Rachel Kraft’s expression was one of bloodless terror. “Oh, my God…Luke!”
“Didn’t think I’d find you this fast, did you? You and that son of a bitch you run off with.”
Hoover said: “Leave her be, Kraft.”
“Like hell I will. You ain’t getting away with what you done. She’s coming back with me, her and the money both. Right now, storm or no storm.”
“You can have the money and welcome, but not Rachel.”
“Shut up, Hoover. No damn’ thieving wife stealer’s gonna stand in my way.”
“Listen to me…”
Kraft swept the tail of his poncho back, snaked a hand underneath. It came out filled with a long-barreled Colt sidearm. Rachel Kraft cried out again. Nesbitt stood up, doing it slowly, with his hands in plain sight. None of the rest of us moved an inch.
“There’s no call for that, Mister Kraft,” I said, with as much calm as I could muster. “There are women in here.”
“Only woman I’m interested in is my wife. Rachel, get on over here.”
“No, Luke, please…”
“I said get over here. Now!”
“She’s not going back with you,” Hoover said.
“You gonna stop me from taking her? Go ahead and try. I’d just as lief put a bullet in you.”
“She’s had all the beatings she can stand. I’ve seen the marks you put on her.”
“Yeah, and I know what the two of you was doing when you seen ’em. Rachel! Do what you been told!”
She obeyed this time. Her legs were unsteady as she rose to her feet and started toward him.
Hoover stepped in front her, pushed her behind him, and held her there with one arm. His jaw was set hard. He’d struck me as mild-mannered, but there was plenty of sand and iron in him. The thought crossed my mind that he was more in love with Rachel Kraft than her husband ever could be.
“You can’t have her, Kraft.”
“I’m taking what’s mine, all of it.”
She said through her fright: “Luke, Joe didn’t steal the money. I did. He didn’t know anything about it until after we left…”
“Shut up. I won’t tell you again…get on over here!”
Hoover took a step forward, still holding the woman behind him. “Suppose we keep this between you and me…”
Kraft shot him. Just that quickly.
The sound of the gunshot was nearly deafening in the low-ceilinged room. The bullet struck Hoover in the chest, threw him around, grunting, and down to the floor. Shocked gasps and cries rode the dying echoes of the shot. Rachel Kraft screamed, took one look at the blood streaming from Hoover’s chest, and fainted.
The sudden violence, the acrid fog of powder smoke in the air, seemed to have no effect on Nesbitt. He said to Kraft: “You shot an unarmed man, mister. If he dies, that’s murder.”
“Bastard stole my wife and three thousand dollars out of my safe.”
“That’s no cause for gunplay.”
“You saw him start for me. Self-defense, by Christ.”
“Everyone here will testify otherwise.”
Kraft pointed his weapon at Nesbitt. What he’d done seemed to have had no effect on the rage and hatred that controlled him. “That’s enough out of you. You and Murdock pick up my wife and carry her outside and put her on my horse. Tie her down if needs be.”
I said: “Be reasonable, man. You can’t take her out in this storm…”
“Don’t you start in on me, mister, unless you want a bullet, too. We’re leaving here as soon as I…”
The rest of what he’d been about to say was lost in another report, not as loud but just as sudden and shocking. A bloody hole appeared in Kraft’s forehead; he had time for one amazed gasp before his knees buckled and he fell headlong, his weapon coming free of his grasp. I tore my gaze away from his settling body, put it on the shaken, gabbling group around the table.
The peddler, James Shock, said: “That was self-defense, brothers and sisters. I trust you’ll all testify to the fact.”
In his hand, smoke adrift from the muzzle, was a small, nickel-plated revolver.
Caroline Devane
Mr. Nesbitt and I were the first to move after James Shock’s pronouncement. He went to kneel beside the man named Kraft while I hurried to Joe Hoover’s side. Young Hoover was alive, barely conscious and moaning, blood pumping from the wound in his chest. As I knelt quickly beside him, I heard Nesbitt say that the drunken rancher was dead. Others were moving about, too, by then, Mrs. Murdock attending to Rachel Kraft.
Hoover’s wound, fortunately, was high on the left side of his chest, below the collar bone-a location where there were no vital organs. There was considerable blood, but it was not arterial blood. Serious, then, but perhaps not life-threatening if the bullet could be removed, the wound cleaned and properly treated to reduce the threat of infection.
Mr. Murdock said: “How badly hurt he is?”
I told him my prognosis.
“Sounds like you’ve had nurse’s training.”
“I have,” I said. I looked past him at his wife. “We’ll need hot water, clean towels, a sharp, clean knife. Have you any disinfectant?”
“Only rubbing alcohol.”
“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.”