by Mari Collier
She was about to become frantic when there was a yell from the front.
“Anyone there? It's Doctor Shelly. Someone said there was a wounded man here.”
“Back here, doctor, please come in. It's my little brother. He's not a man. He's still a boy.”
The doctor appeared. He was about thirty-eight with curly brown hair. His mustache and goatee were luxurious. In his hand was the mark of a practitioner: the leather bag containing the tools of his trade.
“Keep that shirt away from the wound and get me some water and a rag. A spare sheet for bandages would be helpful.”
Margareatha moved to the front room. She removed all the dishes from her dish washing pan and used a pot to scoop up water from the stove's reservoir. Rag, she thought, what kind of rag? She carried the water back into the bedroom. She ignored the people milling at the doorway.
The doctor was threading some strange looking needle.
“Where's the rag and the sheet for bandages?”
Margareatha gritted her teeth. “Use what's here.” She had not had extra sheets made, but washed hers once a week. She needed this doctor. Lorenz would bleed to death, but how was she going to be able to let him work and keep him from discovering and then talking about Lorenz's two hearts.
The doctor shrugged. “If you have scissors, you can cut the sheet into strips. Do you have any whiskey or brandy to give him? If not, you'll have to hold him down when I'm sewing or go get someone to help you. There are plenty of folks standing around out there. Just make sure it's someone who won't faint.”
“There is some brandy left from the special cakes I make.”
“Get it. He'll need it. I can see you are right. This one has no whiskers. Do you know who he is?”
“I told you. He's my brother.”
The doctor's hazel eyes examined her. “Is that your mother out there in the streets?”
“No, it's someone I hired that desperately needed a job. I don't even know her name. What has that to do with Lorenz?”
The doctor looked doubtful, but said, “I still need the brandy.”
He took off his coat and pushed Lorenz's shirt out of the way. When Margareatha returned, he picked up his needle with the coarse thread. “Keep blotting with that towel and see if you can get any brandy down him.” He ignored the blood on the side and concentrated on sewing from the bottom up.
It wasn't the best sewing Margareatha had ever seen, but then she had never seen a wound like that. What brandy she hadn't poured down Lorenz's throat the doctor swallowed when it was over. He set the empty bottle down on the floor and wiped his bloody hands on his canvas trousers.
“I need to check his heart. Then I'll write you a prescription for laudanum. It'll help him sleep. If you're lucky the pharmaceutical will have some left. It's hard to get now with the war on.”
Margareatha looked at Lorenz. He had passed out from the pain and the loss of blood. She wasn't sure how she had been able to hold him down. She felt empty and drained, like she didn't even have the strength to walk outside.
“Will he live?”
The doctor pulled on his jacket. “Well, he might. He's young. It just depends on whether he gets a bad infection or not. Sometimes I can cauterize them.”
“Cauterize? You mean burn?”
“Madame, that's all there is.”
He fished his stethoscope from his bag and put the two ends in his ear before bending over Lorenz.
“Must you disturb him?”
He ignored her and held the round, metal over Lorenz's heart area.
Margareatha closed her eyes and directed her mind into the doctor's. 'One beat, one beat,' she kept mindspeaking into his.
Dr. Shelly straightened. “Hmm, it's slightly blurred. It could be the alcohol slowed his heart down. How old did you say he is?”
“I didn't, but he is twelve.”
“Hmm, a tall one. Well, I'll be back in a couple of days to check on him. I need your table to write the prescription. He'll stay asleep for now.”
She followed him to the front and realized the bread in the oven was ruined. She could smell the burnt aroma wafting in the air. She ground her teeth. How was she going to pay for all of this?
Dr. Shelly took out a pad and scribbled something on it. “Here take this into town. If they have it, you can give it to him twice a day. If they don't have laudanum, you can try for paregoric that's used for a baby's colic, but it will induce sleepiness. I suggest you keep a close eye on him for the first three days. Let me know if he develops a high fever. You do know how to nurse a sick person, correct?”
Margareatha nodded yes.
He handed her a small vial. “Here's enough laudanum for this evening. That'll be five dollars, Miss Lawrence, but that will include his care until I take out the stitches. It'll be another three dollars when I take out his stitches, but I'll be dropping by to check on him periodically.” That she wouldn't pay him, he felt was a good possibility. Most people had a few coins and liked to trade or give him food like chickens.
“Isn't that a lot?” Margareatha looked up from the illegible scrawl on the paper. ”I thought you only charged fifty cents or a dollar.”
“Well, yes, ma'am, that's true for an office visit. This was a bit more. Tell you what, we'll make it three dollars now and you can send over one of your pies. Then it will be another dollar and a pie when I take out the stitches.”
Margareatha swallowed. Her profits were down since Lorenz arrived for his appetite was double hers. At least he looked like he was filling out a bit, now this. How was she going to nurse him, go to the shop that sold drugs and herbs, and get up early to mix up the rolls and bread for tomorrow morning? How could she make pies while tending him? She needed to go shopping right now, but first she would need the laudanum to keep him asleep. Please God, don't let him get an infection, she prayed and realized there were still people milling around in the room. She ran back to look at Lorenz. His eyes remained closed, his mouth twisted by pain and pulled slightly upward from the stitching. Why wasn't there a real pharmaceutical here like in New Orleans? Maybe someone will watch him while I run to the herbalist ran through her mind and then came the realization that her cashbox was out front with all those people.
Most were the shopkeepers from the tents that had closed already. The Mexicans were outside of the door. Men and women had helped themselves to a roll while they were waiting.
“Those are a penny each, please.” She tried to keep her voice even and not grit her teeth. She felt anger starting to build. They were robbing her. The crowd didn't look at it that way. They were there to offer their help.
“Why Miz Lawrence, I thought y'all might need a hand with carrying in the wood this evening.”
Margareatha closed her eyes to blink back the tears. “I, I thank you, but there will be no baking tomorrow. Is there someone here that can watch him tomorrow while I go to the pharmaceutical?”
Chapter 51: Economic Reality
Margareatha hurried out of the telegraph office, praying that the telegram would reach Red in time. Lorenz had developed a fever one week ago. Her mind was in a complete turmoil. There had to be a solution for this situation.
The doctor kept going, “hmm,” when draining pus from the wound. Surely those people that Red's shipments went to had something to help. She realized that should Red even get the telegram, it would take weeks before anything arrived via the stagecoach from San Francisco, and then only if Red could get it from Carson City to San Francisco. So far Lorenz's system was trying to fight off the infection and the fever. His appetite was huge, as though the food would rebuild the body tissue that was damaged. Her ability to keep the doctor from realizing that Lorenz had two hearts was severely tested each time. Dr Shelly examined Lorenz. He would look puzzled afterward as though he had forgotten something. To make matters worse, her income had fallen to nothing and her cash reserves were rapidly disappearing into Lorenz's stomach. There were three other things she was good at. One was pla
ying poker, as her mind gave her an edge, accounting, and singing. She knew no one in this town would hire her for the first two and if they did, it would be long hours away from Lorenz.
She entered her home and found Josephina coming from the bedroom with an empty bowl.
“I think that's the last of the soup.” Josephina spoke in Spanish and Margareatha responded in kind. Her accent was bad, but her mind had grasped the meanings.
“I'll make some more. Thank you, here's the dime I promised you. Were there any problems?”
“No, Senorita Lawrence, he really doesn't need anyone here except to keep him in bed and that is getting hard to do.” She pocketed the money and left.
Margareatha walked into the bedroom and smiled at Lorenz. “Are you feeling better?”
“No, it still hurts like, uh, heck.” He figured there was no use using hell. It would just throw Rity into a conniption fit and a tirade of words about Mama. What good did it do to talk about Mama? No way was he going to admit that he liked it or that secretly he believed she was alive. All it did was make the ache worse.
Margareatha laid her hand on his forehead. 'Damn,' she thought in her mind, aloud she said, “I'm afraid your fever is back. Did you want some of that paregoric to make you sleep?”
“Hel—uh, no. All that does is make me stop shitting.”
“Lorenz, there are other ways of saying that.” How many times had she told him?
“I'll sleep without it.”
She walked over to the wall and opened her trunk, sorted through the finery she hadn't worn in six months, and pulled out a light green taffeta. It was low cut at the bodice and the shoulder had cap-like sleeves. The matching pair of gloves and the shoes were in the bottom. Then she pulled out a green dress of linen and a multitude of underskirts. She held up each item to eye them critically. Perhaps the dress would be better if brown, but Margareatha had nothing so subdued. The skirts and blouses for the bakery were too plain. There was one thing that she could do that wouldn't take her away from Lorenz for hours. If she had to use her mind to get the job, she would. It was barely four in the afternoon. She could bring in what wood they would need and clean her hands and nails before heading to the Orpheum. Her mouth was set in a straight line. They needed money; money for the doctor, for the drugs that were useless, for food, and if Lorenz became strong enough, money for the stagecoach. Respectability was a dream. Mama, I'm sorry, ran through her mind.
* * *
Branson McGuire looked up from his conversation with the bartender as the red-head with the fancy hat, green linen dress, and a matching parasol walked into his establishment. His blue eyes lit with interest. Where did she come from? The only tall red-headed woman he knew about ran the bakery and he hadn't heard of any new arrivals. This one was a high-toned saloon gal. She walked toward him as though she knew he was the owner or a man of importance.
“Mr. McGuire, my name is Miss Lawrence and I would like to speak with you.” Her eyes were a strange copper color with gold circles around the pupils and she looked straight at him. To McGuire, the surprise was that she looked straight down at him for she stood about three inches taller.
Branson picked up his glass and twirled the whiskey around. “Well, now Miss Lawrence, it happens I'm a busy man, but if you like we can have a drink now and you can come back this evening to entertain the men. I've got a curtained room upstairs where a couple can retire.” He winked at her.
“You are mistaken, Mr. McGuire. That is not my profession.” Her voice was clear and well-modulated. The voice remained steady, no tremor, and no blush highlighted her cheeks. “I intend to return, but as a singer. The men here are hungry for that type of entertainment. There hasn't been an acting troupe through here since the conflict began.”
Margareatha chose her words carefully. You never knew who was adamantly for the Union or for the South. Most of the people in Arizona Territory had quit caring. All they wanted was troops from either side to ride out against the Apache or whatever tribe stole their horses and cattle.
McGuire considered. What she said was true. The war had pulled men out of the West. Some were filtering back in, but they were beaten or broke. Those from California, Nevada, and New Mexico Territory might have funds, but they found little reason to linger in Tucson. In time, this woman should become more accommodating. A few drinks usually accomplished that. Women couldn't hold their liquor.
“What types of songs do you sing?”
“I sing everything from folksongs like Barbarie Allen to the latest Steven Foster songs like None Shall Weep a Tear for Me, and, of course, the popular songs from plays on the riverboats.”
McGuire looked at her more closely. So that's where she came from, but no women had arrived recently. Then he realized that this was the bakery woman. She had transformed herself from a drudge into a fashionably dressed saloon gal.
Margareatha smiled. “Men will be happy to throw money my way and buy booze while I'm singing.”
“Are you willing to sit with them afterward and let them buy you a drink?”
“No, I wouldn't, but perhaps during a break if they buy what I like to drink.”
“And that would be what, Miss Lawrence?”
“That would be brandy.”
A slow smile crept onto his face. That was a more expensive drink. “What time would you be here?”
“When is your establishment the most crowded?”
“It's usually more crowded about seven thirty to eight thirty. After that, it's the men who like to drink or gamble and they've been damn few lately.”
“Perhaps by my second evening that will change, Mr. McGuire. I suggest you schedule me for two nights a week. Does that sound reasonable?”
“What about three?”
“Do the people here have that kind of money?”
“They will if they have a reason.”
“What evenings do you suggest?”
“I'd say Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays are the best. Sunday evenings too many souls are praying for God to forgive them for their sins. It's the same on Wednesday evenings.”
Margareatha put out her gloved hand in the lady-approved manner. “In that case, Mr. McGuire, you can expect me tomorrow evening at seven thirty. Is there a back entryway so that I can make my entrance a bit more dramatic?”
“Yes, there's even a place to wait while I have someone introduce you. I'll get the word out. If my sales go up, you can sing as long as you want.”
Chapter 52: Saloon Singer
“Sing Gentle Annie,” a man yelled.
“No, Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming,” yelled another, “only this time make it real sad like.”
Margareatha complied and slowed the tempo. She had been singing at McGuire's for about six weeks. The money was good and men stupidly threw coins, fractional currency (if they had it), gold lumps, or silver into the hat she had placed on a stool beside her. The men had gone wild over her. She didn't even need to use her mind to loosen the silver in their pockets. McGuire vacillated between hearty and leering, and becoming more ruffled with each failed encounter. She was seriously thinking of changing saloons or taking Lorenz and heading to Carson City without an answer from Red. The journey would be brutal on someone recovering from such a severe wound.
Lorenz had lost at least twenty pounds off his skinny frame and remained weak. He was finally able to get up and move a few steps. His food consumption was beyond belief. Somehow the food was repairing the internal damage, and he was growing. His system had fought off the infection. Dr. Shelly had been both pleased and baffled, but took full credit for the outcome. He too had made overtures since she began at the saloon.
Margareatha had nothing but contempt for them and for most men. Men looked at her and looked hurriedly away when with their wives. Without their wives they almost drooled, but still shied away from speaking in public. She was no longer respectable and she scorned them all; except when she was singing.
Her full, clear soprano would throb
and ache with love or yearning depending on the lyrics. When someone requested songs like Oh! Susanna she smiled and made men laugh. If she took a break during the course of an evening, someone always bought her a brandy. A few would buy the entire bottle in the hopes of enticing her to their room or the alcove above. McGuire was delighted. The extra patrons coming to hear her and the purchase of brandy kept him at bay.
Margareatha finished for the evening and slung her long cape around the fancy off-shoulder gown. The cowl she would pull upward when outside. It fooled no one, but the ladies of worth could not accuse her of walking the streets in inappropriate clothing.
McGuire met her in the short hall leading to the back door.
“Stay awhile, Miss Lawrence. I've ordered a special bottle of brandy to celebrate all the business you've brought my way.”
“Thank you, Mr. McGuire, but I must return home to check on my brother.”
He grabbed her right arm under the cape. His huge hand clamped down in a bruising hold.
“Not this evening, Miss Lawrence, it's time we talked. It won't do any good to scream. My men will create a disturbance and they have orders to stop anyone foolish enough to investigate.”
Anger, red and raw surged through her, and McGuire felt the pressure of a derringer against his belly.
“You will release me now. I've shot this before if you're stupid enough to think I haven't.” With her mind she drove his hand from her arm and made him take a step backward. A puzzled look came over his face, but Margareatha side-stepped him and opened the door.
“Goodnight, Mr. McGuire. I shan't return.” She banged the door closed. Men be damned. Answer or no answer, she was buying the tickets at the Butterfield Stagecoach office tomorrow. The stagecoach would take them to San Francisco. From there they would catch a local stage to Carson City.
Chapter 53: Margareatha Loses Her Temper
“Y'all going to let me have one of those women?” Lorenz's horse was beside Red O'Neal's after a morning of riding. They were on the way to the Sporting Palace, the fancy whorehouse Red owned. Red had given Lorenz a grey horse called Dandy when Lorenz had told about killing one of the Comanchero men that was trying to rape him. Lorenz couldn't figure out why, but the speculative look in Red's eyes alerted him. This man was expecting something, but what?