Black Cat Weekly #15

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2Consciousness returned slowly to Powell. He felt the uneven jolting of the moving train and then managed somehow to open his heavy eyelids. Joel Zeeman was bending over him, his thin face dull with worry.

“Sure, Major, I thought we’d lost you. They beat the top of your head to pulp.”

Powell closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on Zeeman’s words. Then he remembered. “The boy,” he whispered. “What happened to the boy?”

“They stole him,” said Zeeman. “There were five of them and they set lanterns at West Bridge. Johnson figured that the bridge must have gone out and stopped.”

Powell tried to keep his eyes open and failed. He tried to sit up. His head spun, and then he sank back into semi-consciousness on the piles of blankets at the end of the baggage car.

The next he knew cool fingers touched his forehead and he opened his eyes to see the girl’s face above his. He heard her soft voice. “The conductor thinks you’re better. He wants you to lie quiet. We’ll be in Dexter Springs very soon.”

Powell dozed, only to rouse a third time with the confused knowledge that the train had stopped, that they were lifting him through the car door and carrying him across the dripping platform to Steve Foster’s station hack.

Then he was on a narrow hotel bed in one of the Dexter Springs House’s better rooms and could smell the odor of whiskey as Doctor Horndyke bent above him. Horndyke was a short, heavily bearded man, sarcastic and capable.

“Well, well.” The doctor seemed to be reasonably sober. “You sure got a dent in your skull, Major, a very pretty dent indeed.”

Powell grimaced and said weakly, “I don’t need a doctor to tell me that.”

“Of course not,” said Horndyke. “Of course not. None of you people in this blasted country ever think that you need a doctor until you’re dead, and then it’s too late. What day is this?”

Powell thought slowly. “Monday,” he decided.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“I guess you’ll do. Did you get a good look at the bandits?”

Powell moved his head painfully sidewise. The movement made him a little dizzy. “They had on slickers,” he said weakly.

“They needed them.” Horndyke chuckled without humor. “And their horses must have had gills. Never saw so much water. They must have wanted that boy badly to come out on a night like this. Silly thing, to hold up a train just to grab a child. Too many children in the world anyhow. Every soddy for miles around is filled with them.”

Powell’s attention was wavering, but Horndyke kept on talking. “Handsome-looking woman. Haven’t seen a female that could hold a candle to her for years. Child’s mother?”

Powell mumbled, “I hadn’t a dozen words with her. I don’t know.”

Horndyke chuckled again. “Now, isn’t that like a Texan, jumping in to protect a woman he doesn’t even know and getting his head split in the bargain!” He turned away from the bed, filled a glass with water from the pitcher on the stand, then shook a white powder into it.

He came back to the bed, thumbed Powell’s eyelids out of the way and looked at the pupils. Then he put a hand under Powell’s neck. “Come on, drink this.”

Powell struggled to sit up. “What is it? Will it cure me?”

“It will make you sleep.” The doctor sounded irritated. “Nature will have to cure you—nature and rest. A doctor merely helps nature effect a cure.” He lowered Powell back to the pillow, smoothed the covers, turned and, picking up his bag, moved over to blow out the light. Bruce Powell was asleep before the doctor closed the door.