The final one screamed as he shot him down. Not that it bothered Doc, except it’d have the local law on him quicker than he could say lynch mob and he was aiming for something higher than a small town sheriff this time.
Kicking the body over onto its front, he rifled through the man’s clothing, pocketing his money belt and spare ammunition. The guns he left, after knocking out the firing pins. They were poor quality and dead weight he couldn’t afford to carry.
Pollyanna stamped irritably, and he crooned to her as he transferred the contents of the men’s saddlebags into his own before sending the spare horses off into the night with a slap to their rumps. The big boned chestnut he hung on to, looping its reins through his saddle. It always paid to have a spare beast, just in case his went lame.
Behind him, down in the valley clustered round the juncture of two streams, lay the small hamlet he’d ridden through on his way to the ranch. He’d hoped no one had seen him, but the posse they’d sent out after him made that unlikely. Lights flickered out from the houses as the sun set, forming their own misplaced constellation. Doc stood for a moment, one arm draped around Polly’s neck, staring at the sky, before he swung up into the saddle and chivvied her on with his heels. He had a way to go before daybreak.
***
“Mowed ‘em down in cold blood, ‘e did, Marshall,” the gap toothed cowpoke said, finishing his statement with a virulent ejection of tobacco juice. “Sent ‘em scurrying off to meet their maker without a second thought. Goddang butcher. Soonest that Doctor Death is hung high, the happier law-abiding folks is gonna be.”
Mitchell sidestepped the brown mess and turned his attention to the other witness. Her husband was one of the men this outlaw had murdered and rumour had it, she wasn’t at all disappointed to see him gone. “You wanna add anything, Mrs. Kramer?” he asked.
The woman simpered at him, her fingers curling through her blonde ringlets. “Honest, Marshall, I don’t know a single other thing. He seemed like a nice boy when he rode through. ‘Cepting his eyes. He had a killer’s eyes. Not like yours. Soft eyes, you got. Real pretty. Like a proper gentleman.”
Mitchell ignored her overt flutterings and flipped open the warrant. Inside was the picture he’d drawn himself, painstakingly assembled from eyewitnesses who’d had the misfortune to run into Doctor Death during his yearlong rampage. The few who’d survived anyway.
“Would this be the man, Mrs Kramer,” he asked, holding up the picture.
Her attempts to flirt ignored, the woman’s face hardened. “Course a proper gentleman would know to pass on condolences to a poor widow woman,” she said. “And I can’t rightly say if that was him. It was dark and I only ever saw him through the window.”
Covering his disappointment, Mitchell returned the picture to its leather pouch, nodded his thanks to the cowpoke and raised his hat to Mrs Kramer. He’d hoped this time would be different, but it never was.
With the likes of Billy the Kid or Jesse James there was family, accounts from whores or saloons, people they’d met on the trail, a gang. Not with this one. Doc was a loner, through and through, and by rights should already be dead. Yet it was the ones who’d seen Doc close up or spoken to him who’d ended up shot, as if the outlaw had something to hide, something that would give him away if he let anyone get close.
Walking back towards the Sheriff’s office and his tethered horse, Mitchell felt the eyes of the community on him, that odd combination of resentment at a stranger and hope that he’d get done what their men hadn’t. Frankly Mitchell didn’t care what they thought. This had turned into more than a simple manhunt. It was getting personal.
“You moving on then, Marshall?” the sheriff asked as Mitchell mounted up.
“That I am,” Mitchell said, digging in his spurs and setting his horse to dancing. “No point in letting the boy get further ahead.”
***
He stopped off by the wagon road where the latest killings had happened and began quartering the ground for tracks. Thanks to the folks who’d come for the bodies, there were boot marks all over but Mitchell worked his way out carefully, searching for a telltale hoof print or flattened patch of grass that would tell him this was the way the outlaw had gone.
He found a stone, chipped at one corner and remembered the sheriff saying the hands’ guns had been damaged. Mitchell’d lay good money this was the tool Doc had used. Holding it in his fist, he gazed towards the Big Horn mountains, wondering if that was where the outlaw was headed. It was obvious, but sometimes the most obvious routes worked best for a reason.
Finally he spotted it, half a print in the dust on the edge of some rocks. Clever. This one wouldn’t be easy to track. Not that Mitchell was worried. He was good; there wasn’t a trail so faint that he couldn’t follow it. He’d already tracked this one across three territories.
***
The boy was either the world’s luckiest fool, or too damned clever for his own good, Mitchell reflected as he studied the small homestead. After five days, the trail hadn’t wavered. Due west, running parallel to the wagon train routes but never coming close enough to risk contact. This was the first sign of habitation Mitchell had hit and the eerie silence about the place worried him. It wasn’t a silence of the plains, where a man expected to have nothing but his own company for days at a time, but the silence of the abandoned. He’d seen similar after Indian raids, ‘cepting there were usually buzzards drawn close by bodies laying out in the sun.
The sky was as quiet as the ground; devoid of life. The doors to the barn and house were both closed up tight. It looked like the folks had packed up and left, except homesteaders didn’t do that and the yard didn’t have the feel of run down hopelessness that made people give up. The fences were all in good repair and when Mitchell dismounted and climbed the front steps of the house, the boards didn’t so much as squeak under his boots.
Five minutes later he was back in the saddle, mystery solved. What he’d found was too familiar to move him anymore, though the kids’ eyes would haunt his dreams for a few nights to come. His quarry hadn’t gotten the name Doctor Death for no good reason.
***
Mules weren’t of use to anyone, but the old boy’s rifle would come in handy. Doc stuck it into Polly’s saddle and went back to check the body one last time. Flies filled its empty mouth and the ground around it had already returned to blackened dust. High above, buzzards circled riding the thermals waiting for their portion of the spoils. Doc saw no point in denying them; the sun would soon be down and then coyotes would have what the buzzards couldn’t reach. They’d scratch up shallow graves easy enough, so the loose dirt packed around the prospector’s limbs shouldn’t pose a problem. This time tomorrow most would ride by without seeing a thing.
Except for the Marshall. He’d notice, of course, and would coming running, just as Doc planned.
Bluffs rose each side of the track, the sun burning between them straight into Doc’s eyes as he rode. The scrub-covered hills reflected the light back, orange and purple stripes glowing in the rock and, behind him, his shadow stretched out, telling tales of a twenty-foot giant loose in the wilderness.
***
Another twenty-four hours found Mitchell picking his way through the lower reaches of a ravine, keeping a wary eye out for rattlers and anyone hunting him from the cliffs. The tracks told him Doc was a few days ahead, but this was a plum place for an ambush. Mitchell was vulnerable, and knew it, but couldn’t risk keeping to cover in case he lost the trail. It still headed west, and anyone on route was fair game, Indian or white, made no difference. The body count was up to seven that he knew of, with several others that might have been accidents, might not.
When his horse went down squealing, its knee destroyed by a high calibre round, it was almost a relief. He snatched his rifle from the saddle and rolled clear of the thrashing animal. Another shot rang out and a spume of dirt kicked up between him and the horse. Someone was trying to drive him away from it.
Well, Mitchell may have a reputation for being a bit slow, but he wasn’t stupid. Getting separated from his supplies out here was as good as death sentence.
Rolling onto his belly, he fired one shot and the horse went still. Now it was cover. Mitchell snake-bellied forwards, loosening his knife from his belt, and sliced through the leather straps of his saddlebags and bedroll. He reached for his water canteen and cursed, ducking, when a bullet thumped into the carcass inches from his hand. There was a spare in his pack, so it wasn’t worth taking the risk, but it was a good distraction. He made another grab for it, waited till a gunshot echoed around the ravine and then scrambled to his feet, bolting for the nearest cover, zigzagging to avoid being hit.
Inches from safety, the bullet smacked into his shoulder, bowling him to the ground. Pressing his palm to his neck, Mitchell staggered the final few feet and collapsed against a handy tree. Damn but that stung. He ripped open his vest and shirt looking for an exit wound. Nothing. The warm trickle down his back told him the same as the tingles in his left hand; the bullet was lodged in his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he banged his head gently against the tree. He was in some serious trouble. Trouble that would only get worse once Doc arrived.
His saddlebags offered up a fresh shirt, which Mitchell used to bind the wound as well as he could, given the angle. Not that it would do much good. He had to get the bullet out, impossible with a dead horse and the nearest surgeon several days ride away. Even now infection would be setting in. Give him a week and Mitchell knew he’d be lucky to still be alive.
“Hurts a bit, I’d wager?”
Mitchell started and grabbed for his rifle, swinging it up to rest awkwardly across his knee. He covered the resulting wince under a growl. “Take another step and I’ll blow your brains out, son.”
Doc stayed where he was, at the edge of the trees, back-lit by the sun streaming into the narrow valley, his face shadowed by his hat. He had no gun that Mitchell could see, but Mitchell wasn’t foolish enough to relax his guard.
“Wasn’t planning to kill you.”
A cynical snort escaped before Mitchell could stop it. The outlaw bent his head further and the telltale scent of sulphur and burning tobacco suddenly competed with fresh pine and wet earth. When he’d tucked his matches back into his vest pocket, Doc dropped to his haunches, one hand resting on the ground in front of him as though he was coaxing a scared animal from its burrow.
Mitchell pressed further back against the tree. He’d seen this man’s victims and didn’t trust him as far as he could piss.
“See, I know about you, Marshall,” Doc was saying, one finger tracing shapes in the pine needles. Mitchell tensed when Doc’s other hand moved, but it only travelled to his hat, tipping it back so his face was finally visible. And there they were, the only features that consistently came up in witness reports, white hair like an old man’s and killer’s eyes. What no one had said was how darned pretty Doc was.
'Course the other thing that no one mentioned was the accent. The infamous Doctor Death was British, which, Mitchell guessed, explained the lack of records and his tendency to shoot anyone who got close enough to cotton on.
“Heard about you. Talk of the town back in the Federal city, you and your ‘Deputy’.”
Mitchell’s heart twisted at the mention of Artie, his partner in all senses of the word, and the man who had taken a bullet destined for Mitchell. His finger tightened on the trigger without conscious control, the shot spitting out and catching Doc in the thigh, sending him sprawling sideways.
“You don’t get to say his name,” Mitchell snarled, using the tree to push himself upright. Pain sliced through his shoulder and he panted to cover the wince. Stalking over to the downed man, he dropped his rifle and pulled his six-shooter, levelling it at Doc’s head. “Murdering scum like you don’t ever get to say his name.”
Doc exploded up from the ground, slamming into Mitchell’s gut and sending them both crashing into a tree. It didn’t hold them for long and they ended up in the mud, rolling over and over, with first one and then the other gaining the upper hand. Mitchell was heavier, but his damaged shoulder prevented him from taking advantage of it. Every time he managed to pin Doc under him, the bastard went for that arm, causing Mitchell to lose his balance. Clashing spurs and the occasional grunt of pain kept them company, until finally Mitchell ended up flat on his back, his hands up protecting his face from the flurry of punches Doc was dealing.
“Never said his fucking name. Cocksucker,” Doc rasped, bracing himself on Mitchell’s chest.
Blood streamed from Mitchell’s nose, filling his throat to choking point. He had to do something, and quick, before he drowned. Abandoning any attempt at fighting back, Mitchell went limp, letting his head drop as if he’d been knocked unconscious. The blows continued to fall, though neither as hard nor as accurate as before. At a guess, the boy was getting tired. Now if he’d just drop his guard. Hot wetness soaked into Mitchell’s heavy pants from the leg straddling his. It had to be painful, taking weight on an injured thigh, but Doc wasn’t letting it slow him down.
Still feigning unconsciousness, Mitchell slowly stretched out his right hand, searching the ground for something to use as a weapon. His fingers closed around a rock and, with no further thought, he smashed it into Doc’s head, catching him on the temple and knocking him cold.
For a few minutes, all Mitchell could do was lie there. His shoulder burned like fire, his left arm numb from the fingers up, but, despite the pain, rest wasn’t an option. With a deep groan, he pushed Doc’s inert body to one side and staggered to his feet. Somewhere, probably half-buried in pine needles, was his pack.
Using trees for support, Mitchell painfully backtracked to the point the fight started and hunted around. The pack turned up a few yards away in the hollow of some tree roots, split open and spilling its contents onto the ground. Mitchell sorted through them, taking a couple of hefty swigs from his flask and wishing it was something stronger than water. Still, it helped clear his head, and with renewed energy, he set about securing his prisoner.
It was only when he was cuffing Doc’s hands that it struck Mitchell that the outlaw was clad only in a short jacket; not hardly suitable for the trek he’d had over the past few weeks.
“Where you holed up then, boy?” he mused as he propped the unconscious man against a tree. “Reckon I need to find your horse. See what clues you got hidden away.”
He found Doc’s mount hobbled the far side of another stand of pine, a friendly enough mare who wuffled at his approach. The beast looked in good condition, strong and broad-chested. Mitchell checked her feet and the pack and bedroll on the ground next to her. Only a basic set of supplies and no sign of any more gear. Doc had to have somewhere permanent nearby.
After saddling the mare up, Mitchell went back to discover the outlaw still apparently insensible. He considered leaving him that way, but getting him up on the horse would be impossible with only one arm, so he booted him, hard, in the ribs. “Get up.”
Doc reacted fast and violently, kicking out and catching Mitchell in the crotch. By the time Mitchell had regained his feet, the outlaw was fifty yards away, limping clumsily with his cuffed hands held out in front. Cussing, Mitchell took off after him, tackling him mid-stride and bringing them both crashing down. Doc grunted, struggling to get free, his body writhing in ways that Mitchell found more familiar than disconcerting; it took him back to his first encounter with Artie. It was… distracting.
Smacking Doc’s head into the ground several times, Mitchell resisted the urge to grind his rapidly hardening length into that squirming backside and growled, “Now, damn well stay down!”
“Down. Up. Make your bloody mind up.”
A distinct flush crept up Doc’s neck, reddening his cheeks, and Mitchell could feel a racing heartbeat beneath his hands. It could be pain, but Mitchell was thinking that a wounded leg was the last thing on Doc’s mind right now. To grasp the significance of his relationship with Artie, Doc must have run in very specific circles in Washington, circles most decent men avoided at all costs.
Leaning forward and using one hand to pin the outlaw’s head by the hair, Mitchell took a risk and breathed, “I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man left on God’s green earth.”
Doc’s blush deepened. “Sod off,” he growled, yanking his head away. “Don’t want to fuck you.”
“That right? Yet somehow, boy, that ain’t the message you’re sending out. Slicing up enough folks in my territory that it’s a sure thing I’m gonna be on your tail. Leading me ‘cross half the state into outlaw country, then taking down my horse when you coulda saved yourself a lot of time and trouble by putting that bullet straight through my heart.
“See,” Mitchell sat up, studying Doc’s face, “that sounds to me like some half-assed plan. And if you weren’t planning on killing me, then just what were you planning on?”
Silence. Doc’s face screwed up in thought, his bottom lip pushed out into a pout. “Was gonna lock you up, send a missive to those cocksuckers in the capital.” he answered finally. “Reckoned someone would be willing to spend a few quid getting you back all safe and sound like.”
It was possible, Mitchell guessed. There’d been a couple of heists recently where the Marshall’d gotten taken hostage. 'Course, they’d ended up shot. Still, if there was one thing Mitchell liked to think he knew, it was killers. For more years than he liked to remember he’d tracked bank robbers and cattle rustlers, and there was one rule they all held to. Profit. Even a hired gun wouldn’t draw for anything less than good gold. What this boy did was different.
He took stuff from homesteads, but it weren’t gold, it was supplies. Same with the folks he mowed down on the trail. Neither did he touch the ladies, or the little ‘uns. All got the same treatment; a scalpel slash through the belly, followed by a shot to the head if they were lucky.
No, that wasn’t the work of someone who’d take a Marshall hostage. It was the kind of thing that got folks locked up in the state asylum. And talking sense to a madman was like pissing into the wind.
With a final thump to the back of Doc’s head, Mitchell levered himself up, dragging the outlaw after him. “Let’s get something clear,” he said, shoving Doc towards the saddled horse that was standing patiently back by the stand of pine. “The warrant I’ve got for you says dead or alive, but there’s a whole mess of folks waiting see you swing for what you’ve done, so I’m fixing to take you in still breathing.”
Doc slipped and fell, landing heavily on his injured leg. For a second he rested, head bowed, and then struggled upright. Not a sound passed his lips and Mitchell had to acknowledge a grudging respect for that. With neither bandage nor tourniquet, the blood staining the outlaw’s trousers stretched from crotch to knee. That wound must hurt like a fucking bitch.
The mare greeted her master with a soft nicker, snuffling into his neck and puffing at his hair. Doc leaned against her, caressing her nose with his cuffed hands and whispering quietly under his breath.
He was obviously fond of his horse, not unusual when the relationship between man and beast could make the difference between surviving and not. Still, it made Mitchell wonder how a man who carved up children for a hobby could show such emotion towards an animal.
Feeling like an intruder at a private reunion, Mitchell retrieved his saddlebags and bedroll, and slung them over the mare’s back. “She take two?” he said to Doc.
Doc nodded, still immersed in communing with his horse. “Yeah, she’s a strong one, is Polly. Long as it’s not far.”
“Only as far as your hideout,” Mitchell said, and then ducked out of the way when a double handed punch headed for his injured shoulder. Grabbing Doc by the collar, he forced him to his knees and pushed his spur into the outlaw’s wounded thigh until he finally cried out.
“Look, son,” he said, “You can either tell me where we’re headed or I’ll follow your trail. Either way, we’re gonna find it and get sorted.”
***
It was an overnight ride. Come sundown, Mitchell hauled out the leg irons and locked Doc to a tree. Less than impressed, the outlaw kept up a string of curses for a full hour before Mitchell shut his mouth with a plate of beans and bacon.
The following morning they both rose stiffer than boards, ignoring each other’s groans as they eased muscles bruised during the fight.
“’Nother four, five hours,” Doc offered sullenly in response to Mitchell’s enquiry as to the remainder of their journey. And with nothing else said, they mounted up.
Mitchell was expecting a camp, with maybe a rough lean-to and a fire pit. Where Doc finally directed him was a well-hidden cabin, set high up a narrow trail and invisible from below. With its couple of outbuildings and a cold store pit secured against grizzlies, someone could stay up here for months. It had probably belonged to a trapper or prospector. How in hell the outlaw had stumbled over it was anyone’s guess.
“Cozy,” Mitchell commented, noting the well-stocked woodpile and recent repairs. “Where’d you bury the owner?”
In front of him, Doc snorted. “Dunno who the owner is. Was abandoned, half-wrecked, when I found it.”
That was illuminating. And spoke of a real plan. If the infamous Doctor Death was capable of thinking things out so far ahead, why had he let Mitchell get the better of him at the last? It didn’t make sense.
“You gonna let me down or what?” continued Doc.
Suddenly over aware of the muscular body pressing back against his own, Mitchell swallowed heavily and slid down. The drop jarred his shoulder and he poked at it gingerly, feeling the telltale heat already forming. He had to get the bullet out. Somehow.
“Can do that, if you’ve a mind,” Doc said still perched on Polly’s back. The blood had dried on his trousers, Mitchell noticed, and his eyes were deeply circled.
Ignoring the offer, Mitchell unlocked the extra set of cuffs securing Doc to the saddle and held up his good arm to help Doc down.
“There’s a stable, kinda, round the back,” said Doc, dismounting the other way with only the slightest of grimaces indicating how much pain he was in. After a second he peered at Mitchell under the mare’s neck and said, “Need to rub the old girl down ‘fore we get too comfy,” then limped off around the side of the cabin; hands still cuffed, with Polly following along like a well-trained mutt.
Mitchell shook his head, bemused yet again by this outlaw’s strange behaviour. The boy was as stubborn as a mule and had the luck of the devil on his side.
And pretty, part of his mind pointed out. In the two years since Artie was killed, no man had attracted Mitchell’s attention. But Doc? Doc was beautiful. Lean, yet strong. Masculine, and yet with features that verged on delicate.
He was also a cold-blooded killer. Not to mention wilier than a fox and probably halfway down the mountain by now.
Breaking into a trot, Mitchell headed for the back of the building, preparing to find the place deserted. It wasn’t. Doc had managed to remove Polly’s saddle and was doing his best to rub the mare down with a handful of straw, allowing the horse to take the majority of his weight. Until, that was, he saw Mitchell, when he stood defiantly tall on both legs.
Mitchell hid his amused grin by glancing around the tiny clearing. Hobbled in the trees nearby was a large chestnut gelding, raw boned and half-starved looking. Mitchell guessed it was the extra horse Doc had picked up back in Trabing. At least they wouldn’t have to double up for the journey out.
“Give Harry some corn, would ya,” Doc called out, indicating a battered old feed bin in the corner of the lean-to stable. “Oughta leave it ‘til winter really, but the old sod needs a bit of fattening up.”
Feeling more like a farm hand than a law enforcement agent, Mitchell shovelled up a scoop of feed and threw it across the sparse grass next to the grazing horse. It glared at him warily, rolling its eyes, ears flipping forwards and back.
“Hey, lad,” Mitchell said softly, extending his hand. The gelding blew on it suspiciously.
“Watch it!” Doc yelled.
Mitchell turned to look at him just as Harry’s teeth snapped together far too close to his fingers. “Fuck!” he yelped, swinging a fist at the horse’s nose. It reared back, showing the whites of its eyes.
“Yeah,” Doc laughed. “He’s a right bastard. Turned me black and blue ‘til I found a decent snaffle. Wouldn’t turn your back on him.”
Taking Doc’s advice, Mitchell backed away and returned to the stable where Doc appeared to have finished with Polly. By the looks of him, the extra exercise hadn’t done him any favors.
“Inside,” Mitchell ordered, reasserting his authority.
The outlaw’s lips tightened and Mitchell waited for the punch. As predicated, Doc swung. Mitchell caught the cuffs and twisted, shoving Doc backward into the cabin wall.
“Had enough?” he asked conversationally, digging his fingers into the outlaw’s windpipe.
Doc shook his head, sliding slowly down the wall, face turning purple as his hands clenched around Mitchell’s wrists trying to force them away.
When he finally passed out, Mitchell let him go, dropping him to the ground.
***
“Stubborn, stupid boy,” Mitchell muttered bleakly to the cabin walls. He hauled Doc over to the cot in the corner and dumped him on top of it. The outlaw was showing signs of coming round and Mitchell wanted him secure before that happened. Frankly he’d had enough of this turn on a dime attitude. He needed Doc to recognize who was in charge and stop behaving like a jerk. 'Course, Mitchell mused as he cuffed Doc’s hands around the metal bars, that was probably too much to hope for.
Once that was done, Mitchell turned his attention to Doc’s leg. It would be simpler to do this without the snide comments. He fetched water from the barrel outside and hunted through the, surprisingly well-stocked, stores until he found a roll of cotton. Having torn off a few lengths, he stripped off Doc’s boots and blood soaked pants, and tossed them into the corner.
He was just about to start on woollen undergarments when Doc stirred, opened one eye and said, “You know, there’s lads in New York’ll do this for a few bucks. Me, I’m more expensive.”
Having expected something along these lines, Mitchell ignored him and carried on inspecting the wound. The bleeding had stopped, but it still needed to be cleaned and bandaged. Reminding himself of the healthy bonus that was set to be his if he brought Doc back alive, Mitchell resisted the temptation to simply shoot him, rolled the outlaw onto his side and checked the back.
Unlike himself, Doc had been lucky. The bullet had gone straight through his thigh, though the untidy wound in the back was still seeping. Under normal circumstances, Mitchell would have used his knife to cut away the blood stained garment, but limited to one hand, he had no choice to but to make do with what he had.
Muttering, “Keep still,” he bent forwards and gripped the cloth over one buttock in his teeth. Using his good hand, he ripped the underdrawers from fanny-flap to knee, then rolled Doc back over and did the same thing on the front, exposing his leg completely.
The rigid cockstand against his cheek didn’t go unnoticed, nor did the heat of Doc’s skin and rapid breaths. Mitchell hardened in response. It had been so long since he’d had any reaction that the temptation to give Doc exactly what he wanted was extreme. In self-defence, Mitchell conjured up the faces of the children Doc had murdered, telling himself that a man who could do that, wasn’t the type he wanted to fuck. The trouble was, his body had other ideas. He wanted to taste this man, run his tongue up the length of him, suck the head of his cock and feel it pressing against his palate. He wanted to discover what other noises he could coax from those lips and whether Doc would cry his name when he spent. As Artie had, every time.
“You gonna do something or just look at it?”
It was such a brash question, so unlike anything Artie would have said, that it brought Mitchell back to himself. He jerked upright and snatched his hand back from where it was hovering, far too close to Doc’s erection.
Fighting the blush that threatened to stain his cheeks the same colour as Doc’s underthings, Mitchell snatched up the cloth, dipped it into the water and began wiping away the blood. He kept his mind firmly on the task and refused to allow his mind to wander. Even though his fingers kept brushing against wiry curls and hot solid flesh.
“Roll over,” he said once the blood was gone, sitting up to ease both his back and his erection.
Doc raised a suggestive eyebrow but did as he was told.
The change in position, which should have made Mitchell’s life easier, didn’t. Now he had to contend with pale smooth buttocks that his hands itched to caress and the hidden line of spine that his tongue longed to trace.
“Y’know a bloke could die of gangrene waiting for you to clean him up.”
Damn the boy. Mitchell rubbed away the sweat gathering on his forehead and bent to his task. The sooner this was done, the quicker he could start on his own injury. Not that he had a clue how he was going to deal with it, but the throb spreading slowly down his arm, in counterpoint to the throb in his groin, was a stiff reminder that he’d better be quick.
And at last Mitchell was finished. He tossed the cloth into the bowl of bloody water, cracked open the jar of raw spirits he’d found and liberally doused the back of Doc’s leg.
“Bleeding hell!” Doc yelled, his body arching away from the burn.
Mitchell grabbed his hip, tugging him back down and sloshed a similar amount over the front, noting with a smirk that the outlaw’s cock had given up the unequal struggle and now lay flaccid in its nest of curls.
“Could have fucking warned me.”
It really was easier to ignore him, Mitchell decided as he strapped the wound as best he could with one hand. The bandage wasn’t tight, but would at least keep it clean.
“S’only polite to warn a bloke when you’re gonna chuck whiskey over him. Might of fancied a drop to drink instead.”
Picking up the dirty cloth and bowl, Mitchell carried them outside and freshened the supplies for his own shoulder. When he returned, Doc had managed to wedge himself upright between the wall and the bedstead, and was now watching avidly as Mitchell started to strip off his shirt.
When a low, appreciative, whistle greeted the removal of his undershirt, Mitchell moved further away, closer to the rear of the cabin next to a small window. Grabbing a chair, he straddled it, all the while keeping his back turned on the outlaw. The comments persisted.
“Would ya look at the body on that. You, Marshall, have got muscles that a sodding stallion’d be proud of. Wonder if the rest of the package measures up.”
Mitchell pressed at the wound cautiously, twisting his torso to try and see the damage. It was impossible. The bullet had entered high up, between his shoulder blade and neck.
“Said I’d do that for you. Have to uncuff me, mind. Not much good with me toes.”
But the bullet couldn’t stay where it was, so he’d have to at least try. Using the tip of his knife, Mitchell dug at the wound, flinching as the blade cut further into his flesh.
“Obstinate bugger, aren’t you. Too bloody proud to let me have at it.”
A thin line of yellowish blood tracked up the blade. As Mitchell had guessed, it was already infected.
“Guess I’ll have to make do with watching. Pretty enough sight, I reckon.”
Mitchell tried again, forcing the knife further into the wound and twisting it slightly. It was excruciating. Sweat stood out on his forehead, black dots danced in front of his eyes and his hand started to shake.
“Getting to you, am I? Can see you all of a tremble for me.”
Finally metal grated on metal. With a last agonising effort, Mitchell managed to force the tip of the knife under the bullet and flick it out. It fell to the ground, landing with a quiet thud. Bile rose in the back of Mitchell’s throat, blood sang in his ears, his hands shook. His skin, except for the wound, felt clammy and cold. Breathing heavily, he leaned on the back of the chair, waiting for the room to stop going round.
A couple of minutes later, the quiet sound of flesh on flesh from the bed penetrated the silence. Mitchell heaved his head up, curious, only to discover Doc leering at him from the bed, his hands, though still cuffed, loosed from the frame. One was beneath him somewhere, its exact location obscured by the bandaged leg bent up slightly in front of him. The other hand, the one which drew Mitchell’s attention, was wrapped firmly around his cock, tugging at it enthusiastically.
Conscious of the outlaw’s gaze burning into him, Mitchell could do no more than watch, mesmerised by the rhythmic reveal-conceal of a moving fist. Some part of his mind continued to point out that this man was his prisoner, the killer he had spent months tracking down. Whose victims he’d buried in shallow graves across several states. But a larger part, a much louder part, was noticing the muscled belly flexing with every movement, the nipples standing starkly on a smooth chest. Long fingers tweaked them, pulled at them, making Mitchell’s breath hitch in sympathy. He wanted to be there, wanted to be the one touching, the one stroking and playing and…
Three strides took him from one side of the room to the other, the chair crashing to the floor behind him. Without thinking he shoved Doc’s hands away and replaced them with his own. His lips clamped around a nipple, sucking hard, tasting fresh sweat and leather. The outlaw arched, pushing up against him, words urging him on to more and harder. Hot flesh, slick with precome, leapt into his hand and Mitchell tightened his fingers around it, relishing the sudden halt to words his actions brought.
Hands fumbled with his pants buckle, the leather slapping open letting cool air rush his skin. Then finally, after so fucking long, fingers that weren’t his own closed around his shaft. Mitchell groaned, deep and heartfelt, his hips bucking up into the pressure, which was suddenly gone. Aching with frustration, he snarled and crawled further on to the bed, flattening Doc beneath him.
Cock slid alongside cock, hot and heavy. Breath mingled, whiskey and pain. Nails dug into Mitchell’s shoulder and he buried his cry in the neck of another. Agony had no place here, unless it was the sweet agony building in his groin, threatening to tear away what sense he had left. Grinding down, Mitchell sobbed out his desire, nerve endings screaming for something he dared not take. His mouth sought out skin, teeth nipping and pinching, greedy for just that little bit more. A scorching spill flooded between them, slicking the final moments of Mitchell’s passion. The words were back, urging him on. Nails gouged, thighs clamped around his own, hips arching and pressing fast and furious. Too much and never quite enough, until Doc called his name, “Mitchell, Christ, please!” tearing the climax from Mitchell’s body. Shaking, he collapsed, jerking and coming in waves that he thought would never end.
Passion spent, pain and good sense returned together. The breath caressing Mitchell’s sweat dampened neck suddenly stank of old blood and death, corrupting him even as he shared the same air. Because he, Federal Marshall, had just fucked his prisoner.
For ten years Mitchell had toed the line, kept his liaisons strictly amongst others who, like himself, had everything to lose. Even his partnership with Artie had been primarily that, a partnership, built on sound foundations of law enforcement. Now, thanks to his own gross stupidity, this outlaw – this killer – had enough blackmail material to ruin Mitchell for life. With a strangled cry, Mitchell staggered from the bed, heading blindly for the door.
Cold air slapped into his face, mountain-thin and filled with birdsong, things he didn’t remember from the journey up here. Things that had been consumed by the lean body pressed against him, the horse’s movement making them slide together mimicking actions he’d desired since Doc first tipped back his hat to look him in the eye.
Heart hammering, Mitchell sought out the water barrel and plunged his head into its icy depths, only coming up for air when the pressure on his lungs grew too much. He was fool, and knew it. He’d allowed himself to be seduced by a beautiful face and the promise of company. He’d forgotten to see the killer behind the pretty smile.
Stifling a groan, Mitchell forced himself to stand. There was winter in these trees, their leaves already turning gold, the grass beneath them sparse and yellowing. Mornings that had been crisp during his hunt would be lethally cold within the month it would take him to get back to civilisation on foot. Without supplies he was a dead man. And that was always supposing Doc let him walk away.
The snick of a safety catch releasing saw Mitchell swinging round, dropping automatically into a crouch. Doc leaned on the door jamb, Mitchell’s own six-shooter levelled in strong unshaken hands.
“Gonna give you a choice,” he said. “See, I’ve a yen for some company this winter. Maybe beyond. And I reckon a Marshall’d have some work in him and energy for extras later if I fancied. Or,” Doc paused, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. “I could shoot you now.
“So what do you say, Mitchell?” The name came out as a sneer. “Either way you’re gonna be my bitch.”
Staring up into a killer’s eyes, Mitchell knew he only had one chance. Years ago, when he was just starting out, he’d got caught in a blizzard and ended up facing down a hungry wolf. Unarmed and half-dead with cold, he’d accepted death but decided he wasn’t going out alone. That same feeling, the power that comes from not giving a damn, came rushing back.
He rose slowly to his feet and affected a casual stance. “You don’t wanna be doing that, son,” he said, pointing to the gun.
Doc’s gaze flickered away from him, and in the split second Mitchell leapt, slamming shoulder first into the outlaw’s belly. They spilled backward into the cabin, wrestling for control of the wildly waving gun. A shot rang out and Mitchell screamed as the bullet sliced through his side leaving burning agony in its wake.
“Shit.”
Rolling sideways Mitchell curled around the pain half-hearing Doc's words but in altogether too much agony to care. Wet heat coated his fingers. Blood. Gushing. This was it. The end. True unconsciousness came as utter relief.
***
The world was doing that strange in and out thing. Vague images plagued Mitchell’s mind. Of being moved, of a hard mattress under his back, agony in his belly as something pushed against it.
He was hot, burning up, kicking away blankets that tangled around his legs, dragging him down into a place where every breath was pain. Then the shivers started, drenching him with sweat even as the weight of the covers increased.
Time jumped. Night followed day between one eye blink and the next. The candle burning next to the bed melted and regrew, forming grotesque shapes in his imagination. And through it all was a voice; calm, deep, soothing. A hand on his brow, a cup of foul liquid pressed to his lips, fingers stroking his throat until he swallowed a mouthful down. Then back to blissful nothingness.
***
Early morning light, glowing in a way that Mitchell knew meant snow, poured through cracks in the shutters. A fire, banked for the night, pumped out heat from the grate, and next to it, slumped in a chair and snoring softly, was Doc.
Mitchell’s immediate instinct was to reach for his gun. He groaned as the sudden movement tugged at his side, leaving him breathless. It was sore. The kind of itchy soreness that goes hand in hand with healing. His shoulder was the same. On inspection, Mitchell found both wounds neatly bandaged and covered with what smelled like garlic poultices, though that could have been the stew over the fire. He was also as weak as a kitten, starving hungry and desperate to piss.
A grunt from the chair reminded Mitchell who was in the room with him. Returning his attention to the outlaw, Mitchell reflected that he should probably be angry; after all, Doc was the one who shot him in the first place. But he also had to be the one who’d treated the wounds and saved Mitchell’s life.
“Hey,” Mitchell said, and again, louder, when Doc didn’t stir. “Hey!”
Still nothing. At this point, any Marshall worthy of the name would find a gun and shoot the outlaw as he slept but, despite the danger inherent in being around this man, there was a riddle here Mitchell wanted answering. He also needed to pee and was pretty damn sure he couldn’t manage it alone.
A tin mug on the cupboard proved the perfect weapon. Mitchell launched it across the room, yelping as it tugged on his injuries, but still managing to catch Doc on the side of the head with unerring accuracy. The outlaw snorted and jerked awake, looking wildly around for whoever had assaulted him. When he realised Mitchell was awake, he smiled, the most genuine expression Mitchell had seen on his face since they’d first met.
It didn’t last long. Within moments the closed off look returned, along with the cold eyes. “You awake then?” Doc said as he stood up, stretching cat-like in front of the fire. “Thought you were a gonner for a bit. Was even thinking of digging a hole ‘fore the ground got too hard to get a spade in.”
Mitchell could only groan in reply, his hand pressed hard to his side.
Doc noticed and, frowning, came over to pull away the blankets and take a closer look. “Daft bugger,” he muttered. “You should have just waited for me to wake up.”
“Not and keep a dry bed,” Mitchell said, grimacing as fingers pressed against the wound.
“Need a piss, do you?” Doc vanished outside, returning a few seconds later with an old whisky jar. Mitchell held out his hand, expecting the jar to be handed over so he could relieve himself in privacy. He’d reckoned without his doctor.
“I’ll do the honors, mate. Don’t want these to open up again,” Doc said, pushing Mitchell back on the bed. “And it’s not like I haven’t been doing it all along. This and other things.”
After considering complaint and deciding he could well find himself cuffed to the frame for his troubles, Mitchell allowed Doc to continue. By the time he was done, he was glad he had. Even taking a leak was exhausting. So much so, that when Doc brought him a bowl of stew, Mitchell’s hands shook too much to hold it.
“How long?” he asked between the deliriously tasty mouthfuls Doc fed him. Meat and grain with a few vegetables, it was basic fare but the best thing Mitchell had tasted in months, or so it seemed.
The spoon paused while Doc gazed off into the middle distance, obviously counting in his head. “'Bout six weeks all told. Didn’t think the fever was ever gonna break.” The spoon started moving again. Mitchell opened his mouth, accepting the food like a fledgling bird. “It did a couple of times but then came straight back, had you tossing and turning like a landed ruddy trout. Course, didn’t help that I had to leave you for a bit, go get supplies before the snows came. Thought you were dead when I got back, found you on the floor. Bloody fire had gone out and you as cold as a corpse.”
Doc appeared genuinely upset and all Mitchell could think was, why? Then the small bowl was empty and Doc was standing again, walking over to the fireplace and that sense of intimacy was gone.
“Lucky you woke up when you did,” Doc was saying. “Put the last of the meat in this, so unless you want gruel, I’m gonna have to take off for a couple of days, catch us something tasty.” Having ladled some into the bowl for himself, he turned and asked, “You gonna be right with that? On your own, like?”
In truth, Mitchell was too tired to think straight, let alone consider the implications of being left while Doc went hunting. Still, he nodded and slid back under the covers, watching as Doc ate quickly and gathered his gear.
What felt like seconds later, a voice woke him.
“You want me to change the bandages?”
Mitchell pried his eyes open. Doc was standing in the middle of the room, saddlebags over his shoulder and a frown on his face.
“No,” Mitchell replied. That would mean removing the blankets and he was so warm and comfortable.
“Right,” Doc continued. “I’ve left the piss-pot next to the bed.” He nudged the bucket with his foot. “There’s biscuits and jerky next to the fire. Not much else ‘til I get back, ‘m afraid. Loaded rifle by the door, if anything tries to get in. Not that it should. ‘S early yet, beasties won’t be desperate.”
***
The time alone sped past. Mitchell spent most of it sleeping, only leaving his cozy cocoon to use the bucket, grab food and throw a few extra logs on the fire. His strength was returning. Slowly. The first time he ventured out, he had to crawl back to the bed when his legs refused to support him; a humiliation Mitchell was grateful Doc hadn’t been around to witness. And when he wasn’t asleep, the riddle that was Doc occupied his thoughts.
Having caught a glimpse of the outlaw’s nurturing side in his relationship with his horse, Mitchell found himself wanting to know more. What makes a man kill some in cold blood and nurse others through the jaws of death? And there was no doubt in Mitchell’s mind that Doc had done exactly that. Six weeks was a damned long time, and it showed in every wasted muscle and the palsy in Mitchell’s hands.
But, try as he might, Mitchell could no more fathom Doc’s motives than he could saddle a horse and escape. Time after time he returned to previous experiences; the rustlers, murderers and thieves he’d tracked and trapped in years gone by. Pretty much without exception, they’d all been after money. There was something about this vast country that turned some men into creatures of insatiable greed. Not Doc, though. Whatever his reasons for killing those people – or for nursing Mitchell – money wasn’t among them.
His mind refused to dwell on the threats Doc had levelled against him. It also balked at recalling the sex, although Mitchell was pretty sure there were clues there to be had if he could bring himself to examine everything. Instead he dwelt in the past, finding his thoughts turning more and more often to Artie and all that they’d shared.
Like Doc, Artie was British, a Scots immigrant set on exploring, he said, while there were still mysteries left to be solved. Beyond that, Mitchell knew little about his partner’s background, though the odd detail Artie allowed to slip out suggested his childhood was a far cry from Mitchell’s own, and there were dreams, sometimes, that left Artie wrung out and refusing to speak.
Whereas Mitchell felt at home in the wilderness, Artie was the one who guided their actions in the capital. He knew his way around dining tables and conversations that left Mitchell floundering. It was Artie who’d encouraged Mitchell to become more than a bounty hunter and to accept a salary from the federals. “You could be doing more to help the ordinary people,” he’d told Mitchell. “The frontier is full of those who need it.”
That was seven years ago. Since then Mitchell’s career had gone from strength to strength. He’d brought in some of the most ruthless men, earning a reputation for fearlessness and honour that put him in good standing with his employers. Until last spring, that was.
Mitchell closed his eyes, determined not to allow any tears to fall. He was a man, and men did not cry, not even for those they’d loved. In determined fashion, Mitchell turned his mind to happier things.
***
“Bastard fucking thing.”
Freezing air and a flurry of snow brought Mitchell back to the here and now. Stretching, he sat up and saw Doc by the back door wrestling with a huge haunch of meat. Currently the meat was winning, hands down, and the mutinous expression on Doc’s face was enough to make Mitchell snort with laughter.
Doc glanced up and grinned. “You’re looking better,” he said, dropping the meat and striding over. Icy water dripped from his coat, leaving a trail across the room and, when he reached out to press a hand to Mitchell’s forehead Mitchell flinched back from the freezing flesh.
Doc’s good mood evaporated immediately, his face closing off. “Right,” he said, turning back to his task, his shoulders tense.
Mitchell studied him in silence, pondering their interaction and wondering what had happened. For a moment Doc had shown the man Mitchell found so intriguing. What had driven him away? It was the touch, it had to be. Or, more accurately, Mitchell’s reaction to it, his rejection of it.
Was that the root of this strange riddle?
Intent on lending a hand, and maybe getting some answers, Mitchell shoved the covers back and stood up. The wound in his side twinged slightly, but apart from that, he felt fine. The bed rest had done him the world of good. Still he wasn’t up to much more than adding wood to the fire and setting a pot of coffee boiling.
They worked in silence, moving around each other. Once or twice their hands would have brushed but at the last moment, Doc pulled away, only returning when he had space to get a stew boiling or biscuits baking.
In the end, Mitchell retreated to the bed and watched, questions bubbling in his mind. He didn’t want to upset this man, not least because he was dangerously unpredictable, but the silence was becoming oppressive. The words that finally escaped had nothing whatsoever to do with what he wanted to ask, but it turned out to be pretty damned informative.
“You’re good with horses.”
“Goes with the territory,” Doc replied. “Been around them since I was knee high to a toad. Don’t ask a lot, your average beast. Just a bit of warmth, some grub and a kind word. Give you all of themselves if you give them that.”
The room slowly filled with the scent of cooking meat. After a while, Doc speared a chunk and slapped it onto a plate. “I remember the first pony I had,” he continued, his face taking on a far away expression as he handed over the food. The voice which was normally clipped and common became smoother, his accent more reminiscent of Artie’s. “A grey mare. Lady’s palfrey, in truth, but a good mount for all that. Mother gave her to me.”
Doc shook his head, his eyes, and voice, returning to the present. “Not much of a one for the animals yourself, then?”
Mitchell thought about the horses he’d had over the years, from the single plough horse his pa had used for tilling their small acreage, to the deep chested beasts he’d ridden into the ground in pursuit of some criminal. He knew the basics, of course, but a horse was just that, an animal to use and dispose of, not to care about. Saying as much, Mitchell watched Doc’s face darken.
Tossing aside his own plate, Doc returned to the fireplace, poking vigorously at the stew. “I’ll have no truck with cruelty,” he said. “There’s no call for it.”
“This from the man who tortures innocent people for fun.” Damn! Of all the things that were likely to get Mitchell the same treatment that was undoubtedly it. Waiting for the outburst, Mitchell was surprised to hear a cynical laugh.
“No such thing as innocent, mate. Even you’ve got a fair share of sinning under your lawman’s belt.”
Fury rose in Mitchell’s throat as the memory of the children Doc had murdered rose in his mind. “What about the kids? Were they sinners?” Was it religion that motivated this man? That didn’t seem right, somehow.
Something bleak passed across Doc’s face and he shrugged. “Kids ain’t always what they seem. Seen some nasty things done by supposed innocents.”
“Nasty enough to deserve killing them?”
Doc’s lips hardened into a flat line. “Maybe,” he said, and with that, stalked out of the cabin.
***
It was dark and Doc still wasn’t back. The wind had risen, tossing gobs of snow against the shutters. Mitchell had rescued the biscuits and moved the stew to one side so it didn’t scald, then spent the rest of his time thinking about what Doc had said. And the way he had said it. That accent. Mitchell was no expert, but again his memories of Artie helped.
Despite his best efforts at mimicry, Doc was far from being the common type. His bond with animals presumably came from his mother, if he was telling the truth. But Mitchell was no further forward in answering his main question. What made Doc kill?
Again a drop in temperature heralded Doc’s return, along with a cheery voice announcing that it was, “Bandage changing time.”
Mitchell sat in bemused silence as Doc removed the old dressings and dumped them on the floor, all the while chatting about this and that. It was as if their conversation about the murders had never happened.
“Found some slippery elm,” Doc was saying. “Add that to the garlic and this’ll heal up right proper.”
“Artie always reckoned comfrey was best for healing,” Mitchell said and then asked, “Where’d you learn herb lore?”
“Here and there,” Doc answered, his fingers exploring gently along Mitchell’s side.
“Your mother?”
Silence. The fingers stopped moving. Then, “’Fore they took her away, yeah,” came quietly.
Mitchell glanced up, studying the features of his nurse. “Why-?” he began, only for Doc to break in, full of brisk enthusiasm.
“Tell us about your Artie, then. Bit of an herb man, was he? Comfrey’s great when you can get it. Not a native though, so it’s slippery elm in these parts.”
Recalling Artie’s long enthusiastic lectures about herb lore, Mitchell smiled. “It was important to him,” he said. “He’d often end up getting strangers to tell him about new treatments or plants. He kept notes that he was going to get published. Books and books of them.” That were now ashes in the wind. Mitchell had burned them rather than have a constant reminder of Artie’s absence.
Doc grinned. “Reckon I woulda got on all right with that bloke of yours,” he said.
“Except that you’re a murderer.”
This time Doc did explode. “It’s not that fucking simple,” he yelled, slamming the chair backwards.
Refusing to be intimidated, Mitchell yelled back, “So try explaining! There’re corpses from here to Chicago that say different.”
Doc paced, muttering incoherently, a caged animal trapped by the wind howling outside. His hands grasped at truths Mitchell couldn’t begin to imagine, the flickering candlelight twisting his shadow into something huge and deformed against the wall.
Eventually the frantic activity ceased. Facing away from Mitchell, his shoulders hunched, Doc said, “She…She tells me. About the bad ones. The ones that need to be hurt.”
“She?”
“Mother.”
“Your mother? Tells… What?” Mitchell had heard some strange reasons for killing in his time, but never this one. Looking around the cabin as though expecting to find this sinister woman hidden somewhere, he said, “Where is she?”
“With God,” Doc replied, his voice plaintive. “One of the angels now. Papa told me she was happy, but if she’s happy, why does she talk to me?”
Dead. Doc’s dead mother told him to kill people. That was… crazy. Doc was obviously totally insane.
Mitchell jumped as suddenly Doc was next to him, on the bed, grabbing for his hands and holding them. “But not you,” he was saying. “She likes you. The first time I saw you, she told me. She said that here was the man that would be mine, one day. I just had to convince you.” Wide, wild eyes stared down at Mitchell. “Are you mine yet? Have I made you mine?”
Rather than answer, Mitchell tugged his hands free and said, “So all this. The people you killed.”
“Those were for you. I- I didn’t want to kill the kiddies but they would have known, see. They would have known it was me and you, and woulda told people. I didn’t do kiddies before. Mother likes them.”
Fuck! That meant there were more then the six or so bodies Mitchell had found on the trail. Doc must have been killing for years, and getting away with it, until he started this… obsession.
“It didn’t work, did it,” Doc said, his voice and body language increasingly agitated. He sprang to his feet, pacing again. Striding from one side of the cabin to the other, hands running through his hair again and again. “I knew it wouldn’t. Stupid plan. Never do anything right. Now I’ve lost you and you hate me. Think I’m a bad man. Mother was wrong! You’ll never be mine. Never!”
Struggling to get up, Mitchell had the horrible feeling that, unless he said something, he was going to end up personally acquainted with Doc’s torture implement of choice. “Hey, now,” he said, edging his feet to the floor. “Your mother’s not been wrong before has she?”
Doc stopped pacing and fixed Mitchell with a curious stare. “There was one time,” he said. “A bloke in Lancaster. Told me he was good’un, she did, but he screamed blue bloody murder when I kissed ‘im.”
That was hardly surprising. Mitchell tried to imagine any other reaction to a strange man kissing him, and failed.
“Papa told me they’d come take me away if I did it again, so I never have. Not ‘til you. And you never kissed me. Don’t you like kissing?”
There was something disturbingly childlike about Doc, his voice, his demeanour, everything was crying out for approval. With a flash of insight, Mitchell could suddenly see the past; a young man, already disturbed by his mother’s death, seeking out comfort in bodies he was attracted to, only to be told that it was sick and wrong. But still there was more here that Mitchell couldn’t see.
“Your mother. Why did they take her away?”
The regression completed itself. Doc sank to the floor, knees against his chest, rocking back and forth. A verse, one of Artie’s favourites, spilled from his lips, but rather than a lyrical sweep of words, this was sobbed.
“She cried ‘Laura,’ up the garden, ‘Did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices squeezed from goblin fruits for you, goblin pulp and goblin dew. Eat me, drink me, love me; Laura, make much of me.’”
Drawn by the familiarity of the words, if not by the way they were spoken, Mitchell dropped to his knees, automatically reaching for Doc, to hold him and comfort him as he had Artie when bad memories plagued him.
Doc shied away, shaking his head. “No, no touching. Papa says touching is bad. Burn for it, like she is. Like she would have. Burning ‘cos she touched, she loved. ‘Til they took her away and cured her. Stuck her in the water ‘til she turned blue from it. Made her hurt ‘til the bad thoughts went away.”
Frustrated beyond the telling of it, Mitchell contented himself with sitting next to Doc and asking, “Who was it she loved?”
“Said,” Doc mumbled, sniffing. “Loved Laura. Always loved Laura. ‘Til Papa saw them. Then the people came and took her away. To make her better, he said. ‘Cos hurting people makes them better. Makes them go to heaven. Least, that’s what Mother always says.”
Christ, what a mess. Mitchell swallowed heavily, rubbing his face. When he’d first set out after Doc, he’d half expected to find a madman, but now, having found one, Mitchell didn’t know what to do. This was beyond him. This was probably beyond anybody. If he took Doc back, he’d either hang or end up chained in a cage at the state asylum. If Mitchell could find someone to sign the papers.
Brought up short by his own thoughts, Mitchell frowned. If he took Doc back? Course he would take Doc back. That was his job. He was a lawman. There was no if.
Another wet sniffle came from beside him. Mitchell sighed, fished amongst the clean bandages and offered one over. A hand emerged, grabbed it, and retreated.
“Sorry,” Doc whispered a few moments later. “Didn’t mean to make a fool of myself. Must think I’m a complete idiot now.”
Judging the worst was past, Mitchell ruffled Doc’s hair and said, “Nah. Gonna wait and see on crazy though.”
“Sometimes I think I am, y’know, crazy. But then if I am, and all those people I killed never went to heaven, then that makes me bad. And you couldn’t love a bad man.”
Mitchell wanted to ask what made Doc think he loved him anyway, but that would simply start him off about his mother again, and Mitchell doubted he could face that again tonight. Instead, he stood up and offered his hand. “What d’you say we sleep on it. Worry about this in the morning.”
Doc cocked his head, looking from Mitchell’s hand to his face. Mitchell waited patiently, hand extended, until Doc finally smiled shyly and took it, careful not to pull on Mitchell as he stood up.
“Need to put the clean bandages on,” he said, indicating Mitchell’s wound.
Mitchell glanced down. The itch was back and it was drying in the cabin air. “Guess that can wait too,” he said.
***
Waking alone, stiff and sore from all he’d done, Mitchell lay and listened to the world outside. The wind, quiet in the eaves, suggested the storm had blown itself out and Mitchell decided that, after weeks of being trapped, he was determined not use the piss-pot anymore.
There was no sign of Doc, but both Polly and Harry were tethered in the lean-to, so he couldn’t have gone far. A path had been dug to the privy and Mitchell crunched his way over with a grin on his face. For some reason he felt free this morning, as though a huge weight had been lifted from his mind, though for the life of him, he couldn’t fathom what it was.
Out past the grain store, he heard Doc singing in the woods below the cabin and, when he’d finished his morning ablutions, Mitchell headed down, curious to see what was happening. It was harder going than he’d thought, and by the time he reached the clearing, Mitchell was sweating heavily and shivering. He stumbled, reached out for a branch and yelped when the action pulled on his wound.
Doc was next to him immediately, putting a supporting arm under his shoulder and scolding Mitchell for being out of bed. “Bloody idiot. I dunno, been awake for three days and thinks he can rule the world. What is it with you yanks?”
“Not a Yankee,” Mitchell muttered. “Born in Wyoming.”
“Yeah, and you’ll die in it too,” Doc commented, using his spare hand to brush snow from a tree stump. “Now sit yerself there and wait for me to finish up, then I’ll help you back home.”
Having got Mitchell tucked warmly inside a great coat and settled, Doc went back to chopping logs. All Mitchell had to do was watch, which was hardly a chore when there was an attractive man in front of him, even then that man was insane and wielding an axe.
Insane. Doc was totally and irrevocably, mad. Or was he?
Curled inside a coat that smelled of Doc and horses and damp wool, Mitchell allowed his mind to drift over the previous night’s conversation. Could he believe that Doc’s dead mother told him to kill people? It wasn’t the strangest thing he’d heard. There were those who would see him swing alongside the outlaw for what they’d done in that bed a few weeks ago, believing him equally evil.
Was that the crux of this matter? If he upheld the law, then he should uphold all laws. Including those that condemned him. If he was above that, then how was he any better than Doc? Though there was no doubting that what he did brought no harm to anyone else.
So, what if Doc never harmed anyone else. Would that serve?
Mitchell knew that some of this was weakness talking; no man spent six weeks with a fever without being changed. But it was also about something else. Fairness, maybe? Honor? If Doc was truly insane, then what purpose was served by taking him back in chains? Revenge, that was all. And Washington was rife with people who would take delight in extracting their pound of flesh from the boy before he hanged. The idea made Mitchell shudder.
“You still cold, mate?”
Shaking his head, Mitchell burrowed further into the warmth, sleepily content. As his eyes closed, an odd thought occurred to him. Could he stop Doc from killing just by asking?
***
“Reckon you were at the back of the queue when God gave out brains.”
Mitchell blinked. Doc was squatting next to him, breath clouding the air between them. His hair had broken free of whatever oil he’d used that morning and curled free over his forehead. To Mitchell’s eyes he looked about twenty, though probably had at least six or seven years on that.
“Huh?”
“You. Snoring like an old dog when yer feet must be nothing but frozen bits of meat.” As if to prove the point, Doc tapped Mitchell’s boot with the axe haft.
Mitchell flexed his toes, or tried to. His expression must have given the game away, ‘cause Doc heaved a long suffering sigh and, with the axe over one shoulder, helped Mitchell up.
“You’re a stupid ass, Marshall Franklin. Anyone ever told you that?” he said as Mitchell limped up the hill.
“Artie. Often,” Mitchell replied.
“Knew what he was about, that fella of yours. Wish I coulda met him. ‘Cept you wouldn’t be here if he was still alive, would you now?”
The heat of the banked fire was scorching after being outside. Mitchell headed straight for it, rubbing his frozen hands against his thighs.
“You’ll end up with chilblains.”
Raising a quizzical eyebrow, Mitchell stayed where he was soaking up the warmth.
“Know what you need,” Doc said and disappeared outside again.
A few minutes later Mitchell heard a horrific clanging noise, the door opened and Doc barged in dragging a small tin bath. “Bit of a swill in this and you’ll feel like a new man,” he said, plonking it down between Mitchell and the fire.
Mitchell peered out of the window and then back at the bath. The door opened and closed again. “But it’s snowing,” he protested when Doc reappeared.
“So?” Doc answered, heaving a large pot of water over the fire. “I’ll have you know my father bathed everyday, whatever the weather, and it never did him a smidgen of harm.”
Too tired to argue, Mitchell went back to bed and did his best to create a nest of blankets to stay warm until the water heated. Within moments he was asleep.
***
“Mitchell?” a quiet accented voice whispered in his ear as soft hands stroked down his neck and across his chest.
Mitchell pressed up into them, craving the touch even in his sleep. After a few moments they drifted lower, running repeated trails from his nipples to his navel.
“Artie,” he whispered, reaching out for the man beside him. His hands met short, slightly curled hair and he tangled his fingers in it, using it to drag Artie closer so they could kiss. God, that was good. He’d missed this so much; the closeness that came from sharing breath and body, tongues caressing languidly, hands searching out the most sensitive places.
Mitchell shivered as nails scratched gently up under his shirt, along his sides, making his skin sing with pleasure.
“Artie,” he whispered again.
“I’m here, love.”
It wasn’t Artie. The memory of the gunshot rang in Mitchell’s brain louder than it had on the day, the force of it lifting Artie clear off his feet, tearing a hole the size of his fist in Artie’s chest. He was dead before he hit the ground. They didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.
“No!” The cry came out strangled by grief. Shoving Doc away from him, Mitchell tumbled off the bed wanting – needing – to be away from anything that reminded him. The gentleness, the scent of fresh sweat, those quietly whispered words, were all too much. They took him to places he didn’t want to go, places he’d thought never to go again.
“Hey, now, no need for that.”
Doc’s voice, pitched in the same tone he used to speak to Polly, broke through Mitchell’s panic. Opening his eyes, Mitchell saw him crouching a few feet away, one hand extended in a strange reversal of their roles the previous night. He should react, speak, move, acknowledge Doc’s presence in some way, but his mind was whirling. Heat poured from him but he couldn’t stop the shivers racking his body.
“You look awful, mate. How ‘bout you come and get in this bath, yeah? Get yourself properly warmed through. Wash the stink off yourself.”
It sounded… good.
Rising slowly to his feet, and trying to still the tremor in his hands, Mitchell began fiddling with his buttons. His fingers felt like sausages, huge and numb.
“Let me do that?”
Doc gave him every chance to refuse and when Mitchell allowed him to approach, did the job briskly and competently, for once taking no liberties or making any comments. For that, Mitchell was grateful.
The water was hot. Mitchell sank into it with a sigh, his eyes closing, relaxing. Granted the water only came up to his waist and his knees were folded almost under his chin, but the blazing fire meant the room wasn’t much cooler than the bath.
“May I?”
Mitchell cracked open his eyelids to see Doc holding a cloth, a questioning look on his face. Nodding, he sat forwards and sighed again as Doc began washing him with firm sure strokes. He was properly warm now, a healthy heat rather than the feverishness that had filled him when he woke.
“You should talk about him, that bloke of yours. Keep his memory alive and all that. Not respectful keeping him all to yourself.”
“And you’d know all about respect.”
The cloth on his back paused. After a couple of seconds, Mitchell glanced round. Doc’s head was bowed so it was impossible to see his face, but Mitchell was willing to bet there were tears in those startling eyes. He was proved correct when Doc looked up. In the second before the mask returned, the scared young man Mitchell had seen the night before stared at him.
“Thought we were past all that,” Doc said, starting to rub again. The gentleness was gone. Doc now handled him as if he were currying the filth off.
Hunching against the force of it, Mitchell shrugged. “I don’t think we’ll ever be past it,” he said. “You’ve killed, will do it again, and that means you don’t respect anyone.” Least of all yourself.
The rubbing stopped again and when Mitchell looked round this time, Doc was sat back on his heels, a thoughtful expression on his face. As the water began to cool, Mitchell shifted uncomfortably. Still Doc showed no sign of moving.
“Give me the cloth,” he said, eventually having to extract from Doc’s inanimate fingers when the outlaw just sat there.
***
Mitchell was drying in front of the fire by the time Doc shifted, blinked and looked around as though he wasn’t sure for a second where he was.
“Welcome back.” Damn, that sounded gruff. In an attempt to soften his tone, Mitchell offered a lopsided smile. Doc grinned back at him, a little sheepishly.
“Mother is… eloquent, but somewhat loquacious,” he said, in that cut glass accent. “She... um, she wishes to speak with you.” He paused, a blush steadily rising up his face. It was such a surprising sight, and request, that Mitchell found himself fishing for the chair as Doc continued, “She seems to think that me getting drunk would allow her to speak, using me as a go-between, as it were.”
“She’s…” Real? Not a figment of your imagination? Mitchell had come across mediums in Washington and had always written them off as charlatans, playing on people’s loss to earn themselves a few bucks. “Sure it’ll work?” he finished, not able to bring himself to doubt Doc’s sincerity. Which was dumb considering who the man was.
“She is, though in all honesty this is the first time she has ever suggested such a thing.”
Doc clambered up, his movements strangely jerky as he walked across the room to the small table where the whiskey jar stood. With shaking hands, he reached for it, fumbling with the stopper, until Mitchell took it from him and popped it open. Hardly pausing for breath, Doc drank, his throat convulsing as he swallowed. Mitchell reckoned it would take only moments for him to get drunk at that rate.
Sure enough, when the jar lowered, Doc’s eyes were glazed. Mitchell took the container, swigged back the last mouthful, and then helped Doc over to the fire before he fell over his own feet. The chair complained loudly as Doc dropped into it, squeezing the arms until his knuckles went white. Mitchell retreated across the room and dragged over another seat, wanting to be close to Doc in case he had another ‘turn’.
For long minutes there was silence, just the spit of burning logs and the wail of the wind building outside. One candle sputtered and died, leaving only the one on the mantle burning brightly. The air still smelt of roasting meat and Mitchell suddenly felt hunger pangs seize his belly. It had to be well over twelve hours since he’d eaten, which probably accounted for his light-headedness.
“M-Mitchell?” Doc was groping for him, eyes closed, face a rictus of fear.
Shifting closer, Mitchell grabbed his hand, rubbing between his own when he felt the icy flesh. “Here,” he said, not knowing how to offer comfort any other way.
“She’s scared, Mitchell. She says… she says,” breath whistled into Doc’s lungs as he gulped for air. His body arched, seizing violently, jaws grinding and froth building at the corners of his mouth. Then, just as suddenly, he slumped, eyes rolling back in his head. Passed out.
“Goddamn it.” Mitchell muttered as he leapt to his feet, cursing himself for going along with this crazy scheme. With his luck the outlaw would die of apoplexy and Mitchell would be left… alone. Again.
Until that moment, Mitchell hadn’t really considered the implications of having Doc in his life. For years he’d believed Artie to be his one chance. There was, and had been, no one else. And then Doc had appeared, turning everything Mitchell had ever believed upside down.
“Doc,” he said, and then more urgently and accompanied by a harsh smack, “Doc! Open your eyes.”
“I’d thank you not to assault me, young man,” Doc said. But it wasn’t his voice. It was higher, more feminine, than the outlaw’s usual baritone.
“Mrs…” Mitchell began, only to realise he had no idea how to address Doc’s ma. He sank back into his chair and tried to assemble his scattered wits.
“Swinton,” Doc said again. “Mrs. Jonathan Swinton, and you are Marshall Franklin. Now that we’ve introduced ourselves, I have a few things I want to say to you.”
Mitchell suspected he probably looked stupid sitting there with his mouth open. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, drunken rambling possibly, but it hadn’t been this.
“Firstly I have a message for you, and doesn’t that sound unbelievably trite. Honestly, Laura would be horrified if she could hear me saying such utter rubbish. But the fact remains that I have a message from a young man called Artie. Your lover, I believe?”
A nod was all Mitchell could manage, but he did it vigorously.
“He is very cross with you for carrying on the way you have. Several criminals went free while you were grieving for him. Apparently you are to remember that as a government agent you have responsibilities that go beyond worrying about him.” There was a pause and an odd smile tugged at Doc’s lips. “Golly, he’s quite a determined boy, isn’t he?”
Mitchell could only agree.
“Yes, well, he says to tell you that there is an herb that will help Jonathan. That’s Doc, by the way. Such a ridiculous name for the lad. It’s called ginkgo and you can find the tree in several states. He says to talk to Doctor Seymour in Elizabethtown, Illinois. He will be able to help you. It won’t be a cure, but it will stop Jonathan hearing things that have nothing whatsoever to do with me.”
“It’s not you telling him to kill?”
“Of course not, my dear, although I can think of a goodly number I wouldn’t mind seeing firmly planted under six feet of soil, including my disgusting pig of a husband. No, it’s all in Jonathan’s head, poor lamb. Something is quite broken inside him and has been since his father made him visit the asylum. Honestly what sort of man takes his own son to witness such things, I ask you?”
“Things?”
“The cure for my deviancy or so the surgeons would have it. Personally I would label it torture and be the more honest.”
Thinking back over some of the treatments he heard whispered about, Mitchell blanched.
“Do you think the boy’s hair was always that colour?” Mrs Swinton said. “I can assure you it was not. Such dark lovely locks he had when a child, until the day his father brought him in to see what awaited him if he kept up his behavior. As though that alone would be enough to turn the lad’s inclination towards girls. And that leads me on to what I have to say, Marshall.”
Mitchell sat upright, listening hard and trying to ignore the small voice inside his head that insisted he was as crazy as Doc.
“My Jonathan needs you, Marshall. I sent him to you, that much is true, because I saw a beautiful man wasting away for the want of love, and my boy has so much of that to give. Yes, he has killed people, but would you shoot a dog for biting the hand that beat him? The men he killed were all of the same ilk as his father. If you look into it further, you will see that I am not lying.
“And this latest disaster… Marshall, I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen to me. His victims were innocents and there is no excuse. I don’t know what else to say, except that he needs a firm hand to guide him and I believe you to be that hand. Make him promise and I can guarantee he will never take another life. My son is not a murderer, Marshall, despite everything you and everyone else believes.
“Now I must go. Jonathan is waking and I have no desire to hurt him further. Look after him, Marshall. Be good to my boy.”
Doc stirred, a deep mumble underlying his mother’s final words. His eyes flickered open and he sat up, weakly wiping at his mouth where a line of spittle had dried. “What happened?” he said. “Reckon I passed out or something. That whiskey off?”
Mitchell watched him blink against the dying light of the fire. Watched him stagger from the chair and scoop a cup of water from the jug in the corner. Watched him yawn and stretch, raised arms pulling up his shirt to reveal a sleekly muscled back. Watched him as he grinned back over his shoulder, eyes flashing with boyish glee.
He was beautiful. But like a precious stone that had been cast aside, that beauty was splintered so the light it threw off had facets of darkness. A good jeweller could cut around the flaw, rendering the jewel perfect to any but the most experienced eye. Could he do the same? Could he cut away the sickness and heal this damaged soul?
“Doc…” he began, and then tried again. “No, Jonathan. If I ask you to promise me something, would you keep your word?”
Eyes the color of emeralds, open and honest, containing no trace of a killer’s
coldness turned towards him. “For you, Mitchell, anything.”