I woke the next morning to a skiff of snow covering my bedroll and frost all around. It made me glad I wore my coat to bed last night so I was warm, but now I needed to get up and face the cold and the day. I pulled my boots from my bedroll, something I learned many years ago as there’s few things worse than pulling on cold boots early in the morning. It was the beginning of graylight as I reached to touch the handle of the coffeepot to find the leftover coffee from last frozen. It must be colder than I thought.
Picking up some twigs and small branches I had laid by the fire I shook the snow off then got down to business of starting a fire. I blew on my fingers to warm them and was ready to put a match to the tinder when a whiff of smoke touched my nostrils. There was someone else in these ruins. Putting the match back in my pocket I went to rouse Charlie from his slumber. Stooping down I touched his shoulder.
“Charlie, Charlie, wake up,” he started to say something for my cruelty in waking him to the cold. “Shhh, I smell woodsmoke.”
His eyes widened then he threw on his hat, pulled on his boots then fastened his gunbelt. I pointed in the direction of the smoke. I couldn’t tell exactly where it came from, just the general direction. We moved slowly trying to detect where the smoke was coming from. Charlie stopped suddenly, then nodded his head to indicate that the camp was on the other side of a broken down adobe wall. He was right. I could see light in the dawn.
It could be the outlaws, or it could be a Navajo boy with a group of sheep. We crept to the edge of the wall. I pointed toward one way. Charlie nodded then headed off in that direction. I moved down the wall in the other direction and we would come to the camp and have them in a crossfire if they were indeed the outlaws. Charlie gave me a few minutes. I had the longer route and there were several obstacles of wood, cactus, and broken adobe to heed my progress.
Moving around the far end of the wall, I could make out two men kneeling by a fire, two more in a bedroll. I knew there were five in the holdup, one was missing. We held our positions, the cold starting to work on our bones. I was getting ready to make a move when a sound came to my left of a man walking–the fifth man. When he approached the fire I could see it was the bum who accosted Molly in the diner.
I moved out from behind the wall. Charlie moved at the same time. “Easy boys,” he said calmly. “Put up your hands nice and easy.”
The men looked in his direction. Then from the corner of my eye I saw movement from one of the men in the bedroll. He pulled a gun, firing it at Charlie. Now, I surely hate to shoot a man in his bed, but I cut loose at him, both of my bullets hitting him, but he had started bedlam. Charlie fired into the three men, all three of them were shooting, and they now knew I was behind them.
The man who had just entered camp ran and another joined them. One was wounded in the leg for he limped. The man I recognized grabbed up a bag from the bank and was mounting his horse bareback. Charlie fired, hitting him in the hand causing him to drop the satchel. The men who limped was able to mount and the two of them rode off escaping our fire. Fortune had it for them; it seemed that Charlie and I had picked out the same man to throw lead at. He was riddled with bullets.
Checking the man in his bedroll I found him dead as well. Charlie and I looked at each other then went to the other man in his bedroll. His eyes were closed and he was breathing shallow, perhaps trying to make us think he was already dead. “Go ahead, Sheriff, shoot him to make sure,” I said urging Charlie.
He fired, the bullet hitting near the man’s head. He yelped, opened his eyes to holler, “Don’t shoot!” Then came another groan from him. He was the man who somehow was wounded in the explosion. We pulled him out of his bedroll. He had a gash under his ear and had crusted over with dried blood, but when he examined further we saw a piece of metal protruding from his leg.
Charlie moved to build up the fire to help us see. It was full graylight, but we needed the extra light. Sticking out of his leg was a piece of metal, about five inches in width, but narrow. It had pierced his leg.
“How in the world did you ride with that in your leg?” questioned Charlie as he knelt down by the man.
The man didn’t say anything, just looked at Charlie.
I pulled my knife to split his trousers. It was an ugly mess. A piece of the safe had torn into his leg. His pants were soaked in blood. I reached down, and before I could touch the metal, he hollered, “Don’t touch it!”
“Mister, that needs to come out,” I stated. “Riding a horse would move that around and could cut an artery. Might have already.” His eyes were wide. I realized that as long as he didn’t move he could stand the pain.
I looked at Charlie shaking my head. Neither of us knew how deep the metal was in his leg. If Doc Jones was here he might be able to give the man something and cut it out then sew him up quick. I pulled on my moustache then rubbed down my chin as I stared at Charlie. I had one chance. In a flash I moved my hand to grasp the metal piece and Charlie threw himself over the man’s body. I jerked hard, causing a tremendous howl to come from the man, but the piece of metal was in my hand. It was a piece about 5 by 6.
The man had yelled, but now was breathing heavily, but with the metal removed from his leg he was already feeling some relief. Charlie went to the fire, the water for the coffee was boiling. He pulled off his bandanna, placing about two-thirds of it in the water then brought it to me. It was hot, but I grabbed where it was dry and began to wash off the wound. The man yelped again, but it soon went to moaning. I cleaned it as good as I could, then took my own bandana and wrapped it around the wound, tying it off.
“What about the other two?” asked Charlie.
I was taking the man’s bandana off to bind the wound tighter. “Figured you could take these three back to Durango. I’ll follow after those two. Riding bareback they won’t get far.”
Charlie started to protest. “Take them home, see Marta.”
He gave a grim smile, then nodded his head.
“Better get that arm cleaned up before you see her,” I told him. He had not realized that a bullet had grazed his left arm. In all of the shooting, we were fortunate that that was the only wound. Within the hour Charlie was headed with two dead men and one severely wounded toward home and I was on the trail of the other two fugitives.
“Sit down Marta, we need to talk!” ordered Molly. The evening rush was over and Emelda had left for the day. It was only Molly and Marta in the empty diner.
Marta made some smart remark in Spanish, she snapped, “I have nothing I wish to talk about!”
Molly seized her arm forcing her to plunk down in a chair. “Maybe you don’t, but I do!”