When the outlaw awoke next, it was to find herself propped up on a wooden bench outside of a tack store. She had been leaned up against a saddle blanket which was draped over the arm and back of the bench, her hat was tipped obligingly in her direction, hanging onto a nail stuck in the end of the bench.
The upper right side of her body, which had been her shoulder and arm, was now replaced by what appeared to be enough bandages to dress a standing army.
A woman, perhaps in her late fifties, and dressed in a crimped dress stained yellow by days in the dusty west stepped out of the store wrapping a dirty purple shawl around her shoulders. She observes the quiet street for a while before turning to the outlaw and stepping over the door frame onto the porch, narrow-heeled boots snapping the dust from the weathered planks of the walk.
She sat down next to the outlaw and studied her arm and shoulder.
"Almos' los ya fear a minute der derie. Name's Mary. Mary McKelson." The woman said, her words swimming out thickly from the soupy Irish accent.
"I've been shot before but— ghht!" The outlaw replied as she sat up further, wincing and inhaling sharply through her teeth at the pain.
"Well, the way you was screamin', t'was the very devil's hounds t'was after ye. Ye nar kicked ol' Henry's legs out from und'r 'em when e was tryin' a give ye the morphine."
"Well, I'm sorry if I've caused you any trouble. I'll be on my way as soon as I can get my boots under me and me under my hat. A bit of bread and a bit of water oughta set the ducks straight. You have been most kind, and I owe you my life. Tell Henry that he is an excellent doctor, and I'm sorry if I've hurt him in any way."
"What? Leave now? You gotta be blazin' mad tho go back out der! You shouldn't be riden' round ou der anyhows. You're a gentlefolk! You oughta' be teachn' in a schoolhouse, not ridn' round gettin' shot at! S'not right!"
The outlaw's usually warm, brown eyes turned stormy. She stood swiftly, her hand crushing into the saddle blanket as the world swung wildly.
"No, I...I...Must leave. Now. The...they..."
The outlaw collapsed to the ground, her back writhing against the square leg of the bench in pain. Mary grabbed the outlaw under the arms and hoisted her back up onto the bench. This was no easy task since the outlaw outweighed Mary's very slight frame by at least twenty-five pounds.
The outlaw was panting and sweating as if she had been the one to hoist a heavy body onto the bench. The outlaw's face turned a sickly shade of white, and her eyes seemed to dim. The world shrank away for a minute. Two minutes, and then everything came back looking like a faded-out photograph for a minute or two before slowly changing to normal.
"Nar lost ya again my dear! You gotta stop scarin' me like."
Mary said. She was kneeling at the outlaw's feet holding her good but blood-stained hand tightly and pressing a freshly trimmed handkerchief against her forehead.
"They wern' here fur ya, those men dere. Dey wer comin' fur the bank's muney."
Mary finished dabbing the sweat from the outlaw's forehead, slipped the handkerchief back into her pocket, and stood up.
"I...I don't know. I, the eyes...I saw...oh...just forget it."
"Oh, don' hur herself. Ya lost a lot o blood back in the saloon. Nowe comon' side n' I'll whip up some brandy n' cakes fur yah."
The outlaw took Mary's outstretched arm and allowed herself to be partially carried, but mostly dragged along into the tack shop.
The woman led the outlaw to a stack of fresh formaldehyde-smelling saddles.
YOU ARE READING
Saddle Dust
Historical FictionCasey Long is an outlaw with a storied past and troubles finding her at every turn. When she is shot in a saloon during what some townsfolk describe as a random attack, Casey remembers some very important details from her childhood which ultimately...
