The Doctor Takes a Wife (18 page)

His words left Sarah speechless with horror.

Please, Lord, let Nolan save me!

S
arah awakened from a fitful, miserable doze when the horses halted.

“Took you long enough,” the outlaw standing sentry duty grumbled as he opened the gate and let them ride inside.

“Things involving women always take longer than you'd think,” Jesse muttered, “'specially when one of 'em's loco.”

“Yeah, where
is
crazy Ada?” the other asked, peering at Sarah and beyond her. “You promised she could be mine once you got Goldilocks.”

“‘You promised,'” Jesse mimicked. “You sound like some little kid. Shut up, Jones. Go find your bedroll and get some shut-eye. We leave at dawn.”

“Hope she's worth it,” Jones muttered, and stalked away.

“Where are we?” Sarah asked, peering around them in the dim light cast by a campfire, around which lay sleeping men. She made out the dark mass of a barn, with an irregularly shaped corral filled with the cattle lowing, some lying down, some milling slowly around.
She'd lost track of time as they'd followed the snakelike path of the Colorado northwest, finally crossing it at a shallow ford. The water had drenched her skirts nearly to the waist, and now, in the cool March air, she was wretchedly cold.

“Far from home, Sarah-girl,” Jesse said with smirk. “This here's the farm of a loyal Confederate colonel, one who hasn't bowed his head to the blasted Blue Bellies, though he pretends to enough to get along. It's far off the main road and other farms that no one pays him any mind. He's been real happy to hide us, re-brand the cattle as we bring them to him, and all he asks is a share of the money when we sell them, to start the new treasury.”

“Treasury? Treasury of what?”

“The treasury of the New Confederate States of America,” Jesse said proudly, puffing out his chest. “We're gonna help him overthrow the Federals one a' these fine days and he'll be the president of our new republic.”

Sarah could only stare at him and fight the urge to laugh hysterically.

 

The lanterns had run out of fuel and the half moon had gone behind a cloud.

“We've got to stop till first light,” Nick said, after Nolan's horse had put a hoof into a gopher hole along the dark road and gone down, throwing him off. Fortunately, the beast hadn't broken its leg, and only Nolan's pride was injured, but now the horse was limping and couldn't be ridden. They'd have to leave him at the first ranch they came to, and return for him later.

Nolan, walking toward the spare mount that had been brought along for Sarah, stopped and turned around. “Not on your life. It won't be dawn for hours yet, and who knows what might be happening to Sarah?”

“Walker, we can't help Sarah if our horses break their legs and have to be shot,” Nick pointed out.

“And it'll be tricky finding the right ford in the dark, too,” said Amos Wallace, the postmaster. “You risk running into quicksand if you try to cross in the wrong place. Anyway, like as not Holt's stopped, too, Doc.”

Wallace was probably correct that Holt and Sarah had stopped, Nolan knew, but what Holt was doing while stopped didn't bear thinking about.

“The horses will be fresher if we rest them now, Nolan,” Nick continued. “I promise, soon as it's light, we'll make good time and catch up.”

“Holt's horses will be fresh, too,” Nolan countered stubbornly. The idea of stopping even for a minute filled him with furious frustration, even though he knew they were right.

“But he won't know we're coming,” Nick reminded him. “He'll figure poor Miss Ada died without having the chance to tell us where the hideout is. As far as he knows, we have no idea where he's taken her. If we hadn't known they were headed for the Staked Plains, I'd have figured them to go south, heading for the Rio Grande, to sell those cattle to the Mexicans.”

And Sarah.

“I dunno what makes Holt think them Comanches are gonna just tamely trade them rifles or whatever for them cattle,” observed another man. “What's t'stop
them from scalpin' all them outlaws and takin' the cattle, too?”

And Sarah.

Nolan glared at him, and the fellow realized what he'd unwittingly implied. “Sorry, Doc. Guess I spoke when I shoulda kept my trap shut. Don't you worry, we'll catch them outlaws tomorrow, and get Miss Sarah back safe and sound.”

 

Colonel Robert Throckmorton, late of the Confederate Army, waved a hand in welcome when the posse galloped up the muddy road to his farmhouse the next morning.

“Gentlemen, what can I do for you this fine mornin'?” he called out with bluff heartiness, his lips curving into a genial smile under a heavy silver mustache. “I'd offer you breakfast, but you look like y'all are in too much of a hurry. And surely it's not necessary for all y'all to have your firearms aimed at me. I've offered you no harm.”

Nolan studied the man, who looked like the epitome of the defeated but unreconstructed Southern officer. There was something shifty about his gaze, something that hinted to Nolan he'd much prefer shooting them in the back as they left to merely sending them on their way peaceably.

“I'm Sheriff Nicholas Brookfield of Simpson Creek, San Saba County,” Nick said. “We need you to tell us which way the Gray Boys are heading.”

“‘Gray Boys?' I've got no idea who you're talkin' about,” the man said.

Nolan cocked his pistol. “Stop your nonsense, or
I'll shoot you where you stand, Throckmorton. We know they've been hiding out here, them and the cattle they've stolen. So you'd better tell us what we need to know right quick.”

“First a foreigner, now a Yankee,” the man sneered.

“But the rest of us are good Texans who believe in doin' what's right,” Amos Wallace said, and cocked his weapon.

Throckmorton visibly flinched at the metallic
click
and turned back to Nick. “Sheriff, honest, I don't rightly know what you're talkin' about,” the man protested, palms up. He studiously avoided Nolan's glare. “You see there's no cattle here,” he said, pointing at the empty corral and pastures. “I sold my cattle to a drover just last week, as a matter of fact. Got a good price for 'em, too,” he said smugly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nolan saw Amos Wallace loosen a coil of rope that had been tied to his saddle. He calmly began to knot a hangman's noose at the end of it. “I reckon that cottonwood over yonder would serve right well for a hanging, Sheriff.”

The florid-face colonel blanched. “Hanging? Me? You can't do that! On what charge?” He turned back to Nick. “You're a foreigner! Are you even familiar with the laws in this country? You can't lynch an innocent man!” he bellowed, his eyes bulging over fat cheeks.

“Oh, can't we? Who's to stop us?” Nick said, looking around him. “I'd think a farmer would have at least a hand or two around, but your place looks fairly deserted. I'd say you sent your men along to help control the herd—and to make sure the Gray Boys don't double-cross you out of your share of the money.”

“Throckmorton, the men you've been hiding have a kidnapped woman with them,” Nolan said, keeping a rein on his temper with difficulty. “Surely a chivalrous Southern gentleman such as you can't possibly approve of selling her to the savages along with the cattle,” Nolan said, giving the man one more chance to redeem himself.

“Of course not!” the colonel said, trying to assume a shocked expression and failing deplorably. “I told you, I've seen no outlaws, and no woman, either. You have to believe me.” He pulled at his shirt collar as if it was suddenly too tight.

Nick nodded to Wallace, who trotted his horse over to the cottonwood and threw the noose over it. It bounced obscenely in the breeze.

Throckmorton couldn't take his eyes off of it. He swallowed with difficulty, as if the noose was already tightening around his neck.

“Now, just a minute, gentlemen, surely we can come to some agreement,” he said quickly.

“What's it going to be, Throckmorton?” Nick asked. “Are we to hang you or are you going to take us to them?”

“Take you to them?” the man said, his Southern colonel dignity suddenly vanished, his tone now wheedling. “Surely it would be enough to just tell you which road they've taken, Sheriff. They can't be far ahead of you—they left just an hour ago, and they're driving cattle. But please don't make me go—y-you can't imagine how ruthless these men are! Why, they'd shoot me on sight if they saw me riding with you. Please…I'll give you all the information you need…”

“All the more reason for you to go,” Nolan growled. “Getting yourself shot is one way you could atone.”

“Nolan, Amos, take him into the barn and make him saddle a horse,” Nick ordered. “Keep your pistols on him at all times. If he gets up to any mischief, shoot him—but make sure it's only painful, not fatal. We'll need him for directions—I'm told there are at least three roads leading north near here, and we need to take the right one.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were galloping up the road again, heading north, with the colonel riding alongside Nick. Behind him, Nolan rode, keeping his pistol aimed at Throckmorton's back.

 

“So much for your gallant rescuer,” Jesse mocked, as both of them watched from the vantage point of an upper window in the old farmhouse as the posse departed. “He an' that Englishman took the bait like a pair a' hungry perch. The colonel will lead them down the wrong road, and meanwhile, you an' I'll be on our way to the rendezvous point with the boys.”

Sarah, her hands still tied, a gag in her mouth, watched with a sinking heart until Nolan rode out of sight. She had never felt a despair as complete as the one that swept over her now like icy water, so much colder than the river they'd forded last night. Nolan had come to rescue her, but had ridden off believing she and her captor were with the rest of the gang when she had been only a few yards away from him. If the posse had just searched the house!

As for me, I shall call upon God, and the Lord will
save me.
The verse from the Psalms came to her out of nowhere.

All right, Lord, I'm calling. Save me, and please protect Nolan, too.

“We might as well make ourselves comfortable,” Jesse said, “since we can't leave for a spell. We need to let them get a few miles on the way before we go.”

He laughed at the Sarah's quick step backward. “Don't worry, I didn't mean what you're thinkin',” he said. “I meant we might as well grab ourselves some grub—some a' that ham I spotted hangin' in Throckmorton's smokehouse that he didn't see fit to share. You know, I can't abide selfishness.” He stepped forward and untied the gag around Sarah's mouth, letting it fall to the floor.

She swallowed, wishing she could wash away the nasty taste it had left.

“Why don't we mosey out an' get that ham,” he said, gesturing with the gun, “and stop by the henhouse and get us some eggs, too. I remember you're a fine cook, Goldilocks. You cook us a good breakfast, one that'll last us till we stop at nightfall.”

He untied her hands, and gestured for her to lead the way to the smokehouse. She found the ham hanging inside, just as Jesse had said it would be, and pulled it down. It must have weighed at least ten pounds, but he didn't offer to carry it for her.

“Now the eggs,” he said, waving the gun toward the henhouse.

“How am I 'sposed to gather eggs while I'm holding this ham?” she asked.

“Put it down on this,” he said, upending a bucket
that was lying on its side near the door to the henhouse. “Carry the eggs in your skirt.”

Once her eyes adjusted to the gloom inside, she looked for something she could use against Jesse as a weapon. A pitchfork—anything! She could not tamely get on a horse and ride with him into the Comanche stronghold like a sacrificial lamb. But there was nothing.

Sighing in resignation, she pushed away the hens which tried to peck at her hands, searched until she had collected nearly a dozen eggs, then trudged back outside. Jesse had managed to pick up the ham, while still keeping hold of the pistol with the other.

“C'mon, Sarah-girl, shake a leg, we don't have all day,” he snarled. “I'm hungry. You don't think that redskin brave you're gonna belong to is gonna let you dillydally like that, do you?”

She gave him a look, but said nothing. Instead, she went inside, cut slices off the ham and set them frying in a skillet, then cracked one egg after another into another skillet.

“That was mighty fine,” he said, a few minutes later, pushing away from the table and shoving the plate over toward her. He'd left her about a fourth of it, not enough to fully satisfy her growling stomach, but it was better than nothing, and probably better than what she would get on the journey. Fare on the trail most likely consisted of tinned beans and coffee.

“You know, it really would be a shame to trade you to the savages,” he murmured, watching her eat.

Something in her, something she'd kept buried during the long night of terror, snapped. “You keep
saying that, Jesse. Since it
would
be a shame, why don't you stop saying it and take me home?”

He snickered. “Temper, temper, Sarah-girl. You know I can't do that. All I meant was you'd make a great cook for us, if you'd just decide to stop bein' so unfriendly. I'm just sayin' I could get used to cookin' like this—”

“But I doubt they have cooks like Sarah where you're going,” said a voice that was familiar and beloved to Sarah.

Sarah jumped, and looked up to see Nolan in the doorway between the kitchen and the front hall. He had a rifle aimed right at Jesse's head.

“Don't move, Holt,” said another voice, an English voice, from the steps to the upstairs. A rifle barrel protruded into the kitchen from that direction. Nolan and Nick must have circled back and hidden in the house while she and Jesse were getting the ham and eggs.