Page 8 of Anthony Hawk

“Keep pressure here,” she instructed, guiding his hand to the wound in the boy’s side. “Not too hard. You’ll block my way in.”

The heat of the boy’s fever radiated through the cloth. Anthony’s jaw tightened. He’d seen wounded men like this aftera fight, their bodies burning up from within while their strength drained away.

The boy whimpered when Abigail pressed a poultice to his side. Anthony steadied the child’s shoulders without thinking, his big hands gentle against the fragile frame.

“Keep him still,” she said, not looking up.

Her voice was calm, but Anthony could hear the strain beneath it. She reached for a bone-handled scalpel resting in a pan of boiling water on the small stove.

“What’re you about to do, ma’am?” he asked.

“Drain the infection,” she said simply, wiping her hands on a linen cloth. “If I don’t, he’ll be gone by nightfall.”

Anthony tightened his grip on the boy. “Do it.”

Abigail worked with a precision born from long hours and little sleep. She opened the abscess with one sure movement, and a foul-smelling mix of pus and blood welled up. The boy’s eyes fluttered, and he groaned through clenched teeth.

Anthony kept his gaze steady on the boy’s face. “Easy, son,” he said. “Just hold on a minute longer.”

Abigail flushed the wound with boiled water and a tincture that stung the air with sharp alcohol. She packed it with crushed leaves and wrapped it in fresh cloth, binding it tight.

When she finally sat back, her hands were trembling, though her voice remained firm. “It’s done.”

Anthony eased the boy onto a cot near the stove, where the heat would keep the chill off him. “You’ve clearly done this before,” he said, straightening up.

Her eyes flicked to his. “Too many times.”

For the first time, Anthony took in the state of the clinic: cramped shelves of jars, threadbare curtains, a floor swept but worn with use.

“And all this for the Shoshone kids?” he asked.

Abigail rinsed her hands, scrubbing until her skin turned pink. “Not just them,” she said. “Anyone who needs me.”

There was something in her tone that made Anthony study her a moment longer. A steeliness. A kind of quiet defiance.

She noticed his look and lifted her chin. “The town doctor won’t treat the tribe,” she said with a sigh. “Says it’s ‘not worth the trouble.’ So, I do it. And I don’t ask for permission.”

Anthony gave a slow nod. “I reckon that takes grit.”

She almost smiled, but it faded quickly as she glanced back at the boy. “Grit doesn’t keep them alive,” she replied.

Anthony crossed his arms. “You’re saying something else is killing ’em?”

“Yes,” she said, her gaze sharpening. “And I can prove it.” She reached for a jar on the shelf, half-filled with cloudy water. “But not here...not now,” she said. “You want answers? Come back tomorrow.”

Anthony studied her for a long moment, then gave a single nod. “Tomorrow, then.”

He turned to go but paused at the door, glancing back at the boy asleep under the thin blanket. “He’ll make it?”

“If the fever breaks,” she said quietly. “We’ll see by morning.”

Anthony wondered why she hesitated to tell him everything now.

Was it fear? Protection? Or something darker lurking in the town’s shadows? He didn’t want to return to the main street. Not yet. The sheriff’s presence still lingered in his mind, a reminder that trust was scarce in Silver Cross.

Instead, he decided to visit the place where he had buried his family—a somber sanctuary away from prying eyes.

Chapter 4