ASPEN knew he was looking in the all the wrong places. Gov wouldn’t come to town, not this time. Nothing for it though, they had divided up and Pa had sent his eldest to Caswell Crossing.
How far might Gov be by now? Probably clear past the Mississippi. Did he have any money? Certainly not his wages, he had left that behind as though it were blood money he would rather not touch. That was evidence of his desperation right there. How would he outfit himself? For everything Gov didn’t have, he did have his horse and, in Gideon's reckoning system, that counted for a lot.
“Where to?” Aspen asked himself again.
Lee had gone to solicit Luke’s assistance, which would add to the search, but what on earth would Gov be doing in town? Not thinking for pity’s sake, heaven forbid he try being sensible. That boy’s head hadn’t been right since the nightmare, if it had ever been right. Aspen supposed he was partly to blame. Maybe he should have—
“Aspen? You hear me?”
“Huh? Oh. Hi, Zeek.”
Aspen turned towards the owner of the best livery in the territory. No matter the day, Zeek always seemed faded out, when in truth he could run circles around most. Currently, he sat in the wide open blacksmith’s shop at a makeshift table playing checkers with the soot smeared smith. The forge glowed dull red behind them and a half finished project patiently awaited its due turn on the anvil.
“You alright?” Zeek repeated.
“I could ask you the same,” Aspen brought himself around to comment.
Zeek brushed at a spot of blood on his shirt, the only color on his unremarkable person.
“Oh, bit-a trouble, but it’s all fixed up.”
“What sort of trouble?” Aspen asked; he didn’t take to the idea of one of his own being mistreated.
“The blood tain’t mine,” Zeek said, eager to gossip with a friend. “Broke me up a fight. Rydel ’n his pal had ‘em a smaller fellah, just-a wailin’ the snot out-a ‘im. I hollered an’ they got. It was more the sight-a my shotgun as did it, but they lit. The little un’, ooh, he were a mess. Jim here he’ped me with ‘im.”
Every instinct Aspen had begun to tingle.
“The smaller one,” he measured a height with one hand, “so tall, auburn hair, wearing an oversized, brown shirt and old boots strapped at the ankles?”
“Not the shirt, but ya got the rest. Ya know ‘im?”
How could Zeek not recognize Gov? The thought was no more formed than Aspen recalled that the man had not been around the last time they used his stable. He may have heard talk, but he and Gov had never properly met.
“You took him to Dr. Connell?” he asked.
“Sure, but—”
Aspen threw a thank you over his shoulder and ran, leaving the two men to stare after him.
“Luke find you?” Lee asked, as his brother burst into the clinic.
Aspen froze. His lungs ceased to work. His heart skipped a beat, and then pounded doubly hard. The clinic had two examination tables. One held a blanket covered body. Lee held an unresponsive hand.
“Is he. . .?”
“No,” Lee answered quickly, realizing the thought that had paled his brother’s face. “He’s just out. There’s—”
“I’d like to keep him a day or two,” Dr. Connell’s brogue preceded him into the examination room.
He may have been young as physicians went, everyone seemed to expect the title to be accompanied by gray hair and a face puckered by more wrinkles than sun dried fruit, but Connell knew his business. Jump the gun, send the boy home and, heaven forbid he had overlooked any variety of internal injuries, he could be sending his patient to a grave.
“He should be fine,” Connell added, at sight of Aspen’s ashen coloring. “It’s quite a beating he took, but I’ve seen worse on a Saturday night. Don’t worry, it’s me put him out of his wits.”
“He’s alright?” said Aspen.
The scene that first met him was rather reluctant to be brushed aside.
“He will be,” Connell assured him patiently.
“Oh, good. Because I would really like to strangle him.”