by Lon Williams
There could have been a slight swelling; Winters wasn’t sure. He looked at big Moss Tyner, who had a claim in Fudge Around Gulch. “What ails you, Moss?”
Tyner shook his shaggy head. “Winters, something crawls in my stomach. That Dr. Pogus says it’s a horned toad. I must’ve et a toad egg, he says, and it hatched in my stomach; it’s livin’ off of what I eat.”
“How long have you been feeling it?” asked Winters.
“Off and on for years, I reckon. But since Pogus told me what it is, I feel it a heap worse.”
A healthy, carefree digger with a pick on his shoulder grinned up at Winters. “Don’t look at me, Winters; I’m as sound as a nugget.”
“Have you been to see Dr. Pogus?”
“You bet. But he couldn’t talk me into being sick. In my opinion, that doctor’s name ought to be Bogus Pogus, instead of Stoke Pogus.”
“All of you men sick?” asked Winters.
“All except Pilbrow there,” said Tyner.
“Pilbrow is sick, too,” said digger Kain Leffingwell. “He just don’t know it. Disease creeps up on a man. I never dreamed I had an abscess on my liver till Doc Pogus told me. It crope up on me, he said, and it’s there all right; big as that.” Leffingwell exhibited his huge, rusty fist, shook his head gloomily. “You may have one yourself, Winters. Pogus says it shows in a man’s face, makes him look sad and puzzled; you’ve got a face like that yourself, Winters.”
Winters puckered his face gloomily. “Where does this Pogus have his office?”
“Down in that old Mercer building, other side of Goodlett Hotel. He won’t be there this early, though.”
Winters lifted bridle rein and gigged his horse gently.
* * * *
His intention to see Dr. Pogus had to be postponed. There was a letter at his office from Marshal Hugo Landers at Brazerville. It sent Winters on a long ride through Wild Cat Gulch to Hoodoo, a pocket-sized mining camp on Snake Creek. Upon his return, shortly before midnight, he stopped for a drink at Bogannon’s saloon.
Bogie was at a table in an attitude of rapt attention, while a stranger talked beguilingly to him over glasses of untouched wine. Bogie did not look up with his usual glad greeting. He did not look up at all.
Winters hurried to him and dug fingers sharply into his shoulder. “Doc, a little service.”
Bogie looked around, startled. His expression slowly changed from a blank stare to one of recognition. “Winters!” He got up quickly and wiped sweat from his forehead. “Sit down, Winters, while I fetch a glass.” As Winters eased into a chair, he added politely, “Winters, meet my good friend Dr. Stoke Pogus.”
Winters nodded but did not offer to shake hands; he disliked to handshake a bozo he might later have to shoot. Pogus did not even nod.
Bogannon walked away unsteadily. He poured himself a stiff whiskey and tossed it down his throat. He came back wiping his mouth and put down a third glass.
Winters held an eye on Bogie’s trembling hand and a rising flood of red in his wine glass. “Doc, your good friend Pogus reminds me of a feller down on Trinity River when I was a button in Texas. An undertaker, he was. When he looked at you, he seemed to wonder how long it would be before you changed to a corpse. Nothing distressed him so much as seeing people in good health.”
Dr. Pogus maintained a cold, eagle-eyed demeanor. There was sinister reproof in his voice. “Bogannon, I fear your friend lacks somewhat of life’s little amenities.”
Bogie was loyally apologetic. “Winters is a man of war, Doctor; social graces seldom attend such fighting men as he.”
Pogus fixed his strange eyes on Winters. “His kind of war is having its effect, too, I perceive.” He glanced at Winters’ bandaged head.
Winters removed his hat to give Pogus a better look. “You’re not a bit off there, Pogus. Not only do I get my hair parted; it’s beginning to tell on my nerves.”
Pogus nodded slowly. “Possibly you would like to come with me to my office?”
“I was thinking of doing that very thing tomorrow.”
“Tonight will be your last chance; tomorrow I am due in Elkhorn Pass.”
Bogannon shook off a remnant of odd feeling. “Winters, do you no longer trust my own healing art?”
Pogus’ eyes glinted icily. “Bogannon, perhaps I should pay you another call before I leave for Elkhorn? Or is it merely a case of professional jealousy that afflicts you?”
“Doc,” said Winters, “you have given me good care heretofore, but I think I should go with Dr. Pogus. My ailment is different from what you think.”
Pogus shoved back his chair and arose. “Tonight is your last chance, Winters.”
Winters sprang up. “Then I’m with you.”
“But, Winters!” exclaimed Bogie, rising uneasily. “You are hurting my pride. Besides, you don’t realize what you’re doing.”
Winters replied brusquely, “Doc, when it comes to my personal affairs, I think I can trust my own judgment.”
“Of course, Winters.” Bogannon was bitter. “I trust it will be your own judgment you rely on.” Winters and Pogus left hurriedly.
* * * *
Forlorn Gap had settled to its customary midnight quiet but, contrary to custom, lights burned in most of its few occupied dwellings.
“Something has happened to this town,” observed Winters. “Why are people up so late?”
“I wonder,” replied Dr. Pogus. “Possibly it is illness; in fact, I happen to know there is an epidemic of strange diseases here.”
“You are no doubt getting rich as a result?”
“I am not one to commercialize too heavily upon my healing arts.”
They passed Goodlett Hotel, whose light burned with a mellow glow. Inside, recent arrivals by stagecoach were being registered and assigned to rooms. Fifty yards beyond Goodlett a greenish light escaped through shutters of a weather-beaten, deserted store building.
Pogus slowed his steps and touched Winters’ left arm. “Perhaps I should warn you, Winters, that you are about to enter a place where dwell powers you are not accustomed to meet. Healing is not purely a physical phenomenon; indeed, it is largely spiritual. Certainly it depends much upon a person’s state of mind. To be healed, one must believe; one must surrender himself to his benefactor’s healing touch; one must obey.”
Pogus continued in a soft, beguiling, disarming voice until they stood before a closed door. Pogus knocked three times gently, once sharply, twice at measured distance. After a moment’s delay they were admitted, Pogus before, Winters following cautiously, hand close to gun.
Their doorkeeper was a man in a small round cap, a handsome individual who moved with catlike ease and silence, muscular, quick, his eyes strangely following Pogus, alert, expectant.
“My assistant,” said Pogus. “His name is Dudley Ettershank. Dudley, place a chair for Officer Winters.”
“Yes, master.”
Winters turned as Ettershank was about to pass behind him. He expected an attack, but there was none. Ettershank merely placed an armchair beside a small table. But Winters had recognized that rich, obliging voice. It belonged to a man in a little round cap, seen by moonlight on Alkali Flat. Winters remembered it vaguely, like a meaningless dream.
“Be seated, Winters,” said Pogus. When Winters had sat down, Pogus did likewise. “Now then, my patient, if you will fix your attention upon my eyes and obey my instructions, I shall perform upon you a miracle of healing. Are you ready?”
Winters glanced over his shoulder. Dud Ettershank had posted himself directly behind Winters. In one hand he held a short rope. Winters frowned. “I never like to have one man at my back, while another in front wants my undivided attention.”
“Dudley,” said Pogus, “you will move to one side. I fear my patient is not of sufficiently susceptible mind to be healed.”
“I understand, master.”
Winters had been looking over his right shoulder. Ettershank moved toward his left, but before Dud was completely out
of sight, Winters glimpsed a swift movement of hands. He shoved himself back, and his chair collided with a charging body. A rope descended before his eyes and caught his throat. Winters drew his six-gun, whipped it backward and fired desperately. That terrible rope that had cut into his throat, relaxed.
Dud Ettershank clawed at his side. His eyes gleamed insanely; he came at Winters with a long knife. Winters, breath regained, fired at a spot on Dud Ettershank’s forehead. Dud’s body dropped solidly.
All that happened within a second—too fast for Pogus to intervene. But his right hand was under his coat as Winters turned.
“Don’t try it, Pogus.” Winters cocked his gun. “You are sure to die, Pogus, unless you lift your hands.”
* * * *
In his saloon, Doc Bogannon waited and sweated. Gunshots had intensified his worry. He had tried to warn Winters of his peril, but always it had seemed that when Winters most needed advice he was least receptive to it. Dr. Stoke Pogus undoubtedly was a mesmerizer—Bogannon himself had almost fallen under his spell. Thoughts of it gave him shudders.
He had got up to pour himself a drink of whiskey, when his batwings swung in. “Pogus!” he cried. His heart almost stopped. But then behind Pogus came Winters, six-gun in hand. “Winters!” Doc sank weakly into a chair. “Winters, I think you scared me like that on purpose.”
“Maybe you think I’m not scared,” said Winters. “Doc, kindly place a chair for Dr. Pogus.” They seated their distinguished prisoner. Pogus appeared quite indifferent to his fate.
“What happened, Winters?” asked Bogie. Winters had brought along a small kit. It contained a small thumb-buster, harness-needles, knives, short ropes, candles, bottles, and nippers. “I hate to think what has been happening to some of his patients, Doc.”
Bogie stared in horror. “You mean torture?”
“Torture,” breathed Bogie, aghast.
“Fetch wine, Doc, and I’ll tell you about it.” When they had imbibed together and Winters had told his story, Bogie arched eyebrows at Pogus. “Professional jealousy, eh?” Bogie’s face assumed aspects of righteous judgment. “Winters, why didn’t you shoot him?”
“Because,” said Winters, “he’s got a job to do. For instance, there’s a man in town who thinks he’s got a live horned toad in his stomach. Dr. Pogus will know how to remove that imaginary toad.” He indicated Pogus’ kit of tools. “If he needs persuasion, Doc, there are gold-diggers around who’d be glad to give it.”
A PORTION TO SEVEN
Real Western Stories, April 1953
Deputy Marshal Lee Winters rode by moonlight toward Forlorn Gap from what he called his blue-monkey hunt through mining camps off Pangborn Road. Marshal Hugo Landers at Brazerville had written that two nameless wanted apes were thought to be at large, somewhere within twenty miles of Forlorn Gap. He had intimated that Winters might find them if he looked hard enough. As they were worth one thousand dollars apiece, dead or alive, Winters had been looking. Medium size, Landers had written. Queer ducks. Sandy to dark hair. Eyes blue, or blue-gray. Dangerous. Winters, in view of that description, figured he might as well quit looking—most badmen were of medium size, had blue, or blue-gray eyes, were queer and dangerous. Mention of a wart, or the like, would have been more helpful.
His road into town led through an outer fringe of deserted shacks, and alongside an open flat, or park. Children of miners now gone, had romped there in daylight hours. Easterners had called it Ragtag Common. At one side it had a community dug-well; its sweep, minus rope and bucket, still pointed like a dead finger, skyward.
Winters’ horse, Cannon Ball, had never liked this place. By day, it had been noisy and odorous; at night, haunted by owls and varmints. And now, by bright moonlight, he moved skittishly, ready to jump out of his hide at any untoward sound or shadow. Winters, too, was jittery, ready for anything to happen.
Excuse for violent action was not long delayed. Midway of Ragtag Common, one huge, disconsolate dog propped himself on his haunches, pointed his nose straight up and howled, “Ow-wooooooo-oo!”
Cannon Ball stiff-legged himself; his four hoofs plowed sand. Immediately thereafter he walked briefly on his hind legs, made several head-slinging jumps, climaxed his misconduct by his habitual, inevitable one-horse stampede. Winters, as usual, in such situations, could do nothing but hold on. That he did with sympathetic ferocity, while Cannon Ball, bridle-bit clamped tight in his teeth, thundered, snorting, down Pangborn Road.
* * * *
In Forlorn Gap’s only surviving saloon, Doc Bogannon, owner and operator, was busy tidying up for closing. Only a half-hour was left before midnight; except for five or six travelers who were just leaving, only three customers remained.
Two of those sat up front and played cards. Bogannon took casual note of them while he washed and dried glasses. They wore gray caps, exactly alike. Both were in baggy, frayed black suits and dirty, white shirts; their sandy-to-dark hair had certainly not been cut for many months. Both were smoothly shaved; both had saintly looks in their bright blue, or blue-gray eyes.
They played what Doc Bogannon considered draw poker. When one had lost all, they divided up their money and began again.
“Your draw,” one said politely.
“I believe it is your draw,” his companion gently protested.
“No, I think it is your draw.”
“No, sir, I am most confident it is your draw.” Bogannon dried several glasses and observed that those two queer ducks still argued courteously as to whose draw it was, each concerned not with his own, but with his neighbor’s rights. Bogie regarded this solicitous procedure, however, as nothing extraordinary. Indeed, nothing was to be regarded as extraordinary in this semi-ghost town, either as to freak of nature or strangeness of human behavior. From those tumultuous, barbarous tides of humanity that flowed in torrents into nearby gold-fields, great numbers of oddities sifted out to lodge in wayside towns, as inexplicable in this behavior as formation of sandbars by pounding rivers. There were Napoleons among them, who followed their stars of destiny; Caesars who had crossed their Rubicons; Alexanders who wept because they had no more worlds to conquer. There were also guileless creatures in wolf-skins; voracious tigers in coats of lambs; men in great hurry who nevertheless lingered; and leisurely characters who departed in haste. Nothing surprised Bogannon.
Yet among all those sojourning strangers, occasionally one caused him momentary uneasiness. His third remaining guest was of that class; that staring hanger-on had kept an eye on Bogannon all evening. He now rose and came forward, his small felt hat and neat brown suit adding businesslike qualities to his round, smooth face.
He came up and laid an arm on Bogie’s bar. In his hand was a small, framed photograph. He flipped it over, meantime watched Bogannon’s expression. “Know who that is?” he asked coldly.
Bogannon stared at what might have been his own likeness, ten years earlier; instantly he was chilled and shaken. But while inward turmoil raged, his face assumed lines and shades of indifference. “I have no idea who that could be,” he said with superficial composure.
His interrogator presented his brass badge of authority. Its inscription was in black. Winkerton Detective Agency, Boston, Massachusetts. “I,” its owner announced importantly, “am J. Watt Wooten, Special Agent.”
Bogannon fought his inner tumult. He said suavely, “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Wooten.”
Bogie extended his big right hand and squeezed Wooten’s smaller one.
“Ouch! You don’t have to do that,” Wooten screamed.
“Oh, so sorry,” Bogie apologized. He wrinkled his forehead and continued, “I’ve heard much concerning Boston, from this person and that who ought to know; Boston must be quite something.” Wooten massaged his suffering hand. “That’s neither here nor there,” he said indignantly. “I just happen to be looking for somebody who used to live there. My employers are insurance companies, who will have to pay life insurance to his wife, or widow, if he isn’t found before
her lawsuit comes up for hearing in New England this fall.”
“Ah,” said Bogie, his emotions under stern control at last, “that’s right interesting; who is this person you’re looking for?”
“Bullington,” J. Watt Wooten replied sharply. His greenish eyes fixed themselves upon Bogie’s features, observed every line and movement. “Winthrop Bullington.”
Bogannon feigned curiosity, in order to conceal those more disturbing emotions that sought to betray him. “Winthrop Bullington,” he mused. “Hmm! That Winthrop part sounds Bostonian enough. But Bullington? That rings discordantly, somehow; are there also Boston Bullingtons?”
“Winthrop Bullington was Boston all right,” Detective Wooten observed haughtily. “Few richer, or more prominent men in all New England than he. Carried one hundred thousand in life insurance in favor of his wife. Rather surprisingly, she has kept all premiums paid; now, after more than seven years of absence, and being unheard of, or from, he is in law presumed dead. Unless he is found alive, and very soon, his insurance will have to be paid. It will mean ten thousand dollars to me, personally, if find him.” Wooten looked up at Bogie, his eyes narrowed to threatening chinks. “And,” he added with ruthless assurance, “at last I have found him.” Bogie arched his black eyebrows. “Not really!” Then, as if timed by kindly fate, his batwings swung inward. Simultaneously tall, lean, middle-aged, dark-mustached Deputy Marshal Winters strode in. “Winters!” Bogie exclaimed joyously. “Come in, Winters.”
Winters’ expression was grim. He tramped up and slapped down a coin. “Wine, Doc.”
“Winters, am I glad to see you!” said Bogie. He poured wine, but used both hands to keep his grip steady. “You look pale, Winters; seen a ghost?” Winters lifted his glass and drank. His own hand was shaky. “Don’t mention ghosts to me, Doc, or I’ll get to believing in ’em.” Meanwhile his eyes roved corner-wise and rested upon J. Watt Wooten. “Who’s he, Doc?”
“Oh, pardon,” said Bogie. “Mr. Wooten, this is Deputy Marshal Lee Winters. Winters, J. Watt Wooten, from Boston.”