The Legend of Shamus McGinty's Gold

by I. J. Parnham

“You’re not sleeping, too,” Fergal shouted at Jed.

  “I am so,” Jed said.

  Randolph yawned. Within minutes, sleep stole him from listening to the argument, which rambled on about the duties that Jed had to do. Pleasant dreams visited Randolph as he snoozed and none of his dreams involved beans. Later, he awoke and Jed was being ill loudly, somewhere in the bushes.

  From closer to, Fergal chortled: “Eureka!”

  Chapter Nine

  WITH THE SUN HAVING risen halfway to its highest point, Fergal stood behind his empty table by the side of the main drag. Above him, the banner proclaiming him as the finest tonic seller on this side of the Mississippi swayed in the light breeze.

  A pile of dollar bills sat in the corner of the table. The only thing bigger than the pile of bills was Fergal’s grin.

  “It looks as if this is our second lucky day in a row,” Randolph said as he picked up the table and carried it into the wagon.

  In less than half an hour, they’d sold all the bottles they’d produced last night. Forty bottles sold at ten dollars a time provided all the proof that Fergal would need that they’d found the right combination of beans and recipe. Best of all, they didn’t need the usual injured passerby and heckler routine to maintain interest.

  “We’ve sold that lot,” Fergal hailed Randolph as he came out of the wagon. “So it’s time to make the next batch.”

  Randolph winced. “Fergal, I joined you as your protector, not as a cook.”

  “For the amount we charge, you can spend all day cooking beans.”

  Randolph pointed at the Lazy Dog Saloon. “If we’ve made that much money, I’m sure you can spare a few dollars to quench our thirst.”

  Fergal thought this through and then nodded. So in a line, they strode across the main drag to the saloon. Inside, they ordered three beers and leaned back against the bar.

  “You look pleased,” the Lazy Dog Saloon owner, Jim, said.

  “The life of a healer is always pleasing,” Fergal said, tucking his fingers into his vest.

  “If you carry on curing people, you could be the richest man in Kansas. You have a rare and special talent. For a man like you, these drinks are free.”

  As Fergal grinned, the storekeeper, who had sold them the beans, edged along the bar to them.

  “From what I’ve heard, you deserve everything that’s coming to you,” he said. “Let me buy the next round of drinks.”

  Somehow, Fergal grinned even wider. Since it was so early in the day, the only other person in the saloon was a heavily bearded man who sat behind a pot of coffee. The lack of atmosphere didn’t worry Randolph, as this was a rare occasion when he could relax.

  He had no duties, no irate customers and no beans. Randolph sipped his beer and decided he preferred these three nos to Fergal’s three nos. As Randolph enjoyed his second beer, a new man entered the saloon. The man bunched his shoulders and strode across the room to stand in front of Fergal.

  “Are you the tonic seller?” he said.

  Fergal held his hands wide apart, his small chest puffed inside his green vest.

  “I’m the one and only.”

  “Did you sell my wife something called the universal remedy for ten dollars?”

  “I’m sure I did, and might I say it’s cheap at ten times the price.”

  The man hooked a finger into the corner of his mouth and levered it open.

  “Can you see that?” he said with his mouth wide open.

  Fergal wrinkled his nose. “That’s an interesting color. Does it hurt?”

  “Yeah, I’ve had a toothache for the last month.”

  “I’m sure you have. Something that angry-looking has no reason living in a mouth.”

  The man pulled his finger from his mouth. “I’ve still got a toothache.”

  As Randolph ran these words through his thoughts, he took a long sip of his beer. Just as he understood their meaning, the man punched Fergal in the stomach with a short-arm jab. As Fergal folded over the fist, Randolph leaped at the man.

  He caught him around the chest, knocking him to the floor. Beneath him, the man struggled, but with practiced skill, Randolph pinned his arms above his head and sat on his chest until he became still.

  “Why did you hit Fergal?” Randolph asked.

  “I’ve still got a toothache. He tricked me.”

  Randolph resisted the urge to sympathize. This man wasn’t Fergal’s first irate customer and he wouldn’t be the last.

  “Did you drink all the universal remedy?”

  “I took as much as I could stomach.”

  As far as Randolph could tell that would be about half a thimbleful, but he kept his thoughts private.

  “Nothing that’s good for you tastes nice. You can’t blame Fergal if you don’t drink all the universal remedy.”

  “Oh? I’ve tasted boot leather that’s worse than that universal remedy.”

  Randolph resisted the urge to ask the obvious question.

  “You should concentrate on curing yourself and forget the momentary discomfort,” he said. “Take a deep breath and drink the whole bottle.”

  “If I do that, will the universal remedy cure my toothache?”

  “Sure,” Randolph said, putting as much enthusiasm into his answer as he could.

  Someone coughed, making Randolph raise his head. A row of three men strode into the saloon. They faced him with their hands on hips.

  “How do you know that?” one of the newcomers asked.

  “That’s how the universal remedy works.”

  “Except the universal remedy doesn’t work, unless it’s supposed to empty your insides within five minutes.”

  Although that was the only result the universal remedy usually produced, Randolph shrugged.

  “Give it time.”

  “That’s fair enough.”

  The man withdrew a watch from his vest jacket. He counted and then put the watch back in his jacket.

  “I’ve given it five seconds,” he said. “It’s not worked.”

  The man snapped his fingers, and the two other men leaped at Randolph. In self-preservation, Randolph rolled backward and scrambled across the floor, but before he got to his feet, someone grabbed him around the chest.

  Randolph thrust his elbow back, hitting something soft that yielded. When the hands holding him slipped away, he jumped to his feet and walked into two men who pummeled him with a rapid flurry of fists.

  As Randolph fell back against the bar, another three men charged into the saloon. Wasting no time, Randolph slugged the nearest man to the floor and elbowed the second man down. With one hand on the bar, he swooped over the fallen bodies to face the men charging through the door.

  “Get the tonic seller!” the nearest man shouted.

  “Let’s talk!” Fergal begged.

  A screaming crowd bustled across the floor, drowning the remainder of Fergal’s offer. Without much hope, Randolph charged into the fray, flailing his fists. He knocked down two more men, before the relentless surge of the crowd trampled him to the floor.

  He tried to get to his feet, but each time he pushed up, feet ran over his back and pressed his face to the wooden floor. Through a forest of legs, Randolph watched an avalanche of townsfolk hurtle across the room, filling the saloon.

  Within seconds, the mob had packed so tight that they couldn’t move forward anymore. Randolph tried to fight to his feet, but multiple hands pinned him down.

  “Please, can I have quiet,” Fergal shouted over the clamoring noise. “With quiet you can tell me your problems.”

  Fergal’s request produced a wave of noise from the mob.

  “Please, one at a time,” Fergal shouted.

  The noise subsided to a rumbling and the hands that pinned down Randolph released him. He quickly got to his feet. The people packing the saloon were today’s customers and they all brandished a bottle of the universal remedy.

  Randolph gulped. Some of the bottles were empty. Fergal stood on the bar, fa
cing the mob. With his hands on his hips, he displayed his bright green vest.

  “Friends, friends, let’s discuss the situation,” he said. “Someone tell me what’s wrong.”

  A man raised a hand. “The universal remedy cures everything, right?”

  “Yup, that’s how it got its name.”

  “Should it cure a wart?”

  Fergal rubbed his chin. “Possibly.”

  “What about a rash?” another man shouted.

  “Or rheumatism?” someone else shouted.

  “Or a stomach problem?”

  “It gave me a stomach problem.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Fergal shouted waving his arms in the air. Hands grasped at his legs and he stepped away. “Please, friends, I operate the three yeas system for dissatisfied customers. Yes to discussion, yes to refunds and yes to replacements. Which of those responses would you like?”

  With the barest pause while everyone dragged in a deep breath, the mob shouted in harmony, “Refund!”

  “Refund it is,” Fergal said, his voice catching on every word.

  With his shoulders slumped, Fergal’s watering eyes searched out Randolph, who provided a half-smile back. He and Jed were the only ones who knew how much that statement hurt Fergal.

  HALF AN HOUR AFTER the mob invaded the Lazy Dog Saloon, Fergal leaned against the bar. The saloon was now empty. Tables and chairs lay on their sides, the departing townsfolk having scattered them about the room. Dozens of empty bottles of discarded universal remedy lay on the floor, their spilled contents mingling to create a clean patch in the center of the room.

  “It looks like we struck lucky in making a universal remedy that worked once,” Fergal said. “That’s a pity. For a while, I thought we might make real money.”

  “We’ve still got Quinn’s money,” Randolph said. He took advantage of the hiatus and finished his beer, which miraculously the mob hadn’t knocked over.

  “Most of it,” Fergal said with a sigh.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I sold forty bottles, but strangely, I’ve refunded forty-two bottles.” He sighed. “Let’s get back to the wagon.”

  “It’s like you say, you can’t trust anyone these days,” Randolph said as they strode from the saloon.

  Jed laughed. “Twenty dollars down on the day isn’t bad. I thought for the moment that we wouldn’t live through that one.”

  Randolph stood on the boardwalk. The banner, which proclaimed Fergal’s virtues, now lay on the hardpan. Worse, it was dirty and trampled underfoot. Two people wandered by and scowled toward them, muttering under their breath.

  Fergal sighed. “The worst thing is that for once, I thought I’d made a difference. People have never been pleased to see me. I liked the feeling.”

  As Randolph considered their change in fortune, he rubbed his chin.

  “I have a worse thought. If we struck lucky the once in making a universal remedy that worked, what about Quinn’s pa or whoever Morgan is? Quinn won’t be happy if what we gave him isn’t working.”

  Even under the bright sunlight, the color drained from Fergal’s face.

  “That’s a good point. We need to get out of here, and fast.”

  “What about the money we might make from the townsfolk if we can find the right recipe?” Jed mused.

  “If I lose twenty dollars every time I make a new batch of universal remedy, I’ll be bankrupt within a week.”

  “And what about the gold we came to search for?”

  “I’ve learned one thing in life,” Fergal said as he strode down the main drag. “Being alive and poor is preferable to being dead and rich, and anyhow, I’ve seen no gold. Let’s leave and go to Redemption City.”

  Randolph hurried after Fergal. He’d taken only a few paces when Quinn and his men came out of the alleyway beside the saloon. Within moments, Quinn and Vance stood side by side with their three other men.

  “I thought we’d come and see you,” Quinn said, with one thumb tucked into his gunbelt. “We couldn’t help but hear the trouble you were having. You used to operate a three nos system for your customers: no replacements, no refunds, no matter what. It seems as though you’ve changed that policy.”

  With his arms folded, Fergal sighed. “I’m afraid I had to, but that needn’t concern you.”

  Fergal stepped to one side to walk to the wagon just beyond the saloon, but Vance strode a pace to his left and blocked the route.

  “You’re going nowhere,” Vance said.

  “Why?” Fergal asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Unfortunately, the new universal remedy you sold me yesterday isn’t like the old one,” Quinn said. “It didn’t work, and my pa is fading. If he dies, you’ll give me a refund, too.”

  “Understood. That’s only fair in this situation.”

  Quinn nodded and cracked the knuckles of his right hand.

  “I’m glad you think that’s fair, because you don’t get to live either.”

  “That’s not so fair.”

  Randolph sighed and raised his head toward an upstairs window of the Lazy Dog Saloon. When Quinn followed his gaze, with a grunt of effort, Randolph charged at the distracted man. Randolph hit him full in the stomach with his right shoulder, gripping his arms around his midriff to force him to the ground.

  Quinn’s breath blasted from him as he fell to the ground. With Quinn down, Randolph jumped to his feet and hit the nearest of Quinn’s men on the chin with the flat of his hand. The man stood rigid and when he toppled backward, Randolph turned around and ran at the two nearest men.

  As they stood close to each other, Randolph threw out his arms and, with his head low, aimed at the gap between them. With his outstretched arms he grabbed both men around the chest and with a great roar, ran them backward for them to tumble to the ground.

  Behind Randolph, a click sounded that he’d heard many times in his life. He ducked and, keeping low, swirled around, but Vance had his gun drawn, cocked and aimed at him. With a smile, Vance leaned his head to the side.

  “That was a good try, Randolph, but you can’t take on all of us.”

  Ruefully, Randolph returned the smile. The four men that he’d downed were staggering to their feet and rubbing sore spots. After his unsuccessful action, Randolph guessed he’d be lucky to escape with a sore head. Fergal rubbed his hands and took a long pace into the center of the group.

  “Gentlemen, I think you’ve been more than persuasive.” Fergal nodded to Quinn, a small smile on his lips. “I’ll get my medical bag and then see your pa again.”

  “Vance will stay with you afterward,” Quinn said while rubbing his ribs. “He’ll ensure you don’t get any urges to go elsewhere after you’ve treated my pa.”

  “You’re too kind,” Fergal said as he jumped into his wagon.

  Quinn batted the dust from his clothes with his hat.

  “That goes for you, too, Randolph, except I’ve got a feeling you won’t be going anywhere, ever.”

  Quinn turned to talk quietly with Vance, who chuckled. While Randolph waited for Fergal to appear, he flexed his back to free his own soreness, but he moved slowly so that none of Quinn’s men would see that he was hurt.

  As far as Randolph could tell, their only hope of escaping from this situation rested on working out what they’d done to cure Morgan and the townsfolk. So he couldn’t help but think about the combined medical knowledge Fergal, Jed and himself had.

  He lowered his head until Fergal came out of the wagon, clutching his medical bag. Randolph stood alongside him.

  “What shall we do?” he whispered.

  “That’s an easy one,” Fergal whispered back. “We’ll raise the stakes.”

  Chapter Ten

  “HOWDY, MR. MORGAN, how are you?” Fergal asked as he stood over the old-timer in the bed.

  All the strength that had animated Morgan during the previous night had evaporated. His former torpor now held s
way.

  “The name’s Morgan Armstrong,” he said hunched within the blankets.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Armstrong, and what’s your son’s name?”

  “What are you asking him that for?” Quinn said from behind Fergal.

  “I’m finding out how ill he is before I treat him.”

  “That’s all right,” Morgan said. “I’m not dying with my brain turned to mush. My son’s name is Quinn.”

  “Would that be Quinn Armstrong?”

  “Of course it is. I told you that my brain is still working. It’s the rest of me that needs your universal remedy, and preferably one that works.”

  When Fergal spoke, his voice was low and neutral. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me about your son to prove I don’t need to worry about your thinking?”

  “What are you getting at?” Quinn said.

  Fergal sat on the bed, next to Morgan, and faced Quinn.

  “I’m happy to spend time on treatment, but the charge for that treatment just rose.”

  “You’re playing a dangerous game, Fergal,” Quinn snapped. “You’re just staying alive. Your paid hand isn’t enough to stop me and my men from ripping your head off.”

  Fergal rubbed his hands. “I may test that belief later, but you once said I could name my price to cure your pa, so I’ll do that.”

  “You get to name your price if my pa lives.” Quinn breathed in through his nostrils. ‘”But what have you got in mind, tonic seller?”

  “I’ll settle for fifty percent.”

  “You want fifty percent of what?” Quinn snarled, looming over Fergal.

  “Now that is a good question. I want fifty percent – half. It’s simple.” Fergal made a fist and chopped the other hand down beside the fist. “You take a whole and split it into two portions. You give one half to me and keep the other half. That’s all I’m asking and it’s a small price for making your pa live.”

  Quinn rocked back on his heels. He nodded while biting his bottom lip.

  “What do you think you know?”

  “Nothing, but your expression has confirmed that there is something to know, and it has to do with gold – and a lot of it. Except soon, fifty percent of it will be mine and fifty percent of it will be yours.”