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Shadow of the Mountains

Hendrickson Publishers Marketing, LLC

Time to Move On

The gambler's smoke-gray eyes turned to cold flint as the words cut through the low roar in the Logjammer's Saloon.

"I say you're a dirty, card-cheatin' dog!" Axel Tarver jumped out of his chair, knocking it sprawling, and drew his gun. It was a long-barreled .38 Remington, and Axel's draw was slow and clumsy.

"King Red" Jackson sat very still as Axel leveled the gun at Jackson's heart.

"I'm going to stand up now," Jackson said quietly, "and raise my hands. You just be real still, and I'll show you what's up my sleeve. You ready?"

"Yeah," Axel grunted, "I'll be still—if you move real slow and careful."

The three men still seated with King stood up and moved quickly away. One of them, Shiloh Irons, took a long backward stride into the shadows, his eyes never leaving the two men, now alone in the circle of amber light shed by the kerosene lantern suspended low over the littered card table.

"King Red" Jackson slowly rose, a slender figure dressed in solid black, the only color about him the red ruby flashing on his pinkie finger. With exaggerated, cautious movements, he raised both arms above his head. Slowly his left hand went to his right sleeve.

"You just pull that card outta your sleeve, King—" Axel began.

In a blur of movement, King kicked over the large round table, pulled a small silver gun out of his sleeve, leveled it at Axel Tarver, and shot as he threw himself to the floor behind the table.

Axel lurched to the side, gun blazing, as soon as King's boot touched the table. But he was like a great blond bear, bulky and clumsy, and the three shots he pulled off went wild. One hit a whiskey bottle that had taken flight from the table, and it exploded into a thousand green shards. Another hit the table square center, and the last hit the wall where the gambler had stood a moment before. When the black smoke from his gun cleared, Axel rolled on the floor in agony, holding his belly. Already there was a puddle of dark blood on the floor.

Six feet away from the overturned table, King rose and dusted himself off. The small gun had disappeared, and King's clothes were soon a spotless, severe black once again. Deliberately he picked up his black hat, dusted it off, and placed it squarely on his head.

As he pocketed some of the scattered money, he came to stand over Axel Tarver and Shiloh, who knelt beside the wounded man.

"Tried to wing him," King muttered with a trace of regret. "Wouldn't gutshoot a stray dog."

He crossed the floor, and the other men parted to open a way for him, glancing nervously at his dark form. The swinging doors creaked loudly in the silence, which was broken intermittently by the groans of the injured man.

"We've got to get him to a doctor," Shiloh snapped as he examined Tarver.

"Waste of time," a tall young cowboy muttered as he turned back to the bar. "Saw lots of gutshots in the war, and can't rightly remember a man Jack of 'em livin' through it. Might as well take Axel home and let him die in as much peace as he can get in the next hour or two."

"Help me," Shiloh grunted as he struggled to lift the huge timber man. Several men, all of them dressed as lumberjacks, rushed to help. The three largest finally wrestled Tarver up and staggered toward the door.

"Where you goin'?" the tall cowboy asked idly as the men struggled by him.

"To Doc's, down the street," Shiloh panted.

The cowboy shrugged. "Okay. Reckon if you can carry that big ox, I kin carry Doc Guinness." He took a last swig of beer, wiped his mouth, and swaggered over to a man sitting at a table alone, his head down on his arms. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the table next to one smudged shot glass. "Doc!" the young cowboy yelled. "Git up! You got a patient!"

"Huh? What?" the old man asked. Bleary-eyed, he lifted his head and looked around. The cowboy threw Doc Guinness' arm around his shoulders, pulled him upright, and followed the procession carrying the wounded man out the door. Beside him, Doc Guinness hung on tightly, stumbling blindly as they went.

* * *

Cheney Duvall sat in a burgundy velvet chair at a small mahogany table by the window. The tiny sitting room was elegant but dark, with heavy velvet drapes and a patterned blue-and-burgundy carpet. Bleak afternoon light filtered through the open window. Distant thunder grumbled for long seconds, and a cool, wet breeze stirred a thick curl that hung over Cheney's shoulder.

A gunshot cracked in the sullen silence, and Cheney looked up from her embroidery to search the street two floors below. Must have been in Logjammer's, she thought anxiously. Hope Shiloh's all right.... Nervously she watched the swinging doors directly across the street from the Empire Hotel.

She made a lovely picture framed by the gray aura of the window. She had washed her waist-length auburn hair that morning, and it had taken her over an hour to brush it out. Now, at three-thirty in the afternoon, her hair was finally completely dry, but Cheney had tied a simple black ribbon around it instead of elaborately dressing it. Thick curls covered her shoulders and back, and though the light was dim, an occasional glint of red fire flashed as she moved her head.

Her eyes were sea-green, with thick dark lashes and rather heavy dark brows. A beauty mark, inherited from her mother, adorned her left cheekbone. With her short, small nose, wide mouth, and determined chin, Cheney's face was too strong to be called beautiful, but it was an expressive, interesting face. She was twenty-four years old, tall—five feet, ten inches—and slender, and her movements and gestures were deft and purposeful.

Cheney sat up a little straighter to watch as a tall man dressed in black pushed through the swinging doors of the saloon. He mounted a glossy palomino that was tied outside, and horse and rider disappeared from Cheney's view. In a few moments four men struggled through the doors carrying another man, and even from two floors above and across the street Cheney could see the dark bloodstain on the man's tan shirt. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that Shiloh Irons was one of those who carried the injured man.

Setting her jaw in a stubborn line, she sat back, picked up her embroidery hoop, and stabbed it vengefully with a large needle. Cannot imagine why I waste my time worrying about him! Why can't I remember that he's a big boy—he can take care of himself?

For fifteen minutes she sewed with more determination than skill, until a knock sounded on the sitting room door. Glancing ruefully at her handiwork, Cheney quickly stepped through the door behind her into the small bedroom and thrust the embroidery hoop under her pillow. She stopped briefly in front of the mirror to smooth her hair and called, "I'm coming," then hurriedly crossed the sitting room floor.

"It's me, Doc!" Shiloh called. "Can I come in?"

Cheney opened the door and started to say something, but she stopped before a word came out. Her eyes wide, she sniffed and made a face. "Shiloh! You smell as if you'd bathed in whiskey!"

"Can I come in anyhow?"

Cheney stepped back a little, her face stern. "I don't know—can you? Walk straight enough to come through the door, I mean?"

Shiloh entered the room and went to the window. Pulling the heavy curtains aside to let in more of the dim light, he stared down at the street below. "Don't worry, Doc," he muttered, "it's all over me, but not in me. Bottle got shot, and I was standing too close." His face was glum as he stared out.

How is it that when he's serious, he looks younger? Cheney wondered. Or maybe that's when he seems most vulnerable....

Shiloh was a little younger than Cheney, about twenty-three. He had been abandoned on the steps of an orphanage in South Carolina when he was a baby, so his exact birth date was unknown. The only identification he had was that he lay in a crate stamped "Shiloh Ironworks." The women who had attended the orphanage had questions about his exact age as he grew, for they had based their estimate on the size of the baby. Shiloh grew to be a tall child, though not large, and he was now a man of six feet, four inches. His shoulders were wide, his body well-muscled, lithe, and quick.

Cheney noticed as she studied him that his blond hair had grown—it brushed his eyebrows and fell down over his collar. His cornflower blue eyes were set in a wedge-shaped face that was burned a dark tan. A network of scar tissue surrounded his eyes from his prizefighting days, and a pronounced scar under his left eye made a perfect V, discernible even from a few feet away.

Cheney moved very close to him and lifted her face to his.

He glanced down in surprise and asked, "What—?" Then he grinned and put his hands on her slender waist. "I'm glad to see you, too, Doc, even though we just had breakfast this morning—"

"Never mind!" she snapped, pushing him away. "I was just checking—the only thing that doesn't smell like whiskey on you is your breath. What happened?"

"Axel Tarver got shot." He turned to stare again out the window. "We took him to Doc Guinness'."

"How is he?" Cheney asked with concern, in spite of the fact that she had never met the man.

"Axel's gutshot," Shiloh answered matter-of-factly, "and Doc Guinness is drunk. And they wouldn't let me come get you."

Cheney moved around the small table, sat across from Shiloh, folded her hands, and looked up at him, expressionless. "I'm used to it. Aren't you?"

"No. And when I do get used to it, I'm still not going to like it."

Cheney had gotten her medical degree from the brand-new Women's Medical College of the University of Pennsylvania. A prestigious school, it was run by esteemed Quaker physicians. Cheney had graduated with honors and proved to be an excellent doctor. Yet everywhere she went, she met with raging disapproval and distrust. There were very few female physicians in 1865, none of them universally well-respected. In spite of her bold statement to Shiloh, Cheney was by no means "used to it." Anger seethed inside her as she considered the treatment the injured man was likely to have from Doc Guinness—Seattle's resident doctor, dentist, and veterinarian, and also one of the town drunks.

Shiloh and Cheney were silent for a while, each deep in thought, both thinking of the same things. They had worked together for two months, traveling by steamer from New York to Seattle. Cheney had been offered a position as physician to one hundred Eastern women traveling to Washington Territory, accompanied by an energetic young man named Asa Mercer. Mercer had made two such voyages now, bringing women—mostly widows—from the war-torn East to the newly settled, predominantly male Northwest. Almost all of "Mercer's Belles" married within a year.

Cheney had engaged Shiloh Irons as her nurse for the voyage. He had received his training as a medical corpsman during the War Between the States. They reached Seattle the first of July. A month later they weren't technically working together, but they were friends and were in each other's company every day. Both of them were now thinking of the hardships of that voyage and of what a good medical team they made. They also thought of the refusal of most of the people in Seattle to acknowledge Cheney as anything but another of "Mercer's Belles"—just another woman looking for a husband.

A knock sounded on Cheney's door, and she hurried to open it. A tall redheaded woman stood in the hall, her face grim. Swiftly she looked Cheney up and down, nodded to Shiloh, and lifted her chin. "I'm Jenny Tarver. Are you Dr. Duvall?"

"Yes. Won't you come in, Mrs. Tarver?"

"No, thank you, doctor. I'm in a hurry. My man's been shot, and that fool Doc Guinness says he's done for." She held her head high, but Cheney noticed that the large, rawboned hands that clutched her shawl trembled slightly. "I've heard some of the ladies that Mr. Mercer brung here talk about what a good doctor you are. Will you come?"

Cheney hesitated, glancing up at Shiloh, who had come to stand by her side. "Has Dr. Guinness agreed—?"

Jenny Tarver frowned and shook her head. "No, but he's just gonna stand there and watch Axel die! My Axel—he's strong, you know—" Her voice grew ragged, but she bit her lip, straightened her shoulders, and looked Cheney squarely in the eye. "I ain't asking for charity, Dr. Duvall," she went on proudly. "I can pay you. And this ain't no last-ditch gesture, neither. I believe you can help Axel."

"That does it!" Shiloh grunted, turning to Cheney with a stubborn look on his face. "I can persuade Doc Guinness, Cheney. Let's go."

Cheney nodded her agreement, and within minutes the three were marching into Dr. Guinness' office. The brass bell on the door tinkled loudly, and from a back room came a hoarse call. "Be there in a minute!"

Shiloh made the back room in three strides. Cheney and Jenny glanced at each other as they heard first a low growl, then a soft answer, and then a loud thump.

"All right!" Doc Guinness yelped in a creaky voice. "I cain't git outta here 'til you let me up, Irons!"

In a few moments Doc Guinness came stumping through the front office, clapping a dusty brown bowler on his head and grumbling. "Female doctors and giant nurses! Like he had to flatten me like a pancake to get me outta here! Man's dying—I don't wanna stay here and watch it, anyways!"

Completely ignoring Cheney and Jenny, he slammed out the door, setting the bell jangling as a groan sounded from the back room.

"Doc!" Shiloh called. "Come on! Doc Guinness said for you to make yourself at home!"

"Stay here, Mrs. Tarver," Cheney ordered sternly. "We're going to take care of Axel, but you must stay here, out of our way."

"But I want to help. Please let me," Mrs. Tarver protested.

Cheney stopped before opening the door of the back room and looked back at Jenny Tarver. She was a strong woman, Cheney saw, who worked hard and loved her husband very much. Only now was she showing fear and worry, her plain face twisted with lines of pain.

"There's one very important thing you must do to help me, Mrs. Tarver. Will you?"

"Anything!"

"Pray. Pray for me, pray for Shiloh, pray for your husband—and pray for yourself, that God will give you grace and peace, no matter what happens." Cheney slipped into the back room, and Jenny Tarver slowly sank into a chair, buried her face in her hands, and let the tears flow.

"He's not dead yet," Shiloh muttered grimly as he bent over the man lying on the high wooden table, "but he might die from the morphine Guinness gave him. Don't know how much, but he's out cold, barely breathing, and his pulse is erratic."

Cheney could barely control her anger as she looked around the room. It was dusty and dark, and smelled of whiskey and sickness. The operating table was covered with black stains that Cheney suspected were blood. Mixed in with the medical supplies and instruments were empty whiskey bottles, dirty cups, and odd pieces of saddle tack.

With quick, impatient movements she swept aside the litter from the wheeled table next to the operating bed and placed her large black medical bag on it. Opening it, she yanked out a starched white apron and pulled it over her head. "Is there any chloroform?"

"I dunno," Shiloh grumbled, rummaging through an assortment of bottles on a nearby shelf. "Here. Can't tell how old it is, but it looks like it's never been opened."

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Excerpted from Shadow of the Mountains by Lynn Morris. Copyright © 1994 Lynn Morris and Gilbert Morris. Excerpted by permission of Hendrickson Publishers Marketing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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