“Where was he shot?”
“In the back, just inside the shoulder blade, I think,” McKenna said.
The doctor opened Garcia’s shirt. “That’s not good,” he said.
“What?”
“The bullet didn’t go all the way through him. It’s still inside. I need you to turn him over so I can have a look. And do it carefully. It is going to be quite painful for him.”
With help from McKenna and Moran, Garcia was turned over, but the doctor was correct in suggesting that it would be painful, and Garcia grimaced as they moved him.
“Well, he’s lucky in one thing,” the doctor said. “I don’t think there’s any festering. But, I expect he has lost a lot of blood, and like I said, the bullet is going to have to come out.”
“Hell, why bother?” Pogue asked. “He’s goin’ to die anyhow, ain’t he?”
“Probably,” the doctor agreed. “But it’s not an absolute. I can at least try.”
“You want to waste your time on him, go right ahead,” Pettigrew said.
Turning, Pogue saw the doctor’s wife standing close by. “Lady, I ain’t seen you put no more pork chops in that skillet,” he said.
“I don’t have any more pork chops,” the doctor’s wife answered, her voice quivering with fear.
“Well what have you got?”
“Fix them some bacon, Pearl. We’ve got a whole slab of bacon,” the doctor said.
“Is bacon all right?” Pearl asked.
“Hell, bacon is fine. Just get to cookin’ it,” Pogue said.
“I have a basket of fresh eggs, maybe two dozen or more. I can scramble them. And I have a couple of loaves of bread I baked yesterday, if that’s all right. I had no idea there would be so many to feed.”
“Woman, quit talkin’ so much and get to cookin’,” Shaw said.
“And, don’t forget,” Malcolm added, “there are two more outside.”
“Actually, whenever my husband doctors a person, I have to help. I’ll cook you some food as soon as he is through attending to his patient.”
Pogue pulled his pistol and pointed it at Garcia, who, by now, had passed out.
“Well hell, if that’s all that’s stoppin’ you, I can take of that. I’ll just shoot the son of a bitch now and get it over with.”
The doctor stepped between Pogue and Garcia. “If you shoot him, you’re goin’ to have to shoot me, too,” he said.
“Hell, that’s all right by me,” Pogue said easily.
“And me,” Pearl said, stepping in front of her husband.
“I don’t have no problem with that, either,” Pogue said, and he cocked his pistol.
“No, Pogue,” Pettigrew said. “You ain’t goin’ to shoot either one of ’em.”
Malcolm, who had been surprised by the sudden turn of events, was glad that Pettigrew had spoken up. He didn’t want to shoot the doctor and his wife, but it wasn’t because of any sense of compassion. He knew that if they did kill the doctor and his wife, the entire territory would be after them. He wondered for a moment how he had gotten himself into this position. He had come to America to deal with one man, and though he had no real police authority, he did have some cover for what he was doing because Duff MacCallister was wanted back in Scotland. That was before. Now, he was an outlaw pure and simple, a bank robber, a party to murder, and in league with the most disreputable bunch of men he had ever known, or even heard about.
Malcolm was supposed to be in charge, but was he? He knew that he had no wish to challenge these men— especially Shaw, Pogue, or Pettigrew. He was glad that, on this issue at least, that of not killing the doctor and or his wife, Pettigrew was on his side.
Pogue looked at the defiant doctor and his equally defiant wife for a moment longer, then he eased the hammer back down. “All right, have it your way. McKenna, you fix the food.”
“Why me?”
“Why you? ’Cause you’re the one that was so determined to get Garcia to a doctor. Now, fix the damn food like I told you to.”
Pogue’s voice was cold and demanding.
“All right, all right,” McKenna mumbled.
“Doc, you got yourself a brave woman there,” Pogue said. “She’s pretty, too. Makes a fella wonder how someone like you ever managed to come up with a woman like that.”
When the doctor didn’t answer, Pogue smiled at both of them, then left them and walked over to join the others. By now McKenna had carved off several pieces of bacon and they were twitching and dancing in the frying pan.
The doctor slapped Garcia in the face.
“Here, what did you do that for?” Moran asked.
“I have to wake him up,” the doctor said. “I have to give him some laudanum. He’s goin’ to need it when I start probing for the bullet.”
