Crucifixion River

“That’ll do. Also sulphur powder, if you have that.”

She nodded and hurried away.

Rachel Kraft had recovered from her faint and was sitting up, staring at us with horrified eyes. “Joe,” she said. “Oh, God, don’t let him die.”

“He’s not going to die,” I said with more conviction than I felt.

She moaned, made an effort to stand, failed, and began to crawl toward us. Nesbitt grasped her arms and drew her to her feet. She cried out in protest, struggled for a moment, and suddenly went limp again. Not the sort of woman one could rely upon in a crisis such as this.

Murdock asked me: “Can he be moved?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“We’ll take him into one of the guest rooms.”

I stood and moved aside as he and Mr. Nesbitt lifted the injured man. Nesbitt had helped Rachel Kraft to a chair by the fire; she was conscious again, but inert, and she wore the glazed look of deep shock. James Shock still stood by the table, and, as I followed the men carrying Hoover, I glanced at the peddler. He was smiling faintly, his gaze fixed and thoughtful. He didn’t seem particularly affected by the fact that he had just killed a man, and it made me wonder if he had killed before. Whether he had or not, the man’s coldness, his unctuousness, his conviction that all women would fall prey to his superficial charm, repelled me.

The men laid young Hoover on the guest room bed. With Mr. Murdock’s help, I removed the wounded man’s coat and shirt. Sophie Murdock came with towels, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a package of sulfur powder. Laudanum, too, for pain relief afterward. “The water’s heating,” she said. “It won’t be long.”

“The knife will have to be sterilized.”

“Yes. I have it in another pan on the stove.”

I used a towel to sponge blood from the wound. It was as I’d surmised from my cursory examination in the common room-serious but not necessarily life-threatening. Hoover moaned and his eyelids fluttered, then popped open. Pain clouded his eyes, but he managed to focus on me.

“Rachel,” he whispered.

“Lie still, Mister Hoover.”

“I have to know…she all right?”

“Yes. Unharmed.”

“Kraft?”

“He’s dead,” Murdock said. “The peddler, Shock, shot him.”

Hoover muttered something, a sound of satisfaction, and his body relaxed and his eyes closed again.

I drew the Murdocks aside. “We’ll need a bottle of whiskey,” I said. “For anaesthesia. I can’t probe into him unless he’s partially sedated and held still.”

“I’ll get it,” Murdock said.

“Another lamp, too. More light.”

The three of them hurried out, leaving me alone with Hoover. He looked so young and vulnerable, lying there- like one of my own sons. He may have been a thief, as that man Kraft had said, but he was personable and he seemed genuinely to care for Rachel Kraft.

The Murdocks returned with the rest of the items I had requested. I positioned them, one on either side of the bed. Murdock lifted Hoover’s head and administered a large dose of whiskey. I sponged more blood from the wound, cleaned it with alcohol-he groaned again but lay still-and then stood staring at the sterilized kitchen knife gleaming on a cloth beside the pan of boiled water. My hand was not steady and perspiration beaded my forehead.

Sophie Murdock looked keenly at me, her tired eyes searching mine. “You’ve never had cause to do this before, have you?”

“No.” My voice was as unsteady as my hand.

“But you have assisted with similar procedures.”

“Yes…once.”

“Then you’ll manage. Won’t she, Thomas?”

“I have no doubt of it,” he said.

I drew several deep breaths. Mrs. Murdock was right-I would manage to do what was necessary to save this young man’s life. I would because I must.

My hand no longer trembled when I reached out for the knife.

James Shock

After the wounded wife stealer was carried out, I ambled over for a look at the gent I’d shot. Drilled dead center above the bridge of the nose, by grab. Never knew what hit him. Never expected a banjo-strumming peddler to have a hideout gun, or in the blink of an eye to draw and fire with perfect aim. He wasn’t the first to suffer the consequences of underestimating James Shock, and like as not he wouldn’t be the last.

As I turned away, the Murdock girl, Annabelle, came near and caught hold of my arm. Her face was bloodless, but nonetheless attractive for her fright. She wouldn’t look at the dead man; her eyes were all for me. “That was a brave thing you did, Mister Shock,” she said, all breathless. “Truly it was.”

I smiled down at her. Her body was pressed so tightly against my arm I could feel the swell of her breasts. What a sweet little piece she was, all tender and dewy-eyed and ripe for the picking. But not by me, alas. Not in these surroundings and under these circumstances. Underage she was, too. Jailbait. Pity.

“I couldn’t let him fire his weapon a second time,” I said. “He might’ve shot someone else…even you, my dear.”

I felt her shiver and squeeze tighter, tight enough to bring a stir to my loins. Seventeen and surely a virgin. I sighed, licking my lips, and reluctantly eased her away from me. No sense in allowing such warm flesh to torment me, eh? Besides, I had more important matters on my mind. Percolating there, you might say.

Murdock and the sharp-eyed gent named Nesbitt returned from wherever they’d carried Hoover. Annabelle stepped farther away from me as Nesbitt approached. Murdock went to the buffet for a bottle of whiskey, then picked up one of the coal-oil lamps. Annabelle said to him, dipping her chin in the direction of the dead man: “Dad, will you please take…that outside. He…it’s making me ill.”

“I can’t right now. Nesbitt?”

“Shock and I will do it.”

I shrugged. “For the lady’s sake, yes.”

“We’ll put him in the barn.”

“All that distance in this weather? Why not just lay him out front?”

“Cold, aren’t you, Shock?”

“Not at all, brother. Practical is the word. After the way he busted in here, a raging threat to all of us, his remains don’t deserve consideration.”

“The barn. Come on, let’s get it done.”

Well, I might have argued with him, but I held my tongue. Peace and harmony, now the crisis was ended-that was the ticket. I shrugged and winked at Annabelle and went to put on my rain gear.

And out we went into the storm, my hands full of the dead rancher’s scuffed boots, and across a mud field to the barn. The stage driver had gone back out there earlier to sleep in his coach and the storm had prevented him from hearing the gunfire. He woke up quickly when we came staggering in and laid the corpse in one of the empty stalls. Nesbitt gave him a terse explanation of the events inside. Dell said he’d fetch Kraft’s horse and went out to do that.

On one knee, Nesbitt ran his hands over Kraft’s clothing. Searching for a wallet or purse, mayhap, but he found nothing of the sort. When he stood up again, he said: “You’re quite a marksman, aren’t you, Shock? For an itinerant peddler.”

“A man’s profession has little to do with his ability with firearms.”

“True enough. Still, it was pretty risky, firing as you did in there. Suppose you’d missed?”

“But I didn’t miss.”