Pale Moon Stalker (The Nymph Trilogy) (27 page)

Max paced in the lobby, considering how he could explain to Sky about Cynthia. Bloody hell, he owed his wife an honest account of that if they were to build a lasting marriage. But as for his time in Africa—he owed no one that much. Pushing the ugly memories away, he looked over at the desk. The clerk had deserted his post. He could hear the man muttering from behind a door that probably led to his private quarters.

Within five minutes, the boy returned with a tall, slim man carrying a small black bag. He was younger than Max expected, with an aristocratic bearing, neatly barbered golden blond hair and eyes as green as his own, although far softer, kinder.

The Englishman handed the boy the other half of the torn bill and watched him scurry away. "So, you're the physician?" he asked, still not certain what to expect when he told this elegant man who his patient would be. The question came out more harshly than he intended.

But the doctor nodded, meeting Max's gaze calmly, not the least intimidated. "Yes, I'm Dr. Torres. I understand there's a young girl here in need of my services. Please take me to her at once."

"First you have to understand one thing. She's Cheyenne, eleven years old, kidnapped by a sadistic white man who abused her."

"And you expect me to refuse to treat her because of her race?" Torres asked, looking at Max intently.

"I feared you might, considering how everyone else around here feels about 'Injuns.'"

"I'm a Sephardic Jew, mister—?"

"Stanhope, Max Stanhope." He felt like a fool. "You understand what being an outcast is about, then."

"You could say that. My family has endured unreasoning prejudice in the New World for four hundred years, and in the Old for well over a millennium. Please take me to the girl."

"She's upstairs in room seven. My wife and her grandfather are with her. I don't know how badly she's hurt—but I do know what Johnny Deuce is capable of," Max said, gesturing toward the stairs. "Would you please tell my wife that I'll be along as soon as I locate a telegraph office and send a message?"

"It's Saturday night in Fort Worth. That may take a bit. But somehow I believe you'll find a way," Dr. Torres said with a fleeting smile as he began to climb the stairs.

Max crossed to the door behind which the clerk cowered and pounded on it. "Where is the telegraph office?" he demanded. He did not say please.

* * * *

When she'd approached the door to room seven, Sky had heard True Dreamer's soft chanting. He must have climbed the back porch and somehow entered by the window. Perhaps Fawn was able to drop something to aid his climb? Sky had hesitated to barge in so for several minutes she'd stood uncertainly in the hallway. Finally, gathering her courage, she turned the lock and stepped inside the darkened room.

One small kerosene lantern cast a flickering glow over the shabby quarters. The bed was narrow, its sheets gray and filthy, smelling of sweat...and blood. A rickety wooden chair sat in one shadowy corner and a washstand with a chipped pitcher and basin atop it was next to the window. On the bare wooden floor, the old man had laid out the blanket he'd carried over his shoulder when they left the livery. That was where Fawn lay, held in her grandfather's arms.

Although he did not stop his soothing chant, True Dreamer nodded to Sky as she quietly closed the door. She knelt facing them and took one small hand that reached out to her and patted it. Fawn looked up at her with large, beautiful brown eyes and managed a smile. "You are Sky Eyes," she said. "Grandfather has told me of you."

"Your grandfather is a very great medicine man," she said softly, somehow not surprised by the child's calm self-possession. It was probably what had allowed her to survive Deuce.

Angry red weals from a riding quirt crisscrossed Fawn's hands, arms and legs. A torn, ragged tunic revealed that Deuce had plied his whip viciously enough to shred it in places.

"I'll bring cool water to bathe her wounds," Sky whispered to him. He nodded, still chanting.

Blinking back the burning tears in her eyes, Sky took the pitcher and walked down the back stairs to where a pump sat in what passed for a courtyard. Although rusty and neglected, it grudgingly gave a burst of water that proved clear and clean. Sky murmured a brief prayer of thanks and returned quickly.

True Dreamer ceased his chant and said to her, "You will care for her until the white medicine man comes. I must make my own medicine." He touched the small pouch that hung on a leather thong around his neck. "I will be back soon."

Shortly, Sky could hear his chant resume and smelled the sweet aroma of burning white sage wafting through the open window. Fawn inhaled deeply and drifted off in an exhausted slumber. She was so small, so frail. Why had this unspeakable evil been visited upon a child? Very slowly and gently, Sky took her knife and cut away the remnants of the tunic. It was beyond repair. By the time she had undressed the child and applied cool compresses to her injured flesh, she heard a tap on the door, followed by a man's voice.

"I'm Dr. Torres. May I come in?"

He sounded gentle, but when Sky opened the door, she was startled by how much he resembled Max. His hair was a darker gold and his eyes a lighter green, but they could certainly have been mistaken for brothers. She gathered her wits and ushered him inside. "Please, she's been horribly abused," she said.

Wasting no time, he nodded at her and strode across the small room to where Fawn lay. He knelt beside her, opening his black leather bag. "Your husband asked me to tell you he'll be along as soon as he sends a telegram."

"Thank you, Doctor," she replied, watching him check the girl.

"You've applied cool water. That's good. But some of these cuts and bruises have been caked with old blood." He poured out the pale pink water and poured fresh into the basin, then added a powder from a small bottle. "We'll have to soak the crusts away, then disinfect all areas where the skin's been broken."

Sky heard him mutter what sounded like an oath in some foreign tongue as he viewed the savagery visited on the girl. His touch was incredibly deft and gentle as he examined Fawn's injuries. Then he gave Sky instructions about how to use the poultice he'd made. As they worked together, she asked hesitantly, "Has she been...that is, did the man who whipped her..."

"Violate her? From what I can tell, no. That's not unusual when men abuse young girls. He's probably impotent and vents his fury in this sick way to compensate."

"Not any longer. I watched him die today," she replied coldly.

"Good," was all the doctor said, continuing to work. "Would you be so kind as to find a clean sheet? This blanket's too heavy to use as a covering."

"Yes, at once," she replied, heading for the door. On the way she picked up the Yellow Boy. Let that scrawny clerk say one word and she'd apply the same treatment to him as she'd done to Zebulon McKerrish!

A chastened Ichabod quickly fetched a whole stack of clean sheets and handed them over without a word of protest. Something in the "breed's" eyes utterly terrified him. He'd heard the cries of the kid Deuce had brought with him. Whether the gunman was dead or alive, he did not want to know anything more about it.

Sky returned to room number seven with the linens. After cleansing all Fawn's wounds, Dr. Torres applied a pale yellow salve and explained to Sky how it should be used during the following days as the patient began to heal. "I smell white sage and some other herbal sleep remedies," he said when they had covered Fawn with the sheet.

"You know about white sage?" she asked, amazed. Most white physicians scorned Indian herbal remedies.

Torres stood, looking down at the old man in the yard below, tending a small fire that wafted through the window. "My family has studied medicine for generations in Spain and Italy, now in America. We've found many plants, some common, some rare, that have proved useful in a variety of ways. I've practiced on the White Mountain Apache Reservation for a number of years. When I finish a new course of study here, I'll rejoin the doctor who's taken my place."

"Then the Apache have cures similar to ours." The physician nodded. Sky digested that, then asked, "Do you believe in spells and chants as well?"

"There are many things modern medicine has yet to learn. I wouldn't discount anything until I observed it. I take it the old man is kin to Fawn?"

"True Dreamer is her grandfather. He's been following her since she was kidnapped."

Before the doctor could reply, Max tapped on the door. Sky rushed over to open it. "Fawn's asleep," she said softly. "Come in."

"Can't, love. I'm afraid I have to go with a deputy marshal to answer some questions about killing Deuce."

Chapter Fourteen

Sky's expression hardened into fury. "They can't blame you for killing that—that thing!"

Max pulled her into the hall. "I'm sure it's only a formality, love. The deputy tracked me down at the telegraph office. I imagine that vile clerk downstairs did his civic duty and told him where to find me."

"No wonder he was so obliging when I asked for clean sheets. He was waiting for them to arrest all of us," she snarled.

"I'll have this straightened out in no time." He gave her a brief kiss on her forehead. "Oh, if there is any trouble, just ask our friend out back what we should do to fix it, eh?" He squeezed her arm reassuringly. "Fawn will be all right. So will we, so don't worry."

Max walked down the stairs to where a stocky man of medium height and more than medium girth waited patiently. Deputy Marshall Harry Kruger. "I thank you for letting me speak with my wife, Deputy. Now, shall we get on with it?" Max asked.

"Like I said, no real problem. Nigh onta a dozen witnesses come forward to tell me whut happened at the Burnin' Pillars. That mean little runt Deuce drew first. Clear self-defense. Howsomever, Marshal Courtright has ta ask ya a few questions, that's all."

Max almost laughed. "Isaiah Courtright—Longhair Jim?"

The deputy chuckled at the old nickname of his boss. "Yep, the very same."

"Damn, I thought he'd be dead by now."

Deputy Kruger laughed, pulling on the end of his mustache. "Mr. Stanhope, he said the 'xact same thing 'bout you."

"All things considered, I imagine it was a reasonable assumption," Max replied dryly as they walked out of the hotel lobby.

"You see here, Mr. Stanhope," the deputy explained, "Fort Worth's come down with a bad case of civic outrage. Couply weeks ago, a little whore got herself kilt in the Acre. Might not a raised many eyebrows, but the fella who cut her throat nailed her to an outhouse door. Mayor an' county prosecutor are plumb bound and determined to clean up the Acre onc't 'n fer all."

"So Marshal Courtright figures that when the word gets out that the infamous Limey shot a man in a gunfight, he'll need to give the high muckety-mucks a full report," Max supplied.

Kruger nodded. " 'Sides, ole Longhair Jim tole me, 'Harry,' he sez, 'you tell that Limey ta git his towheaded ass down to my office, 'cause it's been a blue moon sinc't we split a bottle and swapped some lies.' "

Max sighed. It was going to be a long night.

* * * *

When he returned to the hotel, the startled clerk informed him that his wife and "the others" had departed for fancier digs. He could find them at the Bonhomme House about a dozen blocks away. Obligingly, now knowing how dangerous it would be to anger the Limey, Ichabod gave precise directions to Max.

It was nearing midnight and the Acre was in full swing as he made his way past endless saloons and bordellos, ignoring the blatant catcalls of local ladies of the line, almost drowned out by men's oaths and the joyless noise of tinny pianos.

The warm night air did little to sober him up. Damn, why did the marshal have to be Longhair Jim? He needed a clear head to talk with Sky. Still half drunk, he saw the gleaming white frame two-story edifice with a sign proclaiming, BONHOMME HOUSE, GUESTS WELCOME. He checked at the desk and was told that the womenfolk were in room twelve. He wondered if True Dreamer had left his granddaughter in the care of Sky and camped outside again, but figured he'd find out soon enough. If this clerk had any misgivings about the "guests" being Indians, he showed no signs of his prejudice.

Max managed to climb the stairs, only stumbling once. He located room twelve with no trouble in the dim light, but when he reached the door, he took a deep breath. Lord, he must smell like a distillery. He was surprised that Sky had not charged into the marshal's office to fetch him back. The image of her confronting Longhair Jim by jamming her Yellow Boy in his gut made him smile.

He opened the door quietly. A single light burned on a table across from where Fawn slept. Sky sat stiffly on a cushioned chair beside the lamp, staring at him. True Dreamer was nowhere to be seen. "How is she?" he whispered, looking at the child.

"She will recover," Sky replied in an icy voice.

"Love, I'm sorry about the way you learned of my past...for being so late—"

"I don't care if you committed adultery with every noblewoman in England, or if you and that marshal talked—or drank—all night," she said, smelling the whiskey from across the room. It even penetrated the scent of white sage coming from the small brazier that sat beside Fawn's bed.