After supper at a nearby cafe, Tilghman returned to the saloon. There, with one eye on the hotel, he engaged several men in conversation. Casually, as though making small talk, he commented on the number of bums traveling the country these days. Other men picked up on the subject, and before long he learned that Burden had a new bum. The man had attracted attention because of his game leg, and the fact that he was rarely seen during the day. He was around mainly at night, and even then not for long. One moment he was on the street, and the next, he was gone.
Late that night, Tilghman walked back to his hotel. He was now fairly sure that the tramp was in fact Bill Doolin. The way it appeared, Doolin was camped somewhere outside town, out of sight. He apparently came into Burden only at night, probably to visit his wife. Which raised the question of how he got into her hotel room without being seen. Beyond that was the greater question of why they were still in town. What was holding them in Burden?
Tilghman got the answer in part the next day. Around midmorning he resumed his spot at the bar, keeping watch on the hotel. A short while later Edith Doolin emerged from the hotel, carrying her baby. He gave her a short lead, then followed as she proceeded uptown. At the main intersection, she turned east, and a block down the street, she entered a one-story frame house. He strolled past, and suddenly the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. A doctor’s shingle hung on the wall beside the front door.
Downstreet, near a feed store, Tilghman waited beneath the shade of a tree. A half hour later, when Edith Doolin emerged from the doctor’s office, he trailed her back to the hotel. All doubt had been erased as to why she and Doolin remained in town. Either she or her baby was ill, and required care by a physician. When care was no longer required, he felt certain they would depart Burden. Which left him with an immediate problem. He had to locate the tramp.
And positively identify him as Bill Doolin.
CHAPTER 33
The campfire smoldered, all but dead. Doolin sat with a cup of coffee, staring into the embers. Dark had fallen, and the glow of the coals lighted his features. His expression was one of troubled deliberation.
Four days had passed since he’d first made camp at the spring. Yet there had been little or no improvement in his wife’s condition. The bleeding, though slight, showed no signs of stopping. The doctor had no cure, and seemingly, only the most basic of medical advice. She had to have bed rest.
Doolin was genuinely concerned. There had been many women in his life, from lusty young farm girls to cowtown whores. But Edith was the first one who had ever touched the core of emotion that lay buried deep within him. Touched him to such an extent that he had gladly married her, and been happier still when she gave him a son. He dreaded the thought that she might need an operation.
Along with the dread, there was anger. Doolin’s plans for California, and a new life, were now at a standstill. Looking back, it was as though all the scheming to get her safely out of Oklahoma Territory had been for nothing. They were stranded in Kansas, and according to Dr. Bailey, the local sawbones, no idea when it might end. Whether fate, or simple bad luck, it reaffirmed what he’d been brooding on for the past couple of days. Something always seemed to go wrong.
Mulling it over now, Doolin saw no ready solution. He was determined that he wouldn’t leave without Edith and the baby, and yet the risk grew with each passing day. Sooner or later someone was bound to stumble across his camp in the grove and begin asking questions. For that matter, people in town were already curious about his strange comings and goings. He’d seen it in the faces of men he passed on the street, the regulars who frequented the saloon across from the hotel. Their curiosity would lead to idle speculation, and eventually, the kind of talk that spread. A bum who hung around too long just naturally drew attention.
Doolin tried to offset the risk by varying his schedule. He went into town after dark, and each night he’d made it a point to arrive at a different hour. Still, whether early or late, there was no way to avoid being seen. There were always people on the street, and by now, many of them had begun to recognize him on sight. He’d made only one trip during the day, to replenish food supplies for his camp. But that had been one too many times, and he grew warier each time he set out for town. Luck could be stretched just so far.
Tonight, some three hours after dark, Doolin prepared to leave. After checking that his horse was secured to the picket line, he doused the fire with water from the spring. Then he moved through the trees in what had become a nightly journey into his own personal hell. The two-mile hike into town was an exercise in torture every step of the way. His left foot felt as if thousands of barbed quills had been jabbed through nerves and flesh, and now pressed against bone. He hobbled off across the darkened prairie.
Three days ago, at his wife’s insistence, Doolin had gone to see Dr. Bailey. Following a long and painful examination, the physician had told him what he already knew. The bullet wound had
