Chapter 7

Right after breakfast, Bachman and Irene left for Laramie in the motorhome, while Cheyenne and Stan headed west in the Land Cruiser. Before he left, Stan tossed me the key to his Honda Shadow and said, “Feel free to take it for a spin.”

At dinner the night before, I told him how much I liked it and that I’d like to have one someday. “Thanks, Stan! I just might do that if I have some free time.”

I watched them head west on the dirt road, then I went back into the bar to help Jackie and Francis before cleaning the rooms. I’d bused and wiped down all the tables and had just taken the last tray of dirty dishes to Leonard, when I heard Jackie answer the phone and then practically scream, “Oh my god! Have you called for an ambulance?”

A jolt of fear went through me that something had happened to Cheyenne. I handed the tray to Leonard and hurried back through the doors. Jackie looked up at me and said, “Bobby, Cheyenne and Stan found Frank in the bar ditch outside his overturned truck. He’s awake but they think he’s been shot. They’ve already called for the sheriff and an ambulance, but I want you get out there to help them!”

“Holy shit! What can that be about?” I ran for the door and yelled over my shoulder, “Tell her I’m on my way!”

A Honda Shadow is a 750 with a fair amount of soup. I cranked it up and sped toward the road, damn near losing it when a green Wrangler skidded into a turn and tore off going north on the highway. The asshole hadn’t missed me by more than a foot. I thought up some choice names for him as I headed west. I was careful to stay in the center of the road, because I knew those washboard bumps could be incredibly dangerous on two wheels.

I was probably ten miles down the road when I topped a hill and saw them. I came to a stop behind the Land Cruiser and ran over to where Cheyenne and Stan were kneeling beside Frank. His Silverado was off the road and lying on its side a few feet away.

I was filled with dread when I saw the blood all over Frank’s face and the front of his shirt. It looked like he’d been shot in the head.

I kneeled down and asked, “How’s he doing, Cheyenne?”

To my total surprise, Frank spit out a mouthful of blood and said, “Well he ain’t plannin’ to die any time soon!” His speech was thick and slurred, but understandable as he continued, “Some low-life SOB shot me in the face.”

We heard the sirens in the distance. A couple of minutes later, an ambulance topped the hill followed by Sheriff Garrett’s Suburban. They both skidded to a stop, the ambulance a few feet past us and the Suburban behind the bike.

Spencer Garrett nudged Stan aside and knelt in his place. “Godammit, Frank, what’ve you gone and got yourself into now?”

Frank shot back, “Well I didn’t shoot myself, ya idjit!”

“But did you see who it was?”

He spit out more blood. “No! Just a green Jeep tearin’ ass across the prairie after I got thrown out of the truck.”

I broke in, “Sheriff, I damn near got hit by a green Wrangler as I was coming out of the parking lot at Jackie’s. I didn’t see who was driving, but they headed north on the highway going like a bat out of hell!”

“Thanks, Bobby, that could be a big help.” He keyed his radio and gave instructions for his deputies to watch the roads going north and to notify the state cops to do the same.

The paramedic arrived at Frank’s side and started her examination. From a quick head to toe, the only injuries she could find other than the one to his face, were some scrapes and bruises on his arms and back. There was an entry wound in his left cheek and an exit from his right. He couldn’t bite down so she thought his jaw was probably broken. A small piece of his tongue and some teeth were missing as well. She started to apply a cervical collar, but Frank wouldn’t have it.

“I don’t need that damn thing! Just help me sit up.”

She insisted, “Sir, you have a possible head injury and you were thrown from your truck. You really need to let us take the proper precautions!”

He pushed her hand away and sat up to spit out more blood. “Help me up, Spence!”

Very much against the paramedic’s wishes, the sheriff grabbed one arm and I grabbed the other and lifted. We helped him over to the gurney and laid him on his side so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood.

As he was loaded into the back of the ambulance, Cheyenne climbed in behind him. The paramedic started to protest, but Frank cut her off, “She’s goin’ with me!”

Cheyenne yelled out the back door, “Bobby, take the Land Cruiser and go get Kasuma. Tell her we’re going to the hospital in Douglas. She can tell you how to get there. Stan will take the bike back to the motel.”

Somebody must have called Kasuma, because she was waiting on the front step when I skidded to a stop in front of the house. As soon as she was belted in, I floored it and headed down the drive.

She turned to me and said, “STOP!”

I stomped on the brakes and looked at her, “What? Are we forgetting something?”

“Cheyenne said Frank is awake and doing just fine. You driving like a maniac won’t help him or anybody else, will it? Now, let’s try this again.”