both fresh and frisky, it happened to pick a relatively fast one. The animal had but one thing on its mind--and that was to get back to town where it knew there were goodies to be gotten.
Lancer's rider couldn't seem to get Jamie's mommy--or their kiss--off of his mind. No...no-o, that wasn't quite true. He could. He simply chose not to. Those purely pleasurable thoughts had placed--and kept in place--a smile on his face for the past two miles now. No easy task, considering he was cantering through some pretty rough country with some pretty sore ribs. But, thanks to his nurse's kind efforts at rib wrapping, all the painful jarring and jostling that he was presently experiencing was being kept tolerable. A-and, because the pain of the fast pace was tolerable, he was bound to make it back in plenty of time to be 'surprised'. Why, thanks to the four hour breather Katelyn had so thoughtfully given him, he might even be able to muster up enough energy to dance the dance that Dulcey had promised to save for him. Yes, sir! Thanks to the lovely lady, the only real discomfort the lawman was feeling right now was in his arms. Along with the kiss Katelyn had planted on him, a yearning had been planted in him--a yearning for the feel of her in his arms--a yearning so powerful that his arms actually ached for the opportunity to embrace her again--and again--and again. No doubt about it, he had allowed the woman to stir up some pretty powerful feelings inside him. And, while he hadn't unbridled those fired up passions completely, he had set them free to run loose for a while. The resulting experience was absolutely incredible--and so incredibly wonderful, that he had ev-e-ry intention of experiencing that experience again--and again--and again. In fact, he had already determined that, should he manage--somehow--to survive the sticky situation in which he found himself, he would have to look the little lady up in St. Louis. Then, if it was all right with her (and he suspected it might be, since she had made the first move) the two of them could pick their relationship up right about where they had left off. Yes, that would be a good place to begin again--a great place to begin again--THE greatest!
The Marshal looked up into the cloudless sky overhead and suddenly started praying for rain. 'Cuz' he sure could a' used another nice cold shower right about then. Oh well, the river was less than a mile away--and the crossing he'd chosen was real deep. But then, so were most of the others--what few others there were. It seems the Lord had allowed the Cimarron to pick its own pace, too. And, since its bed had such a long, sharp, continuous descent to it, the river happened to pick a relatively fast one. And, because the fast-paced stream coursed through deep, rock gorges and high mounds of shifting prairie sand dunes, the banks tended to be very steep and quite treacherous. Getting down into the river presented no problem at all. You could just let gravity plunge you into the Cimarron most anywhere along its two hundred and fifty mile route through the Territory. The trick was, getting back out again on either side. Through the deep gorges, the Cimarron was banked on both sides by sheer cliffs of jagged, red rock. And the river flowed so fast, and cut such a deep channel through the dunes that its banks were nothing more than high mounds of loose and shifting sands, themselves--much too steep to climb in most places, and too soft and crumbly to allow for a firm hand or foothold in others. So it was that the Marshal had very few crossing sites to choose from in the first place. Why, there were fewer than a dozen within a fifty mile stretch--running twenty-five miles upstream and twenty-five miles downstream--in point of fact.
Crown knew that Mareck's men knew that he would have to cross the Cimarron somewheres. So he picked a place to cross that he was sure the 'outsider', Mareck, and his 'imported guns' wouldn't know about--McClain's Crossing. (Of course, the Marshal had no way of knowing about--and so he hadn't figured on--Judge Rutgers dealing himself into the game by hiring a bunch of local boys to bushwhack him.)
With its thoughts still concentrated solely on cake and apple peelings, Crown's horse continued stepping out at a nice, steady, brisk pace. So that they reached McClain's Crossing in no time at all. The gelding never even hesitated a bit before plunging into the cool, swift current. A strong swimmer, it emerged from the stream almost directly across from where it had entered. Then it scrambled quickly up the slippery bank with water dripping off its legs and underbelly in thick, ticklish torrents. The Marshal braced himself as the horse shook violently beneath him, trying to shed as much of the irritation as possible before continuing.
Crown had removed his rifle from its case to keep it high and dry during the deep, and thus drenching, crossing. He was just about to replace it when he felt his horse's muscles suddenly tense beneath him. Lancer chomped the bit in his mouth once or twice, then tossed his head with a nervous snort and refused to take another step.
The lawman realized in an instant the significance of the animal's odd behavior and was turning to take immediate evasive action--when he heard the loud report of a rifle.
"Ker-po-ow!"
In that same instant, a small chunk of lead--traveling at an incredibly high velocity--entered his chest, spun him around and sent him sailing out of his saddle with all of the force of a mule kick! He landed hard, on his right shoulder, and would have cried out in pain--if the first impact hadn't already knocked all the wind out of him! His poor, twice traumatized lungs were once again screaming silently for him to send them some air--any air! But, on account of where and how hard he'd been hit, Crown felt quite certain that this time--he'd breathed his last, for sure!
Because of being exposed to the cold river water during the crossing, the lower half of the lawman's body was already sort a' numb. Now, in response to the tremendous shock it had just received, the upper half of his body was becoming sort a' numb, too. And, since his lungs still weren't functioning, his still-circulating blood was ceasing to supply oxygen to his brain. Crown could feel himself slipping...down--down--down into the dark depths of unconsciousness. Then, just before he blacked-out completely, his breath returned--in first one grueling gasp...and then another...and another. A good question came to the Marshal's mind as his head cleared. Why was he still alive?! When, by all rights, he shouldn't be breathin'! And, as agonizing an ordeal as breathing had now become for him, he was beginning to regret the fact that his lungs had resumed functioning again. That chunk of lead that somebody had just left in his chest felt like it was on fi-ire! And he had to fight the overwhelming urge that he had to reach for it. The lawman decided that he'd better lie there--completely motionless--for the time being, 'til he could determine the extent of his injuries...and piece together what must have happened.
Near as Crown could figure, he must have been in the process of turning when the bullet impacted, so that the angle of its entry had been changed. Instead of ramming into him from front to back, his turning had caused his assassin's missile to hit him from right to left. Which meant that, instead of penetrating his chest directly and being driven deep into one or more of his vital organs, the bullet must have struck him sideways and then stopped--when it became embedded in his rib cage. Yes, that would explain why breathing had become such an all-out ordeal for him, all right. And why a couple of those badly bruised ribs of his now felt broken...along with his right shoulder.
He took a chance and made an attempt to move his right arm--ever so slightly. The pain was intense, but tolerable. He was surprised to find that he'd managed to hold onto his rifle when he fell. The weapon was right there in his right hand and ready for action. It was a good thing, too! For he was sure that it was only a matter of time before his would-be assassin, or assassins, would be climbing down from the ridge of rocks about two hundred yards away, where he--or they--had lay, waiting in ambush for him. Would he be as ready for action as his rifle? He'd better be!
If only one bushwhacker came down to inspect and ensure his dead carcass, the lawman was only in serious trouble. Two bushwhackers meant twice as much trouble and made the outcome a real toss-up. More than two--and he was going to be a really DEAD, dead man! He heard the sound of bootheels scraping against rock and was gradually able to make out voices.
"I thought we was gonna hold our fire 'til he was well within range?"
"You saw how his horse spooked! He weren't gonna git no closer! Besides, what are you gripin' about anyways? I got 'im, didn' I?"
The Marshal recognized those voices. He ought to. He'd heard them often enough. They belonged to a couple of local hooligans, the Hampton brothers: Lucas--and his younger brother, Judd. And, judging by the conversation, it was Lucas who had shot him. Well, that explained why he was still alive! He'd just been shot by Lucas Hampton! Lucas and Judd Hampton were a couple of THE most half-witted, hardened criminals Crown had ever come across! Why, the combined brain power of both boys wouldn't generate enough smarts for an intelligent toadie!
Crown continued to just lay there--completely motionless--playing possum, and continued to listen--with no little interest--as their continuing conversation answered any remaining 'who's, hows, whys, and wherefores' he may have had.
"Yea-eah," Judd (the least unintelligent of the two) continued, "Yah got 'im! But what if yah didn't git him good enuff? What if yah jes' winged 'im? Walkin' up on a wounded lawman is like walkin' up on a wounded grizzly! Let's jes' take the money we already got, Lucas and git!"
"There ain't no way I'm gittin' 'til I got what we come here for! You heard the Judge, Judd! If we don't collect his badge, we don't collect the rest a' our money!"
"Forget about the Judge--and the money, Lucas! Seven hundred dollars is worth killin' for--but it ain't worth bein' killed for!"
"I'll tell yah what, Judd...seein' as how you're so all fired fretful that Crown's corpse is gonna jump up and git us...why don't you shoo that big, ugly, black horse out a' the way there...and I'll perforate 'im a few more times! Just for you!" Lucas razzed his kid brother.
Because he wasn't sure which parts of his already perforated person were still operational--and to what degree they could be depended upon to operate properly, the Marshal waited until the two men were almost right on top of him before rolling quickly and carefully onto his left side--and ramming a cartridge into the firing chamber of his rifle. Much to his relief, all of him moved--though certain parts only did so under extreme duress. He grimaced and gasped as the pain in his right side and shoulder took his breath away.
The sound of his gun being cocked had caused his bushwhackers to freeze right in their tracks and they stood there--not ten feet from him--looking like they were both holding their breath, too. They were. The Hampton boys were staring down at the suddenly come back to life corpse, in shocked silence.
"You should a' listened...ta yore baby brother," Crown told Lucas through tightly-clenched teeth and waved the unsteady barrel of his Winchester slowly and deliberately back and forth--covering first one brother...and then the other, "An' the procedure is: guns down...hands up! NOT hands down...guns up! In the past...you boys have had a real problem...keepin' such things...in the proper order."
It seemed Lucas Hampton still had the same old problem, because his right hand dropped down to draw his gun up.
The Marshal suspected all along that one--or both--of them would still be plagued with the misdirection problem. So he wasn't surprised when his finger had to squeeze the trigger.
There was another extremely loud, "Ker-po-ow!"
Closely followed by a sharp cry of pain. Lucas Hampton's hand went flying off the handle of his gun--and the weapon fell to the ground. The outlaw released the rifle in his left hand so he could use it to make a frantic grab for his now bleeding--and apparently badly damaged--right fist.
Speaking of misdirected things...
The Marshal--whose original intention had been to knock the gun out of Lucas Hampton's hand--ended up knocking Lucas Hampton's hand off of his gun. "Now look...at what you...made me go and do," Crown declared, sounding somewhat disappointed. Oh well, considering how shaky he felt, it was pretty remarkable that his shot had connected with anything--at all. Then, before baby brother could even blink his wide eyes, Crown's Colt had replaced the rifle in his own right hand. "I always figured you...for bein' smarter...than yore brother," he confessed to Judd, "You ain't fixin'...ta prove me wrong, now...are you?"
Judd let the rifle drop from his hands. Then, moving very slowly--and using just the very tips of his fingers--he tossed down his side arm. He'd been taught the proper procedure, all right and it suddenly all came back to him--as well it ought! Considering the number of times Crown had already taken the two of them into custody!
And, speaking of taking the two of them into custody...
Now that Crown had them, what was he going to do with them? The Marshal carefully released the hammer of his Colt. He was so weak from shock that he could barely keep his head up off the ground. And the weakness in his muscles caused them to shake so--that it now took both of his hands to hold his gun up and keep it steady.
The lawman looked the area over and spotted an enormous deadfall laying just off to the left of him. The fallen giant rested about four inches above the ground and formed a sort of natural bench. The exposed root system stuck out ten to fifteen feet in all directions and an even more impressive array of equally long branches adorned its crown. Between the weathered, sun-bleached, bark-less roots and branches was a twenty foot section of weathered, sun-bleached, bark-less trunk, measuring more than four feet in diameter. Decades ago, the tree had fallen down onto the same enormous slab of sandstone and shale that he had just fallen down onto. So, if he were to chain his two prisoners to it, there was no way they were gonna dig--saw--or slide themselves free.
"Have a seat, boys," the Marshal suggested and motioned toward the tree with his gun, "an' I'll be right with you-ou..." he promised with a grimace and a gasp--and noticed that the numbness seemed all too rapidly to be wearing off. The deep, searing pain in his side seemed to be growing in its agonizing intensity.
The Hampton boys obligingly stepped over to the deadfall.
Crown waited until they had seated themselves down before attempting to pick himself up. The Marshal dreaded moving. He knew it wasn't gonna be fun. He had already discovered that it hurt ba-ad even when he held his breath and wasn't moving in any way. Shallow breaths were mildly excruciating. While the pain of drawing a deep breath usually generated a gasp--which produced a pain so profound that it made him grit his teeth and grimace. Yes, sir! Getting up was gonna be no picnic for him! He held his breath and forced himself to roll the rest of the way onto his stomach. The lawman groaned and gasped as his breath was taken away from him for the umpteenth time that day. Crown had always prided himself in having a tremendously high tolerance level for pain. But there was a limit to how much even he could be expected to endure. And he grimly realized that he seemed to be rapidly reaching it--for he had just come incredibly close to blacking right out. Between grimacing and gasping and gritting his tightly-clenched teeth, the Marshal somehow managed to make it back up onto his hands and knees.
As the Hampton brothers had sank down onto their assigned seating, their spirits had sank along with them. Now, as they watched the apparently seriously wounded lawman trying to rise, their spirits rose with him.
Crown's face was quite pain-stricken...his complexion seemed deathly pale...beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead. The Marshal seemed to be having a problem keeping his eyes focused. He also seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty catching his breath.
No doubt about it! Things were definitely beginning to look up! The two bushwhacking brothers shot each other hopeful glances.
Crown knew that time was running out for him. He had to move quickly--before he stopped moving completely! He retrieved his hat and his rifle and then tried summoning his horse over to him. "La-ance..." he gasped, as he finally realized he was breathing way too hard to whistle.
The animal alertly picked its head up from the greenery it was grazing, and gave its fallen rider a glance.
"Come here, Son..." the Marshal requested.
And the horse readily obeyed.
"Whoa-oa...Steady now," the lawman urged quietly and started pulling himself up. Of course, it wasn't accomplished in the one, smooth, uninterrupted motion he was accustomed to, bu-ut, Crown did--somehow--manage to replace his rifle and regain his seat. He'd just come pretty close to passing out again and it was taking him a rather long time to recover. Lancer was real anxious to leave again, so he had to keep turning the antsy animal in tight circles--which was making him even dizzier and more lightheaded than suddenly being vertical again was already making him feel.
Finally, the horse got as dizzy as its rider and stood stalk still.
The Marshal wrapped the reins around the horn of his saddle a few times and then reached back and under the flap of one of his saddlebags. "Here!" he said, pulling out one of those 'heavy chain things' he was carrying and tossing it to his prisoners, "I want you ta wrap this...around that tree," he continued, as the thing landed with a 'jingle' and a 'clink' at the two men's feet.
"An' then what?" Lucas wondered nervously.
"One step...at a time boys," the Marshal replied and motioned with his gun for them to get on with the first step.
"You cain't jes' ride off an' leave us here like this!" Judd declared, suddenly seeing where the first step was leading to.
Crown stared down the barrel of his Colt and gave the bushwhacker a look which said, 'Oh yes I ca-an!'
Judd reluctantly wrapped the chain around the tree.
"Well, what about my ha-and?" his older brother inquired and held up his bandana-wrapped boo-boo.
The lawman shot Lucas a look which said, 'Save yore breath, mister! You're appealin' ta the wrong source for sympathy, he-ere!'
"Well, what about food an' water?" baby brother wondered anxiously, "It may be days before someone comes through here again."
"Judd's right!" Lucas chimed in. "You cain't jes' go ridin' off and leavin' us here like this!"
"Look at it this way..." the Marshal suggested, "...it's a whole lot better...than the way you boys...were gonna go ridin' off...an' leavin' me-e!"
"Yeah," Judd had to agree, "But you're a Marshal! An' Marshal's ain't supposed ta go ridin' off an leavin' people ta rot!"
"Jes' cuz' a man wears a badge...don' mean he wears wings...an' a halo," the man with the badge reminded the outlaws, "Besides...Marshals are s'posed ta administer justice...an'...right now...I cain't think of anyone...who deserves ta ROT...any more...than the two a' you!"
The 'two of them' glanced nervously at one another.
"Relax," Crown continued, "As temptin'...as I may find the notion...at this moment...I have no intentions...a' jes' 'leavin' yous here ta rot'...One a' my deputy's...will be out ta collect yous...eventually."
"How will they know we're out here?" Judd wondered.
"Yeah!" Lucas chimed in again, "Who's gonna tell 'em where ta look for us? It sure won't be you-ou! You ain't never gonna make it back ta Cimarron, in yore condition!"
"Yeah!" Judd agreed, "The way you're hurtin'--why, you won't even make it one mi-ile!"
Crown thumbed the hammer back on his gun and motioned for them to get on with steps two and three.
Judd reluctantly locked one end of the manacle onto his left wrist and then locked the other end onto his brother's.
"Now...I suggest that the two a' you...start prayin'," the Marshal suggested, carefully releasing the hammer and replacing his Colt, "An' I suggest you pray...real hard...that I DO...make it back...Cuz'...if I don't make it...you two don't make it...An', gentlemen...it just doesn't get...any 'juster' than that!" the simple minister a' justice assured them softly. Then he swung his horse around and went riding off.
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"Whoa-oa-oa...oh-ohh-ohhh!" Crown pleaded, pulling the reins in on his cantering horse. "Easy, Son..." he added, tugging the still trotting animal to a complete halt. "You're gonna have ta...slow down some...or we're gonna be partin' company again...real soo-oon."
And, after being tugged to a halt a few more times, Lancer finally learned that--unless he proceeded at a walk--they weren't going to proceed at all. So the horse proceeded to walk, plodding steadily along at a slower--and hence less painful--pace.
Then, because Katelyn was right about him being a stubborn man--and because he wasn't about to let those two dimwits who had 'dusted' him determine the distance at which he would drop--the Marshal made it a good two miles. In fact, it was closer to three miles when he finally reached the very limit of his body's limits.
The fire had spread from that small chunk of lead so that his entire right side now felt like it was being continuously seared with a dozen red-hot branding irons. And the bullet kept burning. He could feel it biting into his ribs with each jarring step. The pain was both unbelievable and unbearable. The lawman didn't want to stop at three miles, but his body didn't leave him much choice. Either he was going to get off...or fall off his horse. So he reined the animal in and decided he'd try to dismount. The Marshal eased himself half out of his saddle--and then just sort of slid the rest of the way to the ground.
The pain that was racking his body had sapped so much of his strength that his legs could no longer support his weight. Which meant that, when his bootheels hit, he immediately dropped to his knees. Crown clutched at his right side and crawled over to lean back up against a low, sandy bank which ran alongside of the trail he'd been traveling down. The sun was setting, so shadows were long and the air was cooling rapidly. But the sand still held the heat of the day. And Crown appreciated its penetrating warmth--for the bottom half of him was still cold and completely drenched from the deep river crossing. Because the constant lurching had ceased, the pain--while still excruciating--lessened considerably. The lawman pulled his legs up and his hat down over his face--and finally allowed the overwhelming pain and exhaustion which he felt to overwhelm him.