“Hardly, ma’am. It’s a concoction I devised during some time spent with an Apache medicine man. Try some for yourself and enjoy the comfort that follows.”
She sniffed the clear liquid in the vial, took a sip and then smiled. The man who’d taught Whiteoak how to distill it wasn’t any sort of healer but he was, indeed, Apache. According to him, the process made a very crude and very potent version of what Europeans called vodka.
“Oh, my,” the woman said.
“Do you feel better?”
“Why, yes!”
Whiteoak smiled and raised his arms as if introducing the small Kansas town to a new vice worthy of accolades. The smile spread even further across the old woman’s face as she walked away from the wagon with a wobbly spring in her step, causing the clapping and chatter among the crowd to gain momentum.
“Thank you very much,” Whiteoak said. “The wart remover and headache elixir are, of course, for sale at the conclusion of my demonstration. But first, I have a question. Does anyone here drink water?”
Several audience members looked around, obviously expecting a ruse. Eventually, most of them raised their hands.
“Of course you drink water,” Whiteoak beamed. “We all do! But do any of you know what kind of impurities are in that water? Do you happen to know how much havoc you are wreaking upon your bodies by ingesting contaminants that can sully your water from any number of sources?”
A few of the men at the edge of the crowd scoffed and turned away, prompting Whiteoak to stab a finger at one of them and say, “You, sir! Would you ever drink a cup of rust? Or you?” he added while singling out another one of the disbelievers. “Would you ever bring a pail of mud in for your family to enjoy with a freshly cooked supper?”
“Course I wouldn’t,” the first man replied.
“You see, folks? Of course he wouldn’t. But if you take your water straight out of most wells or from many streams, you’re likely drinking silt, rust, copper, or even disgusting waste left behind by fish that you don’t even want to know about.”
Although the first man gave Whiteoak a final dismissive wave before leaving the crowd, the second one lingered with his arms folded defiantly across his chest. “What the hell are we supposed to do about any of that?” he asked. “We gotta drink from wells or the damn river!”
Dropping his voice so folks would have to work to catch every word, Whiteoak said, “What are you supposed to do about that, indeed?” When he raised his voice back to a booming pitch, everyone in the crowd jumped. “I’m glad you asked because this is what you can do about it!”
Whiteoak lifted a sheet that had covered a counter which folded down from the side of the wagon directly behind him. Stacked on that counter were several rows of tall, shiny metal cups that looked like something a highly paid bartender might use. Picking up a cup with each hand, Whiteoak said, “I see there is a pump behind you, my good man.”
Once one of the men at the back of the crowd responded, the professor locked eyes with him and said, “Yes, sir. I mean you. Would you be so kind as to bring me some of that water?”
As the man walked to the pump, Whiteoak cast his eyes around at the members of the enraptured crowd. “What you see here,” he declared while holding up one of the metal cups, “is a miracle of modern science! I won’t bore you good people with specifics, but know that smarter men than I have been working on this particular innovation for well over a dozen years. Men from this country’s finest institutions of higher learning have toiled to make great advances, but only a few of those men with a great enough vision found a way to put those ideas to immediate, practical use.”
Now that a good mix of curiosity and confusion had been injected into the crowd, Whiteoak lowered his voice to bring the audience close enough for him to embrace them. “The metal in these containers has been attuned to attract and dispel any and nearly all contaminants that may strike a bad note with your palettes. Once you taste how good water can be, it will be next to impossible to partake of any liquid that hasn’t been put through this simple process. And once you feel the health advantages for yourselves, you’ll wonder why on earth you’d ever want to.”
By now, the local man had returned with a bucket of water from a nearby pump. Whiteoak brought the man, the bucket and one other member of the audience up close to his platform. “I’d like you two and anyone else who would care to do so to taste that water, please,” he said. After those two and a few others took a drink, they showed the professor some unimpressed shrugs.
“I’m sure you’ve all tasted that water several times,” White-oak said as he filled one of his metal cups from the bucket and then transferred its contents to a second cup. “But you haven’t tasted anything like this.” He poured the water from one metal cup to another, back and forth, forth and back, making certain that the small dose of sugar hidden in the tube attached to the back of one cup remained hidden. Before the audience’s minds could wander too far, the sugar had been emptied into the water and mixed in thoroughly. Filling the cup without the hidden tube, Whiteoak offered it to the man who’d been the first doubter to speak up and said, “Try that on for size.”
After taking a sip, the man raised his eyebrows and gazed up at Whiteoak. “What the hell did you do to that?”
“You saw what I did, good sir. Now pass it along so others may try.”
Before doing so, the man looked down at the water and sipped it again. His face twisting into a disbelieving mask, he said, “That really is better!”
Every other volunteer who sampled the drink had similar reactions. Eyes widened. Cynical sneers curved upward into pleased grins. Several folks even licked their lips after passing the cup along as if they were sad to see it go.
“That water has been purified by a scientific method produced by some of our world’s greatest minds,” Whiteoak declared, “harnessed by my own patented devices and techniques.” Pointing to the barkeep from the Dove Tail Saloon who stood in the crowd, he added, “And it doesn’t just work on water!”
Stepping forward, the barkeep held out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. “If that’s so, I got something else for you to try it on.”
“I thought you might,” Whiteoak said with a grin. Taking the whiskey, he walked to the back of his platform and selected one of the smaller versions of his shiny tin cups. “I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, this man is not in my employ. He is surely known to many of you as a local businessman and he has brought his own whiskey to test my miracle purifier for himself.”
Holding up a finger, the barkeep clarified, “My cheapest whiskey.”
“Indeed.” Whiteoak handed the whiskey bottle to the man in the audience who’d brought him the bucket of water. “Here you go, sir. A small reward for your assistance at tonight’s demonstration.”
The man sipped from the bottle and handed it back.
“How was it?” Whiteoak asked.
“I had better.”
“And you will have better as soon as I remove the impurities that make all the difference between cheap whiskey and the most expensive of brands.” With that, the professor held up the smaller cups for all to see before setting them down to fill one with a healthy dose of whiskey. It was only a matter of posture and prestidigitation for him to stand with his back to the audience long enough to grab another cup from behind the display which he’d previously filled with some expensive liquor from his personal stash. Whiteoak turned around, leaving the cup of cheap whiskey on the table where it was lost among all of the display models and sloshed the premium firewater back and forth between the two tin cups in his hands.
“And now,” Whiteoak said while dividing the whiskey evenly between both cups, “all of you can taste the purified spirits that have been cleansed by my wondrous devices!”
The barkeep was the first to step forward for a drink. After downing some of the whiskey, he sighed, “I’ll be damned. That’s the same stuff I gave you?”
“Indubitably.”
After
that, the rest of the audience couldn’t rush forward fast enough to get a sample of the purified whiskey. Even though he’d lost a good portion of his favorite liquor, the professor knew it was a worthy sacrifice.
“So,” Whiteoak said as he hooked his thumbs behind his suspenders, “since my demonstration is now concluded, who would like to purchase some of these miracles for their very own?”
Nobody responded.
After clearing his throat, the professor dropped his showy vernacular and asked, “Anyone want to buy something?”
The few people who stepped forward from the crowd were the first trickles to seep through a crack in a dam. Before long, the rest flowed behind them.
Whiteoak was quick to pull down another hinged countertop from the side of his wagon to separate him from his customers. He tended his makeshift store, accepting the locals’ money before handing them watered-down elixirs and empty tin cups in return. If someone needed assurance before parting with their money, Whiteoak motioned to the words painted upon the wagon behind him while saying them out loud as if he was reciting the gospel.
“Guaranteed results!” he proclaimed.
For every local that was appeased by that, there was another who vowed to come back for a refund if they weren’t happy with their purchase. Whiteoak nodded and smiled while telling all of them, “I stand by my wares. If you have any troubles, I’m not hard to find.”
It was a good night for everyone gathered beneath the stars in Barbrady that evening.
Customers were excited with the prospect of bringing a little magic into their homes, while Professor Whiteoak was secure in the knowledge that he would be far away from town before too many ill effects could be felt. He was so secure, in fact, that he gave a friendly wave to the lawman who’d been standing at the back of the crowd during the entire show.
The sheriff nodded and returned the professor’s wave. Leaning over to a deputy, he said, “Make sure that man doesn’t leave town.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A modest dining room was illuminated by the light from three lanterns, four candlesticks and one stove glowing with embers from the fire that had cooked the meal now being served. None of that light, however, was enough to outshine Henry Whiteoak’s self-satisfied smile. He sat at an oval table, coat hanging on a rack behind him and sleeves rolled up past his elbows, beaming down at the plate of greens in front of him.
“You must be hungry,” said Byron Keag who sat across the table from the professor.
“I am most certainly looking forward to a hot meal,” Whiteoak replied.
The woman who brought the rest of their supper to the table had shoulder-length, sandy-brown hair, rounded cheeks and a pleasant face. Full lips curved into a smile that provided yet another source of light within the small room. “That was some performance tonight, Doctor.”
Beaming even more, Whiteoak raised his eyebrows and straightened the front of his shirt with a few quick tugs upon the starched cotton. “Well, now. I appreciate the sentiment my fine lady, but I am not a doctor in the strictest sense of the word. And you can call me Henry if you so desire. What about you, ma’am? Do you have a profession?”
“I’m a seamstress,” she replied. “And you can call me Lyssa. I do regular work for some of the tailors in town and pick up little jobs whenever they come around. It’s not as prestigious as being a doctor, but it’s steady work.”
“He’s a professor, Lyssa,” Byron said.
“Semantics,” Whiteoak explained with a wave of his hand. “A mere formality.”
Nodding, Lyssa picked up a knife and fork so she could begin slicing the ham she’d brought to the table. “Whatever your title, it was still an impressive show you put on.”
“Why, thank you, ma’am. If I was still wearing my hat,” Whiteoak said, “I would tip it in your direction.”
She bowed her head slightly and dipped at the knees in a miniature curtsy. When she looked at Byron, the expression on her face stopped just short of an eye roll.
Holding out his plate to accept the first slice of ham, Whiteoak said, “I do appreciate the invitation to dinner.”
“It’s the least we could do,” Lyssa said, “considering how you saved my brother’s life.”
“Well, now,” Whiteoak replied with a voice that maintained its smooth tone although its warmth was pointed inward. “You are right about that. Not that I charge into danger for the hope of reward. You’re right that it was indeed a perilous situation that I—”
“He saved my life,” Byron cut in. “Thank you, Professor Whiteoak. I’ve thanked you before and I’ll thank you again. Would you like me to thank you a third time?”
“Don’t be rude!” Lyssa snapped.
Whiteoak held up one hand and scooted his chair away from the table. “It’s quite all right. I do have a tendency to prattle on, especially when there’s a good story to tell. It’s unbecoming of a man to blow his own horn, so to speak.”
“Where are you going?” Lyssa asked.
“I don’t want to make things uncomfortable in your lovely home. I can have a late dinner at my hotel.”
“Nonsense. You’ll eat here. You can stay here too, if you like. There’s an extra room.”
“Really?” Whiteoak asked.
“Really?” Byron chimed in.
Looking to both of them in turn, Lyssa nodded once and said, “Really. My brother is alive thanks to the brave actions of another man. Since that man is at my table, the right thing to do would be to make certain he doesn’t leave with a grumbling belly.”
Whiteoak shook his head, albeit unconvincingly. “I wouldn’t presume to intrude. My hotel will do fine.”
“All right, but you also wouldn’t come to someone’s home, make a grand promise and then fail to see it through.”
His expression turning from shallow humility to genuine confusion, Whiteoak asked, “I don’t recall making a promise.”
Lyssa sat down at the table and gazed at the professor with wide, blue eyes. “Everything from the way you presented your facts to the posture you took while saying them made it seem as though you were going to regale us with the full story of what happened with those robbers who tried to kill the two of you outside of town.”
“I already told you about that, Lyssa,” Byron said.
Dismissing her brother with a backhanded wave, she said, “You told me the bare bones of what happened. I want to know it all and I imagine Mister Whiteoak could tell me. Sorry. I mean Professor.”
“Now how could I refuse a request like that?” Whiteoak beamed.
As Whiteoak scooted closer to the table and began laying a vivid foundation for his story, he filled his plate with food from the various helpings that Lyssa had brought from her kitchen. While his face was alight with enthusiasm for the verbal web he was spinning, Whiteoak’s audience was divided on their response.
Lyssa may have been tolerating Whiteoak at first, but she wound up nodding at every appropriate moment, gasping under her breath when he came to a description of danger and smiling merrily when the story’s conflict was resolved. Byron, on the other hand, did a modest job of appearing to be interested in a tale that painted him in anything but a generous light. Even though he kept quiet for most of the meal, he couldn’t help but come to his own defense as dessert was being served.
“I probably could have made it to town on my own,” Byron insisted.
“Made it,” Whiteoak said. “A bit lighter in the pockets and cargo, but made it nonetheless.”
Seeing the smirk on his sister’s face, Byron snipped, “What’s so damn funny?”
“Nothing at all,” she quickly replied. “Would anyone like some tea?”
“I’d like some coffee if you have any,” Whiteoak said.
“And I know my brother would like tea with a spoonful of honey and cream.”
“Aww,” Whiteoak said as if he was cooing to a child or small puppy. “That’s just precious.”
Through a sour face, Byron explained, “
Our mother was English. She used to serve us tea a very specific way.”
“Of course, of course. You’ll never hear me accuse someone of being a little mother’s boy.”
Knowing that’s exactly what the professor was doing, Byron crossed his arms and waited for his snickering sibling to leave the room. “If I didn’t owe you a debt, I’d knock you on your ass for trying to make me look like a fool in my own home.”
“It’s good-natured ribbing,” Whiteoak said as he dug into his breast pocket for a tarnished cigarette case. “And you’d try to knock me on my ass. Your success in that venture is a matter of some debate.”
Byron couldn’t help but notice the gun hanging from the holster covered by the expensive coat on the nearby rack. Suddenly, he didn’t want to have that particular debate with Whiteoak.
Dropping the edge from his tone, the professor asked, “How about joining me on the porch for a smoke? Your sister strikes me as someone who would insist on me stepping outside before I touch a match to one of these exquisitely rolled beauts.”
“You’d be right about that.”
Both men headed for the front door. Reacting either to the professor’s regal posture and stride or because of an unshakable need to be a good host, Byron found himself holding the door for Whiteoak so the dandy could step outside ahead of him. The night had cooled considerably in the short amount of time that had passed since Whiteoak’s presentation of his wares to the town.
Leaning against a post supporting the wooden awning over the front porch, Whiteoak struck a match and lifted the flickering little fire to the cigarette clamped between his teeth. “I’d also be right in saying that those robbers didn’t just happen to find you on that road,” he said.
“Even if they’d had their way, those men wouldn’t have gotten away with much more than ten dollars in cash and personal effects.”
“That’s not what they were after. You mentioned something about them asking about some documents?”
“I . . . umm . . . may have mentioned the documents first. From then on, I can only assume they were taking a stab in the dark that I might be carrying something valuable,” Byron said.
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