Looking back on that night later, Miss Georgia was never quite sure how she and Jase Marshall made it through. She remembered spreading a sheet on the sofa and coaxing and lifting and supporting the wounded man until he plopped down with a loud sigh. She cut off his shirt where blood had dried and saw a ragged wound high on his right shoulder.
“Look, Mr. Marshall, I’m going to have to wash your shoulder. I guess that’s where the bank teller shot you, isn’t it? I can’t even see how bad it is until I get it all nice and clean. Is that all right with you?” she asked.
Jase moved his head which she took to be a sign she could continue. She went to the kitchen, stirred up the fire, and put a kettle of water on to heat.
Elmira, alarmed at the smell of blood and the strange goings on, had disappeared into the bedroom. That was just as well. The little cat wouldn’t be underfoot.
When Jase’s shoulder was clean, Miss Georgia could see it had almost stopped bleeding. The bullet had gone clean through. Thank goodness for that. She didn’t feel up to probing into a man’s arm to retrieve a bullet. She’d probably faint dead away and that wouldn’t help a thing.
Finally, the shoulder was bandaged with a torn-up sheet. She stuck the filthy, cut-up shirt into a sack and set it by her waste basket. She’d figure out what to do with it later.
Taking the wounded man a cup of hot tea laced with some of her papa’s special remedy that she hardly ever used, she helped him prop up on a pillow.
Jase gulped the tea and lay back. “Much obliged,” he said. “I’d better be going now or you’ll get into trouble. Wouldn’t want that.”
Miss Georgia fixed him with her sternest gaze. “Don’t be ridiculous. Where would you go? Besides, you’d get no further than the porch and you’d keel over. You’ve lost a lot of blood, young man.”
She was silent for a moment, as Jase close his eyes. Without opening them, he said, “I didn’t intend to rob that bank, you know.”
Miss Georgia snorted. “That’s not what Lathe Caldwell thinks. If you weren’t part of that robbery, why in heaven’s name did you run?”
“Would you run if a crazy old teller pulled out a gun and started shooting at you?”
Miss Georgia thought about that. “I reckon I would, at that. So, do you feel like telling me your side of this pitiful story?”
Weak as he was, Jase Marshall talked and talked. With frequent cups of hot tea, he told Miss Georgia a tale that was as unbelievable as any she’d ever heard. Yet, Jase believed it. She could see that.
Along about daybreak, she heard the sound of the bloodhounds. “They’re coming, Jase,” she said quietly.
He struggled into a sitting position. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m ready for them.”
Miss Georgia went to the door to meet Lathe Caldwell. This time, he had brought reinforcements. Four mounted men were with him.
Lathe slid from his horse and jumped up on the porch. “Miss Lee,” he said, “are you all right? Has that fellow holed up in your house somewhere? Are you hurt?”
Miss Georgia passed a tired hand across her eyes. “I’m perfectly fine, Lathe,” she said. “Mr. Marshall is not in a position to harm anybody. I think he wants to give himself up.”
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