The Americans

by John Jakes

  “When did you come to this momentous decision?”

  “The night I watched you help Chris Tompkins through his last hours.”

  “That a fact. Sorry I’m the one responsible.” He took another pull from the clay bottle. “Doctoring’s fine if all you care about is feeling like a saint. If you like a roof over your head and three square meals a day, I recommend carpentry.”

  “If doctoring’s so bad, why’d you take it up, Mr. Adam?”

  A shrug. “Runs in the family. My mother was a granny woman. Winter or summer, she’d ride miles and miles on her mule to help birth a baby. All she had with her were her little black bags of muslin and camphor, cornstarch, and goose grease. That and the things she learned from her mama, and her mama’s mama before her.” He brushed at a fly deviling his veined nose. “Mama was a small woman. No more than ninety-five pounds. Tough as a she-wolf, though. Pretty as a daisy. A cancer took her when she was only in her forties.”

  His eyes looked beyond Will, full of hurt. “The cancer ate her prettiness an inch at a time, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing anyone could do except fill her full of tonic to kill the pain.”

  Like an animal shaking off rain, he stirred his shoulders. A melancholy smile stole over his face, a smile of remembrance. “I grew up with dirt and disease. They’re staples of life in the Ozarks. I watched old doc death take over the treatment of anyone he pleased, any time he pleased. Seemed to me there should be a way to put a stop to that. When my mother died, I decided to hunt for the way— which was my number one mistake. My life’s been nothing but poverty and ruin ever since. In case I haven’t made it clear by now, doctoring isn’t a good way to make a living— not even for people who can afford to go into it with a proper education, which I couldn’t.”

  “That’s all new to me,” Will said. “I don’t know anything about the way doctors live.”

  “They live miserably. Most of ’em have another business to put food on the table. Medicine’s just their sideline. I ran a farm implement store in Sedalia, then an apothecary shop in Colorado Springs, then a greasy spoon down near the Rio Grande, where I went to study with the Mexican curanderos. All three of the businesses went bust. My three marriages broke up, too. My first wife was a poor crazy squaw who couldn’t stand white men’s ways. One night when I was off delivering a calf, she put a rifle bullet in her head. Second wife got weary of being poor and left me for a traveling preacher. Not much improvement that I could see. Third one disappeared too. To this day I don’t know why, or where she went. She never even left a note. Amongst those three women, I fathered seven children. Before age five, every one of them died of measles, typhoid, grippe, or some damn thing. Always figured most of the fault was mine.”

  “How could that be, Mr. Adam?”

  The older man shrugged. “I paid too much attention to doctoring and not enough to keeping the accounts, or making a woman happy, or putting shoes on the wee ones’ feet. Irresponsible, that’s the word my second wife used. If I had to put a description to it, I’d say it was being too interested in death. Interested in trying to stop some of it because it’s such a goddamn, dirty, disgraceful waste—”

  Once more he swigged from the clay bottle. Will didn’t quite know what to make of this unkempt, sometimes wildeyed man with the immense nose and gentle hands. Was he a lunatic or, to use Adam’s own words from a while ago, a saint?

  “Had another problem since I was twelve or thirteen,” Adam went on, waggling the bottle. “After I got married, it was worse. My drinking didn’t contribute to the peace of mind of any of my wives. Sure helped mine, though. Say— you care for another sip?”

  “No, thanks. You were saying doctors don’t live very comfortable lives—”

  An emphatic nod. “I’ve been told only a few at the very top in the big cities make anything at all. If I were you, I’d avoid the profession like the plague. ’Less, of course, you find you can’t do anything else. That’s the real cause of all my problems. I can’t do anything else. If there aren’t any humans who need help, I can treat a horse or cow and be damn near as happy. Yes, sir, Kent”—he drank again, finishing in a grave way—“I’d think twice about doctoring.”

  Whenever Will visited the Slash Bar campsite and prodded Adam to talk of his favorite subject, the older man never struck anything but that same half-bitter, half-proud note. He repeatedly said it was doctoring that had destroyed all his chances for a normal existence. Yet he admitted he probably would have remained illiterate if his thirst for a knowledge of medicine hadn’t driven him to learn to read. And if someone needed his help, he was always ready, no matter what the hour.

  On the roundup the demand for his services was fairly steady. One night one of the hands shot himself in the foot while cleaning his Navy Colt. Adam had an item in his bag to fit the problem. He worked up a paste from a kind of thistle called contra yerba. The paste kept the wound clean and free of infection.

  Two days later, Bob Beaufort complained of cramps and a bowel stoppage. Adam powdered a little of his preciously hoarded mandrake root, mixed it with whiskey, and next morning Beaufort was good as new.

  A third cowboy came down with the sniffles, then a high fever. Adam brewed a strong tea with something he called a fever plant. The tea brought the temperature down within twelve hours.

  Adam’s activities continued to make a profound impression on Will, to the point where his worship of the raffish cowhand became a kind of joke. Other cowboys teased him about wanting to play medicine man. He surprised them by saying they were absolutely right.

  The roundup ended in late June. On the final day, Will went to say goodbye to Adam, who was already packed up and ready to ride out. He leaned down from his saddle to shake Will’s hand.

  “If you’re serious, and doctoring’s still your choice, so be it.” A smile, almost ugly in its mockery, twisted his mouth. “Just don’t hold me responsible for what happens later.”

  Will wished he could smash that smile to pieces. Adam was making light of his own gift. “You don’t mean that, Mr. Adam.”

  “Hell I don’t. So long, Kent.”

  Adam turned his pony to join the amused Slash Bar hands who were watching the exchange. Will started to run after Adam, felt foolish, stopped and called, “We never had time to talk about the plants and herbs you use. I’d like to write you—”

  “Do that. Be happy to hear from you,” Adam called back, waving. His other hand was reaching for the clay bottle tied to his saddle by a thong. He was drinking as he rode out of sight.

  Eventually Will wrote three letters to the Slash Bar ranch. None was ever answered.

  ii

  On the first night back at the Elkhorn, Roosevelt came in after dark to find Will examining the bookshelves.

  “Hunting anything special, Will?”

  “I wondered whether you might have a book on medicine.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Roosevelt eased himself into his rocker and plucked off his eyeglasses. “That Indian made a profound impression on you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir. For the first time, I saw a man doing something I’d like to do myself. Something worthwhile.”

  Dubious, Roosevelt countered, “Medicine isn’t exactly a highly paid profession, you know.”

  “So Mr. Adam told me.”

  “Still, I applaud your humanitarian impulse, even if it was prompted by someone as bizarre as Lon Adam. His boss, Dick Murtry, thinks the fellow’s only half there. Dick wouldn’t put up with him, but for the fact that Adam has a fine way with sick cows and horses.” Roosevelt paused. “May I ask you a candid question?”

  Will grew apprehensive. “Of course.”

  “Lon Adam was absolutely right. Most doctors can’t earn a living wage. The night we talked on the veranda, you said you wanted to be well off—and achieve success on your own, not by inheriting your father’s wealth. Have you suddenly abandoned those objectives?”

  Softly, almost heatedly, Will said, “No.”

 
“Then how do you reconcile them with this new ambition?”

  “Why do I have to, Mr. Roosevelt? I should be able to be a doctor and earn a good living at the same time.”

  “Given the state of the profession, it’s doubtful.”

  “I’ll find a way.”

  “You’ll be a very clever fellow if you do. It’s more likely that at some point, you’ll be required to make a choice.” Roosevelt rose and started for the door. There he turned and looked at the younger man. “We discussed what kind of choice it will be. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.” With a wave, he walked out, calling good night as he went.

  Will was so angry, he barely remembered to respond with a good night of his own. He glared at the doorway.

  You’re wrong. I’ll have it all. Without a choice. Without sacrificing any of it.

  Somehow, I’ll find a way to have it all.

  iii

  It almost seemed that events conspired to allow Roosevelt to keep reminding Will of the need to make a choice. The young rancher was invited to be one of two featured speakers at the Fourth of July celebration over in Dickinson, the county seat of Stark County, which adjoined Billings County on the east. Roosevelt was flattered by the invitation, and immediately accepted. But as the Fourth approached, everyone on the Elkhorn saw the boss grow increasingly nervous. He’d often said he was no orator. With his high voice, he was handicapped the moment he stepped on a platform.

  Nevertheless, he worked hard on the speech, staying up till two and three in the morning several nights in a row. On Sunday, the third of July, a group that included Will left the Elkhorn and rode to the Maltese Cross, where they stopped overnight. Roosevelt was up long before dawn the next day. Shortly after first light, the group rode into Medora to hop an eastbound freight. It was less than fifty miles to Dickinson; they would arrive in plenty of time to see the big parade at ten o’clock.

  The weather was perfect for a holiday—cloudless and cool. While they waited for the train, Will found himself glancing up and down the platform. He hadn’t been in Medora since the day after he’d arrived. The depot brought back unpleasant memories.

  Abruptly, he saw the skinny station agent looking his way and whispering to Wilmot Dow. When they were aboard the caboose of the freight rolling toward Dickinson, Dow took him aside.

  “I’m not trying to alarm you, but I think you should be forewarned. Back at the station, Perkins told me Cletus Maunders is still talking about getting even with you. Guess it hurt his pride pretty badly when you stomped on his hand and the boss ran him off.”

  The caboose swayed and rattled, around a curve. Will tried to shrug as if he wasn’t concerned. “Mr. Roosevelt said Maunders was that kind. I’m not surprised he’s holding a grudge.”

  “Thing is,” Dow went on, “Perkins said Maunders and his two pals jumped on a freight for Dickinson late last night. They were already drunk as ticks in a vat of beer. I’d keep my eye peeled today.”

  Will’s stomach started to hurt. “Thanks very much for the warning,” he said.

  iv

  The county seat of Stark County had been laid out on a hillside overlooking the Heart River, which cut across the prairie south of town. Dickinson had never before celebrated the Fourth in an official way, so that made the day doubly festive. People from miles around had driven, ridden, or walked to the celebration. A big crowd lined the main streets as the Dickinson Silver Cornet Band struck up a march and stepped off to start the parade at one minute past ten.

  Next in line came a corps of mounted horsewomen, their riding habits as elaborate as the trappings of their mounts. On a float created from a draped wagon rode thirty-eight little girls in white, each representing a state. The float drew heavy applause. So did the local Union Army veterans, who marched with tipsy enthusiasm but not much precision.

  Farm machinery went by, and dignitaries in buggies. The parade proceeded to the town square, where it disbanded. Will kept searching the crowd for Cletus Maunders and his friends but didn’t see them. Perhaps the three men had already drunk too much and passed out in one of Dickinson’s dingy alleys.

  A free picnic dinner was served on trestle tables in the square. Afterward the crowd was called to order for the program. It began with a lengthy invocation. Then the first orator, a politician named John Rae, was introduced. He delivered a typical Independence Day speech—too long and too bombastic. The crowd grew restless.

  Roosevelt followed Rae. The boss of the Elkhorn looked ill at ease as the master of ceremonies introduced him. He got very little applause from the bored spectators. When he acknowledged his introduction, soft laughter rippled through the crowd. Someone behind Will made a caustic remark about Roosevelt’s voice. Will turned around but couldn’t identify the offender.

  Roosevelt launched into his address, speaking loudly enough so that even the men and boys clinging to nearby roofpeaks could hear him.

  “I am particularly glad to have an opportunity of addressing you, my fellow citizens of Dakota, on the Fourth of July, because it always seems to me that those who dwell in a new territory, and whose actions therefore are peculiarly fruitful, for good and bad alike, in shaping the future, have in consequence peculiar responsibilities—”

  The beginning didn’t sound promising to Will. It was as flowery as Rae’s, if not more so. The bright sun glared on Roosevelt’s glasses. Someone in the front row interrupted to point this out. Pink-faced with embarrassment, he removed the glasses and said in an aside, “There. I’m surprised anyone would want to see more of this phiz of mine. I’d expect it to be the other way around.”

  The little joke provoked laughter, friendly this time. Roosevelt capitalized on it. “Without my glasses, I can’t see my text. That should improve the speech a hundred percent.”

  More laughter, loud and prolonged. With just a few sentences, Roosevelt had overcome the crowd’s hostility. He smiled that dazzling smile and took a more confident stance at the podium. Wind snapped the tricolor bunting nailed all around the edge of the speaker’s platform.

  Will was watching from halfway back in the crowd. He was standing beside young A. T. Packard, the owner and editor of the Bad Lands Cowboy. The newspaperman had also ridden the freight train from Medora. But Will was hardly aware of him, or of the rattle of firecrackers a block away—or of anything except the speech. Roosevelt seemed to be talking directly to him.

  “But as you already know your rights and privileges so well, I am going to ask you to excuse me if I say a few words to you about your duties.”

  Sentence by sentence, the address stung Will with its relevance to his own situation. There was nothing wrong with enjoying the material prosperity which the country had achieved, Roosevelt said. But that prosperity could become a destructive force if it took precedence over principle.

  It was clear Roosevelt had committed most of his text to memory. He used his eyeglasses only a few times to remind himself of a word or phase. He expanded and restated his theme—wealth must never be allowed to corrupt national or individual virtue.

  I am going to ask you to excuse me if I say a few words to you about your duties—

  Will knew what Roosevelt was really talking about. Choices. Choices between responsibility and the lack of it; between personal success and personal morality. He resented having to listen to one more discussion of the subject.

  The crowd listened in silence, completely won over by the speaker and his idealistic message. When Roosevelt finished, there was another moment of quiet, then an eruption of applause punctuated by cheering.

  Editor Packard said, “Fine speech, eh?”

  Will didn’t answer. Packard gave him a puzzled look. “Nothing to get angry about, is it?”

  Again Will was silent. The editor didn’t press the issue, saying instead, “I’ve never heard Theodore speak before.”

  “I have.”

  “What? I thought you told me you met him only a few weeks ago.”

  “That’s right. But he sounds ex
actly like my father.”

  And I’ll be hanged if I’ll listen to either of them.

  v

  Several people from Medora had gathered around Roosevelt at the foot of the platform steps. They were shaking his hand and slapping him on the back. The young newspaper editor went to join them. Will knew he should add his congratulations but he couldn’t. He was still seething.

  He turned away and walked swiftly toward the back of the crowd and across the square to a plank sidewalk. Head down, a frown on his face, he paced toward the next corner. He was completely unaware of his surroundings until the door of a saloon swung outward and whacked his right arm.

  “Christ sake, boy, get outa the—thunderation!”

  Will stopped short, turned toward the speaker—and froze. He’d forgotten to stay alert. Now he’d paid the price.

  “Cletus? Cletus, hurry up an’ come out here,” said the man called Sweeney. The second man from the depot, Chadburn, appeared behind the first in the saloon entrance. Will took a step. Sweeney grabbed his forearm with fingers that dug in and hurt.

  Panicky, Will saw that no one in the street was paying attention to what must have struck them as just another saloon altercation.

  “Caught us a fish, Cletus,” Sweeney said. “A Medora minnow. You been hopin’ to get this one on your hook for quite a spell.”

  Cletus Maunders came shuffling through the sawdust spread on the saloon floor. He was unsteady on his feet, but he wasn’t so drunk that he failed to recognize the prisoner. He licked his lips and smiled.

  “I have,” he said. “I surely have.”

  CHAPTER XII

  MAUNDERS AGAIN

  i

  CLETUS MAUNDERS WAS AS filthy as Will remembered. He reeked of whiskey and other, less appetizing things. So did his cronies. They stepped from the saloon door and crowded Will on both sides. The younger of the two, Sweeney, kept a hand fastened on Will’s arm. A few pedestrians were struck by the group’s odd tension. But no one interfered.