The big gundown Read Free

blazes, mister.”
    The Kid moved his head from side to side. “Don’t care. Just…do it. Then pour…more whiskey…on the wounds.”
    The man and woman looked at each other, and the man shrugged. “I reckon he probably knows what he’s talking about.” A glance at The Kid. “Man like him’s probably been shot before now.”
    A man like him …The fellow probably didn’t mean anything by it. He was right, though. The Kid had been shot before. He knew about cleaning wounds and how to patch them up. It was a necessary skill when a man lived the life of a lone, drifting gunfighter.
    “Cyrus, you go outside and play now,” the woman said.
    “Aw, Ma, can’t I stay and watch?”
    “No, you can’t. Now do like I told you and scoot!”
    When the boy was gone, the woman pulled down the sheet that covered The Kid. He felt a momentary surge of embarrassment when he realized that he was pretty much naked, but the woman was brisk and businesslike about what she was doing, which helped. She went to fetch a clean cloth, and the man came back with a bottle of whiskey and what looked like the ramrod from an old muzzle-loading rifle.
    “This ought to do,” the man said.
    The woman leaned over the bed. “Let me take this bandage off.”
    When she lifted the bandage, The Kid thought he smelled the rot setting in already. That was probably just his imagination, as there hadn’t really been time for the wound to fester that much. At least, he didn’t think so.
    “What…day is it?”
    “The same day it was you got shot, mister,” the man replied. “You were out for a couple hours, that’s all.”
    That was long enough. The Kid didn’t like the idea that he’d been helpless during that time, although clearly he had nothing to fear from these people. He had saved their lives, after all.
    The woman drenched the cloth with whiskey, wrapped it around the end of the ramrod, and said, “Are you sure about this?”
    The Kid nodded. “Go ahead.”
    “Wait a minute,” the man said. He took the bottle from his wife, slipped his other hand under The Kid’s head, and lifted it. “Take a swig of this first.”
    “Good…idea.”
    The man tipped the bottle to The Kid’s lips. The Kid took a long swallow of the fiery liquor. It burned all the way down his gullet, but that fire was nothing compared to the blaze that seared his leg as the woman pushed the whiskey-soaked rag through the wound. The Kid’s head tilted back against the pillow. He closed his eyes and felt the cords in his neck standing out as he clenched his teeth against the pain.
    “Oh, God, Sean, he’s bleeding again!”
    “Of course he is. Don’t worry about it, Frannie. The blood will help clean the wound.”
    The Kid opened his eyes to look up at them. “Sorry about…your sheets.”
    “Don’t worry about that,” Sean said with a shake of his head. “That’s a small price to pay for the lives of my family.”
    The Kid winced as the woman withdrew the ramrod, and he nodded toward his leg.
    “Pour the whiskey on it. Soak it good.”
    Sean did so. The fresh surge of pain brought a grunt from The Kid’s lips. As the woman wrapped fresh bandages around his thigh a wave of drowsiness began to steal over him.
    “I’m Sean Williams,” the man said. “This is my wife Frannie. And you’ve met our boy Cyrus. You don’t have to tell us your name, though. I know it’s sometimes not considered polite to ask about such things.”
    “I…don’t mind…Name’s Morgan…They call me…Kid Morgan.”
    Sean’s eyes widened. “The gunman?”
    “Yeah…Lucky for you…right?”
    “Damn right. We owe you our lives.”
    Frannie had another wet cloth, wet with water this time, not whiskey. She wiped its cool softness across The Kid’s brow. The gentle touch felt wonderful.
    “You sleep now, Mr. Morgan. Just rest, and we’ll take care of you.”
    “Those men…”
    “Don’t worry about them.” Sean’s voice was grim. “I’ve already dragged them off