Chapter Sixteen
Crown felt himself suddenly being picked up and flattened out. He gasped and then quickly drew his right leg back up. "Leave it..." he requested of whoever it was that went to straighten it again. "Leave it..." he repeated, feeling someone's fingers fumbling with the buckle of his gunbelt. "Leave 'em..." he told whoever it was that was tugging on his boots.
"Now what do yah figure yah need yer boots for?" Mac wondered, obeying--but not unquestioningly. "Yah can no' even stand up! And Ah reckon yah will no' be going anywheres for some time--in yer present condition. So yah might as well get comfortable!"
Oh, how the Marshal wanted to get comfortable! He wanted desperately to drift off into a deep, exhausted sleep. But the distant pain--and his sense of duty--wouldn't permit it. "There are no...reinforcements coming...are there..." he whispered, sounding incredibly weak and rather dejected.
His deputies shot each other a couple of grave, solemn glances, and just stood there silently--neither of them knowing quite what to say.
Their boss forced one of his eyes back open and then shot each of them half of an annoyed glare.
The Marshal's Chief Deputy sighed in surrender and then reluctantly replied, "According to the telegrams that Mr. Winsom gave us, your reinforcements will no' be arriving--for a few days. It seems they've been sent to Cimarron, New Mexico--and no' by mistake, either! We have proof that they were purposely delayed..." Mac stopped talking and stared down at his boss' completely motionless body and emotionless face. The Scotsman wasn't sure if Crown had heard him or if he had gone back to sleep.
"Mr. Winsom...an' his family...will definitely be...in danger no-ow..." the lawman realized aloud--but just barely.
"Aye," Mac solemnly agreed, "Ah told 'im that we'd do everything possible to provide him--and his family--with protection. But that they should be packed and ready ta leave town at a moment's notice."
"That...moment...has just arrived," the Marshal announced regretably. "Mac...I want you ta take 'em out of town...immediately...If yah leave now...you should be able ta reach...MacClain's Crossin'...an' pick up my prisoners...by dawn...Then you kin take the whole...'kit an' kaboodle'...ta the canyon...an' stay there with 'em...'til yah hear from me...that it's safe--"
"But, Ji-im!" MacGregor began, but then abruptly stopped as his groggy boss snapped one eye back open and gave his Chief Deputy half of an incredibly stern gaze. Again the Scotsman sighed in surrender and again he unquestioningly obeyed his boss. Well, actually, he had a great deal of things that he wanted to ask the Marshal at the moment. He just didn't put any of them into words.
Doctor Jarrod Michael Ellis came backing into the room just then, carrying a sterile towel full of freshly-scalded, still-steaming surgical instruments in his freshly-scrubbed, rubbed-red hands. His head was covered with some odd type of tied cap. His face was hidden behind a matching mask. In fact, the only part of his anatomy that wasn't covered in bright, white cloth--besides his hands--were his eyes. And, as the young doctor turned back around and spotted his patient still half-clothed, they narrowed into angry slits. "Why isn't he undressed, yet?!" he demanded, speaking up from behind his mask.
The Marshal's deputies overcame their initial shock at seeing the oddly dressed up doc' and shot each other strange, confused glances.
"What are yah fixing ta do?" Mac wondered sarcastically, "Remove a bullet...or rob a bank?"
Francis had to really struggle to keep from smiling at his colleague's highly amusing questions. "The Marshal wants things left the way they are--for no-ow," he explained to the still angry--and now also annoyed--looking young physician.
And the young doctor suddenly looked even more annoyed. Only this time, he was annoyed with himself. "I knew I should've given him a bigger dose," he muttered to himself beneath his mask. Then he set his instruments down and 'shoo-ed' the Marshal's deputies out of his way again. "Give me some room!" he said and continued to 'shoo' the two clear out the door and into the Marshal's Office. "I need some room to work in here," he repeated, hinting that he expected the two of them to stay out--for no-ow. "Thank you," Doctor Ellis told the Senator as he came hurrying into the alcove, brandishing a brightly lit oil lamp in each of his hands. "Just set them down on top of that cabinet there--and then you can leave," he added, tossing out another--even blunter--hint.
"Sure thing, Doc'. How's he do--?" The Marshal's 'old friend from back East' caught his first glimpse of the Marshal's badly bruised and bloodied mid-section and stopped talking and walking.
"He's doing just fine," the doc' assured the Senator--before 'shoo-ing' him out of his way, as well, "And he will be doing even better once I get that bullet out of him. No, no, no Dulcey!" he exclaimed, turning around in time to catch a brief glimpse of the girl's blonde head as it quickly disappeared from the other doorway. "I want you to stay!"
"I'll...do what I can..to help you," Dulcey promised as she quickly reappeared and stepped rather reluctantly back into the room. "Do you want me to start ripping these into bandages?" she wondered, picking her parcel of freshly-laundered linen back up.
Doctor Ellis was in the process of refilling his hypodermic syringe with another--much larger--dose of morphine. "I already have all the bandages I'm going to need," he answered without so much as giving the girl a glance.
Dulcey stared at the doctor and then down at the bundle of linen in her hands, looking confused, "Well, then, what are these for?"
"I'm going to use those to create a sterile field," the physician stated rather matter-of-factly and then turned to give his patient another injection. "If you really want to help, come here and hold on to his left hand for me."
The girl put down her parcel and then dutifully picked up the lawman's limp left hand.
Crown opened his eyes a crack to check out whoever it was that had just taken hold of his hand. Not surprisingly, it turned out to be Dulcey. The girl was sitting right there beside him on the cot, gripping his bloodied left hand hard in both of her's. The Marshal smiled faintly up at her and then gave her hands an even fainter squeeze back.
Dulcey stared down at the man--whom she had presumed to be unconscious--for a moment, looking quite startled...but then quickly averted her gaze.
The lawman's faint smile faded fast as he glumly realized the girl must still be mad at him for missing her party. He grimaced in frustration and then shut his eyes tightly, "I know...I didn' make it back...in time...Bu-ut...I did...keep... my promise."
Again Dulcey didn't respond. The girl was too choked up at the moment to be able to speak.
Crown read the continuing silence as a sign that the young lady still remained angry an' upset with him. So he gave the girl's hand another, faint squeeze--and then started to apologize, "I'm...sorry, Dulcey...I wish things...would a' worked out...differently...I really do-o!" he winced as something suddenly stung his left wrist. Instinctively, he tried pulling his arm up to him. But the girl held onto his hand tighter than ever. The Marshal snapped his eyes back open and shot both Dulcey and the...masked? young medicine man looks of extreme annoyance--and betrayal.
"Sweet dreams, Marshal," Doctor Ellis wished softly as he slowly depressed the plunger--and injected the morphine directly into a vein in the lawman's left forearm, this time.
A feeling of tremendous relief came over Crown as that fire that was still burning in some remote area of his chest was finally, completely extinguished. The Marshal felt terrific--for about three seconds. Then his mind stopped registering--not only pain--but everything else, as well! And, as the lights gradually went out in the lawman's brain, the muscles gradually went limp in the lawman's body.
Jarrod completed his latest injection and then watched rather satisfiedly as the Marshal's right leg began to unbend at the knee and slowly straighten itself out.
Then, his patient's head fell to one side and he was perfectly still. Except of course, for the rather rythmic rising and falling of his badly damaged chest.
Speaking of whi-ich...
The doctor put down his hypo' and quickly went back to work--first, cleaning the wound and then, creating a sterile field.
As Dulcey felt her friend's hand go completely limp and lifeless, she snapped her pretty, blonde head up to shoot her friend's doctor a blurry look of high anxiety.
"Relax," the doctor advised softly, upon seeing the look, "your legend's still alive. I just had to put him to sleep--so I could operate. What about you?" he asked his sniffling, teary-eyed--suddenly tremendously relieved--looking assistant, "Are you all right?"
Dulcey caught the concern in the young man's voice and managed to smile bitterly between sniffles, "Yes. Thank you," her bitter smile vanished, "It's just that it hurts to see a friend hurting...and know that you are the cause of it," she added regretably--and fresh tears began moistening her soft, blue eyes.
Her friend's doctor snapped his head up in the girl's direction and gave her a confused, questioning glance.
"Oh, I wasn't talking about the bullet!" Dulcey assured him.
"I was just going to say," Jarrod said, sounding relieved, "I don't know who did shoot him, but I do know that it wasn't you-ou!" he continued while he worked.
"No. I didn't need to use a bullet," Dulcey continued, staring sadly down at her friend's now peaceful--and totally impassive--looking face. "Sometimes, you can hurt someone even worse--with just...wo-ords," she finished--even more regretably--her soft, shaking voice trailing off into a whisper.
Jarrod snapped his head up in the girl's direction again just long enough to shoot her another concerned questioning glance.
"Before he left this morning," the sniffling girl explained, continuing to speak quite softly, "I made him promise to come back here tonight--in time for the party. You see, he has this thing about keeping his word. Once he's given his word to someone about something, he does his very best to keep it. He always does his best. Only tonight, I doubted him. I actually came right out and accused him of not even trying to make it back here in time. And after he had just practically killed himself trying to keep his promise!" The girl's shaking voice cracked finally and her soft spoken words gave way to sobs. She buried her face in the backs of her hands--which were still clasped tightly over the Marshal's. "Oh, Ji-im! I'm so sorry I doubted you!" she told her sleeping friend between sobs.
The good doctor glanced up again and gave his softly-sobbing assistant a deeply sympathetic look--which quickly transformed into one of complete confusion, "Then...you're not mad at him?"
This time the girl shot him a questioning glance.
"I sort of got the impression that he sort of has the impression that you're mad at him," Jarrod continued, working as he spoke.
"Well, I'm not!" Dulcey adamantly declared.
"Yes, I know. But I think you sort of gave him the impression that you were. You see, when a woman refuses to talk to a man, he just naturally figures she must be mad at him. And when she refuses to even look at him? Well, he figures she must be furious--Da-amn!"the young doctor exclaimed, interrupting himself rather abruptly. "Pardon my French, but the bullet's become so deeply embedded in the bone, that I can't even get it to budge! And I'm afraid that, if I use any more force, I'm gonna end up breaking another one of his ribs!" he explained, sounding extremely frustrated.
"Are yah saying yah can no' do it?!" MacGregor demanded, suddenly appearing in the office's doorway.
"I'm saying that I can no' do it this way," the frustrated--but imaginative--young physician informed the anxious-looking and alarmed-sounding deputy. There were several long seconds of thoughtful silence. Then the doctor's dark, blue eyes lit up, "Dulcey, could you come over here--on this side? I need your help again."
Again Dulcey dutifully did as the young doctor requested.
"Sit down," Jarrod told the girl as she stepped up beside him. "No! Not there," he continued as she began taking a seat next to the Marshal. "He-ere," he requested, motioning to the center of the sleeping lawman's solar plexus.
Dulcey stared disbelievingly down at the Marshal's doctor...and then at the Marshal's stomach...and then at the Marshal's doctor again. "You can't be serious!" she inquired hopefully. But the determined look in the doctor's eyes told her that he could be and that he indeed was...deadly serious.
"Theoretically," Jarrod continued as the girl continued to just stand there, staring at him in utter disbelief, "your weight, evenly distributed across the bottom of his rib cage, should cause his ribs to bend a bit. I'm hoping you will be able to get them to spread just enough to allow me to get the bullet out," he added in an attempt to make his request sound less unreasonable.
Dulcey thought the doctor's theory over carefully for a few moments. It seemed sound enough. But not sound enough to keep her from feeling terribly silly as she slowly turned around--and then rather daintily sat down--smack dab on the Marshal's sheet-covered stomach.
"Scoot up just a bit. A bit more. That's it!" the doctor declared, successfully directing his assistant's bottom into place, "Do you sing?"
Again Dulcey gave her friend's doctor a strange stare. "Some," she answered nervously. "But only when I'm working! And only if I know there's no one around to hear me," she added conditionally.
"There was this pretty, little French nurse--Charlene--who always used to sing in the Surgery," Jarrod recalled, speaking as he worked, "Her singing seemed to ease the tension in the room--especially during the more delicate operations. Couldn't you make like you were dusting him off or something...and sing? Please? For me? For him? For the both of us?" he finished and finally succeeded in coaxing a reply.
"I'll...try-y," Dulcey reluctantly vowed, "But it won't be in French."
"English is fine," Jarrod assured the girl with a grateful glance.
His assistant smiled rather shyly and nervously cleared her throat.
"'Oh what would it ta-ake for one little kiss?' asked the Stranger of the Lady. 'This locket of go-old for one little kiss...' said the Stranger to the Lady.
'Not for all of the gold on the north coast of Spain--would I put my heart in danger. But one little ki-iss I gladly would give--for the hand of a tall, dark stranger.'
'And what would it take for one tiny kiss more?' asked the Stranger of the Lady. 'This radiant pearl for one tiny kiss more...' said the Stranger to the Lady.
'Not for all of the pearls in the Great China Sea--would I put my heart in danger. But one tiny kiss mo-ore I gladly would give--for the arms of a tall, dark stranger.'
'Tell me, what would it ta-ake to wi-in your love?' asked the Stranger of the Lady. 'I'd give all I posse-ess to wi-in your love...' said the Stranger to the Lady.
'Not for go-old or pea-earls or all you possess--would I put my heart in danger. But all of my lo-ove I gladly would give--for the heart of a tall, dark stranger. Yes, all of my lo-ove I gladly would give--for the heart of a tall, dark stra-anger.'"
The doctor glanced up--as the girl finished singing--with a rather triumphant look in his eyes, "'And what would it ta-ake to hear one more verse?' asked the Stranger of the Lady. 'This small chunk of le-ead--for just one more verse,' said the Stranger to the Lady." And he held up the bullet--which was now locked between his forceps, instead of between the lawman's fifth and sixth ribs.
"Dea-eal!" Dulcey declared, beaming a broad grin in the young doctor's direction, "But I hope you don't mind waiting. It may take me a while to dream up another one."
And, speaking of dreaming...
When he heard Dulcey suddenly break into song, Mac had stepped back over to the doorway. He just stood there...as Dulcey just sat there...on the Marshal's stomach...singing away. He had to be dreaming! Then the young doctor burst into song and held up the bullet! Either the Scotsman was dreaming--or Francis' young physician practiced some of the most peculiar medical procedures known to science! MacGregor didn't dare ask what was going on in the room. He wasn't all that sure he really wanted to know.
"Thank you for your song...a-and your assistance," Jarrod said sincerely.
Dulcey gave the young man another warm smile and started carefully easing herself up off the Marshal's stomach, "Yes. We-ell, I did say that I would do what I could to help. Though--never in my wildest dreams--did I imagine that would include doing what I just did!"
"Speaking of what you just did..." Doctor Ellis spoke as he neatly stitched up the incision he had just made in the Marshal's chest, "That was a very lovely song. I can't remember ever hearing it before. What's it called?"
"I don't know," Dulcey confessed, "I guess I never really thought of giving it a na-ame. How about, 'The Stranger and the Lady'?"
Jarrod stopped in mid-stitch and stared disbelievingly up at her, "You wrote that song?"
Dulcey nodded, "I've written dozens of them!"
"That's incredible!"
"Not really. You see, the Wayfarer's is a very big place to have to keep up. And besides the Inn, there's the Coffee house. And--while my hands are kept busy cooking and cleaning--I needed something to help me keep my mind occupied. So, I started making up songs!"
"Have you ever had any of them published?"
"Heavens no! I've never even put any of them down on paper. I only do it to help pass the time--purely for my own entertainment."
"That's a shame. Because, if the others are as good as the one I just heard, well--besides Innkeeper and Restauranteur, you could have yourself another career--as a 'Song Writer'. And I'm not just saying that to flatter you, either!" Jarrod assured the girl with another sincere glance, "Are they all love songs?"
Again Dulcey nodded, "I'm afraid I'm a hopeless romantic. My songs are always about love--and they always have a happy ending."
"I'm a bit of a hopeless romantic, myself..." Jarrod confessed, smiling behind his mask, "So-o...tell me, young 'Lady', is the Marshal, here, your 'Stranger'?"
The girl's tired eyes widened a bit and she could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, "That's a very personal question, Doctor Ellis."
"Yes, well, I like to take a very personal interest in my patients," Doctor Ellis explained innocently to the pretty, blushing, blonde young lady, "So, how about it? Do I get a very personal answer?"
"No-o..." Dulcey finally replied, following a few moments of thoughtful silence. "At least, not since I discovered that I could never be his 'Lady'," she added rather regretably. "There he was--this handsome, heroic figure...and there I was--this hopeless, young romantic. It was inevitable. I fell helplessly, head-over-heels in love with Marshal Jim Crown--the first moment I met him!" She paused and smiled a bitter sweet smile down at the handsome, heroic figure. "It took me nearly a year, but I finally came face-to-face with reality. And what I realized--finally--was that not only was Jim Crown not 'romantically' interested in me--but he had absolutely no romantic interests, whatsoever! The Marshal was already totally committed--body, mind and soul--to his job. He had absolutely nothing left to offer anyone--except his friendship..." she added softly and her bitter sweet smile turned even more bitter.
"Then, the two of you are just good friends?" the good doctor inquired cautiously.
"Actually, we're much more than that! Since neither one of us have any family left of our own, we've sort of adopted each other. I'm sort of the kid sister and mother he never had. And he's sort of the father and big brother I never had. So, you see, we're more than just good friends--we're family!...Sort of."
Jarrod exhaled a silent sigh of relief and glanced up again, "What about Francis?" he inquired even more cautiously.
Dulcey smiled wryly down at the doctor, "Is Francis also a patient of yours?" she wondered sarcastically.
And, this time, it was the young doctor's turn to blush-- though it was concealed behind his mask.
Dulcey's smile broadened as the young man peaked bashfully up at her and then managed an innocent shrug. "If Jim is my big brother, then I guess you could say that Francis is my twin brother, and MacGregor--well, I guess MacGregor would be my favorite uncle. They're both dear friends. We're--all four of us--the dearest of friends!" she finished speaking--but kept right on smiling.
"Then your 'Stranger' hasn't come along, yet?" Doctor Ellis asked, sounding more hopeful than cautious this time.
Dulcey's wry smile returned, "He may have come and gone already. I've been much too busy to even notice. It's been a real struggle these past five years. But now--we're beginning to make a real go of it. The Wayfarer's has finally been transformed from a house of ill repute into one of the most popular places to stay--in all of Cimarron! Granted, the Wayfarer's may not be the most 'luxurious' hotel in town, but we do have a certain 'atmosphere' here that none of the other places seem to have."
"I'll bet they don't have a 'U. S. Marshal's Office' or a 'Jail' in their lobbies, either!" Jarrod concluded rather lightly.
"Ye-es, I guess that does have a tendency to keep things rather interesting around here at times, all right!" Dulcey had to admit, "But, having Jim here has also helped add a degree of respectability to the place. So I guess you could say it's been both good and bad for business...but mostly good!"
"How is he?" Dulcey's 'favorite uncle' asked, suddenly appearing in the open doorway.
"He's doing just fine!" the young doctor assured him. "I removed the bullet and cleaned all the debris out of the wound. It seems to be draining nicely." He paused in his bandaging and glanced up in the Scotsman's direction, "Was this older injury on his wrist, here, a bullet wound, too-oo?"
The Marshal's chief deputy nodded.
"I thought so. I found pieces of his shirt deeply embedded in it. The foreign matter was causing the wound to fester. Now that it's out, it should heal quickly. And--as soon as I get it bandaged--I'll be finished with him."
Mac stared down at his boss' barely bandaged chest in confusion, "Are yah no' going ta wrap his ribs?"
"Why?" the young doctor wondered back, "He isn't going anywhere in his condition. Besides, it'll be easier to change the dressings this way."
The Scotsman's steely-blue eyes narrowed into menacing slits, "If you are no' going to wrap the man's ribs--then Ah guess Ah'll have to do it before Ah go!" he threatened and he took a step or two into the room to back up his threat.
"Okay! Okay! You win! I'll wrap them!" the young doctor conceded crankily, "But he shouldn't be moved!"
"Aye," Mac agreed solemnly, "He shouldn't be. But he may have ta be."
Doctor Ellis thought over the implications of the Marshal's Chief Deputy's solemn statement for a moment and then his weary eyes widened in shock and horror, "You mean...whoever shot him...may try it...again?!"
Mac heard the shock and horror in the young lad's voice and he saw the shock and horror on the young lass' face. He exhaled a deep sigh of frustration and reluctantly replied, "The Marshal captured those two blaggards. But Ah happen ta know that there are a dozen or so other rifles out there--containing bullets with his name on them. So Ah'd appreciate yer doin' what yah can ta provide those hired assassins with a moving target."
Jarrod gradually overcame his initial shock and horror, "Yes! Of course! I'll do what I can." Then he stared down at his peacefully sleeping patient and experienced a whole new wave of shock and horror. "A dozen or so?!" he exclaimed disbelievingly, and then stared solemnly at his still somewhat stunned assistant, "It's a miracle he made it back here, at all!"
Dulcey focused all of her attention back on her unconscious friend--and family member. "Ye-es...it is," she whispered sadly. "A real...miracle," she added, sounding even more sad and ashamed--and fresh tears began to stain her cheeks.
The Marshal's doctor gave the girl a deeply sympathetic glance and then obediently set about wrapping the man's ribs.
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And, speaking of rapping...
"Who is it?!" Judge Rutger's rather nervously inquired of whoever it was that was 'rapping' on his hotel room door at nearly one in the morning.
"It's me!" a man's muffled voice answered from out in the hall.
The magistrate recognized that muffled voice and breathed an audible sigh of relief. Then he closed the book in his lap and got stiffly to his feet. "What's the latest word?" he wondered anxiously as he turned the lock and allowed the visitor with the muffled voice to step inside the room.
"The Marshal's ba-ack!" the now not so muffled voice replied.
"He can't be!" his judgeship shouted--after quickly closing the door, "Between Mareck and I, we had every crossing covered!"
"Yeah? Well, I was just over in the Cherokee, sittin' on three of a kind, when that crazy Injun'--Walkin' Man--comes in and announces that he's buyin' drinks for the whole house. Then he slams a shiny-new five-dollar gold piece down on the bar for everybody to see. And, when the bartender asks 'im where he got all that money, he says he got it for takin' care of the Marshal's horse!"
"Did you actually see Crown?"
"No-o, but--"
"Then, did it ever occur to you," Rutger's interrupted, "that the Marshal's horse may have come back without the Marshal?"
"The barkeep asked the Injun' about the Marshal," the judge's informant informed him, "He said Crown rode in about an hour ago."
"How did he get past Spencer and Endry?" the judge demanded in utter disbelief, "They were covering the roads on both ends of town!"
"Yes, sir, they were," his informant had to admit, "until they saw everyone leaving town after the party. When the Marshal never showed up for his own party, they figured he wasn't ever gonna show. They figured the boys must've got 'im at the river. So they came back into town. They've been sittin' over in the Cherokee since about eleven-thirty."
The magistrate groaned in mental anguish and stood there, looking--for all the world--like he was suddenly coming down with a migraine.
The informant saw his boss' look and attempted to alleviate some of his misery, "I don't think the boys at the river missed him entirely. The Injun' claims Crown had to be helped down from his horse. And they had to practic'ly carry him into his office."
But the judge drew very little comfort from the crazy Injun's claims. "The man has more lives than a cat!" he muttered under his breath and stood there for a few moments, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "I want you to go give Mareck the good news," he ordered, suddenly proving once again the accuracy of the adage 'Misery loves company'.
The informant frowned. "Yes, sir..." he reluctantly replied and then left the room, looking absolutely miserable.
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"Here...drink this," Doctor Ellis said, handing Dulcey a glass of something that closely resembled--and could have been--water, "It'll help you get some sleep."
"I don't want to sleep!" Jim Crown's adopted mother and kid sister replied softly. "I just want to sit here with him," she announced, sounding very determined.
Jarrod, who had removed his sterile surgical garb, gave the girl cradling the 'legend's' limp left hand in her lap another deeply sympathetic look, "I gave him a double dose of morphine. He'll probably sleep 'til--and possibly even clear through--noon. And, when he finally does wake up, he's going to be needing some nursing. Now, how are you ever going to take care of him if you make yourself sick?" he inquired, sounding very concerned. Then he pressed the glass into the girl's right hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
Dulcey looked thoughtful. Then, finding it impossible to argue with the good doctor's sound logic, she glanced up and gave him a grateful smile, "You'll stay with him?"
Jarrod returned her smile and nodded, "I'll be just a few feet away--in one of those rooms usually reserved for 'special' guests..." he added, glancing distastefully in the direction of the jail.
The girl managed another slight smile and then obediently drained the glass--dry.
"Francis?!" the young physician called to the young writer sitting in a chair in the middle of the Marshal's Office--with a loaded shotgun lying across his lap, "Will you take Dulcey upstairs and see to it that she makes it to her room all right?"
"I've got first watch!" the Marshal's young deputy replied. "Ask the Senator!" he suggested helpfully.
Dulcey cocked her head at an odd angle and stood there, looking completely confused. "The Senator?" she repeated softly. "What Senator?"
"Forget I said that!" Francis requested solemnly, "No one's s'posed ta know he's here!"
"No one's supposed to know who is here?" Dulcey wondered curiously.
"Senator Fisher," Doctor Ellis answered, "from Washington."
"From Texas!" Senator Fisher corrected as he came into the little alcove and offered the girl his arm. "From Texas!" he repeated and started escorting the pretty girl out the door, "David Samuel Fisher--at yore service, little lady. An' don't think a' me as a 'Senator'. Jes' think a' me as 'an old friend a' Jim's'. Wake me when it's time for my watch!" he called back over his shoulder and then he and Dulcey disappeared up the stairs.
Doctor Ellis gave his peacefully sleeping patient one last, careful scrutiny before retiring to his...jail cell.
"Charley Adams is covering the front door from the roof of Reagel's Store," MacGregor informed his fellow deputy, "And Charley Lundquist is covering the side door from the roof across the alley. Carl Benjamin is watching the back door from his bedroom window. And, three shots--fired in quick succession--will bring a dozen others running--with rifles ready!"
"Right!" Francis acknowledged and then he gave his very troubled looking fellow deputy--and friend--a concerned look of his own, "You gonna be all right, Mac?"
"A-Aye..." the Scotsman muttered glumly as he gathered his gun, his coat, his canteen and his saddlebags from off the Marshal's desk, "Ah just don't fancy havin' ta leave 'im--at a time like this!"
"Now yah know how I felt for the past eleven days!" Francis declared, sounding every bit as glum.
"A-Aye..." MacGregor agreed even more glumly. "Take care!" he called back over his shoulder as he left the office, "Of yerself--a-and him!" he added as he passed through the little alcove.
"You, too!" Francis called after him.
MacGregor stepped into the jail and saw the strange, young doctor staring rather distastefully down at the cot in his cell.
"Oh well," he overheard the young man say as he sprawled out across the cot and heaved a heavy sigh of complete exhaustion, "at least it's not moving."
"Aye!" Mac agreed, sounding somewhat annoyed, "And it's not likely to, either! Jim Crown runs a clean constabulary!" Then he stepped out the side of the building and into the alley, locking the door behind him as he left.
Jarrod looked puzzled for a moment and then--realizing that MacGregor must of been referring to an absence of bed bugs--Cimarron's new doctor fell asleep...with a smile on his face.