Ida awoke to the painful sound of a relentless coughing fit. Her eyes opened to midday sunlight filtering through glimmering leaves. The remainder of the storm clouds drifted overhead. How long had she slept?
Ida cast her bleary gaze to where she found Doc's hunched body wracked with wet coughs. Her brow furrowed when he pulled out a handkerchief to cover his mouth; it came away to reveal a blossoming rosette of blood. She pushed herself up from the ground and began hurrying to his side. Doc wretched out one last cough and slumped back against the tree, his breathing more labored than she had ever seen it. His eyes closed.
"Doc?" She rested a careful hand on his upper arm. "Doc, are you hearing me?"
Doc swallowed hard before letting out a breathless, "Yes, ma'am."
Ida sighed with relief; he hadn't passed out, meaning oxygen was still making its way into his bloodstream. He certainly wasn't right as rain but not in a terribly dire condition, either, she evaluated. His clothes were dampened from the rain, no doubt causing an uncomfortable chill. She removed his coat from her person and cringed when she realized the inside was moist from her own rain-washed clothes. It would have to do.
"I'm sorry, Doc. I got your coat damp." Ida draped it over his languid frame.
"Mm," he rasped, one side of his mouth quirked up, "--a small price to pay."
Ida hadn't a clue what he meant, but she left it. He wasn't particularly sharp in the moment after an endeavor like that and was likely to make little sense. She left him to catch his breath.
As Wyatt planned to set out before mid-afternoon, the men were bustling to get their things arranged on their horses and all saddlebags cinched tight. Ida moved to join them in their efforts.
Soon, Ruby was nickering a greeting as Ida finally approached with her saddle pad.
"Eager to get a move on, huh?" Ida smiled and patted the mare's strong shoulder. She too was eager to leave this place—to forget the events and crooked emotions that had transpired in the few hours they stayed. Moments later, Wyatt appeared on the other side of Ruby, concern painted on his face.
"Ida, I'm going to saddle and pack Doc's horse." He glanced behind him at a staggering Doc who steadied himself against a tree. He lowered his voice, "Sherman will lead Texas's horse, and I want you to keep an eye on him-," he nodded toward Doc, "-while we ride. Alright?"
"Sir yes, sir," Ida muttered, continuing to adjust the billet strap.
"Sorry, I–" Wyatt paused, thinking. "I just worry about the man. You understand."
Whatever did he mean?
"Well... yes. I'm concerned you'll be counting on him and he won't be up to the task," Ida explained while retightening the saddle bags.
"That's all, then?"
Ida paused, shooting Wyatt a confused look.
"It just seems you care–maybe a little more than usual," he spoke pointedly.
Ida scowled. "What I'm concerned about, Wyatt, is our wounded men. Both of them."
Wyatt threw his hands up in defense. "Just an observation. Nothing meant by it." The glint in his eyes said otherwise. She narrowed her own at her brother's retreating back.
Soon, the party was heading up the slope, out of the creek valley, and into the open air.
* * *
Wyatt set the pace, paying mind to Texas. Texas had grumbled and waved it off, saying he was doing just fine, but the lie was evident in the older man's pallor. Ida made a mental note to change his wrappings at the next stop.
Then, she turned her focus to Doc. She noted his posture; the way he moved with the horse beneath him betrayed the weakness in his body to her. She would change his bandage, too. Neither man could stand even the beginnings of infection.
The evening came creeping in before they knew it, and it was soon too dark to travel. Camp was again made close to the river bank. Ida set to examining and dressing the wounds of the injured men, paying careful attention to the cleanliness of the new dressings. There would be another half day of travel to bear before the ranch, and after a full day since the wounds were acquired, the chance of infection had risen. While she worked on him, Doc had offered to check and clean her head wound. Ida had hastily yet politely declined, opting instead to blindly clean it herself. She didn't want his hands to once again elicit shivers down the length of her spine. She had enough to think about besides his bare chest and that lengthening stubble and those piercing eyes—she gulped the thoughts down and made a note to read fewer romantic novels.
Still, she read her copy of Jane Eyre that night before falling asleep to the sound of wind through the cottonwoods.
The morning brought vague memories of dreams flitting through Ida's mind. Flashes of gunshots, images of Morgan in a pool of blood. Her own hands, covered in blood. Seeing red sashes while rough hands cut off her breath. For the first time since those Cowboys had dragged her away from the safety net of the men, she felt cold hard dread. There were more out there that had witnessed her part in killing their ring leader. A woman was an easier target—an easier way to get to Wyatt. An odd feeling gripped her as they traveled out toward Hooker's ranch.
The same thought plagued Wyatt's mind, and had since the ambush. What would he do if the Cowboys attacked them now? How would he protect her without neglecting the rest? Would they even aim to gun her down, or would he be their primary target? There was no use in grappling with situations that hadn't transpired, but Wyatt continued his anxious scan of the horizon as they rode.
Doc knew it, too. He saw the fear residing in his friend's usually steel eyes and confident posture. And he knew his fears, because he shared them. Doc glanced back at Ida only to recognize the same, tense shoulders. A familiar image flashed in his mind of her offenders' blood on his knife. Any man worth his salt on the west side of the Mississippi knew: not a soul would escape judgment should they come for his friends. Let them try.
At the peak of the day's heat, Wyatt called for a stop at a watering hole formed by an offshoot of the San Pedro river. Texas looked bleak, staggering a bit with the effort of dismounting his horse, but still managed a reassuring smile for those with concerned looks. Johnson helped him tie his horse despite the older man's protests. Doc seemed to be alright enough, save for a few coughing spells that had befallen him on the way and the sheen of sweat that had become ever-present on his brow. Ida could make out the ranch through the shimmering heat waves and willed it to come closer.
Ida decided to take full advantage of the break in travel. She ate the rest of the jerky in her pack and took long drinks from the flask Wyatt had given her. She also took the horses' idea and approached the watering hole for a much needed splash of water on her brow. She let the evaporation cool her skin and watched while the horses pulled as far into the water as the leads would allow, drinking eagerly.
The group had eaten nearly all the food from each pack over the course of their travels, relying on the plan to utilize the ranch for restock, so the men all stood talking and snacking on their various foodstuffs without care. Ida liked this part of it all: the way the men bantered amongst themselves, their comfortable comradery, the way the situation brought them together as much as it drove each of them toward their breaking points. She was wholly content to listen to them laugh while enjoying her relative solitude. The small talks she had with her brother, Texas, and Doc satiated her need for socializing well enough. She chose to stand at the water's edge, bringing cupped-hands of water to Ruby's back and letting it run down her flanks.
She remained like this for a while, simply enjoying the peace, until a commotion and the sound of shotguns being cocked shattered the artifice. Although her heart leapt into her throat, she wasn't surprised. The way her body tensed for action without a moment to spare told her she had been on her toes. Ida drew the peacemaker from her holster—she hadn't been truly comfortable.
She carefully stepped into the scene. The lack of immediate gunfire at the beginning of the commotion ensured some blanket of safety, but she held her empty left hand in the air along with the revolver in her right. Three red-sashed men held sawed-off shotguns pointed at Johnson and Wyatt, who each held a pistol ready to fire. The third rifleman had Doc in his sights, who held a daring hand on the white handle of one holstered gun.
The middle one spoke first. "Now, listen here. Gilroy, Carnedy and I have reason to shoot you slimy lot on sight. We've elected not to. Give us good enough cause not to proceed."
Doc laughed haughtily. "Gentlemen, I would argue that not a one of you will make it out alive should you proceed."
Wyatt shot his friend a scathing look.
"Now, now. Let's be diplomatic," said the Cowboy.
"Why not shoot?" Wyatt narrowed his eyes at the man. "What are you askin' for?"
"Let's just say I never felt too strongly toward ol' Curly. Ringo's the one to follow." The man caught Ida's eyes. "And he wants something else."
The look on his face told Ida everything she needed to know; she hadn't been an inch off track—a woman's the easy target. The Cowboys would do anything to hurt Wyatt before killing him, and Ringo wanted the Earps to suffer.
"Now that's just not gonna work." Wyatt spoke with a darkening edge to his voice.
The man in the middle barked a sharp laugh. "We'll give you a spell to figure your chances. We might not make it out alive, but you'll leave lookin' like newspaper in a hailstorm." The sawed-off barrels certainly promised hell to anyone within range.
Ida did her best to stand unwavering, her knees feeling weak. Doc and Wyatt exchanged looks between the two of them. Wyatt's eyes had that burning fury, and Doc's eyes held cool calmness. Ida knew her eyes betrayed her fear when Wyatt met them with a look of warning. He knew exactly what she would do, because Lord knows he would, too. And he willed her to think first.
Ida knew the best chance out of a bloody situation was to give into their request. With some luck, there would be time to escape with her life, though likely not her dignity. She had done it before, and she could do it again.
Ida dropped her revolver decidedly. Its butt hit the dirt with hollow thud.
"Ida-," Wyatt's voice sounded like Pa's. "Don't you dare."
Ida ignored the plea masked as a command, and took a few slow steps toward the men.
"Atta girl," the man in the middle growled. "A woman knows what's good for her."
The one called Carnedy dropped his shotgun into one hand and used the other to catch hold of Ida's arm. He quickly twisted her into him, pressing a blade Ida hadn't seen into her cheekbone. Now turned toward the men, she saw Doc's eyes again. Something in them had changed. Now replacing the cool, calm, and collected was a much darker visage. Directed toward her or the man behind her, she couldn't tell, but it felt like being stared down by a mountain lion whose territorial line had been crossed. His hand, previously playing at drawing his gun, had the still-holstered ivory handle gripped firmly in his palm. Ida's own hands began to tremble.
"Now, if you don't mind, guns at your feet and five steps backwards," the middle man said, "or your girl here loses an eye."
Wyatt tightened the grip on his gun as Ida's face paled. Being half blind would drastically diminish her chances of escape.
"Woa now, don't you worry. She won't want her sight no more when all's said and done."
Wyatt nearly lost it at that. He only took one step forward before Ida whimpered. She cursed herself for the sound as blood dripped down her cheek. He hadn't done anything but press the knife into her cheekbone, creating a clean carve.
Doc's voice cut the air, smoother than ice. "That knife moves another inch and we'll be able to see clean through your skull, my friend." The man was ready to kill and die doing it. Carnedy's grip weakened, and she heard him swallow hard. The threat had done the trick, she thought. This coward wouldn't hurt her while the threat of Doc's aim was on her side.
The one called Gilroy bristled at the threat. He looked at Doc like he recognized the gunslinger personally. "You filthy lunger," He snarled, and started toward Doc with a finger on the trigger. Before the Cowboy could cross in front of Wyatt, a gunshot rang out and Gilroy sank to his knees. Eyes darted around, searching for the culprit. Ida's gaze landed on Wyatt's smoking gun. And in that God-given moment, she had elbowed Carnedy in the crotch and yanked herself from his grasp. She dove to the ground toward her revolver as three shots rang out. Two pistols, one shotgun. She grasped the handle of her own and swung her arm in the general direction of Carnedy. A shotgun shell lay on the ground at his feet. Ida took aim and shot the man in the chest, but there was no need. The other two Cowboys had dropped to the ground, and Doc was advancing on Carnedy. The man wavered, nearly falling, but Doc caught his shirt in his fist, and, producing a knife from his waistband, drove it up into Carnedy's sternum.
"I'll see you in hell," Doc snarled, and dropped the man, letting him slide off the blade. He whirled around in time to see Wyatt drop to his knees next to his sister. Ida searched her brother, frantically looking for signs of injury.
"Wyatt, he shot, I didn't see who, but he shot—,"
"—Ida, Ida. Shh," Wyatt murmured as he gathered her into his arms. He turned pleading eyes up to the swiftly approaching Doc.
"Doc, what—," Ida's voice faltered when she caught sight of the darkening fabric on the skirt of her dress. Oh God. All at once, she could feel the pain radiating from her side. She finally saw the two tears in the front of her bodice: exit holes from the spray of a shotgun.
"Oh my God, Wyatt," She murmured.
"Shhh... I got you," He turned to his friend, "Doc, help me out here. God, please help me," Wyatt's voice broke.
His little sister was bleeding out. From a gunshot wound, from a Cowboy's gun. She was paying for his sins.
Doc's own knees hit the ground. "Wyatt, lay her down," He instructed, "Yes—like that, cradle her head. Go get her pack. There'll be bandages."
As Wyatt darted back toward the horses, Doc shed his hat and neck scarf. The patterned fabric darkened as he pressed it in around Ida's side.
"Doc?"
"I'm here, sweetheart."
"Jus-just in case, can you, please, make sure this gets back to my Pa," She murmured, cradling the colt revolver to her chest.
"Ida, you keep that gun in your hands and don't let go of it."
"Doc, please—,"
"Darlin', listen to me. You aren't going anywhere, certainly not while I stand." He set his jaw.
Wyatt returned then with what was left of their bandages. Doc instructed him and Sherman—who had gathered around with the rest—to sit Ida up at a low angle, then began wrapping her middle tightly. When she failed to restrain a whimper, Doc's hand faltered.
"I–I'm fine, keep going," Ida managed. Doc met her eyes, only to wrench his gaze away when he saw the fear pooling in them. He steadied his hands and continued with the bandaging.
"She's losing too much blood," He explained to Wyatt as he finished the wrapping. "She'll be cold. Hold her. I'm going to get my coat." He pushed himself up with his good arm.
"No, no, where's Doc going? Don't let him leave, Wyatt," Ida rasped.
"Shh, sweet girl, he'll be back." Wyatt took her hand. "Keep those eyes open."
When Doc returned, he quickly wrapped the coat around her shoulders. Using his good arm to hold her body close to his and his other to support her legs, he scooped her off the ground. His shoulder screamed in pain as some of the scabbing and healed skin tore loose in the effort. He would tend to that at the ranch. The only thing on the man's mind was to get her there. He knew not to trust anyone else to do it with the same fervor. Wyatt was terrified, and certainly not at full capacity. And the others... the others didn't feel the way Doc did.
He got Johnson to help him lift her into the saddle, then swung himself up. His good arm grasped the reins while the other, white hot pain shooting from his shoulder, held Ida close to his chest.
"I'm sorry, Darlin', this's gonna hurt like a bitch," he murmured apologetically, before pressing his hand into her side to stop blood flow. A sob poured from Ida's mouth before blackness clouded her vision. The last thing she smelled as the world drifted away from her was cigar smoke, leather, and a hint of amber cologne.