‘‘You don’t look fine.’’
Doc Baker motioned toward the house and she fell into step by his side. ‘‘I have been under the weather for the past week or so. Even doctors come down sick, you know.’’
‘‘What is wrong?’’
‘‘A touch of something or other.’’
Abby tried to make light of his pallor. ‘‘You a doctor and you don’t know what it is?’’
‘‘I have been a trifle restless and keep having headaches,’’ Doc Baker revealed. ‘‘Suppose you diagnose what I have.’’
‘‘Pshaw,’’ Abby said. ‘‘You are the doctor.’’
‘‘I trust you will remember that. It is probably the onset of a cold. I rarely get them, but when I do they tend to lay me low.’’
‘‘Try chicken soup,’’ Abby said. ‘‘A physician I know recommends it to all his patients.’’
‘‘If it is the physician I think it is, I wouldn’t listen to anything the old quack says.’’
They repaired to the privacy of Abby’s bedroom and Doc Baker took out his stethoscope and carefully examined her. He asked questions as he moved the stethoscope across her swollen belly and twice probed gently with his fingers. When he was done, he sat back on the stool.
‘‘If you were any healthier you would be a horse.’’
‘‘Thank you, I think,’’ Abby said as she did up her stays and buttons. ‘‘Why am I having so much discomfort?’’
‘‘There is bound to be some. Have you been taking the remedy I prescribed the last time I was here?’’
Abby went to a cabinet and brought over a large bottle. ‘‘See for yourself. It is almost empty.’’
A label on the bottle proclaimed that it was DR. KILMER’S FEMALE REMEDY. THE GREAT BLOOD PURIFIER AND SYSTEM REGULATOR. SYSTEM VITALIZER. IN-VIGORATOR. DESTROYER OF ALL KINDS OF BLOOD HUMORS. SPECIALLY ADAPTED TO FEMALE CONSTITUTION.
Doc Baker shook the bottle and said, ‘‘Yes, I can see that you have.’’ He handed it back. ‘‘What about your diet? Any peculiar cravings?’’
‘‘Just pickles.’’
‘‘That is normal. God knows why, but more women crave pickles when they are in your condition than anything else.’’
‘‘I like the big fat sour ones. I have my Tom bring me a dozen at a time when he goes into Tucson. Then I sit at the kitchen table and stuff myself. I dip them in mustard so it makes me pucker with each bite and—’’
‘‘Wait,’’ Doc Baker said. ‘‘You do what?’’
‘‘I dip the pickles in mustard. I have always been fond of mustard but not very fond of pickles, so I dip the pickles in the mustard to take away the taste of the pickles.’’
‘‘Land sakes, woman.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘You are lucky you have not exploded.’’ Doc Baker closed his black bag. ‘‘From now on eat the pickles alone or the mustard alone but do not mix them.’’
‘‘But my craving.’’
‘‘Then put up with the stomach discomfort and don’t send for me when there are people I must visit with real ailments.’’
‘‘Oh!’’ Abby said, putting her hands to her cheeks. ‘‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’’
Doc Baker pressed his hand to his own brow. ‘‘No. I am the one who is sorry. I should not be short with you. It is this infernal headache.’’
Abby walked him out and as he climbed into his buggy she said sincerely, ‘‘I hope you get to feeing better.’’
‘‘So do I,’’ Doc Baker said.
Four days later young Pedro Rodriquez was trying to bust a mustang, but the mustang busted him. It bucked him against the corral so hard he broke a rail and his leg and his family did not know what else, so they sent for Doc Baker. Although a gringo, Doc Baker was highly thought of by the Spanish-speaking segment of the citizenry. He treated everyone regardless of race or skin color. White, Mexican, black, it made no difference to him. He even treated the few Indians who came to him for help.
Ten-year-old Arturo Rodriquez rode his skewbald pony near to exhaustion to fetch Doc Baker out to the Rodriquez Rancho. Pedro was in bed, near delirious with fever. The family had done the best they could, but the jagged tip of the shattered femur stuck a good four inches out of Pedro’s skin.
Calmly, efficiently, Doc Baker set to work. It was Senora Rodriquez who noticed the ghastly shade of his skin and the beads of sweat that dotted his forehead and upper lip. She noted too how several times he winced as if in pain. When he was done and washing his hands in a basin, she made bold to make mention of what she had observed.
‘‘I am feeling a little poorly, is all,’’ Doc Baker informed her. He said it harshly.
‘‘Is there anything I can do?’’ Senora Rodriquez asked.
‘‘Put me out of my misery.’’ Doc Baker laughed too loud and too long.
‘‘You should see a doctor.’’
Doc Baker glanced sharply at her, but when he saw she was not being facetious, he smiled and said, ‘‘How little you know about physicians. Doctors never go to other doctors. If we can’t heal ourselves we have no business trying to heal others.’’
‘‘That is ridiculous.’’
‘‘I know. But knowing it and being man enough to go see another sawbones is something else.’’ Doc Baker wiped his hands on the towel she had provided. ‘‘I suppose if I get any worse, I will have to take your advice.’’
‘‘What is wrong? Or is it too bold of me to ask?’’
‘‘Not at all.’’ Doc Baker began rolling down his sleeves. ‘‘I can’t hardly sleep anymore. I pace the floor at night, my body all aquiver. Even hot milk doesn’t help. I have a constant headache.’’ He mustered a wan smile. ‘‘I am at the point where I might need to start taking some of that remedy Abby Harker is so fond of.’’
‘‘There must be something you can do,’’ Senor Rodriquez optimistically offered.
Doc Baker explained that he had tried Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters, but that gave him cramps so he switched to Pricklyash Stomach Bitters, but that gave him worse cramps. He figured something more mild would do and took extract of sarsaparilla for a few days, but that had no effect whatsoever. ‘‘I am trying laudanum now,’’ he concluded. ‘‘It seems to lessen the headaches but not enough to suit me.’’
‘‘What will you do next?’’
Doc Baker shrugged. ‘‘There is always opium. I have never used it myself, but from what I have seen and heard it can work wonders.’’
‘‘I am sorry for you.’’ Senora Rodriquez squeezed his hand. ‘‘I wish I could help you as you have so many times helped me.’’
Doc Baker walked himself out and climbed into his buggy. He had not gone a quarter of a mile when he broke out in a cold sweat and experienced a severe bout of dizziness that gave him a profound scare. Eventually the world stopped spinning and his insides stopped churning, but now he felt as weak as a newborn kitten. He sat back and let Mabel have her head. The old mare knew the road as well as if not better than he did and could find her way home with no help from him.
‘‘What is the matter with me?’’ Doc Baker asked aloud. He pressed a thumb to his wrist, checking his pulse. His heartbeat was erratic, weak. He tried to swallow but had no saliva. Settling back, he closed his eyes and groaned.
The ride that Doc Baker normally enjoyed became an ordeal. The cold sweats came and went. A hammer pounded inside his head, pounding harder and harder as time went by. He had bouts where he was short of breath.
‘‘Maybe it is my age catching up to me,’’ he told Mabel. ‘‘No one lives forever. Not even doctors.’’
Tucson had grown so much in the past ten years that he reached the outskirts long before he reached his office. Eight thousand souls and growing, according to the Arizona Daily Star. The arrival of the Southern Pacific Railroad had a lot to do with the surge in growth. New buildings were going up faster than summer corn. A new courthouse was being constructed just down the street. Lo
cal politicians were crowing about how Tucson would soon be the crowning jewel in all of Arizona.
Doc Baker was glad when Mabel finally came to a stop. He climbed out slowly, his muscles sore, his joints stiff. Afraid of another dizzy spell, he climbed the outside steps holding to the rail. Once the door was shut and locked, he moved down the hall with his left hand against the wall for support. His legs were so weak, he did not know if they would bear his weight. He placed his bag on his desk and sat in his chair and thought about his wife, long dead, and his son, killed at Gettysburg, and his daughter, drowned in a flood, and his eyes grew moist. Sniffling, he said to the walls, ‘‘I will be damned if I will sit here feeling sorry for myself.’’
Doc Baker got up and went to a mahogany cabinet where he kept his medicines, but it was not a bottle of medicine he selected. It was his pet passion: a bottle of brandy. Every night before he turned in he had a glass of brandy to soothe his nerves and his stomach. For forty years he had stuck to the habit without fail.
Tonight Doc Baker dispensed with a glass. He sat at his desk and drank straight from the bottle. He was on his tenth or eleventh swallow when the cramps hit him so bad, he doubled over. The room spun and his body grew numb. He sucked in deep breaths until the spell passed. Then, spent and queasy, he looked up.
Epp Scott was in the doorway, smiling.
‘‘What the hell?’’ Doc Baker said, his tongue feeling as if it were covered with wool.
Epp walked over and sat on the edge of the desk. ‘‘Surprised to see me? You shouldn’t be.’’
Doc Baker tried to stand but had to sink back into his chair. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’
‘‘How is your brandy these days? I have never been all that fond of the stuff. Too sweet for my taste. But everyone knows you partake before you turn in, and I figured the sweet would hide the bitter.’’
Clutching the edge of the desk, Doc Baker steadied himself. ‘‘I want you to leave. I am not feeling well.’’
‘‘As much as you have had, it is a wonder you are still breathing,’’ Epp said. ‘‘You are tougher than I gave you credit for.’’
‘‘What is this? Some childish prank to get back at me for the accusations I levied the last time I saw you?’’
‘‘I never treat dying as a prank. I always take it as serious as can be.’’
‘‘Did you say dying?’’
Epp nodded. ‘‘You have been taking it for weeks now. That’s what comes of not latching your windows. I slipped in one day while you were off on a house call and mixed it with your brandy. But you have been taking too damn long to die, so last night I snuck in again and added five times as much as before. Then today I have been keeping an eye on you, waiting for you to keel over.’’
Doc Baker’s grip on the desk was not enough. He slumped back against the chair, struggling for breath. ‘‘What is this it you keep talking about?’’
‘‘Oh. That’s right. I haven’t shown you yet.’’ Epp reached into a jacket pocket and brought out a small cobalt blue bottle that had a porcelain label with gold trim. In bold letters were NATR. ARSENIC.
‘‘Dear God.’’
‘‘Recognize the bottle?’’ Epp asked. ‘‘You should. It is yours. I was going to stab you, but when I saw this, the brandy idea occurred to me.’’
‘‘You didn’t.’’
‘‘It is better this way. More natural. They will think your heart gave out. In three days they will bury you, and my secret along with you.’’
‘‘So I was right about you and your parents?’’ Again Doc Baker struggled to rise and again he fell back, but this time the chair slipped from under him and he landed on his back on the floor. He attempted to lift his right arm, but the numbness had spread with frightening speed. He could not move anything except his mouth. ‘‘You have killed me.’’
Epp Scott smiled. ‘‘That was the idea.’’
Sassy Tree
Early one morning the rustlers passed through thick swaths of mesquite and paloverde. A short climb brought them to manzanitas. Higher yet, and they were in oak. Now and again a prickly pear cactus reminded them they were still in desert country. By noon they were amid woodland of piñons. By one o’clock they were riding among tall ponderosas. The forest went on for miles. They were grateful for the shade and a faint breeze.
Then came a forest of fir. The moss on the trees seemed out of place, more suitable for Oregon or Washington than Arizona.
They rode alertly. By now they were convinced they had shed the vaqueros, but they were in Apache country and there was no predicting Apaches. They had enough men and guns—particularly guns—to discourage a war party. But the Apaches might decide those guns were worth the risk of an attack. So they rode with their hands on their revolvers or had rifles across their saddles.
Finally, they reached the rim. From its heights they beheld a breathtaking spectacle of endless canyons and bluffs, sprinkled here and there with the green of valleys.
‘‘Where are we bound?’’ Boone Scott asked his new friend.
Drub Radler yawned. ‘‘Let’s see. We have been to two ranches and sold off some of the horses. The next one will be—’’ He stopped, and a broad smile spread over his face. ‘‘Why, the next will be Sassy Tree.’’
‘‘If that is a town, I have never heard of it.’’
Galeno was next to them, and he threw in, ‘‘It is no town. It is a ranch, Senor Lightning.’’ He had taken to calling Boone that, and when he did, he always smirked.
‘‘Hell,’’ Wagner said. ‘‘Calling it a ranch is being charitable. It is no more a ranch than I am the president.’’
‘‘That means it doesn’t amount to much,’’ Drub told Boone.
‘‘I know what it means.’’
‘‘Ben Drecker owns it,’’ Wagner continued. ‘‘And if we are lucky, he will be sober when we get there.’’
The trails they took were not the trails most men took. Old Man Radler had been a rustler for a lot of years and he knew game trails and Indian trails that no one else did.
The valley they came to was small and isolated, but it had water, and in Arizona water was everything. Enough grass for a fair-sized herd and an oak woodland lent a picturesque quality. From a distance the cabin with smoke curling from its stone chimney and the stable and corral looked respectable enough. But up close the illusion was shattered.
The cabin had been put together by someone who could not cut logs the same length if his life depended on it. The chinks had been filled with clay, but only here and there, so that on cold nights the fireplace would be put to good use. The corral rails had not been completely trimmed. The stable consisted of old planks with cracks and holes and looked fit to come down if someone sneezed on it.
Old Man Radler drew rein and the rest of them did the same. He pushed his hat back on his head and leaned on his saddle horn. ‘‘You in the cabin! Are you awake in there? You have visitors.’’
Burlap covering the window moved and a rifle poked out. ‘‘That there is far enough, stranger.’’
‘‘Drecker, you damned idiot! How long have you known me?’’ Old Man Radler returned. ‘‘I have come with the horses you told me you wanted. And if you have wasted my time, by God there will be hell to pay.’’
The rifle was pulled in and a moment later the cabin door creaked open on leather hinges. Framed in the uneven doorway was an unkempt man of fifty or so. His clothes were little better than nothing at all, his boots were ventilated with large holes and the rifle in his hands was an old Sharps. ‘‘Radler! I had about figured you weren’t going to show. It was, what, seven months ago you stopped here last?’’
‘‘If you can remember that far back, you are off the booze, which will make this easier.’’
‘‘I am not off it by choice. I ran out of money.’’
Old Man Radler stopped in the act of dismounting. ‘‘The hell you say. Then why did I bring horses?’’
‘‘Oh, I have my stash for those,�
��’ Drecker quickly answered. ‘‘I was not about to touch it, not after we shook and all.’’
‘‘Then you do have some common sense.’’ Old Man Radler alighted. ‘‘We will camp yonder.’’ He pointed at oaks fringing a spring. ‘‘Mosey on over and we will dicker. Bring that sprout of yours if you want. I can use a laugh and she is always worth plenty.’’
‘‘She?’’ Boone said to Drub.
‘‘Sassy,’’ Drub said with a vigorous bob of his chin.
Ben Drecker asked, ‘‘What was that about dickering? I thought we had set how much they would be?’’
‘‘Come talk,’’ Old Man Radler responded.
They stripped the saddle horses, and the stolen horses were put under guard and a fire was kindled and coffee put on. In a friendly frame of mind because everything had been going so well, the rustlers sat around talking and joking. Skelman did not talk much, and he never told a joke, but when he did speak the others listened.
Drecker joined them, hunkering by the fire with Old Man Radler and Vance.
Boone and Drub were seated with their backs to trees a short distance away, along with some of the others.
It was Wagner who snorted and said, ‘‘Look at that old goat. Talking business. As if he can afford more than four.’’
‘‘Four is more than none,’’ Drub said. ‘‘Even I know that.’’
‘‘Four makes for a great horse herd. Why, in ten years he might build it up to eight or ten.’’
‘‘You don’t think much of Drecker?’’ Boone asked.
‘‘Hell, I don’t like or dislike him. He is an old drunk who will never amount to much except in his head. But he does let us stop over when we are passing through, and that girl of his is a delight.’’
Boone looked around. ‘‘She must be lying low.’’
‘‘Likely as not she is off hunting,’’ Drub said. ‘‘That is what she does the most.’’ He paused and then said almost shyly, ‘‘I like her, Lightning. I like her a whole lot.’’
‘‘You like puppies and kittens too,’’ Wagner said.
‘‘Don’t you?’’
Ralph Compton Bullet For a Bad Man Page 11