Jones cautiously peered into the doorway from an angle, gun in hand. Ben Persons lay unconscious on his face in a heap, a bloody mess on the right side of his back where a bullet exited. Max was half underneath him, a neck wound pulsing blood. Livvy, hog tied on the bed to the left, squirmed furiously. Salinger had scooted himself to the corner of the room hidden by the opened door. Jones inched into the quieting room. The stench of gun smoke and blood attacked his nostrils, accented by a girlish squeal from Max as Jones nudged his foot with his own, checking for life.

Below in the bar, every single man scrambled out the door, joining the barkeeper in the center of the street. One man cautiously returned and ascended the stairs, his gun leading the way, followed by a fast-gaining Arville Johnston.

Finally, seeing his gun edge into the room, Salinger shouted to Jones, his voice a scared shrill, “See if he’s dead!”

Jones knew Salinger to mean Persons. He holstered his pistol before kneeling to pull Ben from atop Max and turn him over.

“I’m bleedin’ bad,” Max said, unmoving, blood pouring from the side of his neck.

Jones inched his way over the two in order to look at Ben’s face, into his opened eyes.

“Well?” Salinger demanded, his voice returned to normal.

Eyes fixed onto Ben’s, Jones could only mumble incoherently. Though unconscious, Ben’s eyes spoke to Jones, seemingly boring into his soul. Jones stood, transfixed.

“Finish him!” Salinger yelled. “Or get outta the way and I’ll do it!”

Livvy managed to bounce herself on the bed, veritably shouting through the sock tied into her jaw. Salinger snapped off an accidental shot in her direction, and then turned his gun to Ben, clicking the trigger on a spent cartridge. Cursing, he began to reload, managing only the single bullet that he was able to retrieve from a pocket, his britches too tight to reach into further from a crouched position. He was too terrified to stand, cowering in the corner of the room between the doorway to the downstairs and the doorway to the outside staircase on an adjacent wall. Aiming at Ben’s head from a distance of mere feet, Salinger clicked on two empty chambers before his live round cycled to the hammer. As his finger pulled the trigger the third time, Livvy finally managed to stand, though bound tightly. By her ungainly action, she bumped Salinger, causing him to shoot Jones who was beside Ben. Salinger then bolted out of the room and out a fire escape door, running around the back of the building. He ran to the outhouse where he hid until dark, well after everyone had cleared out.

“Untie her!” Arville said to another dumbstruck would-be rescuer, the card-playing miner. Arville pushed Jones aside in order to get to Ben, whose right-side chest wound bubbled foamy blood. Max lay still, his arms and legs stepped on, dead. With Ben’s own knife, Arville cut away Ben’s shirt. Gasping in his shock, Arville turned his head toward Livvy, their eyes agreeing in desperation. Arville’s skyward glance preceded his index finger plunge into the pulsating cavity by less than a second.

“God,” Arville began. “Your servant needs you.” Arville immediately felt a tightening around his finger, Ben’s wound gently expelling it.

Squirming loose of her ties, Livvy squirreled her way to Ben, drawing his head to her lap. Arville was oblivious to her state of exposure as she calmly repeated Jesus’ name, no other words coming to her.

“See to him,” Arville directed the miner, breaking his ogling of Livvy. Together, they dragged Max out of their way and stretched Jones out and away from Ben. Jones’ head wound was not bleeding, merely a red spot above his left ear. Other than that, he appeared to be nothing more than a sleeping man.

Known to no one, Salinger’s bullet was defective, loaded at manufacture with only half a charge of gunpowder, sufficient to explode and propel the slug, but not enough to wreak the carnage of its design. Slowed by Jones’ skull, penetration was negligible, lodging in the region controlling Jones’ speech.

“Get a doctor!” Livvy yelled to the miner.

“Missy, you and him,” he replied pointing to Arville, “are as close as we got.” The miner squirmed on his feet, torn between staying and leaving.

“Put your gun away and help me get Ben onto the bed.” Together, they managed.

“Go get some water,” Livvy told him. “And then tell the bartender to find me my clothes.”

As Livvy and Arville peeled Ben of his bloodied shirt, mopping his back of blood as best they could without causing more injury to the torn flesh, they worried, but marveled at his calm unconsciousness.

Jones awoke and stood behind Arville, somehow fully alert, docilly moving to look into Ben’s face. Virtually blood free, no apparent injury other than a small smear of blood on the side of his head, he attempted to speak but produced nothing but grunts from his moving lips. Livvy and Arville stopped their ministrations to look at him.

Aware of his condition, Jones reached to the side of his head, drawing back modest redness on his palm. He slowly made a palm-to-palm praying gesture as he looked skyward, his message of salvation and belief clearly understood. Livvy and Arville resumed aiding Ben as the miner returned with a bucket of water.

Salinger shivered through the long hours of the night, not leaving the outhouse until the wee hours of the morning. His saloon too small to afford him an office, he kept his wealth hidden in the shack that served as his home. At sunrise Salinger and his canvas suitcase stole to the livery barn where he bought back the wagon and team he’d sold when he got to town. Intent on heading west and completely out of the San Juans, he hoped to escape the sure stories of his kidnapping a woman and killing Ben. He whipped the team to fast trot.

+++

“We have to get him to help,” Arville said.

“My husband … William …”

“He know where we are?” Arville asked.

“I’m not sure he even knows I’ve been taken yet. He was working up near Powderhorn. My father would come, probably already has, but he wouldn’t know which way. He would most likely go tell William. And then …”

“Let’s get Ben to Silverton. We’ll worry about what happens after that when we get there.” Silverton was the largest community they knew of that was in the right direction. Though they held little hope of expert care, they could only do what they could.

Jones, proving to be a loyal servant, managed to collect supplies and a buckboard, even without speech. By lunchtime they began the bumpy climb over Ophir Pass.

+++

“We can’t cross it,” Arville said of the raging shoal, the river cascading over large boulders. “I’ve never seen it this high.” They were at Mineral Creek below Anvil Mountain.

Jones shook his head from side to side.

“It would bust the wagon to pieces. Carry Ben to who knows where or how far,” Arville added.

“Guess we make camp,” Livvy offered. Jones had already gotten down from Red, Ben’s horse.

+++

The morning brought a small band of Utes with the rising sun, their intention to cross the ford toward the whites. Livvy and her men watched as they walked their way across the waist-deep torrent, arm in arm, successfully fighting the current.

At their camp, no one speaking, no one even thinking of touching weapons, the Indians looked at Ben’s motionless face, his eyes opened wide. They nodded recognition.

“We take him,” one of the Utes said. “You leave wagon, ride horses across tomorrow.” Taking charge, they removed Ben from the wagon using the stretcher he’d been loaded on. Dumbstruck, Arville and Livvy knew that Ben was safe. They had no alternative plan.