Chapter Fifteen
It was nigh on to midnight when Crown's horse finally reached its destination--the hitching rail in front of the Wayfarer's Inn.
Dulcey had been watching out for the animal all evening. She had been hoping to see the four-footed beast four hours sooner. She had been willing it to appear two hours earlier--while the party was winding down...but still in progress.
The horse had been hoping to see her, too. The animal was also anticipating a little something else. So when it spied the girl's blonde head peering over the swinging doors to the Inn, it let out a loud snort and then started nickering softly as if to say, 'Well...here I am! We made it back! So...now, where's the rest of the reward you promised me?'
Dulcey pulled her shawl up snugly about her bare shoulders and pushed her way onto the boardwalk. "You're too late!" she chastised the nickering nag, "The party's over!" All those months of careful planning...and organizing...and preparing--had all gone for naught!
The Marshal was aware of the fact that they had stopped moving. He just wasn't sure why. Until he heard the girl's familiar voice. The sound of that voice had the same effect on him as a nice, stiff shot of Mac's best Scotch whiskey! Well, a similar effect, anyway. He drew in as deep a breath as he dared and slowly pulled his hanging head up. Then he forced his eyes open and squinted his dim, fuzzy vision into focus. Lancer hadn't failed him. It was Main Street, Cimarron they were standing on all right! And what a relief to be sitting there, basking in the soft glow of light coming from inside the Inn. His ears hadn't failed him, either. It was Dulcey's voice he'd heard. She was standing right there in front of him on the boardwalk. He wanted to drop to the ground, pick the girl up and swirl her around a few times. But he was too weak...and it would've hurt too much. He wanted to tell her how glad--and relieved--he was to see her standing there. But his horse was making too much noise.
Lancer was still snorting...and nickering softly...and trying to nudge the still empty-handed girl with his head.
"Oh, all right!" Dulcey grumpily conceded, patting the fussing animal on its cool, dry chest, "But you certainly don't deserve any more. Not only did you not get him back here in time for the party, you didn't even work up a sweat trying!"
Realizing that her last comment was directed more at him than at his horse, Crown cleared his throat and forced a quiet comment of his own. "He saved my life this afternoon..." he paused, "That ought ta be worth...a couple a' crumbs..." He paused again as though speaking was an arduous task which required resting between short sentences. It was! And it did! 'An' ta think,' he thought, 'I gave up a quiet evenin', sittin' around a cozy campfire...holdin' hands with the 'Mrs.'... jes' ta try ta be here for you!' Women! Not only was there no figurin' 'em, but there was apparently no pleasin' 'em, either! "Francis...make it back...safely?"
Dulcey was planning on remaining too upset with the Marshal to even acknowledge his presence. But the content of his comment, and the strange 'edge' to his soft-spoken words, put her on edge--and she found herself nodding up at him, "He and Mac are waiting up for you in your office--with a surprise visitor. "
Again Crown hesitated before speaking, "Could you ask them...ta step out here a minute...please?"
Dulcey felt even more on edge and gave the still mounted Marshal a confused, worried look. "Yes. Of course. Right away," she vowed and then disappeared inside�only to reappear just moments later--with the requested gentlemen in tow.
"Ji-im!" Francis Wilde declared, beaming a broad smile up at his boss. "Man! I don't know how you knew--but you were right! You were right! You were absolutely right--about everything!"
Since Dulcey had ordered the Inn's porch light extinguished, the Marshal was sitting mostly in shadow. So his three friends couldn't see the pain-stricken expression on his pallid face, or the slight smile which appeared to be playing on his tightly-pursed lips. "Francis..." he acknowledged rather weakly, "You're sure a sight...for sore eyes," he added--even more weakly. But what his voice lacked in vim and volume it more than made up for in genuine feeling. The Marshal was genuinely happy to see his young friend again. And genuinely relieved to see that he appeared to be both safe and sound. It's just that the ever present--excruciating--pain in his chest was also genuine. The lawman was simply hurting too much at the moment to adequately express his joy.
And, speaking of the ever present pain...
Crown didn't think it was possible, but he seemed suddenly to be hurting even worse. Things in general seemed to be spinning now. And his already dim vision seemed to be growing even dimmer. His slight smile had long since vanished. "There'll be time...for a full report...later!" he gasped as the pain took his breath away, "But...for now..." by keeping his eyes tightly closed and his jaw tightly clenched, Crown discovered that he could squeeze a few words into the gaps between gasps, "could somebody help me down from he-ere!" he gasped again and tried--unsuccessfully--to shake away some of the dizziness, "An' then see to it...that my horse is...taken care a'..."
"What's the matter with yah, man?!" MacGregor demanded of the Marshal for the second time that day. Only this time, his delivery was anxious and upset rather than angry and upset.
Then the 'gasping' stopped. The Marshal's already drooping head dropped. The rest of the man's body suddenly went completely limp, too. And he pitched forwards in his seat with an involuntary 'groa-oan'.
Which caused his already tense 'trio' of friends to stiffen.
Dulcey managed a startled cry, "Jim!" and took a step or two in his direction.
But his two deputies beat her to him. Mac and Francis reached up to catch the slumping figure and keep him from falling clean out of his saddle. Only he wasn't falling.
"What's wrong, Jim?!" Mac demanded, sounding even more anxious and upset, "Why do you no' answer me, mon?! Have yah been hit?!"
The semi-conscious man's only answer was another involuntary 'groan'.
Mac shot the very concerned, anxious-looking Dulcey a deeply-concerned, anxious look of his own, "Quick, lass! Fetch the doctor!"
His abrupt order snapped the frozen, frightened female into action. She turned and fled in the Inn's direction.
And then, since the doctor couldn't very well examine the Marshal in his present position, the two 'somebodies' very carefully--and even more gently--started easing him down off of his horse.
Which caused the semi-conscious man to cry out in agony. The Marshal seemed to be 'stuck' to his saddle.
And MacGregor soon discovered why. His boss WAS 'stuck' to his saddle! His right wrist was strapped to the back of it. His left wrist was handcuffed to the front. And his feet were both locked in the stirrups. Mac fumbled in the man's vest pocket, found the key to the cuffs and quickly freed his left wrist--while Francis freed his right. They both freed his feet and then once again they attempted to gently and carefully lower the lawman to the ground.
But they apparently weren't gentle or careful enough--for their boss let out another sharp cry of absolute agony and then started gasping and groaning involuntarily as the agonizing pain caught his attention and caused him to come around again.
"What's wrong, Jim?!" Mac repeated, "Where are yah hit?"
The gasping Marshal grimaced and gradually pulled his groggy head up. He tried shaking some of the cobwebs out again, but still couldn't get them to budge--not one bit! He still couldn't get his knees to lock, either. So he just hung there between his two deputies--while they supported all his weight. "Not out here..." he gasped, "...inside!" His supporters obeyed and unquestioningly started carting him off in the direction of the Inn. "No-o!" Crown gasped again, "Not upstairs...the cot...in my office!" he added, quietly requesting a course change.
Once again his supporters quickly and unquestioningly obeyed. They stepped around the left side of the hitching rail and half-carried, half-dragged their boss up onto the boardwalk. MacGregor managed somehow to get the door open and the three lawmen disappeared into the Marshal's Office.
They no sooner got through the door when Mac posed his question yet once more, "Now, will yah kindly tell us where yah've been hit?!"
"Stung!" Crown corrected with yet another gasp. "I got stung...by a couple a' Rutger's hornets...I left 'em huggin' a deadfall...at MacClain's Cross--" He stopped speaking as his supporters suddenly stopped moving--and the blurry image of his old friend, Dave--now U.S. Senator David--Fisher, floated past him...with a smile on his face...and a drink in his hand. At first, the Marshal thought he must be hallucinating.
But, when the figure floated past him again and yelled, "Surpri-ise!" Mac spoke to it.
"Excuse us, Senator!" Mac tried to word his request politely, but his voice was filled with annoyance and growning impatience, "But Ah believe the man's had enough 'surprises' for one night! So will yah please step aside so's we can set 'im down?"
Now, unless he and Mac were having the same hallucination, that meant that Dave Fisher was genuinely standing there!
And, when he floated past Crown for a third time, he was wearing a look of genuine concern on his face.
What on earth was HE doing there? The Marshal intended to ask him the next time around. But, by the time the room completed a fourth revolution, his friend's figure had completely vanished.
His supporters continued half-carrying, half-dragging him through his office and into the little alcove between his office and the jail. His deputies reached the requested destination and turned their boss carefully around. Then the two of them stood there, hesitating to lower their 'moaning' cargo down onto the cot--for fear of causing him even more discomfort than he was already quite obviously experiencing.
Crown grasped the situation and gasped, "Jes' help me get my coat off...an' I'll take it... from there!"
Francis steadied the swaying Marshal while MacGregor obligingly removed his long, black, canvas duster.
As soon as their boss' bloodied left hand cleared its coat sleeve, he slipped it back inside his right vest panel.
His two former supporters saw the blood and shot each other grave, worried glances.
Clutching his mid-section with both arms, Crown carefully eased himself back down onto the cot. And then--accompanied by a few more involuntary groans, and grimaces and gasps--he carefully assumed a sort of half-sitting up, half-lying down position. Then he reached up and removed his hat so he could let his head rest back up against the wall.
His deputies just stood there and watched wordlessly as their boss carefully drew his right leg up and then placed the hat on his bent knee.
"Ma-ac..." he gasped, "I want you ta ride out...at first light...an' fetch those two 'hornets'...that I was tellin' you about!"
"Aye!" Mac acknowledged.
"Francis...I'd like a full report...an' you kin begin...with the where-abouts...a' those 'reinforcements'...that I requested...in writ--!"
"There'll be time for a full report later," Francis reminded him, using his very own words, "You just lie there and rest for now. Dulcey's gone up ta fetch the doctor. I ran yore ad in all the major papers," he quickly continued, seeing that he had succeeded in changing the subject and that the Marshal understandably seemed extremely interested in the latest topic, "And I think I found us a good one. His name is Jarrod Michael Ellis. He's originally from Boston. But he just got back from Paris, France--where he spent the past four years completing his internship under the distinguished French scientist, Monsieur Louis Pasteur--" Francis stopped talking as the door between the jail and the little alcove suddenly flew open.
The Marshal stiffened and drew his gun on the door. Then he quickly untensed again. It was only Dulcey. And it was a good thing it was only Dulcey. Because, while he had somehow managed to get his gun cleared from its holster, his draw had been slow--much too slow. But then, it wasn't only Dulcey...
The girl ignored his gun and hurried into the room,"Here he is! What on earth did you bring him in here for?!" she demanded of his deputies.
But they gave the girl about as much attention as she had given the Marshal's gun.
Dulcey had been closely accompanied by a handsome young man who Crown had never seen before. Closely accompanied, that is, until the young man caught sight of the pistol being pointed at him.
"U-Uhh..." the young man stammered, staring rather nervously down the gun's barrel at the man who was aiming it at him, "Do you mind if I come in?"
The lawman answered by carefully lowering his gun and--even more carefully--releasing its cocked hammer. The weapon had grown too heavy for him to hold it up any longer, anyways.
"How is he?" Dulcey quietly inquired of MacGregor.
Mac shrugged, "Maybe you should ask him. He won't answer me."
But Dulcey didn't dare ask him. After the cruel way she had just treated him? Why, she couldn't even bring herself to look at him.
"Marshal Jim Crown," Francis introduced, "Doctor Jarrod Michael Ellis."
Crown stared up at the young doctor--still frozen in the doorway--and then at his equally young deputy--in disbelief.
Francis saw the look and sort of shrugged. "Well...you told me not ta come back here without a doctor," he reminded his boss, "And I was in a real big hurry ta get back here."
The young doctor continued eyeing the Marshal's gun nervously as he cautiously continued his approach. "So-o, do you greet everyone like that?" he inquired sarcastically.
"Everyone who comes barging in here without knocking!" MacGregor answered in the Marshal's defense.
The young doctor nodded thoughtfully and then set his medical bag down. "Marshal..." he acknowledged, offering the semi-prone lawman a nervous smile and an outstretched hand. It was then that he noticed that both of the Marshal's hands were already busy. He was still holding onto his gun--a very large gun--with one and clutching at his mid-section with the other. The half-dressed doctor snatched his hand back and began rolling up his shirt sleeves, "So-o, tell me...where does it hurt exactly?"
The Marshal shot his young deputy another highly skeptical glance, but then obligingly gasped a reply, "The right side a' my chest...an' my right shoulder!"
"I see-ee..." the young doctor said, stooping to pull a pair of scissors from his satchel, "And just how exactly did you come about these injuries of yours?" Normally, he would have noticed the neat, little, round hole in his patient's black, leather vest--just to the right of the area his hand was clutching at--normally. But he had just spent four days on a train...and it was going on one in the morning...and--being in the country less than a week--his body was still functioning on European time. So he was suffering from a terminal case of ocean-liner lag. So how observant could he--could anyone--be expected to be under such circumstances?
Crown suddenly recalled Charley's morbid prediction and suppressed a morbid smile, "I got blown...clean out a' my saddle!"
"I see-ee..." Doctor Jarrod said and 'shoo-ed' the Marshal's deputies out of his way so he could begin his careful cutting, "And how long ago did this unfortunate accident of yours occur?"
"I don' know...as you kin call...gettin' hit with a Winchester...an 'accident'...exactly!"
His doctor stopped cutting the shirt away from his right shoulder and stared at him, looking rather astonished, "Then you did say that you were 'blown' and not 'thrown' from your horse?"
Crown suppressed another smile and nodded.
His young doctor looked relieved, "I thought I had heard you correctly!" he said and then shock filled his youthful face, "Good God! You've got a bullet in you!"
"Yea-eah...I know," the Marshal replied casually, suppressing yet another smile, "I wasn' close enough...for 'im ta hit me with it...any other wa-ay!" he gasped and gave the amusing young medicine man the smile he had been suppressing.
But Mac found the young doctor more inept than amusing and he managed a skeptical--almost disgusted--grunt, "Ah'm no' a doctor, but Ah at least knew that much! So now, what do yah say yah stop yer dickerin' and start yer doctorin!"
The Scotsman's abrupt order snapped the still frozen with astonishment young doctor back into action. He had never had to dig a bullet out of anyone before, but he was willing to wing it.
"Have you ever dug...a bullet out a' anybody...before?" his patient wondered curiously.
"No-o, I can't say as I have," the young doctor told him truthfully. "But then, I hear there's a first time for everything!" he added confidently. But not over-confidently.
Crown gave the philosophical young physician another slight smile, "...You'll do."
Doctor Jarrod returned his smile and then turned to the only female in the room, "I need you to start some water boiling. Then bring me a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a few sheets of your cleanest, most freshly-laundered linen. Oh, and some warm, soapy water. Lots and lots of it!" he added.
Dulcey nodded and hurried off to fill the doctor's order--glad for an excuse, any excuse, to leave the room.
Doctor Jarrod stared down at the lawman's scraped and bloodied right shoulder, "Were you hit with this Winchester more than once?"
"Thi-is...is where the bullet hit me!" Crown explained, clutching at his damaged right rib cage, "--an' thi-is...is where I...hit the ground!" he added, motioning with his head in the direction of his badly bruised, and quite possibly broken, right shoulder.
"I see-ee..." his doctor acknowledged solemnly. "And how long ago did all of this 'hitting' happen?" he wondered, giving the Marshal's injured arm a careful, thorough examination.
"Is that information really relevant to the removal of the bullet?" Mac inquired rather impatiently.
"What time...is it?" his patient inquired curiously.
"Around twelve," Francis volunteered.
"A little over...five hours...ago!" Crown gasped--in both disbelief and pain.
The doctor looked disappointed and then frowned, "So, the germs got a five hour head start on us..." he muttered dismally to himself and then finally announced the results of all his pulling...probing...and prodding, "Your shoulder is very badly bruised, but I don't believe it's broken. I suspect a torn rotator cuff--or a pinched nerve or torn ligament--to be causing the severely restricted motion in your arm. We'll be able to assess the damages better in a day or two--once the swelling's gone down some."
One other result of all the pulling, probing and prodding was that he had caused his already extremely pained patient a whole lot more discomfort.
The doctor's frown deepened as the 'gasping' Marshal grimaced and 'groaned' and suddenly began moving around.
"Ma-ac?!" the lawman gasped and licked his very dry lips, "I could sure use...a dri-ink!"
"Aye!" MacGregor acknowledged, "Ah'll fetch yah a bottle o' my best!" he promised quietly and then quickly left the room.
The thirsty man's doctor frowned disapprovingly and gripped his pained-wracked patient's left shoulder firmly, "I think a shot of morphine would do you more good, right now."
The Marshal gasped skeptically. The young man had obviously never sampled Mac's Scotch!
Speaking of Ma-ac...
The Scotsman returned as quickly--and as quietly--as he had left. "Here is the alcohol you ordered," he declared, handing the doctor a bottle of rubbing alcohol. "And here is the alcohol you ordered," he added, passing an open whiskey decanter to his thirsty boss.
"He can't have that!" Doctor Ellis exclaimed, latching onto MacGregor's wrist and preventing him from administering his pain-killer.
"And why is that...exactly?" Mac inquired irritatedly.
"Because alcohol and morphine are both very powerful drugs. And they should never be administered together," the doctor answered, sounding rather annoyed that he had to explain himself.
The Marshal stared at the bottle and then gave the kid doctor a certain look. It was the sort a' look a she-bear might give to someone who's just come between her--and one of her cubs!
"Trust me, Marshal..." the kid requested and pushed the bottle of Scotch away from his pained patient. "Believe me, I know what I'm doing," he said and then pulled out an itty-bitty bottle of something or other.
Which Crown could only assume must be 'morphine'.
MacGregor managed another skeptical snort, "Why, there isn't enough stuff in there ta make a 'gnat' tipsy!"
"You don't drink this stuff," the doctor said as he continued rummaging around in his satchel.
The Marshal and his Chief Deputy glanced at each other with raised eyebrows.
"You inject it into a vein--through a hollow needle," the young medical man added, opening a small, black, leather case and removing a small, glass, cyndrical-shaped device--which had a plunger on one end...and an incredibly long, sharp needle on the other.
The Marshal and his Chief Deputy exchanged glances again--and their already raised brows arched even higher.
Crown turned his undivided attention back to the young doctor, "You ain't pokin' me...with that thing...My hide's been...perforated...enuff...for one evenin'!" he gasped and then gave his dizzy head a quick shake. He was feeling more and more lightheaded. He must be losing more and more blood. He pulled his hand out from beneath his right vest panel for a moment and squinted down at it. His left palm was completely covered with fresh, bright-red blood. He gasped again and quickly stashed his hand back inside his vest.
Doctor Ellis completely ignored his patient and just continued on about his business. After sterilizing the hypodermic syringe with the rubbing alcohol, he proceeded to syphon a rather precise amount of the morphine up into it. Then he dabbed some more rubbing alcohol onto a wad of cotton and turned to the Marshal, "This may sting a little bi--"
"I told you!" the lawman gasped, "I been 'stung' enuff...for one ni-ight!" Crown gasped again and then winced in pain.
His doctor remained unconvinced. And, while the Marshal's eyes were closed for a couple of seconds, the imaginative young man palmed the syringe in his right hand and then gave his protesting patient's left arm a reassuring slug. "Of course, it can also be administered intra-muscularly," he announced, depressing the plunger with his thumb--and injecting the contents of the syringe deep into the muscle of the Marshal's upper arm. "It just takes a little while for it to work its way into the bloodstream, is all..." he added, pulling the needle out and placing the syringe back in its black, leather case.
The 'stung' lawman's pain-filled, squinting eyes blazed wide with anger and betrayal--and he was about to tell the sneaky, insubordinate young man what he could go do with his needle.
When Dulcey suddenly came barging back into the room with a bundle of freshly-laundered linen...and a whole bucket of warm, soapy water. "The water is boiling, Jarrod," the girl announced a bit breathlessly, "Do you want me to bring it to you?"
"No-o," Jarrod replied, pulling a variety of surgical instruments from his satchel and handing them to the girl, "I want you to drop these into it and then let them boil for at least fifteen minutes."
Dulcey passed her parcels on to the Marshal's deputies. Then she took the tools and hurried off again--glad for another excuse to leave the room.
"We'll need to pull this cot away from the wall," Doctor Ellis informed the two vertical men in the alcove. "And we'll be needing some more light in here..." he added hintingly to the Senator--who was standing there, in the doorway to the Marshal's Office, blocking the light.
The statesman took the hint and headed off to find some more lamps.
MacGregor had been watching his boss carefully. The man's already serious condition was slowly--but steadily--deteriorating. As was the limits of his own patience. "How can yah think about rearrangin' the furniture at a time like this?!" he declared, venting his growing impatience in the young doctor's direction, "Can't yah see--the man needs yer help! Instead o' cooking yer instruments, you should be using 'em ta dig that bullet OUT!"
"If you really want to help speed things up," Doctor Ellis told the impatient, irate Scotsman, "you could go up to room 15 and bring down the green chest that's setting on the floor at the foot of my bed--buried beneath about four feet of other baggage."
'O-Oh great!' Mac thought, 'Now he wants to start unpacking!' It was hopeless! He turned his frown on his fellow deputy and then gave the 'doctor recruiter' a look which told him that--maybe he had been in too big of a rush to leave Boston. The Scotsman gasped in utter exasperation. But then obediently left to fetch the chest--as per the young doctor's request.
"No-ow," the doctor stated, turning himself--and his full attention--back in his patient's direction, "I think it's time we took a little look..."
The Marshal--who was suddenly feeling less pained and more intoxicated with each passing second--stared rather dazedly up at his doctor and slowly pulled his hand away from his chest wound.
With the aid of Francis, the young physician was able to remove the lawman's leather vest with only a minimum of discomfort caused. Then he quickly and carefully began cutting away the remainder of his patient's bloodied, blue shirt.
Crown kept his groggy gaze fixed upon the young physician's face. He was anxious to see what his doctor's reaction was gonna be to his nurse's bandages. The Marshal smiled as the young man stopped cutting, right in mid-snip, and gave his patient a rather perplexed stare.
The good doctor was about to ask the Marshal who had done such a good job of wrapping his wound up for him, when he suddenly spotted the bullet hole in the bandages. He turned back to his patient--looking even more perplexed--and quickly re-worded his question, "What's under these bandages?! Besides a bullet!?" he inquired rather nervously.
"Jes' some bruised ribs..." the Marshal assured him, "I had a little run in...with a busted wheel spoke...earlier...in the day."
The doctor gave him a sort of strange stare and then reluctantly went back to work. "Nasty!" he muttered as the Marshal's sleeve fell away, exposing the rather 'nasty' looking three-inch gash in the lawman's left forearm, "Very nasty, indeed! We're going to have to do something with that, too..." he reminded himself before reluctantly continuing his cutting. It took a while, but he eventually made it through the layers upon layers of blood-soaked bandages. The young doctor had been well disciplined in always presenting--and maintaining--a cool, calm, completely unemotional demeanor while working on his patients. Still, a startled 'gasp' escaped from him as the Marshal's damaged mid-section suddenly became very visible.
Doctor Jarrod Michael Ellis took in the extent of these damages for a few moments and then stared rather incredulously up at his patient. "A little 'run-in' with a spo-oke?!" he practically shouted, struggling to regain control of his crumbling composure, "It looks more like you were run over--with the whole wagon!"
"It sort a' felt that way...for a whi-ile..." Crown calmly conceded with another slight smile.
The Marshal's doctor exchanged grave glances with the Marshal's deputy and then reluctantly resumed his little look. "So-o, how did you happen to run into this spoke?" the doctor asked in an attempt to distract his patient from the pain of his probing.
"It happened," the grimacing lawman gasped in reply, "because I happened...ta run into a fella...who doesn't fight fai-air!" he finished with a flinch and a wince.
The young doctor finished his examination and then sat there, on the edge of the cot, looking even graver and solemner--and even more incredulous. No wonder his patient seemed to be experiencing so much pain! He wa-as! Upon penetrating the Marshal's chest, the bullet had blasted its way between two of the man's already badly-bruised ribs. It had then bull-dozed itself sideways and become tightly lodged between two others. The young doctor could hardly imagine how excruciating even one, shallow breath would be--much less all that gasping! Any little movement would cause that little chunk of lead to grate against the lawman's probably cracked, and quite possibly even broken in two, rib bones. Doctor Ellis drew a deep breath and gave his pained patient an understanding and deeply sympathetic look, "How's the pain?"
"Better..." his patient replied, giving the person responsible for that fact a grateful glance, "But I would appreciate it...if you would QUIT...pokin' me!"
His doctor managed a sad smile, "Sorry, but it looks like I'm going to have to cut you open. The bullet is sitting just off to the left of the entry hole. It's lodged in there pretty tight--between your fifth and sixth ribs."
"You can bet that the man is already aware of that fact, Doctor!" Mac stated angrily--upon his return, "Ah'm sure he's been painfully aware o' that fact every step of the way--for the past twelve mi-iles! And--now that we all know that he has a bullet lodged in 'im--we'd all be much obliged if you would kindly dislodge it for 'im...If you would, please?!"
Doctor Ellis ignored the deputy's sarcastic comments and stared up at his patient in utter disbelief, "You mean that you actually rode twelve mi-iles...in your condition?!"
"I had to..." Crown told him truthfully, "It was too far...for a man in my condition...ta wa-alk!"
His doctor managed another sad smile. Then his smile slowly vanished as something gradually dawned on him. "It is true, isn't it!" he exclaimed, vocalizing his sudden realization. "Every word in that book about you is TRUE!" he added and stared up at his patient, looking rather in awe.
Francis shot the 'awed' young man a warning glance and shook his head no.
But the young man's rather odd comments and slightly awed look had already caught his boss' attention.
"What wo-ords?...In what boo-ook?" Crown inquired a bit nervously.
Again the young doctor ignored Francis' frantic signals for him to stop. "The book the Senator gave me to read on the train," Doctor Ellis explained, slipping a paperback book from his satchel. "This book," he added and held the thing up in front of his pained patient's pained face.
But Francis snatched the book away before his boss had a chance to read its title, "U-Uhh, I don't think the Marshal is really feeling up to this, right now."
"Somethin' tells me," Crown acknowledged even more nervously, "the Marshal is never...gonna be...feelin' up ta thi-is...So let's have it!" he requested. The Marshal released the hold he had on his Colt to take a hold of the book Francis--very unwillingly--offered him.
The young deputy gave the young doctor a disgusted glare.
The young doctor gave the young deputy an apologetic shrug.
Crown turned the book right side up and then squinted rather groggily down at its cover, " 'Taming The Territory'..." he read aloud, "'The Legend of Marshal 'Do-oc' Cro-own?!' " he continued disbelievingly. Then he turned to Francis, wearing a look that was a mixture of shock--and disbelief--and anger. No...no-o, the Marshal was outraged! And what he had just read was outrageous! Totally outrageous!
Francis quickly raised his right hand in an oath, "Jim, I swear I didn't have anything ta do with the printing of that book! I was just as surprised as you were when I first saw it, too! Honest!"
'Doc' Crown looked deeply skeptical and went back to his reading, "An eyewitness account...by the Globe's Western Correspondent...Francis L. Wilde...of the Life and Times...of Marshal 'Doc' Crown...heroic lawman?...of the Cimarron Stri-ip?!" He had to stop reading again. It was making him sick. Francis was right, he wasn't feeling up to this, right now. He was also right. There would never be a time when he would be feeling up to it!
"Mr. Hanley put all those articles I wrote about you--years ago--together an' had 'em published--without MY 'knowledge' o-or 'consent'! I swear that's the truth, Jim! I-I could never--would never do anything like this to you! Leastways, not no-ow! Not after what Mac told me--" he stopped talking suddenly and shot the Scotsman an 'Oops! Sorry about that little slip!' look.
'Doc' Crown studied both of his deputies for a few moments and then smiled, just the slightest of smiles. "I believe you, Francis..." he assured the troubled young man quietly. Then he stared solemnly--and sadly--back down at the book in his hand.
"But I only sold the newspaper rights ta my stories," Francis continued, in an attempt to cheer his very depressed boss back up. "So, before I left Boston, I managed ta put a stop to the book's sales an' distribution. An' that makes that quite a 'collector's item' you're holdin', there..." he added, with a weak smile, "...a 'first' a-and 'last' edition!"
'Do-oc' suddenly looked curious--and a little uncomfortable--again, "Jes' how many a' these...first an' last editions...are there...already in circulation?"
Francis looked even more uncomfortable than his boss and swallowed nervously before finally forcing a reply, "Seventy-five..." he said quietly, "...thousand," he added under his breath, and then stood there, dreading to witness 'Do-oc's' reaction to the figure.
Crown cringed and then groaned in mental anguish. "Seventy-five THOUSAND copies?!" he shouted disbelievingly, and then groaned again--because it hurt him to shout.
Francis cringed, too, "Yeah. Yah see, these books only sell for a 'dime'. So, in order for the publishers ta make any real money over the printing costs, they have ta sell a real large volu--" The writer stopped his enthusiastic explanation, realizing too late that he had only succeeded in depressing 'Doc' even more.
Actually, it was the Marshal's medication that was depressing him more than anything else, at the moment. The morphine had finally worked its way into the lawman's bloodstream--depressing not only his pain--but his breathing and clear thought processes as well.
All eyes in the room suddenly riveted on the Marshal--as his weary eyes suddenly closed.
Crown released one, final incredibly long, 'mournful' moan--and let his head roll limply to one side.
Doctor Ellis briefly examined his now peacefully sleeping patient before getting up to open--and then quickly rifle through--the green chest that MacGregor had so obligingly brought him. "Okay, lay him down and then slide the cot away from the wall, if you will..." he requested of the Marshal's two--more worried than ever looking--friends. "And, while I'm getting dressed, you can get him undressed," he added, grabbing some folded white garments and brown paper packages from the open chest. Then--since the room he was in was so cramped for space--Jarrod took the bucket of warm, soapy water and the articles of clothing, stepped out into the jail--and used one of its two empty cells to change and scrub up.