Outlaw Born

Outlaw Born Chapter Two

Chapter Two 

Ben’s turn for the surgeon’s knife came just before dawn. He was exhausted from battle and blood loss, and every shift or vibration of his body sent daggers through his shoulder and chest. The wound had already become angry and swollen. 

Dawson had followed him to the medical tent, partly to make sure he made it. He owed Ben for saving his hide more than once out there. Now, he held up the weight of his commanding officer as they took slow painful steps to the butcher’s table. 

Doc Tanner picked up a bucket of mostly fresh water and tossed it across the table to rid it of most of the blood and gore left behind by his previous patients. He swiped a stained cloth across it and looked up to see the men when Ben groaned. “Get him up here private. Stick around my nurse has passed out somewhere more than likely.” 

Dawson helped Ben remove his coat, vest and shirt. Clothing was more precious than money, even with a bullet hole or two it.  Sadly, there were times they had to raid the dead to replace a tattered shirt just to keep warm on these bitter winter days. The shirt Dawson set aside now had come from a fellow lieutenant. 

The poor bastard had his skull kicked in by his own stallion after having been thrown during a cannon volley.  His loss had been Ben’s gain luckily, they were near the same size. 

Before Ben laid back on the damp table the doc pressed a bottle of whiskey to his lips. “I’m sure you’ve already had a few draws but numb up some more. I need to save the ether for the bad ones.” 

Ben drank deeply letting the sensation of the liquid’s burn distract him until pain ripped through his body. Doc Tanner had begun to poke at his shoulder and back. “Didn’t go through son we’re going to have to dig.” 

The doc fished a long forceps out of the pile of dirty tools and wiped it on his freshly stained apron. He poured a bit of whiskey over the wound to wash away the blood then set to work. 

Ben tried to remain still and let Doc work but it was too much. Doc fished around inside the wound hitting nerves and probably doing more damage than the bullet. Ben gripped the table as Dawson held his body in place as it instinctively tried to writhe away. The torture finally ended as Ben blacked out. 

Later that night he woke with a start and loud groan. A cool damp cloth wiped his face and chest. He opened his eyes and tried to focus on the woman but his vision wouldn’t clear. “Ellen?” 

The nurse gifted him a gentle smile. “No, Lieutenant, my name is Sarah. “

She picked up a canteen and pressed it to his lips as she gently raised his head. “Try to drink, you haven’t drank in days.” 

He isn’t sure what she said but felt cool water touch his lips. He tried to take a few sips before a cough seized him and sent bolts of hot pain through him. He felt as though his entire body had been laid in the fire. 

The nurse helped him lay back and continued her attempt to cool his feverish body with the cloth. Ben had never felt more mortal than in that moment. His voice was raspy, she had to put her ear to his lips to hear what little sound he could push out. 

“In my coat… a letter… Ellen Mason, my wife…“  He couldn’t say more though he tried.

Sarah placed a gentle hand on his to reassure him she had heard his words. “Save your strength. You can post the letter when you’re on your feet again, Lieutenant.” 

After a week of weakness after breaking, a four-day fever Ben woke clear minded. He felt as though he had brushed against the angel’s wings during the last two weeks in the hospital tent. A brush he hoped never to have again. 

Dawn had begun to break, Ben watched the new recruits move through rifle drills. They would do this for the next twelve to fourteen hours of their life. He flexed the fingers of his right hand.  

They were stiff and still numb from the bullet to the shoulder he’d taken in their last battle. The sawbones said the damage was probably permanent. Ben wouldn’t accept that.  

He sat back on his cot and picked up his pistol. Good, he could grip it. Forcing his finger to curl into the trigger was difficult, but once there Ben felt he could maintain it. He made sure the barrel was empty of ammunition and squeezed.  

The gun shifted out of his hand and into the dirt. Ben growled in frustration as he tried again. “You’re my body, obey my commands.”

He tried again, and again, it improved but the unforgiving muscles wouldn’t let him keep hold for more than two shots. Exhaling deeply he tossed the pistol onto the cot next to him and listened to the greenies go through their drills.

Ben turned and watched them for a moment. Determination filled him, he would not be shipped home half a man. Ben dressed full uniform, musket in hand then walked over to the commander of the new platoon. “Major Haute, may I join your men in drills, sir?” 

The major gave him a questioned expression but could not find a reason to refuse. “Very good Lieutenant, position at the end of the front line.” 

Ben nodded to a nervous new recruit, who gazed his rank as Ben took the spot next to him. “Eyes front, son.”  

The recruit snapped back to attention, Ben had to grin as he remembered his own awe at officers among them. The Major raised his saber and began to call out. “Prepare to load. Load.”  

Ben lowered the butt of his rifle to the ground and the barrel gripped in his left hand.  

“Handle cartridge.” The Major eyed Ben and his stiff movement as he concentrated to make his arm bend and pull the packet from his pouch. 

“Tear cartridge.”  It took painful effort for Ben to lift his arm high enough to bite down on the paper and tear open the powder. Worse yet he had to hold it there until all the greenies had figured out the step. 

Finally the next order came. “Charge cartridge.” It was a relief to drop his arm enough to pour the powder into the gun barrel until the bullet set in place at the mouth under his thumb. He could feel the last weeks of inactivity through his shoulder and down his arm. His fingertips had started to tingle. That was a welcome feeling compared to the numbness he had started to become accustomed. 

“Draw rammer.” Ben took a deep breath and pulled the rammer from its slot along the top of the musket’s barrel. He had to lift his arm high to pull it free. He didn’t grimace or curse as much as he wanted to as bone clicked and ground with his movement. He positioned the rammer over the musket ball, and shoved it down with the next order to ram it. 

He noticed a few of the greenies eyes glancing down to see his example. Ben did his damnedest to give them a good one and hide his weakness. He stood tall and kept up with their speed. Able to load up to four shots a minute. 

Ben worked with them for the day. With each drill, his movement became more fluid. Even the sensation in his fingers and hand had begun to return. He sweated in his thick wool uniform under the sun and felt better than he had the morning he took Johnny Reb’s best shot. 

When the Major relented to the young men’s groans of ache and tedium, he released them for supper. Ben grinned as he heard the younger men talking about him and the rumors of his own platoons exploits. 

His puffed ego soon deflated as he stepped into his tent to find a telegram from his uncle. They and other ranches were bullied by the railroad for their land. Uncle had not given in to their demands and stood fast that he would not. 

This worried Ben, he knew from his experience with the railroads here, they held great power. At the last was good news at least. His uncle mentioned that Ellen and Joseph were well and sent their love.   

Ben set the telegram on the desk and started to pull off his coat when the numbers in the corner caught his eye. A telegram with difficult news barring the operator code 11-88. Aces and eights, his omen taunted again that something was on it’s way.