She felt a jolt of panic as she looked into his wandering, questioningeyes. She scrambled to untangle herself from beneath the Apache, finally managing to roll him over just as the ranch hand rushed up the steps to help.
âOh, my god, Henryâs been shot! Teddy, go get some men, hitch up a team, and bring the buckboard around. We have to get him to the doctor before he bleeds to death. Scoot!â
Teddy Olander, a twenty-year-old kid from Arkansas sheâd hired only a week before, and the one whoâd scared the shooter away, nearly tripped over his own feet as he lit a shuck for the bunkhouse, shouting as he went. Three cowboys tumbled out of their bunks and scrambled to see what all the yelling was about.
âHenryâs been gunned down by some scoundrel that tried to shoot Miss Emily. Get the buckboard hitched up and be damned quick about it!â
For a brief moment, as the seriousness of the situation slowly sank into the suddenly awakened cowhands, they stood in stunned silence, trying to rub the sleep from their eyes. Then, one must have caught on, and he broke ranks, pulled his suspenders up, and stumbled toward the corral. That was sufficient for the others to scatter in search of their part in the job at hand.
Emily carried several blankets from the house and placed them in the bed of the buckboard. She rolled a couple up to place on either side so the Indian wouldnât be jolted so badly that the bleeding would increase, cutting his chances for survival even further. They all helped lift the old Apache onto the blankets as gently as rough, calloused cowhands could be expected to do.
âTeddy, you drive. Iâll stay back here with Henry and try to stop as much bleeding as I can.â
Teddy slapped the reins like a hardened teamster as the horses strained at their traces, thundering through the front gate and out onto the road toward Apache Springs. Emily held Henryâs head up, while attempting to stop the blood from flowing by pressing a wetted compress against the wound as best she could. She prayed Henry would live asthe buckboard bounced and rattled along the rutted road.
Cotton, I need you. Please come home.
As the straining, heavily lathered team thundered down the Old Hill Road and slid around a corner onto the main street of town, Emily was already screaming for the doctor. Teddy yanked the reins back and pushed as hard as he could on the foot brake to stop the buckboard. It shuddered to its final last few skidding feet right outside the Dr. John Wintersâs office porch.
âWhat in tarnation is all the fuss about, woman? Oh, itâs you, Miss Emily, sorry.â
Doc Winters was wearing his usual baggy, wrinkled pants held up with suspenders. Along with the top to his long johns, which appeared to have been washed less than regularly. In his hand was a half-empty bottle of whiskey, which he tried to move behind him but failed. Emilyâs eyes immediately shot to the bottle then to the doctor, whose stance was unsteady at best.
âWhateverâs in that bottle better be medicinal, Doc, or youâre about to wish it was. Iâve got a badly wounded man here and he needs tendinâ to. And not by some drunk. You up to it or do I have to hold a gun to your head?â
Doc Winters was at once embarrassed at the dressing down heâd just received. He could find no words to rebut her condemnation. He was a drunk. Had been for years. Truth be known, heâd never made an attempt to change, either.
âGet your man inside, Miss Emily. Iâll be just fine. You can keep your gun tucked in that holster. Whoâs been shot?â
âHenry Coyote.â
âThe Injun?â
âYeah. That gonna be a problem?â
âUh, well, uh, no, I reckon not. Never operated on no Injun before, though.â
âDonât worry none about that, Doc. He is no different than any other man. He bleeds when heâs wounded, and hedies when he
Richard Murray Season 2 Book 3