Philip Dampier's Blog

Shootout at the Spring

Episode One

United States Territorial Marshal Chad Pennington viewed the golden rays of light reflecting off the top of the western Dakota mountains through partially closed eyelids. The sharp, unrelenting pain in his left shoulder kept him from focusing on the waving grasses or the glorious sunset. Every time his horse’s hooves hit the earth, the bullet in his left shoulder pressed on a nerve; the increased pain shot down his arm, leaving his left hand temporarily paralyzed. He clenched his teeth tight against the relentless pain but refused to stop Buck and rest.

Blood had seeped down the front of his shirt and dried, but he no longer noticed it. He could barely follow the beaten-down grass where the wanted bank robber, Lance Powell, had preceded him. He was as angry with himself as he was at Lance. He should have expected the notorious outlaw to pull an ambush instead of just riding away. At first, he had been glad that the bullet was of a small caliber, but after hours of riding, he no longer reflected on its size. The pain was nearly constant, keeping time with Buck’s stride.

The bullet’s impact had unexpectedly knocked him off his horse, and he lost precious time trying to staunch the blood before remounting. It was a cool day, as the entire week had been. A sure sign, besides the calendar, that fall was upon the Dakotas. In spite of the coolness, the effort to remount Buck had left him covered in sweat, and now the sweat was chilling him.

He should have turned back and sought medical help, but he was too far from Fort Pierre to turn back since darkness was already overtaking him. Looking at the bent grass, he was sure he was getting close to Lance if he could just stay in the saddle.

He barely held the reins, but the large buckskin gelding kept moving, following the path left by the armed thief, turned attempted murderer. The problem Chad was trying to sort out was whether Lance would keep on going or stop for the night. Chad intended to catch up with him if he stopped, but if his quarry kept going, it was doubtful he would be able to stay in the saddle long enough to overtake him.

He had no alternative now but to keep going, hoping to capture Lance. Then he could address the wound in his shoulder. He fought to keep focused on staying in the saddle and what lay ahead of him. But, despite all he could do, he found himself slumping, his head falling towards Buck’s neck.

Chad made an effort to sit up straight. The effort caused him severe pain. In fact, every movement brought pain. The pain made it hard to focus, as did the rays of the setting sun. He thought he detected the outline of trees on the horizon. Hopefully, it was the sign of water, a creek or spring perhaps; it wouldn’t matter. He and Buck needed hydration badly.

The wind had picked up as the evening began to close and brought with it a drop in temperature. It was that time of day when the cold mountain air blew down onto the prairie, cooling the sun-drenched land. Perhaps it was the loss of blood or the great pain from the wound, but Chad felt a cold shiver pass through his body and concluded he might be going into shock, a dangerous predicament indeed.

He glanced over his head to check the sky. When he had started on Lance’s trail, the sky had been bright blue and clear; now, it was darkening to a slate color with fast-moving, ominous clouds. He thought he felt moisture in the wind. He wanted to reach behind him and untie his oilskin, but the pain from his shoulder wouldn’t let him. It was definitely growing colder, and this time, the chill ran up his leg to his neck. He pulled the wide-brimmed felt hat down closer to his eyes. He was thankful Nancy had insisted he take a wool scarf in case the weather turned cold, which it had. He pulled the wrap tightly against his neck.

The trees he had seen were closer now and seemed to ring a body of water. The spring, if that’s what it was, formed on a slope slightly to his right. He couldn’t see a campfire but there was a smell of something stronger than prairie grass. He tilted his head up a little and filled his lungs full of air through his nostrils, somehow ignoring the pain it caused in his shoulder. Yes, he smelled coffee. It had to be hot and close by to smell that wonderful.

The idea of drinking a tin of hot coffee from Lance’s campsite ended in a shudder of despair. There was no way he could muster the strength to physically take on Lance; so, he would have to try to stay on Buck. If Lance did not surrender, but raised his weapon, then a well-aimed shot from the Spencer would end it, and that would be that.

Slowly, the marshal moved up the gently sloping hill towards the trees and the rich aroma of hot coffee. Chad stopped his horse well short of the smell’s source. Dark was rapidly approaching, and whoever was boiling coffee had what little light remained in the sky behind him. If it was Lance, and Chad was sure it must be, he would be better off waiting until full darkness came to make his final approach. He sat still, willing himself to hold on to the pommel and reins, watching the light flee the prairie until the trees were just dots against the hill’s backdrop.

The moon would be up before long, and perhaps if the sky cleared, some stars. Maybe the clouds would cover the moon, and it would be truly dark, which would be better for him. He hoped any rain would be late in arriving. There was a soft golden glow across the spring for a few moments, and then the last rays were gone. The dim, flickering light from the small campfire barely reached out twenty feet, so Chad felt confident that he and Buck were unseen further back in the darkness.

He struggled with the coldness of the wind, but knew the breeze was keeping the insects swarming from the trees and water off of him and Buck.

He fought the pain shooting down his arm. He felt for his Spencer and located it under his right leg. He pulled the carbine out of its scabbard and lay it across the saddle’s pommel. Buck sniffed the air floating down from the camp again. A slight trace of smoke mixed with the aroma of coffee was now detectable to both their nostrils. The smell of the coffee made Chad even thirstier.

Chad pondered his next move. Lance must think he finished me off. He certainly knocked me off my horse. I guess I looked dead. Well, he’s got another think coming. I may be in pain, but I’m not dead, not yet, anyway. He’s alone; all I have to do is let him get to sleep and then surprise him. I’ll clean out this wound in the creek or spring and take him back to Fort Pierre unless he forces me to do something else. The shape I’m in, it might be best if he does cause a gunfight. I can bury him here if I can’t get him up on his horse.