Blackwell Bounty

Chapter Twelve

Sheriff Wyatt Harris followed Samuel Martin into the ranch house the following morning after Blackwell's harvest celebration. It was early in the day. The sun hadn't even risen into the sky yet. A faint darkness still covered the land. Unfortunately, the Sheriff was not making a social visit this early in the day. He'd received word that Albert Crowley, the victim of a robbery as well as a beating, had awakened sometime after midnight the previous night with a clear mind. After his attack, Crowley had only been conscious for a few short moments before slipping into oblivion. His recovery had been rocky from there. This was the first time that Crowley had been awake and stable long enough in the past few days for an interrogation from Sheriff Harris.

Following after Samuel, Wyatt walked down the hall and into one of the guest rooms. Samuel had kindly allowed Crowley the privilege of recovering in the ranch house instead of the bunk house. A truly sympathetic employer, Samuel had been genuinely concerned for his ranch hand's welfare, a fact that accounted for the reason he had such loyal workers. There hadn't been many problems from the Martin ranch since Samuel had taken over. In fact, the current distress was the first in a long time.

"The sheriff is here to ask you some questions, Crowley," Samuel said. He smiled in an attempt to be his usual amiable self, but there was a distance within that expression. He was trying to act normal, which was difficult even for him, after what had happened just a few days ago. "If you feel like it, that is."

"Ain't got nuthin' else to do," came Crowley's weary reply.

Wyatt took that as all the welcome he would receive and he stepped into the room.

When Samuel had first informed Sheriff Wyatt of the events that had taken place, the picture had not been painted quite so clearly. The tale of Crowley's treatment from the band of outlaws was not explained in great detail for respectful reasons. Samuel was not one to spread stories, whether they were true or false. It wasn't in his nature to gossip. So Wyatt took in the appearance of the ranch hand for himself with carefully guarded green eyes.

Crowley's features were pale and weak. He looked sickly, as if he'd been struck by a bout of influenza powerful enough to push him to the edge of death, but not shove him over that dangerous precipice. His facial features had been contorted from their usual placement. The man's nose had obviously been broken. There was no blood to speak of at this time -- a few days after the attack -- but Wyatt was sure the blood must've flooded when it first happened. It looked liked someone had very precisely smashed their hand into the bottom of Crowley's nose with full force; like the intention was to slam his broken bones straight back into his head for a killing blow. Perhaps that had been the intention.

Black rings encompassed the ranch hand's eyes. One was even swollen completely shut with the flesh twinged in angry scarlet and deep violaceous hues. Crowley's bottom lip had been split open and a violent bruise remained the stark evidence of a heavy blow to his jaw. Bluish black indentations had been shoved into his neck in a familiar five digit pattern; someone had grappled him by the throat with all the force in their large hand. A sheet covered the lower half of Crowely's body, but Wyatt could see that his chest had been wrapped in bandages which could only lead him to believe more severe wounds, possibly even gashes from the blade of a knife, covered the rest of his body along with a patchwork of other bruises in a range of deep colors.

Fleetingly, Wyatt recalled Samuel mentioning a fear of internal injuries. Now he understood why the ranch owner might assume such ghastly wounds had been inflicted. Wyatt couldn't even imagine how horrific it had been for the ranch hands to ride up on the scene of Crowley's bruised and broken body, mangled with only fists as the weapons of his attackers, who obviously had done such grisly acts before -- possibly even worse. And that wasn't even scratching the surface of how horrific it must have been for Crowley -- a mere man of flesh and blood, no less -- to suffer such a severe thrashing. He had nearly been beaten to death without even the chance to fight back against such astounding odds; one man against over a half-dozen others.