The words barely left her mouth before Doc Thomas appeared, followed closely behind by others who carried a stretcher.
“This man’s shot in the shoulder. He’s lost a lot of blood,” Daisy informed the physician. “He’s breathing but it’s shallow.”
She pointed toward the teller’s cage. “Sam’s behind there badly hurt, no matter what he says otherwise. I heard it in his voice.” She explained that the banker wouldn’t let her take time to examine him.
“You two men watch over Sam ’til I check on this one,” instructed Doc Thomas, a reed-thin man with spectacles who looked older than his forty-some-odd years.
He motioned for two others to come closer as he pulled white cloth from his medicine bag and bent to examine the fistfighter. He laid Daisy’s bonnet aside, studied the wound and placed the clean cloth over it. “’Fraid that goes to the scrap bin, Widow, but it helped. Good thinking.”
He stood and gave his assistants instructions. “Carry this man to my office and somebody make sure you keep this over the wound until I get there.”
“But he can’t wait. He’s going to die if you don’t take care of him now. Here.” Petula’s fear rose with each word.
“He belongs to you?” Doc asked.
Petula nodded, her voice breaking, “He’s m-my only kin. My brother.”
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “Just sick to my stomach.”
He handed her another cloth. “Then keep this pressed down hard on his shoulder while those two men carry him. Keep changing it with new bandages until I get there. That’ll stem the flow. You’ll find clean cloths stacked on my shelves.”
She shook her head again and moved her hands away as if he were asking her to grab a snake.
“The sight of blood makes me sick. I might faint. I can’t press hard enough anyway.”
Impatience etched Doc’s face, making him look even older. He shoved the bandages into Daisy’s hand. “Widow Trumbo, will you help?”
The wounded stranger’s blue eyes opened for a moment only to close as quickly as he lost his words. “I need—”
Daisy wanted to stay and help Sam, but she couldn’t leave this man’s care to his hysterical sister. She owed him that much. “I’ll do my best, Doctor.”
She pressed the cloth firmly against the darkest part of the bloodstained shoulder. The stranger flinched, groaning from the pressure. His body reacted and tried to jerk away from her touch.
“Keep him still,” Doc Thomas ordered. “The more he moves, the more he bleeds.”
“Please, sir, don’t move,” she whispered in his ear, hoping he was conscious enough to hear her. Daisy motioned the men to lift him onto the stretcher while she attempted to distract him. “I’m sure it hurts, but it won’t take us long to carry you if you’ll stay as still as you can. Your sister’s coming with us.”
Petula finally stood and moved away from her brother.
Daisy’s words seemed to reach him through the pain. “I...I’ll try. Thank you for watching over her.”
His body tightened as if he was bracing himself to endure the pressure. Daisy’s eyes riveted on Doc’s. “He’s ready to move. You’ll let me know about Sam first thing?”
“Quick as I can. Got to see how bad the men outside are shot up.”
Daisy wanted to shut away the image of the body lying over the trough, but she had to keep focused on the bandage so she wouldn’t slip off the wound. She said a quick prayer for the townsman and stood in unison as the assistants rose with a firm hold on the stretcher and patient. Her unusual height equaled the men’s, easing the problem of adjusting their balance. “Are you coming with us, miss?” she asked the squeamish sister.
When she didn’t answer, Daisy used the woman’s Christian name. “Petula, I think you want to come with me.”
Petula blinked, looked at her hands then began to scrub them. She walked toward the door, muttering, “Mother’s going to be so angry. I’m not supposed to get dirty.”
Sympathy filled Daisy. The poor thing was dazed with worry. When they reached the unhinged, bullet-ridden door, Petula faltered. She stopped sniffling and her knees bent suddenly.
“What’s wrong?” Concern echoed in her brother’s tone. “I don’t hear my sister.”
Just about the time Daisy thought Petula might faint, the young woman reached for two heavy-looking valises next to the door. “She’s fine, sir.” Daisy felt compelled to reassure him. “Just picking up what must be your baggage.”
“Too heavy for her,” he gasped, trying to lift his head and shoulders as if he meant to get off the stretcher.
A considerate soul, Daisy noted.
“Got a handle on things in here?” asked a man who poked his head around the door, his piercing coffee-colored gaze intent upon studying each person. “Need any help?”
“Got it all in hand,” Doc said, “but I’d appreciate you making sure everybody’s got help outside, Teague.”
“Already done and the sheriff’s taken a posse and set out after the gang.”
Daisy wasn’t surprised to find Teague checking on things now. He had the fierce look of a predator, with eyes squinted by long days in the sun. Broad shoulders were cloaked in a worn duster, his legs stretching long from denim to boots that had seen better days. He looked like a man accustomed to riding hard trails, but he’d been hanging around High Plains lately.
All Daisy knew of him was that he was kind to Ollie and made a point of getting her home if she strayed too far.
“Could you help me carry my bags?” Petula seemed suddenly coherent enough to ask for assistance.
“You headed to Doc’s with them?” He linked one arm with hers and grabbed the baggage.
“Who’s that?” asked their patient, his body tensing.
“Someone who just wants to help.” Daisy tried to calm him. “Don’t worry.”
Doc Thomas’s office was around the corner from the mercantile and only took a few minutes for the men to carry him there. Daisy managed to hold the cloth steady on its target, but the real effort came from keeping the curious crowd away from the procession. By now, most in town knew of the robbery and wanted to help in some way. She suggested they check with Doc or secure the bank for Sam.
Doc’s office door was never locked. Teague set the baggage down just inside the entryway while Petula dismissed the parlor that had been made into a waiting room and disappeared into a hallway of doors. A few seconds later, she poked her head around the corner and motioned them all forward.
“In here,” she said, “there are a couple of beds in this room.”
Getting through the doorways proved harrowing since Daisy didn’t dare take her hand off their patient’s shoulder. She barely managed to squeeze through, bumping her elbow hard enough to leave a bruise. Daisy just managed to keep the pressure on the wound while they got him settled on the bed.
Only then did she notice the quality of her patient’s slightly worn but well-tooled boots, something her livelihood as a shoemaker made priority on most first meetings with strangers. He obviously appreciated skilled handiwork but wasn’t afraid to put some wear on it, either. A man of means but a working man no less. Her interest in getting to know more about him sparked.
One assistant interrupted her thoughts. “We’ve got to get this stretcher back to Doc, so we’re going to leave you ladies and that other fella with him for now. We’ll be