by William Gear
“And what solution might that be?” Doc coughed into his sleeve. What could the drunks and vagabonds be saying about him?
“Don’t be so suspicious, Dr. Hancock. First, let’s see if you can help Lottie.”
“Ah, she has a name now.”
Hare shot him a cold look as they turned onto Blake Street. The line of prominent two- and three-story brick buildings were the center of Denver’s night life. A line of wagons, teams waiting head down, filled the center of the street. Despite the closed doors, the sound of a piano could be heard from the Arcadia.
Butler, who had remained remarkably quiet, made mumbling sounds as they stepped through the Cricket Club’s doors and into a blessed warmth. Hare led the way through the restaurant and gaming room to the back, climbed the stairs, and into the back hallway.
At one of the doors a third of the way down the dark hall, Hare slowed, knocked, and called, “Lottie? It’s Mace. I’ve brought a doctor.”
“Mace?” The voice sounded weak as Hare opened the door.
Doc took his surgical box, inclining his head toward Butler, as he said, “If you could keep my brother out of trouble?”
“Sure, Doc.” Macy Hare asked Butler, “Do you play monte?”
“Don’t even think it,” Doc told him. “Neither Butler nor his imaginary soldiers have a penny to their names. Nor will I cover their debts.”
“Maybe we’ll play for matchsticks.”
“Hell, we’ve less than a dozen of those left.” Doc closed the door behind him, and blinked in the dim interior. A coal oil lamp, its chimney black, barely cast a gleam in the room. Doc turned up the wick.
Lottie lay on a narrow, metal-frame bed against the wall; a thick sweater protected her from the chill. She stared at Doc through leaden eyes as he laid his case on the mirrored dresser.
“I’m Doc Hancock, Lottie. I’m told you’re bleeding.”
“Doc Flannagan said I’d be fine. That I’d be back to dancing for Mace in a week. But it just won’t stop bleeding, Doc. And it sure stays sore down there.”
Doc glanced down at the chamber pot next to the bed. Even in the poor light he could see it was full of bloody rags.
“Well, Lottie, let me clean your lamp, then I’ll see if I can find the trouble.”
His preliminary inspection sent a shiver down his spine. He’d seen the like in a female corpse once while in medical school in Boston. He glanced at his surgical kit. But for forceps and sutures, instruments for women weren’t included.
“I’ll be right back.”
He hurried out into the hall, then down the stairs to the dingy kitchen, calling, “I need a gravy spoon. It’s an emergency.”
The cook, a toothless, gray-haired man wearing a dirty apron, his cheeks covered with stubble, picked up a serving spoon from the counter. “All we gots is this.”
Doc looked at it, grimaced, and wiped it off with a grease-impregnated rag. As he burst out the door, the cook called, “You bring that back when you’re done!”
“Don’t think you’re going to want it when I’m through with it,” Doc muttered, heading to the bar, stepping behind, and grabbing a whiskey bottle.
“Hey!” The bartender started his way. “You can’t be back here.”
Doc pointed at Macy Hare, who’d risen from his chair opposite Butler. “I’m working for Macy. I’ll bring back what I don’t use.”
Then he was off, dashing for the stairs, splashing the dirty spoon with whiskey and wiping it on his pants. Stepping into Lottie’s room, he bent down before her.
“Doc?” she whispered.
“Lottie. I’m going to have to anesthetize you. And then we’re going to do our best to save your life.”
After he’d placed the cloth to her nose and mouth, monitored her weakening struggles, he positioned her legs, and stared thoughtfully at the spoon. The story about Dr. Simms—the Alabama madman—had been apocryphal. That he’d used a bent gravy spoon prior to inventing his speculum.
“Philip,” he told himself, “if you can do this, you’re going to prove yourself one hell of a surgeon.”
Then he crouched between her legs and began bending the spoon backward around its handle.
It might have been an hour later when he closed her door, arching his back against the cramp. He made his way down the hall, his case in hand, and descended the steps.
Butler still sat at the corner table, his concentration on the cards as Macy Hare dealt and shifted them around with fluid dexterity.
“How is she, Doc?” Hare asked, his eyes still on the cards.
“I think she’ll make it, Mr. Hare. If—and I do say if—she doesn’t come down with an infection.” Doc pulled up a chair, lowering his voice. “Flannagan did the abortion?”
“He did.”
“A man can murder a woman through incompetence just as thoroughly as if he put a revolver to her head and pulled the trigger.” Doc leveled a finger. “You value these girls?”
“Of course.”
“Then don’t let that fraud close to them again. Now, I knocked her out with ether, cleaned her uterus, and put some stitches in the rip that butcher tore in her vagina. She’s coming to, so you, Mace, have to get her a hot meal. I’d say stew thick with meat and vegetables if you can find any. She needs to drink water by the glass, or tea, but not coffee. No spirits. Keep her quiet for a week or so, and only then start with light exercise. Do it right and she’ll be dancing by the end of the month. Do you understand all of that, and why I’m asking it of you?”
Mace’s expression had pinched, his dark eyes curiously surprised. “I’d reckon so.”
“Good. Then I’ll give you the final order: she’s not to have sexual relations until I declare her fit. None. She was torn up, and she needs time to heal. Do you understand?”
“You ask that a lot, Doctor.”
“Mr. Hare, Lottie’s life is still hanging in the balance. It’s a coin toss if she’s gonna make it. The only reason she’s still got a chance is because she’s a dancer and strong as a horse. Someone needs to sit with her. Maybe one of the other girls. If there’s a change, you fetch me, pronto. Even if it’s the middle of the night.”
Hare seemed to consider, his dark eyes probing Doc’s. “Why don’t you stay with her yourself? I didn’t notice the dying and consumptive tearing down your tent for services.”
“I didn’t want to wear out my welcome, but I’m happy to stay.” Doc leveled a finger. “But if Flannagan shows up, you keep that son of a bitch out of my sight. I’m not feeling especially collegial after what he did to that girl.”
Hare turned, raising his voice. “Joseph?”
“Yes, Mr. Hare?” a young man who was laying in bottles behind the bar answered, his expression expectant.
“You know where Doc Hancock’s tent is down on the river? Take Isa and a cart and pack up his camp. When you get it here, fold the canvas and pile it out back. Put the bedding in Josiah’s old room.”
“What are you doing?” Doc asked.
“You keep that girl alive, and the boss will have more than enough work for you, Dr. Hancock.” He pulled a cigar from his pocket, scratched one of the matches on the table, and lit it. Speaking around it, he said, “I think your ship just came in.”
“What about my brother?”
“He says he can do chores, sweep, clean and such. As long as he don’t rile the chuckleheads, he can stay. At least until we see if you’re worth a lot.”
“A lot of what?”
Hare blinked behind the smoke. As the blue cloud rose, he said, “A town lot, Doctor. A place to build your office and surgery. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“And you would back me?”
“Big Ed always backs winners, Doc. Just keep Butler, here, away from our tables. Him and all these imaginary men he talks to.”
“It’s mostly Sergeant Kershaw,” Butler murmured as he watched Hare manipulate the cards.
“Who’s Kershaw?” Hare asked.
“
He’s the one no one ever sees,” Doc replied.
“As compared to…?”
“Oh, hell, Mr. Hare, he’s even got me doing it now.”
Of the fifty or so matchsticks on the table, all but five were piled before Butler.
70
March 1, 1866
The little adobe house stood at the side of a draw where it emptied from the western slope of the Sandia Mountains. A small ditch ran from the rocky creekbed to a reservoir that in turn could be diverted to a ceramic cistern buried in the rocky soil.
A low New Mexican sunset burned in the western sky as Billy led the way on Locomotive. Danny Goodman followed, continually turning as he did to stare at their back trail where it led down the ridge to the alluvial flats, and thence to the distant swath of cottonwoods along the bosque where the Rio Grande flowed.
To the south-southwest in the far distance, the naked eye could just make out the blocky outline of Albuquerque and the faint smudge of its evening fires. To the west the mountains had turned from violet to purple, the clouds taking on shades of gold, yellow, orange, and blood-red.
Billy pulled up, cocked his head as he studied the little adobe. The door was painted a bright blue, the window frames white where they were set back in the brown-plastered adobe. The faint glow of a lamp was already visible through the panes.
Out back, in a rickety corral, stood two very fine blood-bay horses, one of which was saddled. They watched Billy’s approach with pricked pin ears and nickered a greeting to Locomotive.
“So this is the place?” Billy asked as Danny eased up beside him.
“Yep. This is where Nichols said the payoff was to be. You kilt Jessup, just as the contract said. Reckon all we gotta do is pick up the money and light a shuck for town.”
He’d like that. Just last night the Sarah demon had paid him a visit and left him shaken and shamed by her nocturnal preoccupation with his manhood.
Maybe it was a warning. He wondered if Sarah wasn’t dead. Be like her to have ended as a suicide. The reason the dreams were getting worse was because her ghost was coming to humiliate him. Some punishment from Hell for having allowed her to be taken by Dewley.
Or some cockeyed warning from the devil to take care. Be just like that tricky son of a bitch to send Sarah to yank on his cock as a way to let him know death was around the corner.
“Why don’t I like this?” Billy asked, reaching down for his Sharps.
“Got yer back up, huh?” In reply Danny eased his Remington from its holster.
At that moment the door opened, a man in a black linen suit with old-style frock coat, and a dark derby set crooked on his head, stepped out. With his right hand he raised field glasses to his eyes, carefully studying them, and then turning his attention to their backtrail.
Only after lowering the glasses did he reach into his pocket for a cigar. Striking a Lucifer, he lit the stogie, puffed, and studied them across the hundred yards separating them.
His voice carried on the still air: “Why don’t you all ride in? Keep your hands on your weapons if you’d like. While you might be tempted to shoot me and take what you’re owed, it would preclude further, and potentially more lucrative, opportunities.”
“He saying what I think he is?” Danny asked.
“Yep.” Billy urged Locomotive forward, crossing the intervening distance before shoving the Sharps back into its scabbard. He did, however, keep the horse between him and the man as he dismounted and tied off the reins on the porch support.
The man with the cigar stepped forward, offering his hand. “George Nichols. You must be the one calling himself the Meadowlark.”
“Reckon so. And it don’t need go no further than that.”
“On that we are agreed.” He glanced at Danny. “Actually, Mr. Goodman, my expectations are exceeded. I’ve been appraised by my agents in the sheriff’s office that they haven’t a clue as to the reason behind Barney Jessup’s unfortunate demise. Remarkable as it may seem, they are even considering an act of suicide as the most likely explanation of Barney’s exuvitated existence.”
“Says the sheriff leans toward the idea that Jessup killed hisself,” Billy translated.
The man who called himself Nichols fastened his thoughtful night-brown eyes on Billy’s. “That was your idea?”
“Killin’s easy, Mr. Nichols. It’s just hunting men, after all. But if’n they’s kilt crude, sooner or later, someone’s gonna come a-hunting you. Leave ’em a different way to think? Maybe accident? Maybe a fire? Or like here, suicide? Then it ain’t vendetta.”
“And where’d you learn that?”
Billy chewed his lip, squinted up at Nichols, and said, “Some of the men what kilt my maw and raped my sister. Said they’d have been smarter to have left Maw and Sis burned in the house. If’n I’d a come home and found both dead and burned in the house like a couple of them coyotes suggested, I wouldn’t have hunted them bastards down and kilt every one of ’em. Smart killers cover their tracks.”
Nichols seemed to come to a decision. “Come on inside. We need to pursue this conversation over a bottle of whiskey and a plate of Maria Luisa’s chili and beans. Hope you like peppers.”
With a sidelong glance at Danny, Billy led the way, stopping at the door. Hand on his pistol he took in the little room with its kiva fireplace, single table, bed, and trastero.
He took a seat, back to the wall, as Nichols dished out steaming red chili from a pot perched near the fire. Only when he’d dished for them all, did he sit.
“Now, here’s the thing,” he began, filling his spoon. “The job was remarkably handled.” He tested the chili by sipping loudly. Chewing, he waggled the spoon at Danny. “The approach, however, is not your forte, Mr. Goodman.”
“My what?”
“Your strong point,” Billy muttered. “You want to make a point here, Mr. Nichols?”
“Danny Goodman can no more sell himself as a front man for mining investments than I can pass myself off as a tinware drummer.” The spoon waggled again. “The approach was so clumsy I figured the two of you would be caught, strung up, and hung for murder before Jessup’s body was cold.”
“Why are we having this palaver?” Danny demanded hotly.
Billy reached out, grabbing Danny’s arm as he stood to leave. Tightening a viselike grip, he dragged Danny back down to his seat. “I suspect we’re having it ’cause Mr. Nichols, here, is right.”
“But I—”
“Shut your hole, Danny.” He turned to Nichols. “Go on.”
Nichols fixed on Goodman. “Do not take this as offensive. Your idea was correct, your thinking sound. A professional front is indeed necessary as a means of deflecting suspicion. Your vulnerability is that despite your intentions, your proclivities present you as what you are: an Arkansas hick with no formal training in mining or geology.”
Danny roared, “Now, just a damn—”
Billy put all of his strength into his grip, seeing Danny wince.
“We had us a front man,” Billy said softly. “Turns out he took the money, then he gave the law all the particulars on us so’s he could fetch the reward, too. We didn’t take well to the betrayal.”
Nichols’s lips quirked as he shoveled another spoonful of chili into his mouth. He seemed to savor the taste, then added, “Gamblers have a proper term for your late and lamented front man’s game. They call it penny ante.” He reached into his coat pocket, removed an envelope, and laid it before Billy.
Gesturing for Danny not to move, Billy pulled it over, opened it, and quickly counted, only to hand the envelope to Danny and say, “We took the job for fifty. There’s a thousand dollars in there.”
“Tell me a cardinal don’t shit,” Danny said in awe after he’d counted.
Nichols calmly continued eating his chili. “If I ever start offering you fifty-dollar jobs, it’s because you’re no longer working like the kind of professionals the Jessup job seemed to indicate. While I am not at liberty to impart particulars, I would li
ke to employ your services again in the near future. As long as the work continues to be performed satisfactorily, we shall continue to maintain our relationship.”
“Sounds good to us,” Billy agreed. “But I reckon we need some things made clear.”
“Indeed we do, Mr. Meadowlark.” Nichols wiped his lips with a handkerchief. “Here are the ground rules: you never refer to yourself as the Meadowlark on a job, but leave a feather behind. You work for no one but me. No freelancing for penny-ante killings to make pocket change. You go where I send you, take your time, and kill the target in the most nonconfrontational manner. And, unlike tonight’s crude transmission of cash, future financial remuneration will be through bank deposits in accounts under your name.”
“Then how do we know who the johnny is?” Danny asked.
“Ads in the classified under the heading ‘Meadowlark’ will be placed in several major newspapers at the first of each month. It will contain an address where a letter addressed to Danny Goodman can be picked up. The person with whom I leave the letter will demand a password. Danny will tell him or her ‘impetuous.’ Upon hearing the correct response, he will then be given the particulars on whomever the next target is.”
“And how do we communicate with you?” Billy asked.
“Through a classified Meadowlark ad giving the particulars of a place and time whereby I can be reached by telegraph.”
“Mr. Nichols, you’re asking a lot of us. ’Specially restricting our jobs to your business alone. You sure you got enough employment to keep us busy?”
“Count on it.” Nichols stirred his chili. “In fact, after you finish your meals, assuming you don’t scald your tonsils, there’s a man in Colorado City, Colorado, who needs to meet with an accident. If that could be attended to before the end of next month, I would be most delighted to add five hundred dollars to the thousand I will deposit in your names in the Kountze Brothers Bank in Denver City. Payable upon completion of the job.”
Billy grinned, gave Danny a nod, and picked up his spoon. “Why don’t you give us the details, Mr. Nichols? Colorado City ain’t but a week or so north of here. Reckon Danny and me can figger something out to take care of your problem.”