Ralph Compton Death Along the Cimarron by RALPH COMPTON Page A

something.”
    Thinking about it for a moment, Sheriff Matheson said, “I sure did let this town down, didn’t I?”
    â€œHush, Sheriff,” said the doctor, “you know better than that. You did the best you could. Nobody will ever fault you for what’s happened here.”
    â€œI fault myself,” said Matheson.
    â€œThen I reckon that’s your own stubborn lawman’s prerogative,” said the doctor, looking closely at the wound before closing the sheriffs shirt over the bloodstained bandage, “so I won’t waste my breath arguing with you. I won’t change this dressing until it clots up some more.” He turned his attention to the dressing beneath the sheriffs split trouser leg. “Lucky this one didn’t hit the bone. A feller your age gets a shattered hip bone, he’s ready for the pasture, if he can even walk out to it.”
    â€œYeah, a feller my age...” Matheson let his words trail in contemplation.
    â€œNo offense, Sheriff,” said Doc Callaway. “But like myself, you’ve grown long in the tooth.”
    â€œI reckon I have, Doc.” A silence passed as the doctor spread the split on the sheriffs trouser leg, pulled back the comer of the bloody bandage, and looked at the wound. Sheriff Matheson let out a long breath. “I was getting ready to retire, hand in my badge, you know.”
    The doctor turned his eyes upward, looking at the sheriff above his spectacle rims. “I had no idea.”
    â€œWell, it’s true,” said Matheson. “I’ve got a daughter I ain’t seen since she was nine ... when her ma up and left me in Abilene. She’s married to a rancher out in California. They’ve got two freckle-faced kids. She wrote me, said, ‘Pa, come on out, meet your grandchildren.’ ” He nodded and gazed off across the darkened barn. “That’s where I was retiring to.”
    â€œWell ... you still can, can’t you?” the old doctor inquired, closing the bandage, then the split trousers.
    Sheriff Matheson continued staring off as he spoke. “She said they’ve got a room off to the side of the house where I could stay—close the door and be left alone days I didn’t want to talk to nobody.” He grinned. “I reckon folks with grandchildren never get lonesome for talk or for getting their stories listened to.”
    â€œI reckon not,” said the doctor. “You could go there, say, a week from now, maybe two. Lay low for now. Let this bunch of trash clear out of here. Give these wounds time to heal, and then head for California. Nothing’s stopping you.”
    â€œI know it,” said Matheson: His fingertips brushed the tin star on his chest. “My daughter said you can ride less than three miles from her front door and stand on a cliff that looks out over the ocean. Can you imagine that, Doctor?”
    â€œSounds real fine, Sheriff,” said Dr. Callaway. “I envy you.”
    Another silence passed, and the doctor saw the trace of a tear in the sheriff’s tired, distant eyes. “Well, hell, Sheriff,” he said with resolve. “I suppose you’ll want me to bring you a shotgun?”
    â€œYep. The biggest 10-gauge double-barrel you can find, Doc,” said Sheriff Matheson. “I’d hate going out with whimper instead of a bang.”
    â€œBut can you get on your feet and walk by yourself?” the doctor inquired.
    â€œI’ll walk on my own when the time comes. I might need you to help me to my feet.” The sheriff managed a thin, tight smile. “I reckon you’ll do that much for the only man in town who ever kept his bill paid.”
    Dr. Callaway returned the thin smile. “Well, I can see you’re feeling much better.” He patted a hand on the sheriffs good shoulder as he closed his black bag and stood up. “I want you to know I’m not the kind of man who can shoot a