The Cottoncrest Curse by Michael H. Rubin Read Free Book Online Page B

attentively.
    Beautiful women could be lovely. And beautiful women could be dangerous. His brother, Moshe, had been stupid. He had let himself be led on by a beautiful woman, and that had proven deadly. That’s why Moshe could never come south again.

Chapter 12
    â€œSo, it’s clear that the bullet went straight through,” said Raifer, as Dr. Cailleteau set the Colonel Judge’s head back down on the board. “But the question is, where is the bullet?”
    â€œDamn it, Raifer, you didn’t drag me all the way out here, away from my other patients, to ask me that question, did you?”
    â€œNo,” Raifer replied, in his own quiet and determined way, “I asked you to help me dig that bullet out.”
    â€œOut of what? And why do you need that bullet anyway?”
    â€œWell, if Bucky has got it right…”
    Bucky, standing over near a stall, swelled with pride. Not only had Dr. Cailleteau asked him what happened, but now Raifer was relying on him too.
    â€œâ€¦ then that bullet went right through his head and lodged in her back. Take out your scalpel and dig it out for me, if you don’t mind.”
    Dr. Cailleteau, with a grunt, the vast folds of fat encasing his midsection bulging out under his vest, bent down and picked up his black bag. Placing it on the board next to the Colonel Judge’s head, he reached inside and pulled out a scalpel. “Do it yourself. You don’t need me for this. And I still don’t understand why you need the bullet.”
    â€œNo, you do it, Doc. Let me show you something.” Raifer reached into the saddlebag that he had thrown over the top bar of a stall. “What do you make of this? Does this look like something that the Colonel Judge would have owned?”
    Dr. Cailleteau took the rusty pistol that Raifer proffered. He gave it a quick glance and handed it back. “Not likely. It’s a LeMat.”
    â€œIt’s a pistol, Doc,” Bucky said. “Anyone can see that. It’s not a mat or rug.”
    â€œIt’s a grapeshot revolver, Bucky,” Dr. Cailleteau sighed with impatience. “A black powder LeMat. General Beauregard had these made up in France and snuck past the blue-belly blockade. Didn’t amount to much. They say it was a deal with his son-in-law. I don’t know anyone who ever used a LeMat who didn’t have trouble with it. Not rugged like a Colt. Not as small as a Derringer. Takes nine bullets in the cylinder rather than six, and it still isn’t worth spit.”
    Handing the weapon back to Raifer, Dr. Cailleteau pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his hands to get rid of the rust stains that coated his palms. “Raifer, everyone knew that Augustine had been taught by the General, from the time he was a small boy, to care for all his arms. A cheap LeMat is not something Augustine would have owned. Even if this were his, Augustine would never have let a revolver get into such a condition. I mean, look at the second barrel. It’s completely jammed with dirt and rust. Where did you find this anyway? Out in the yard? Had he thrown it out the window or something?”
    â€œNo, Doc. It was in his hand when we found him. This is the pistol that made that hole. At least I think it is this pistol. That’s why I want to see the bullet.”
    Dr. Cailleteau picked up the LeMat with his handkerchief. It had a long narrow barrel and under it a shorter, fatter one everyone called the shotgun. The cylinder was oversized to hold nine bullets. But having nine bullets was not an advantage; it only made it heavier and more ungainly to use. The extra-long handle of the revolver made it difficult to aim. Dr. Cailleteau had never liked a LeMat. He had never used one in the war because of the firing problem. If you were too quick in cocking or if the pin in the cylinder got stuck, the pistol wouldn’t fire.
    From the size of the hole in his head, Augustine had shot himself