The Americans

by John Jakes

  Once the leader changed direction, the other animals followed. In seconds, Will and the other cowboy were safe.

  As he knelt beside the man he’d rescued, he began to tremble from the shock of what had just happened. The other cowhand was a towhead not much older than Will himself. He came back to his senses slowly—a blessing, since it took Will a minute or so to get himself under control.

  It wasn’t easy. A few feet away, poor Boston was thrashing and screaming, a goner. The cowhand’s pony was no better off.

  The wind dried some of the sweat on Will’s face. In the northwest, the horizon had disappeared in pouring rain. Pushing his hair off his forehead, he peered through a sudden puff of dust. Unless the lightning was tricking him, the leaders of the stampede had swung to the right. The forward momentum was slowing. If that was true, the danger was over. Once the leaders began milling, herd instinct would end the stampede just as herd instinct had begun it.

  The injured horses kept bellowing. Will had never heard such cries of pain.

  Something cold jabbed against his palm. Lightning reflected on metal. The groggy cowboy was trying to press his Colt into Will’s hand.

  “Use it, for God’s sake,” the cowboy gasped. “Don’t let the poor things suffer that way.”

  With a stricken look, Will staggered to his feet. He tried to tell himself it was an act of mercy, not an act of murder. He stumbled to the cowboy’s horse, waited for a thunderclap so he wouldn’t spook the herd again. While the lightning flickered out, he raised the Colt with both hands—

  The thunder muffled the sound of the shot, but not the pony’s scream. As the animal went into its final agonies, Will bit down on his lower lip and turned toward Boston.

  The pony held his head still a moment. He seemed to be looking at Will with his left eye—

  I can’t do it.

  Boston slammed his head against the earth, bellowing. And Will knew he could and would do anything to prevent an animal, or a human being, from enduring that kind of terrible pain.

  Tears running down his face, he killed Boston with a single shot.

  ii

  The other cowhand mumbled half-coherent words of thanks. Will asked the cowhand his name. Frank Hixson, the young man said. He’d twisted his leg when he fell and was unable to walk. Will had to lift him, prop him up, and carry him back to the night camp.

  By the time he reached it, the rain arrived. He barely had time to slide Hixson under the wrangler’s wagon before the rain poured out of lightning-lit clouds, soaking him. All the fires were instantly drowned. Soon the area was swimming in a foul smoke. Out of the smoke a bedraggled Bob Beaufort came riding.

  Will was on his knees in the mud next to the wagon, watching over the groggy Hixson. “Got a man hurt here, Bob,” he called as the tired cowboy dismounted.

  Beaufort limped toward him through the downpour. “We got more than one, Will. I heard one of the boys was really torn up when his pony took a tumble.”

  “Do you know who it is?”

  Beaufort shook his head. “What happened to you?”

  “Same thing. My pony fell. So did his. Had to shoot both of ’em.”

  “—saved me—I’d’ve been killed,” Frank Hixson was muttering.

  Beaufort knelt next to Will, resting a forearm on the wagon wheel. Little waterfalls of rainwater poured off the hub and spokes. Beaufort bobbed his head at the half-conscious cowboy. “Does he mean you?”

  “—saved me. He surely did.”

  Will shrugged. “I just pulled him out of the way of some beeves that were chasing him. I did it mainly because they were chasing me too.”

  But it was one time I didn’t bungle.

  “Umm.” Beaufort studied Hixson for a moment longer. “Maybe we can find some help for this fellow.”

  Will knuckled rain from his eyes. Exhaustion and shock were beginning to make him tremble again. He fought the shuddering.

  “I didn’t know there were any doctors in these parts,” he said.

  Beaufort laughed wearily. “There aren’t. The only sawbones within miles of here is Doc Stickney in Dickinson, and he isn’t home but three or four nights a month. Someone told me he has patients strung out across a territory as big as all the New England states put together. We have to rely on somebody with a lot less book learning than Stickney.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Ever seen that lanky cowhand with the black sugarloaf hat?”

  Will had seen a lot of cowboys at the roundup; it took him a while to remember this one. He finally did. “The one who looks like an Indian?”

  “That’s right. He’s one-quarter Cherokee. He works for Murtry of the Slash Bar. When Murtry can keep him sober. Name’s Lon Adam. Doc Adam, some call him, though he’s got neither license nor formal education. All he’s got is a flannel bag full of dried-out plants, and plenty of experience. They say he’s a good cowboy when he isn’t drunk. I expect they’ve got him working on that man who’s hurt bad. You might hunt around till you find him, and ask him to come by when he has a chance.”

  “Lon Adam,” Will said, to fix the name in mind. He found a dry shirt, donned a slicker from the wagon and set off through the rain.

  iii

  It took him twenty minutes to locate the man he wanted. Lon Adam was working beside a newly kindled fire that generated more smoke than light. He’d supplemented the fire with a lantern, and was busy bandaging a cowhand’s swollen ankle.

  Lon Adam struck Will as a nondescript man except for his immense black hat, his huge sharp nose, and his hands. Despite weather-roughened skin and callused palms, they moved with the grace of a woman’s.

  Will watched a moment or so, then he approached and asked whether he’d located Mr. Lon Adam.

  Adam nodded, a trickle of rainwater falling off the front of his hatbrim. “What do you want?”

  Will told him.

  “I’ll come as soon as I finish here. This appears to be our worst casualty so far—”

  “No, Mr. Adam. I’m afraid we have a much more serious one.”

  At the sound of the familiar high-pitched voice, Will spun around. Roosevelt walked into the dim circle of the firelight. His eyeglasses were canted on his nose, the lenses fogged with condensation. Raindrops gleamed on his cheeks. Almost like tears, Will thought.

  Roosevelt gestured behind him in an uncharacteristically vague way. “It’s my man Tompkins—”

  “Oh my God,” Will whispered. Was he the one Bob Beaufort had talked about?

  Roosevelt confirmed it. “His horse went down near our campsite. I’ve ordered that he not be moved. I fear his back’s broken.”

  CHAPTER X

  OLD DOC DEATH

  i

  QUICKLY, LON ADAM TIED a knot in the flannel strip with which he’d wrapped the cowhand’s ankle. He gave the bandage a pat, then stood up. At his left hip hung a bulging bag made of worn material that had once been bright with madder dye. The bag was tied to his belt by a piece of frayed rope.

  “Let’s look at him,” Adam said to Roosevelt. “You have whiskey?”

  “I don’t think it would be advisable for you to drink any—”

  “Not for me, Roosevelt.” The man’s dark eyes shone with rage. “For him.”

  “I’m sorry. I misunderstood. I’m afraid I don’t keep that sort of thing in my kit.”

  “I know you don’t. But there are men around here who do. Find them. Find me some whiskey.”

  “Yes, of course,” Roosevelt said as they hurried away through the rain. Will had never heard the ranchman speak so meekly.

  ii

  The storm blew itself out within two hours. The sky cleared, revealing a brilliant moon. The dry watercourse down which the cattle had stampeded contained a half inch of water now—water that looked like flawed onyx in the moonlight.

  No one in the roundup crew slept much that night. The men were still keyed up over the stampede, and worried about Chris Tompkins. Quite a few of the hands drifted
to the place where the Elkhorn men had been sleeping before the alarm sounded. There, beside a Cottonwood fire, Lon Adam bent over the injured Tompkins.

  The cowhands stood or sat in silent vigil on the other side of the fire. Will took his place among them. Every eye was fixed on Adam’s patient. He lay under a blanket, his head thrown back, his cheeks and forehead sweat-covered despite the breeze. He was breathing through his mouth in a loud, labored way, as if to draw something from the air that would put an end to the agony visible on his face.

  Adam crouched down beside him. Close by stood a bottle containing three inches of whiskey. From the bag at his hip, Adam took a gnarled root the length of a little finger. He placed the root on a flat stone one of the cowboys had washed and dried, and chopped the root into small pieces with his sheath knife. Then, using the flat of the blade, he crushed each piece into powder. Will was fascinated by Adam’s supple brown hands.

  Again he reached for the faded bag. When he opened it, Will saw that the bag had a buckskin lining. Adam pulled out something resembling dried grass. He crumbled this into an old tin cup, carefully added the powdered root, and poured in the whiskey. He stirred the concoction with the tip of his knife, smelling it, and seemed satisfied.

  Tompkins’ eyes had a glazed look. Every minute or so, pain contorted his face, and he groaned. The sight brought tears to Will’s eyes. He sniffed and blinked, not daring to look at the cowboys standing next to him.

  Adam wiped his palms on his jeans and slowly slipped his left hand under Tompkins’ neck. Tompkins moaned. When Adam had his hand in position, he held his breath and exerted gentle upward pressure. Tompkins screamed as if he’d been seared with a branding iron. Will dug his nails into his palms.

  “I know it hurts,” Adam murmured. “But I’ve got to raise you so you won’t gag when you drink the medicine I fixed.”

  Comprehension and panic showed in the eyes of the injured cowboy. He tried to speak, but the only sound he could produce was a kind of rattle.

  “I’ve got to go ahead, Tompkins,” Adam said. After a moment, Tompkins blinked. Adam took that as a sign of permission. With a grimace, he exerted more pressure. Tompkins screamed again.

  Several of the hands turned away. Will heard one walk into the dark and retch. Even Roosevelt looked ill as he said, “In the name of God, be merciful to him.”

  Adam fixed Roosevelt with a ferocious stare. “I’m trying. I can’t save his life, but if he’ll drink what’s in the cup, the dying will be a mite easier.”

  “Dying?” Roosevelt swallowed. “I thought—”

  “That I knew how to mend a broken back? No, sir. I have a certificate from a Chicago diploma mill, and a bag of remedies I’ve gathered in my travels. I’ve got some tricks I learned from my mother, who was an Ozark granny woman, and I know from firsthand experience how much the human body and the human soul can hurt. I also know how many charlatans sport the title doctor, and I know I deserve it as much or more than they do. In other words, Roosevelt, I know what I am and what I’m not. The main thing I’m not is a magician. This man’s dying. Now if it’s all right with you, I’ll get on with helping him the best I can.” Roosevelt gestured again, for once at a loss for words.

  iii

  It took Adam five minutes to elevate Tompkins’ head far enough so that the contents of the tin cup could be administered. Will found those five minutes almost unendurable. No matter how gently Adam lifted him, Tompkins experienced excruciating pain. He screamed repeatedly. And after he’d drunk the potion, he screamed again while Adam lowered his head to the ground.

  By then all but the hardiest had left. Those who lingered did so because they wanted to pay their respects to a man they had known and liked. Will, too, had ultimately come to like Christopher P. Tompkins, hard and profane though he was. That bond held him at the hissing fire with five other cowboys—that bond and the fascination of watching Adam at work. He gently stroked Tompkins’ cheek until the man’s eyes closed and he began to breathe in a more relaxed and regular way.

  Will had already been in the presence of great suffering once tonight. Now he was in its presence again. This time it wasn’t the suffering of an animal, but of a human being. What a detestable thing that was, he thought while he watched Adam’s hand. How terrible that it should exist at all.

  The sight of Tompkins brought Margaret to mind. Could a man like Adam have helped her? Given her some powder or elixir to relieve the anguish she’d suffered almost daily during her last years? Adam might be a drunkard, as Bob Beaufort said, but that hardly mattered in light of his talent. The slow, caressing movement of Adam’s hand on Tompkins’ face became for Will the symbol of the most meaningful skill a man could possess.

  Awed and moved, he watched for another hour. By then he was among the last three lingering at the low fire. Roosevelt sat on a log to his right. Abruptly, the motion of Adam’s hand stopped. He frowned, then moved his hand so that the palm was almost touching Tompkins’ mouth.

  The fire sputtered. Smoke streamed out. Adam looked from face to face, his gaze coming to Will last of all. Softly, he said, “He isn’t breathing.”

  “God pity the poor fellow,” Roosevelt said. “At least he was in much less pain at the end. You helped him immeasurably.”

  Adam snorted. “But not enough. You can never help anyone enough. They always end up taking their business to old doc death. Sometimes I wonder why we bother trying to outfox him.”

  There was an almost feverish glare in his eyes. He gazed down at the dead man, who was beginning to give off an odor that was familiar and unpleasant. “Someone clean him up and cover him, for Christ’s sake.” Venomous, Adam looked at Roosevelt. “And even if it offends your morals, I’m going to have a drink now.”

  “Of—of course, Doctor Adam,” Roosevelt murmured. “I’ll find you one myself.”

  iv

  Lon Adam stood with his head down, his great black hat in his left hand and his right moving back and forth across his eyes, as if he were trying to rub away a bad memory. Day was breaking. The cattle were becoming visible. They were lying down, spent after their run during the storm.

  Will wrenched his gaze from the dead man who had been his teacher to the other man who had succored him. In his cast-off clothing, Adam was a queer-looking sort. Obviously not a white man, nor a full-blooded red one either. He was unlike any human being Will had ever met.

  “Mr. Adam?”

  The man pulled his hand down, focused his eyes on Will, finally remembered. “Oh, yes. You had someone for me to see.”

  “He wasn’t very badly hurt. I suppose he’s sleeping by now.”

  “Let me come have a look anyway.”

  They started to walk toward Bob Beaufort’s wagon. The grass was wet and slippery. Adam momentarily lost his balance. To keep from falling, he grabbed Will’s shoulder, then apologized.

  “I’m worn-out,” he said. “I feel like my legs are about to give out.”

  “You worked hard,” Will said. “Go ahead and lean on me.

  Adam accepted the offer. Tired though he was, he didn’t miss the worshipful look in the younger man’s eyes.

  v

  Christopher P. Tompkins, address and origins unknown, was buried in the buffalo grass that morning. A crude wooden cross was pounded into the ground to mark his resting place. At noon the roundup moved on, behind schedule but having lost only eighteen head in the stampede—a surprisingly low figure, Beaufort said.

  When they reached camp that night, Roosevelt appeared. He drew Will aside and complimented him on his bravery. Frank Hixson had wakened and was repeating the story of Will’s quick action to anyone who’d listen.

  “I appreciate your telling me, Mr. Roosevelt,” Will said. And he did. For the first time in years, he’d done more than shout silent denials of Margaret’s accusations. He’d done something to prove them wrong.

  Roosevelt started to say something else. Will spied a familiar figure and spoke first. “I wonder if you’d excuse me,
sir.”

  Before the rancher could answer, Will was off to catch up with Lon Adam.

  CHAPTER XI

  A PLAN FOR THE FUTURE

  i

  THE ROUNDUP MOVED ON to Gardiner Creek, Bullion’s Creek, and Chimney Butte with no further mishaps or interruptions. Will enjoyed each one of the warm June days, and found the work exhilarating. He understood the routine of the wranglers now, and could handle all that was expected of him.

  Each evening he managed to find a few minutes to wander by the fires of the Slash Bar and talk with Lon Adam. More often than not, Adam could be found sitting by himself, a clay bottle not far from his hand. The first time he offered Will a drink, the young man hesitated.

  Adam laughed. “You won’t be breaking any rules, Kent. This is my pokeroot tonic. There’s hundred-proof whiskey in it, all right. But since the purpose of the beverage is wholly medicinal, the boys can all take a dollop after a day’s work and there isn’t a blessed thing Boss Murtry can do about it.”

  Will took the bottle. One drink taught him that if swallowed too fast, the tonic had an effect similar to a blow on the skull. But it was flavorful. And it certainly relaxed a body.

  It also loosened the tongue. On his fourth visit with Adam, he took two long swigs and then mentioned his newfound ambition.

  Adam laid his sugarloaf sombrero on his knee. By day he always looked undistinguished, even pitiable in his shabbiness. At night, with the fire chiseling his face into planes of light and dark, he acquired a kind of regal aura. Now that aura was heightened by the cool, almost contemptuous way he responded to what Will had just told him.

  “You mean to tell me you’re seriously considering a career in medicine?”

  Will was disappointed by the reaction but tried not to show it. “Yes, indeed.”