He wore a brown hat and a long tan duster over denim trousers and a blue bib-front shirt. A red bandanna was tied around his neck. His wounded companion was considerably older and sported a brush of bristly gray whiskers. He had lost his hat somewhere during the chase, revealing a mostly bald head.
He answered Bo’s question by saying, “How bad does it look like I’m hurt, damn it? Them no-good buzzard-spawn busted my shoulder!”
The right shoulder of his flannel shirt was bloody, all right, and the stain had leaked down onto his cowhide vest. Crimson still oozed through the fingers of the left hand he used to clutch the injured shoulder.
“Take it easy, Ponderosa,” the younger man told him. “Sit down here beside the wheel, and we’ll take a look at it. It might not be as bad as you think it is.”
“Oh, it’s bad, all right,” the old-timer said. “I been shot before. Reckon I’ll bleed to death in another few minutes.”
“I don’t think it’s quite that serious,” Bo said with a faint smile as he tied his dun’s reins to the back of the coach. Scratch had dismounted, too, and tied his horse likewise. Bo went on. “My partner and I have had some experience with gunshot wounds. We’d be glad to help.”
“Much obliged,” the young man said. “If you’ll give me a hand with him…”
Bo helped the driver lower the old man called Ponderosa to the ground. Ponderosa leaned back against the front wheel while Bo pulled his vest and shirt to the side to expose the wound. Under Ponderosa’s tan, the bearded, leathery face was pale from shock and loss of blood.
While Bo was tending to the injured man, Scratch glanced inside the coach and said to the driver, “No passengers, eh?”
“Not on this run,” the young man said with a shake of his head. “And not much in the mail pouch either. If those outlaws had caught up to us, they would have been mighty disappointed.” He held out his hand. “My name’s Gil Sutherland, by the way.”
“Scratch Morton.” As Scratch shook Gil Sutherland’s hand, he nodded toward Bo and added, “My pard there is Bo Creel.”
“And I’m Ponderosa Pine,” the old-timer introduced himself through gritted teeth as Bo probed the wound. “Given name’s Clarence, but nobody calls me that ’less’n they want’a tangle with a wildcat.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” Bo said with a dry chuckle. “Good news, Ponderosa. That bullet didn’t break your shoulder. I think it missed the bone and just knocked out a chunk of meat on its way through.”
“You sure? It hurts like blazes, and I can’t lift my arm.”
“That’s just from the shock of being wounded. We’ll plug the holes to stop the bleeding, and I think you’ll be all right.” Bo looked up at Gil Sutherland. “How far is the nearest town?”
“Red Butte’s about five miles west of here,” Gil replied. “That’s where we were headed when they jumped us. This is the regular run between Red Butte and Chino Valley.”
“Let’s get Ponderosa here on into town then. He needs to have a real doctor look at that wound, just to be on the safe side.”
“That’s assumin’ there’s a sawbones in this Red Butte place,” Scratch added.
Gil nodded. “Yes, there’s a doctor. Don’t worry, Ponderosa. We’ll take care of you.”
“Ain’t worried,” Ponderosa muttered. “Just mad. Mad as hell. I’d like to see Judson and all o’ his bunch strung up.”
“Who’s Judson?” Bo asked as he used a folding knife he took from his pocket to cut several strips of cloth from the bottom of Ponderosa’s shirt. He wadded up some of the flannel into thick pads and used the other strips to bind them tightly into place over the entrance and exit wounds.
“Rance Judson is the leader of the gang that was chasing us,” Gil explained.
“Him and those varmints who ride with him been raisin’ hell in these parts for six months now,” Ponderosa added.
Scratch asked, “If folks know who he is and that he’s responsible for such deviltry, why don’t the law come in and arrest him?”
Gil Sutherland shook his head. “We’re a long way from any real law out here, Mr. Morton. There’s a marshal in Red Butte who does a pretty good job of keeping the peace there, but he’s not going to go chasing off into the badlands after Judson’s gang. That would be suicide, and he knows it. We all do.”
Bo finished tying the makeshift bandages into place. He straightened from his crouch, grunting a little as he did so. “Old bones are stiffer than they used to be.”
“Tell me about it,” Ponderosa grumbled. “And I’m quite a bit older’n you, mister.”
“Let’s get you in the coach,” Gil suggested. “It won’t be all that comfortable, but it should be better than riding up on the box.”
“Wait just a doggone minute! I signed on to be the shotgun guard, not a danged passenger!”
“I’ll ride shotgun the rest of the way,” Bo said. “Where’s your Greener?”
“On the floorboard where I dropped it when them polecats ventilated me, I reckon.”
Gil said, “I don’t think Judson and his men will make another try for us. You don’t have to come with us into town.”
“We don’t mind,” Bo said.
“Truth to tell, all this dust has got me thirsty,” Scratch added with a grin. “You got at least one saloon there, don’t you?”
“Several,” Gil admitted.
“Then what are we waitin’ for? Let’s go to Red Butte!”
CHAPTER 2
Once they had loaded the still-complaining Ponderosa Pine into the stagecoach, Bo climbed onto the driver’s box next to Gil Sutherland, leaving his horse tied at the back of the coach. Scratch mounted up and rode alongside as Gil got the vehicle moving.
“Used to be a Butterfield coach, didn’t it?” Bo asked as he swayed slightly on the seat from the rocking motion. He had Ponderosa’s double-barreled scattergun across his knees.
“How did you know?” Gil said.
“You can still see some of the red and yellow paint on it in places.”
Gil grunted. “We didn’t strip the paint off on purpose. The sun and the dust and the wind in this godforsaken country took care of that for us.”
“We?” Bo repeated.
“My father was the one who started the stage line. It runs from Cottonwood to Chino Valley and on over to Red Butte, where the headquarters are. There’s another line that runs from Flagstaff down to Cottonwood and then on south, but there was no transportation from Cottonwood west to the Santa Marias until my father came along. Chino Valley and Red Butte were
