Shootout at the Spring
Episode Two
Thinking of Fort Pierre took his thoughts to Nancy when they first heard about the bank robbery. What would she be thinking? They had been eating breakfast together when the news of the robbery came with an urgent knock on their door. The loud knock instinctively caused Chad to jump up from the table. It was one of the bank tellers. He was so excited it took several seconds before Chad could make sense of what the messenger was saying.
From the teller’s description, Chad thought he knew the robber. Not personally, but from a notice that had recently come to his office. It was on the wall with the other posters, so he told the teller to meet him there.
He quickly grabbed the possibles bag he kept near the door. Nancy followed him to the door, anxiety changing to fear with every breath. “What are you going to do?” she asked in a whisper as he donned his hat.
“Catch the bank robber,” he had answered.
“How long…?
“Until he’s captured or dead. Either way, I’ll be back.”
“Take your heavy wool scarf in case the weather turns bad. Hold me, Chad, hold me tight before you leave.”
And so, he had held her for a moment. It seemed longer then than it did now. How long would it be before he held her again? Would he be able to make it back? He knew he was weak and growing weaker. The dodger in his saddlebag spoke of how dangerous Lance Powell was. Dead or alive, it said. The teller had identified Lance as the robber, and Chad went straight to the stable to saddle Buck.
I should have gotten a posse together. I’m sure I could have. Why did I insist on being a hero? It’s my job, but that doesn’t mean the community can’t help. Next time, I’ll know better.
I shouldn’t take chances, he thought; there was no need to. There would be no glory or reward in bringing the bank robber back to stand trial. The best thing would be to shoot him and return his body or bury him right there; it would be easier on me, considering the wound, and everyone but Lance would be happy.
He tried to shake the vision of Nancy standing in the doorway, tears running down her cheeks. She would have worked at the hotel during the day and then dined alone. He hoped she could sleep that night. Sooner or later, it would have come to this. It’s what marshals’ wives lived with every day and why so many marshals never married. The fact that it was their first forced separation made it harder.
The sun slid behind the distant western mountains for good while the rising moon and stars hid behind the clouds. The wind picked up, blowing now at a slant. He felt moisture again; this time, the moisture stung like small needles. The particles felt like sleet, mingled with wet snow.
In his haste to catch Lance, he had forgotten his gloves, and his hands were chafing in the increasing cold. Pain or no pain, he had to put his oilskin slicker on. Fighting to keep his balance, he reached behind himself with his right hand and tugged at the straps holding the rain cover.
He tried to put his left hand into the sleeve but found the pain too intense. He struggled with the oilskin constantly trying to minimize the noise it was beginning to make as it was being pulled by the wind. Tugging with his right hand, Chad finally got the covering over his shoulders and pulled together in the front. He used his heels to urge Buck forward. The tall buckskin moved steadily towards the barely visible trees. The horse also wanted some cover from the wind and sleet. The soft grass and the sound of the wind blowing unabated covered their approach. Chad rode right up to the figure lying on the ground and wrapped in a blanket covered by a tarp.
Chad held the carbine so that the barrel pointed directly at the man on the ground; he was trembling too much to aim the Spencer. Chad spoke loud enough to be heard over the wind, “Wake up, Lance; don’t go for your gun or I’ll shoot you where you lie.”
The figure on the ground slowly lifted the tarp covering his body and head. He kept both hands in full view.
“Hold on mister…careful there. Who is Lance, and who are you?” the awakened stranger asked.
Chad’s left hand grabbed the pommel of his saddle; the Spencer bobbled in his right. He sought words, but pain and exhaustion, coupled with the loss of blood, overcame him. His body slumped forward, the carbine slipping out of his grasp and landing next to Buck’s front hooves. The usually steady mount jumped, causing Chad to slide the rest of the way to the grass to land in a sprawled heap.
The young man under the tarp jumped to his feet and, despite the cold sleet, covered the few feet between himself and the unconscious marshal without the benefit of boots.
He grabbed Chad under his arms, which caused the marshal to cry out. The stranger carefully lifted him up enough to drag him to the blanket. He lay Chad down on his warm bedding. Chad cried out again when the stranger moved his shoulder; the severity of the pain sent him back into shock and silence.
Looks like you’ve got a bad wound, fellow. Soon as I get my boots on, I’ll try to get us a fire going. I covered some wood with my pack tarp before I went to bed. Maybe one of the limbs will make a torch. What’s that on your shirt? Oh, a star. You’re a lawman and a near-dead one at that. I actually need a live lawman, so you rest easy, and I’ll see what I can do to bring you back to the land of the living.
A crackling fire was soon giving light and warmth. The young cowboy, whose sleep had been interrupted, took care of Buck and tied him to a young cottonwood next to his own two horses. He lit a short, broken limb and, using the faint light, carried a canteen up to the spring and filled it. He removed Chad’s leather vest and used his skinning knife to cut the blood-matted flannel shirt away from Chad’s shoulder. The bullet hole was just below the collarbone.
Chad was still unconscious. His breathing continued somewhat regular, but Chad occasionally interrupted it with low groans. The cowboy hoped the marshal would remain in that state for a while longer. He cleaned the wound’s surface and poured the clear water into the hole itself. A piece of cloth and attached flesh came up out of the hole.
He held the knife’s blade in the fire until it was red hot and then let it cool a little. He slowly stuck the point of the blade into the wound. Half an inch in he hit the spent lead. Chad jerked and cried out, his eyes opening wide in terror and then closing as he passed out again.
You’re lucky, Marshal. I can reach that offender without making a large cut. Just hang on.
Chad was squirming, his arms thrashing about in answer to the pain the cowboy was causing. Should have tied you down, Marshal. Just hold on a minute longer and it’ll all be over. I’ll leave you alone once the bullet is out. The knife blade went back into the wound, slowly sliding down the edge of the bullet. Chad screamed and then lay completely still.
The cowboy grunted as he twisted and pried at the bullet; the piece of lead moved. The flickering torch gave just enough light for the wielder of the knife to see the wound itself. Slowly, the small caliber bullet rose to the surface. Using his thumb and index finger of his left hand, the cowboy grasped the top edge of the bullet and pulled.
The bullet popped out, followed by blood rising behind it. He grabbed a piece of Chad’s shirt, pushed it on top of the wound, and held it there. He wished he had some spider webs to place over the opening he had made. Perhaps that could be done once daylight returned. Chad did not move, his body giving the appearance of a dead man.
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