CHAPTER NINETEEN

He healed slowly; it was as if his wounded psyche found it harder to mend than the torn flesh. He drifted on the twilight tide between life and death, yearning for a safe harbor. Mike wandered in and out of the sickroom, his shoulder bandaged, his face fraught with worry for his friend.

The wounded man reveled in his presence, the mere fact that the boy was alive a source of lifegiving warmth. Slim stayed in the background, quietly supportive, lending them his strength and Daisy hovered over the two patients, changing bandages and cajoling them to eat.

Jess, meanwhile, kept his feverish thoughts to himself. In his waking moments, when he was alone, he had nightmarish visions of what the future would hold. He was a gunfighter; his reputation would precede him to the next town, and the next. It was a future of drifting from one place to another, always looking over his shoulder towards an end that would inevitably come on some lonely street, in a hail of bullets.

He thought of the kindness and friendship Daisy and Mike extended him, and he thought of Slim. He remembered the man’s stricken face as he bent to dig Johnny Tyrell’s slug out of his body. The lanky young rancher with the ready grin had stayed close the first week, when Jess’s life hung in the balance. He sat at his bedside, and had laid his own calloused hand over Jess’ and left it there, his eyes filled with concern and sadness.

Jess cared little whether he lived or died at one point, but the members of the Sherman household gave him no peace. They hovered around him, alternately pleading and threatening. In the end he was too weak to fight them all, and in sheer selfdefense he gradually turned to corner towards recovery.

*****

Jess had trouble getting his boots with only one hand, but after some swearing and hopping around on one foot he finally managed, and padded into the kitchen. There was no one about, which was just as well. Daisy would have his hide if she saw him on his feet.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror, and grimaced at the gaunt face that stared back at him. Slim had shaved him yesterday, so at least he didn’t look like a complete wildman anymore. Knees shaking, he stubbornly made his way towards the front door. His gunbelt hung in the usual place, but he stopped short when he saw the empty holster. The last time he’d seen, or even cared about his gun was when he’d reached for it in a last ditch attempt to bring down Tyrell’s hired hands. Where the hell was it? Not that it would do him much good at the moment, with his hand still in a splint.

He made his way out on the porch, and with a grateful sigh he sank down in one of the rocking chairs Slim kept there. His legs would barely carry him, and he was already sweating with the effort. He leaned back, enjoying the fresh air after being cooped up in the bedroom; his eyes drifted shut.

When Doctor Collier pulled up in his buggy an hour later he found him fast asleep. He didn’t see anyone else around, and eyed his patient speculatively. Mrs. Cooper had been right, bless the woman, when she said Mike would prove the catalyst to Jess’ recovery. ‘His physical recovery, at least,’ he amended wryly. The man was still weak, and in some pain, but the danger had long since passed.

Collier grabbed his medical bag, and climbed down from the buggy. He put a hand on Jess’ bare shoulder, warm from the sun, and shook him gently.

Jess started and opened his eyes. He looked into the doctor’s worried, craggy face, and rubbed a hand across his face.

“Hey, Doc,” he yawned. “Must’ve dozed off.”

“Who told you you could get out of bed?” Collier asked sternly, and peered at Jess. His keen eyes didn’t miss the shadows under his patient’s eyes, nor the perspiration on his brow.

“Take it easy, Doc, remember I’m a sick man,” Jess grinned and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll be glad to get rid of this thing.” He held up his right hand, still encased in a splint and bandages. The doctor followed him into the house, and sat him down in a chair by the kitchen table.

“Where is the rest of the family?” Collier inquired as he laid out his instruments on a clean towel.

Jess shrugged. “Don’t know, they were gone when I woke up. Mike was feelin’ pretty chipper yesterday, so they may have taken him down to his trout stream; it’s his favorite spot in the whole world, apparently.”

He tried to ignore the cold knot of apprehension in his gut when the doctor took hold of his right arm. The physician cut swiftly through the bandages and the splint fell away. Jess stared down at his devastated hand; it lay there grey and lifeless, the fingers thin and wasted after weeks of being trapped. It seemed an alien thing, no longer a part of him. He raised his eyes, and met the doctor’s searching gaze.

“Well, Jess? Try and move your fingers.”

Jess held his breath and channeled what little strength he had into moving his fingers. Nothing happened, and an ice cold wave of panic swept over him. He tried again and suddenly his index finger jerked spasmodically, sending knife sharp pain lancing through him. He bit back a yelp.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Collier said, satisfied. “That’s a good sign. Come on, try it again.”

Clenching his teeth, Jess complied. Sweat coursed down his face as he tried to make a fist. His perception of the world around him narrowed down to this useless part of his body, and to a mindnumbing pain.

“Ah…I can’t…” he grated, and gripped the edge of the table with his good hand.

“Yes, you can,” the doctor snapped. “Now do it!”

A strangled sound, somewhere between a groan and a sob escaped Jess as he bent his head over his useless hand. He dredged up strength from somewhere, and as his vision blurred with agonized tears, he forced the tip of his fingers to curl slightly.

“All right, that’s enough for now,” Collier said swiftly, and took hold of his hand.

Jess felt himself slipping, and the kindly doctor experienced a wrench of pity for him. The worst was yet to come, weeks of painful therapy to get his hand working again. And there was still no way to tell if it would ever be as good as it had been.

“Easy, son, don’t pass out of me now,” he admonished as Jess sagged forward. Collier got up and fetched a glass of water. “Here, drink this.” He held the glass to Jess’ lips and watched as he gulped down the cool water.

Jess wiped the sweat off his face with the towel the Doctor handed him, trying to control the shaking. He drew a shuddering breath; gradually the room faded back into focus. Doc Collier’s concerned face hovered over him.

“Jess?”

“I’m…all right…Doc,” Jess gasped.

Collier reached for his hand again, gently taking hold of his fingers. He was about to say something when they heard a buckboard pull up outside. Slim and Daisy came in with Mike trotting along hard on their heels. His shoulder had healed nicely, and he carried four trout proudly on a string.

“Hey, Jess! Look what I got us for supper!” he yelled excitedly.

“Doctor Collier,” Daisy said worriedly. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“I had a call to make at the Lawson place, figured I might as well stop by,” Collier explained. “Time the splint came off.”

Slim saw that Jess was ashen with pain. He looked down at the shattered hand lying immobile on the table, saw how pitifully thin and wasted it was.

“How’s it goin’, Jess?” he asked casually, his throat constricting with empathy.

“Doc here…doesn’t believe in…lettin’ a man off easy,” Jess said weakly.

“I haven’t finished with you yet, Jess,” the Doctor said. “Sorry, but it’s got to be done in order to determine how extensive the damage is. Just hang in there a little longer.”

“Mike, why don’t you go out back and clean your fish,” Daisy said quickly. “I’ll make us some lemonade in the meantime.”

While she bustled about the kitchen, Collier motioned Slim to sit down.

“Jess, I’m going to work each of your fingers to check for nerve damage,” he said. “Slim, pay close attention; you’ll have to help him with this every day for the next few weeks. The hand must not be allowed to stiffen. If it does, it’ll never be any good to him again.”

Slim nodded faintly, and put a supportive hand on Jess’ arm.

“Ready, Jess?”

“I reckon.”

The next few minutes were the most merciless that Jess could remember ever having been through. Collier manipulated each of his fingers slowly, forcing them to curl, and then straightening them out, tugging gently at them, and bending his hand into a fist. The muscles in Jess’ neck and shoulders knotted as he fought the waves of pain and nausea that washed over him.

At one point he wanted to throw back his head and scream, wildly and uncontrolled, but the only sound that wrenched its way past his teeth was a shuddering moan. Daisy came and stood behind him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Aching with pity she smoothed the damp curls off his forehead.

“Once more, Jess,” the doctor said softly. He knew the agony he was causing, but it had to be done if the man was ever to regain full use of his hand.

“For God’s sake, Doc,” Slim said, “is it necessary to…”

“I’m…okay, Slim,” Jess breathed, and blinked the sweat out of his eyes.

Collier went through the routine again, more quickly, wanting to get it over and done with; he felt like some medieval torturer. Jess gave up fighting back the tears; he hunched his shoulders as if to ward of a blow, and, in the end, he begged.

“Please…no…no more,” he whispered, “I can’t….please stop…”

Just as he felt the blackness threaten to swallow him, the doctor released his hand. Slim swallowed, the relief that it was over almost sickening. Jess leaned back in his chair, Daisy holding his head between her hands.

“It’s back to bed with you, young man,” the doctor said gruffly. “Sorry I had to be so rough, Jess, there was no other way.”

Jess found he hadn’t the strength to utter a word. Slim helped him to his feet, and holding him firmly with a sustaining arm around his shoulders, he led him into the bedroom. He eased him down on the bed and tucked a blanket around him. Jess held his limp right hand with his left, cradling it against his chest. He was shivering violently, as if in the grip of a raging fever.

“Easy, Jess,” Slim said gently and laid a hand against his cheek for a moment. “Easy. You’re gonna be all right.”

Jess held up his right hand, his mouth twisted in a disgusted grimace.

“Look at it, Slim!” he choked. “Look at it! It’s useless!”

ooo0ooo

CHAPTER TWENTY

For Jess the weeks following Collier’s visit blurred and wavered into an existence filled with unendurable pain that somehow had to be endured. He worked himself relentlessly through the therapy and exercises the doctor had outlined. Slim helped him as much as he could, but at one point even he couldn’t stomach the viciousness with which Jess drove himself.

There were days when Jess felt he could stand it no longer, when he despaired and it seemed his spirits could sink no lower. Daisy tried to ease his pain and discomfort by placing his aching hand in a basin of warm water, and subjecting it to a very gentle massage. She reflected that it was as much a massage of his broken hand as an attempt to heal his wounded spirit.

Jess had become so withdrawn that Slim wondered if the wildness in him would ever flare again. He didn’t want to believe that old man Tyrell had really managed to break him after all. The short tempered, fiery side of Jess’ nature had bothered him in the beginning, but he worried more about this solitary stranger with the haunted eyes. The warmth and humor that he knew was there seemed to have been quenched along with his fierce combativeness.

*****

“Daisy, have you seen my gun?” Jess asked, coming out of the bedroom. He buttoned up his faded blue shirt, and tucked it into his pants. He looked tanned and fit, but she knew his appearance hid the fatigue and pain that still dogged him.

“Why no, I haven’t,” she replied. “Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I saw it. Ask Slim when he gets back from town; he may have put it somewhere for safekeeping.”

“I know where it is,” Mike announced, looking up from his homework.

“Well, now, Tiger,” Jess drawled, “suppose you tell me.”

“You gonna do some practicin’?” Mike asked eagerly. “Can I come along and watch, huh? Please, Jess?”

“Mike!” Daisy said. “You have chores to do. Now tell Jess where the gun is.”

Jess saw the excitement fade from the mischievous face, and felt a sharp stab of regret. As he started to recover he had deliberately tried to keep the boy at an arm’s length. He could not forget that he had almost got him killed, and every time he saw him it brought back the bloody incident. Nor could he wipe out the memory of Matt Tyrell’s stricken face as he gazed down at his father’s body. At the time of the inquest Jess was still hovering between life and death. Matt had left Laramie immediately after it was over, taking the bodies of his father and brother back to Bowdrie for burial and Slim had not brought up his name again.

“Shucks!” Mike muttered. He got up and shuffled over to the fireplace, and removed a part of the mantel piece, reaching into a hollow behind it. He drew out the gun, carefully wrapped in oilcloth.

“Well, for goodness’ sake!” Daisy exclaimed. “Our old hiding place for the cookie jar money…I didn’t realize you knew about it, young man.”

“I know lotsa things, Aunt Daisy,” Mike grinned and handed Jess the weapon. “I saw Slim put it there a few days after all the ruckus.”

Jess held the gun gingerly in his left hand. Daisy watched him out of the corner of her eye as he stood looking down at it. It was the first time since he got hurt that he had held a gun in his hand. He transferred it to his right hand and almost dropped it. Had it always been that heavy?

He wrapped his fingers tentatively around the butt. Mike got his gunbelt down from the peg by the door, and handed it to him. Jess buckled it around his lean hips, and shoved the revolver into the holster. It had been second nature to him for so many years, yet now it was as if it no longer belonged to him. He glanced at Daisy, and she caught her breath at the bleakness in his eyes.

“I’ll be back in time for supper, Daisy,” he said heading for the door.

“Jess, don’t you think it’s too early to…” her voice trailed off. He was already out the door and unhitching his horse.

“I wish he’d let me go with him, Aunt Daisy” Mike said wistfully. “Maybe I could help him, or somethin’.”

“I think right now he’d rather be alone, Mike.” She tousled his hair. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of other times when he’ll be glad to have you along.”

Mike looked unconvinced, but with a sigh he settled back down to his homework.

*****

Jess drew rein at the top of the crest, and looked back at the ranch house. With the help of friends and neighbors the barn had been rebuilt and the late afternoon sun bathed the buildings in mellow golden tones. He rested his hand on his gun as he regarded the scene. It seemed years had passed since he’d first seen it, from the top of the stagecoach that stormy night, and yet it was only a few months ago. It was as if he’d been part of the Sherman household for an eternity; he might as well admit it to himself; he regarded that little spread down there as his home.

He gazed down at his hands, encased in the thin, black leather gloves he habitually wore. The cruel exercises had paid off, and the hand was growing stronger every day. It now remained to be seen if he could teach himself to handle a gun again. He shivered suddenly with apprehension, and nudged the buckskin into motion. A half hour later he reached a small clearing down by Sherman Lake; it was off the beaten track, so he wouldn’t be disturbed.

Jess withdrew the gun from the holster, and slowly loaded it. His right hand shook slightly, and he fumbled with the bullets. Swearing he slammed the last slug into the chamber, and thumbed back the hammer. He was appalled at how much strength it took, and how little he could muster. The gun wavered in his hand, and with an oath he pulled the trigger without picking a target. The shot echoed in his ears, and the recoil, slight as it was, throbbed through his hand. Jess let his arm hang down for a moment, shaking his head.

Squaring his shoulders, he gripped the gun firmly and brought it up again, zeroing in on the branch of a tree some twenty feet away. He squeezed the trigger gently, resisting the urge to jerk it. His right hand shook too much, and the shot went wild. The next time he steadied his right hand by resting it in his left palm, and the shot splintered the branch. For the next few hours he worked relentlessly, taking no time to rest. The smell of gunpowder stung his nose, and the ground was littered with spent shells, but he was slowly gaining ground. Some of the shots still went wild, but enough of them found their mark to offer him real hope.

He could barely manage a draw, though; the lightening swiftness that once had been his eluded him, at least for the moment. His hand would flash down with its usual speed, only to clumsily grip the gun, pulling it from the holster with agonizing slowness. The combination of gripping, palming and firing the revolver in one motion still caused him too much pain. During one try, he almost shot himself in the foot, and laughed in sheer frustration. The buckskin pricked up his ears and regarded him curiously. The pace was beginning to tell on Jess, his hand ached fiercely and he could barely hold the weapon steady long enough to pull the trigger.

An exasperated groan escaped him as he finally shoved the revolver back in the holster. He sank down on a fallen log, and rested his head in his hands; fatigue enveloped him. He raised his head when he heard a rider approaching, and saw Slim coming towards him. Jess was too tired to move, and raised a hand in weary greeting.

“Heard the shootin’,” Slim said and dismounted. “Don’t you think you’re pushing’ it a bit, Jess?”

“Maybe,” Jess murmured. “I had to try, Slim. I had to know if I could even hold a gun.”

“How’s the hand?” Slim asked, sitting down next to him on the log.

“It’s all right,” Jess said evasively. “A bit sore’s all.”

“Let’s have a look,” Slim held out his hand.

“I said it’s all right,” Jess said tersely.

Ignoring him, Slim grabbed his wrist and held it firmly. Jess winced involuntarily and tried to pull his hand away. Slim merely increased the pressure and Jess turned white. Grimfaced, Slim removed the glove; the fingers were red and swollen.

“Ah…easy, Slim!” Jess gasped.

Slim released him gently, and Jess turned away as he nursed his injured hand.

“Of all the mule-headed galoots!” Slim exploded, anger and concern in his face. “Jess, you could undo all the progress you’ve made so far if you push this too hard.”

Jess got up. He tucked his hand inside his shirt for support, and avoided looking at Slim. He didn’t want him to see how shaken he was.

“It’s getting’ on supper time, Slim,” he said and walked towards his horse.

Slim sat for a moment, watching him as he unhitched his horse and jumped into the stirrup. Even injured his movements were clean and contained, graceful as a cat. Sighing, he got to his feet and mounted up. He leaned forward and grabbed the bridle of Jess’ horse.

“Jess, listen to me,” he said quietly. “Your hand will heal, but you’ve got to take the time.”

“I can’t, Slim,” Jess murmured his voice almost inaudible, “I don’t have the time.”

Before Slim could ask him what he meant, he’d wheeled the buckskin around and kicked him into gallop.

*****

“How do, Jess!” Mose called cheerily as he guided the morning stage from Laramie into the yard.

“Mose, you made good time,” Jess grinned. He grabbed the mail pouch the old stage handler threw down to him. “I’ve got fresh coffee on the stove, and Daisy saved you a piece of pie.”

“There goes the waistline agin’,” Mose grumbled and followed him inside. “I swear t’ain’t fair the way that woman’s pies set on a body’s ribs. Say, where’s the rest of the folks?”

“In town,” Jess replied, and set out the coffee and pie. “I’m holdin’ the fort.”

Mose eyed him speculatively over the rim of his cup. He wondered if Jess had regained his proficiency with a gun, but hesitated to ask. He didn’t want to go prying into things that were maybe none of his concern, but he had come to regard Jess as a friend, and as such he fretted about him,

“You’re lookin’ a sight better’n last I saw ya,” he ventured as he dug into the apple pie.

“I’m mendin’ just fine,” Jess shrugged. The look on his face didn’t invite any further comments.

“That shore hit the spot,” Mose sighed as he refilled his coffee cup. He wiped at a few stray pie crumbs that stuck on his jaw. “Say, Jess, you remember young Matt Tyrell, dontcha?”

Jess glanced up sharply, his brow furrowed,

“Er…yeah, shore ya do,” Mose muttered, “dumb question. He seemed like a good kid, ya know; shore is a shame the way things are turnin’ out fer him.”

“What do you mean?” Jess asked quickly, a chill shiver running down his back as ghosts from the past reached out for him.

“I heered a lotta talk ‘bout him when I took a run to Bowdrie last week,” Mose said. “Ya know how word gits around. Seems things’ve gone downhill for him since he came back from Laramie. Folks say he’s takin’ to drinkin’, lettin’ the Rocking T go to rack and ruin. Lost the contract with the army ‘cause the roundup got started too late. Someone beat him to it; reckon his Pa was too busy tryin’ to kill you, Jess t’worry ‘bout the ranch. There’s even a rumor goin’ ‘round that his ramrod’s rustlin’ off some of the stock, but Tyrell don’t seem to care none, one way or t’other.”

Jess listened in stony silence; the knot of despair he’d carried in his gut these past weeks now twisted his insides. Matt Tyrell had been on his mind a lot lately. It was as if something was left unfinished from that fateful shootout with his father. He remembered how clean-cut and straight the kid had been, willing to face down his father with a gun rather than see him try to subvert justice once again.

What could have happened to change him so completely? Jess swallowed hard, realizing that whatever had gone wrong in Bowdrie was probably as much his fault as anyone else’s.

“Maybe he’s just followin’ in his brothers’ footsteps,” he said with a thin smile, masking the effect Mose’s words hand on him.

“Mebbe so, but he shore didn’t seem the type,” Mose shook his head. “Still, ain’t no tellin’ which way folks’ll go when they’re pushed too far.”

He gazed shrewdly at Jess and pushed his chair away from the table.

“No, I reckon not,” Jess said quietly. They walked back outside and Mose climbed up on his perch.

“Thank Mrs. Cooper fer the pie, will ya, Jess?” he said as he slapped the lines.

“Will do, Mose. See you around.”

He watched the stage till it disappeared from sight, then he went back inside and cleared the things off the kitchen table. He smiled wryly as he eyed the large bouquet of wildflowers in a vase on the counter. He’d been out target shooting, and had made it back just in time for the stage. The meadow down by the lake was covered in flowers this time of year, and on an impulse he’d gathered up a whole armful for Daisy. He reflected ruefully that his old cronies would’ve gotten a big laugh out of it – Jess Harper, gunfighter, picking flowers!

*****

Jess counted out one hundred and fifty dollars. He had penned a note to Slim stating it was payment for the buckskin, and asking that he wire the balance to Sam Belden to repay him for the horse the warden had staked him to on his release from prison. His penmanship was awkward, given his limited schooling, but he got it said.

He wanted to add something to express his gratitude for the kindness and friendship they all had extended to him, but in the end he just signed it “Jess.” He had given them no reason for leaving; just saying it was time to move on. Not knowing what was happening in Bowdrie with Matt Tyrell he didn’t want to take a chance on Slim getting mixed up in it.

Moses’ words about Tyrell gnawed at him relentlessly. He knew he would have no peace until he investigated the matter for himself. Perhaps Tyrell’s well-being had been at the back of his mind all the time, an unconscious concern that now pushed itself to the surface. He owed the man his life, more’n likely, but after all that had happened in Laramie, would Matt accept his help? He recalled all too clearly the young man’s parting words “I never want to set eyes on you again, Jess.”

Jess moved the flower vase to the center of the kitchen table, and placed the money and the note under it. He looked around the cozy room one last time; saw Mike’s books lying on the roll top desk, and Daisy’s knitting basket by the fireplace. Tears stung his eyes, and he grimly slammed the door on emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He gathered up his gear and tied the bundle on the back of the buckskin’s saddle. The animal turned its head as he stepped into leather, and regarded him with large, liquid eyes.

“Well, Buck, it’s just you’n’ me,” Jess said softly.

With a nagging sense of urgency, bordering on fear that he might already be too late, he headed up the road and put the ranch behind him.

Jess never looked back.

ooo0ooo

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