“How’d you get pass the sentry outside, and the lookout at the edge of town? Is everybody asleep?”
“Lookout?” Doc asked. “What lookout? I didn’t see any.”
“There’s only one road in or out of here now,” was the gruff retort. “Deadman’s down here in the canyon, and the snow’s blocked every other way out or in. And we’re guardin’ that, but you had the bad luck to blunder past in the storm, looks like. Now you’re here, you’ll just have to take your chances, along with the rest of us.”
“Just what do you mean by that?” Doc demanded irritably. “What’s going on here, anyhow?”
“Smallpox,” was the grim answer. “Sam Kane here is bad off, as you can see. There ain’t no doctor in camp, no chance to get any. So we’re doin’ the best we can, for ourselves and the rest of the world. We’ve posted guards, aimin’ to keep everybody out till the plague’s run its course. It’s your bad luck that you got past him.’’
“Starvin’ or freezin’ outside isn’t just’ my idea of good luck,” Doc said drily.
“It might be better. You see what we’ve got here. And since we figger everybody has been exposed, we’re going to take drastic measures. Vaccinate everybody in camp. Only thing we can do. That way, we’ll get it over with, so that when spring comes, we won’t be carryin’ it outside to start a plague all over the whole country.”
The explanation sounded well enough, so far as the words went. But it was specious, Doc knew. There was an underlying grimness here of which the messenger who had reached town, with a bullet in his back, was just one symptom. Their intended victim, McTigue, spoke up quickly.
“He’s lyin’, stranger,” he protested hoarsely. “I been tellin’ him it’s just plain murder, this way—and that’s what you intend it for, Matt Peavey!”
Peavey, holding the knife, swung back, his cold eyes fixed on the speaker.
“You’re a coward, is what ails you, Tom McTigue,” he said. “Why should we want to murder you?”
Even as he spoke, Doc noted that the guard had almost ostentatiously taken the revolver in his hand and was toying with it.
“Why? Because you lobos want everybody in camp to die, so you can grab our claims when spring comes,” McTigue answered defiantly. “It’ll mean a fortune for you, if you can get rid of us. Ye’ve all six of you had smallpox before, so you ain’t scared. But you know it’ll be murder for the rest of us, with no medico around, givin’ it to us that way. You don’t aim to give us a chance,’ even.”
Doc was beginning to understand. The monstrous nature of the thing was staggering.
To “vaccinate” men in such fashion, from the virulent sores of a dying man, was almost certainly to insure that every one in camp would be, not immunized, but certain to contract the disease in its most virulent form.
Things were desperate, here. The messenger who had reached town had evidently managed to escape, knowing what impended. A handful of men who were immune had seized the guns, taken over power in camp. They had shot a man in the back, then waited a few days until they were convinced that he had died without reaching help. Now they aimed to deal with their victims, one at a time, at gun-point.
Peavey shrugged now.
“That’s a lot of rot, McTigue,” he snapped. “And you ain’t going to spread that story around camp. We’re doing the best we can, things being the way they are. Now hold still—”
“McTigue’s right,” Doc said quietly. “What you’re aiming to do would be murder, no less.”
Peavey swung back, eyes slitted and dangerous.
“I don’t like that word, Henry,” he growled. “Just what do you think you know about this, anyhow? And have you any suggestions for doing it better?”
“Happens I have.” Doc flung back his heavy coat, brought out his black bag. “My name’s Jack Henry—M.D. A man reached town a couple days ago—dying. Said you needed a medico here in Deadman’s, needed one bad. So I came.”
Tense silence followed that pronouncement, while he saw the uneasy fear in the eyes of the two, the sudden hope in McTigue’s.
“Maybe you’re right that everybody needs to be vaccinated,” Doc went on. “But while your intentions may have been good, your methods were too crude. I’ll vaccinate those who need it. I’ve got the stuff here to do it with.”
Again the two eyed each other, undecided. Then Peavey managed a rather twisted smile.
“Why didn’t you say you were a medico, in the first place?” he demanded with a false heartiness. He released McTigue’s wrist, wiped the knife-blade on his pants, and pocketed it. His voice took on a note of complaint. “Do you think we liked to do this? But it was the only chance we saw. If you’re a doctor, go ahead and take charge. And McTigue, maybe you and some of your friends won’t go shootin’ off yore mouths quite so reckless about our intentions, next time.”
* * * *
Doc was kept busy for the rest of the day, vaccinating everyone in camp. There were, he discovered, about a hundred in all, a few women and children as well as men.
His first suspicon was confirmed. Of the hundred, only Peavey and his five friends had any weapons. They had obtained possession, over a period of weeks, of every fire-arm in camp—at first by purchase and guile, and later by outright force or stealing. Then, with winter as an ally, with guards posted to keep anyone from escaping or even ganging up against them, they had planned to carry out their murderous scheme, taking one or two at a time. Before spring came again, they would probably, in one way or another, have been the only ones remaining alive, and so heirs to the riches of the claims owned by the others.
“They had a lot of the other folks fooled about it, and they aimed to get me and them that might make trouble first off.” McTigue explained to Doc. “And I misdoubt but what they’d have worked it, too, if ye hadn’t showed up when ye did.”
The three, who had been herded into the other cabin when Doc had first arrived, had been released. A gesture which had helped fool some of the camp, though it had failed to influence McTigue.
“It was you darin’ to come here and then outfacin’ Peavey that’s given us a breathin’ spell Doc,” he said earnestly. “But that’s all it is—just a breathin’ spell till they can figure up some new way to get the same result. Peavey and his crew ain’t through. Skunks don’t change their stripes. If they had, they’d given us back our guns. Which they ain’t doing, as anyone can notice. So watch your step, Doc, man. They’ll try again.”
Doc believed him. There was nothing abstract in that theory. Killers remained killers, but Peavey’s ready gesture in having Doc care for everyone had done a lot to convince most of the people that they had been mistaken in their first, doubts of him. Several days passed, and he was very friendly and helpful, professing to be greatly relieved that Doc had come in the hour of the camp’s greatest need.
During those days, Doc had been kept busy. He had treated the sick man, Sam Kane, and had managed to keep him alive, with an increasingly good chance that he would survive. The danger from smallpox was about past.
One thing puzzled Doc. It was more then strange that one man should come down with so virulent an attack of the disease, and yet no one else catch it at the same time. Kane had been in the camp all winter, along with the rest of them.
Leaving McTigue’s cabin, Doc stopped. It was colder now than on the day of his arrival—at least forty below. Another foot of snow had fallen during the night. But the sky had cleared, the sun was shining, bleak and remote in a steely sky, with no heat in it. Then he saw Matt Peavy approaching, striving to plant an ingratiating smile on his face—though is was more like a smirk.
“You’re doing good work, Doc,” he said, rubbing his mittened hands together. “Mighty good work.”
“We’re lucky, no doubt of that,” Doc agreed.
“You bet we are,” said Peavey, and he lowered his voice. “Mighty lucky, in that we’ve got plenty of supplies to last till spring. Bill Quantrell and I own the two stores, and they’r
e well stocked. Know what’s happened, now?”
“What?”
“This new snow and the wind has loosened that big overhang at the head of the canyon. Slid durin’ the night. We did have a road out, of sorts—you got in by it. But now there’ll be not gettin’ out till the snow melts. So, like I say, we’re lucky to have you to look after us, and plenty of supplies. I say it calls for a celebration—somethin’ that’ll take folks’ mind off the fact that we’re all cooped up here together for the next two months or so.”
“How should we celebrate?”
“I’m goin’ to throw a party. Big dinner for everybody in camp, this evenin’. Over at my store. Games afterward. What do you think of the idea?”
“It sounds all right,” Doc conceded, and went on to Kane’s cabin.
It did sound all right—in fact, it was what he would have suggested himself to bolster lagging spirits. But the fact that it was Peavey who had suggested it, and Peavey who was giving the feed, free of charge, made him suspicious. McTigue’s warning kept running through his mind.
Such a party would go a long way toward removing any lingering doubts of Peavey from everybody’s minds. It would almost convince even the skeptics that he was the benefactor he was trying so hard to make them believe he was. After that, they would be ripe for some new trick. For Doc had discovered that the storekeeper was not noted for his generosity, and such a feed, would cost a lot.
* * * *
Kane was considerably improved. Doc told him of the impending dinner and party. The prospector scowled.
“Glad I can’t go,” he said. “I’d be scared that anything he served would be full-up of poison.”
“He wouldn’t do that, of course,” Doc said. “Not and get away with it. He’s much too slick for that—no I don’t think he will.”
“Likely not,” Kane conceded. “But he’s got some trick up his sleeve. Know what the claims in this gulch are runnin’, Doc? We hit real gold just when the freeze-up closed the workin’s down and kept the news from spreadin’. But there’ll be ten millions taken out of here next summer. I ain’t yarnin’. I seen plenty strikes, and I know. Ten millions, easy. And Peavey and his crowd want that. It’s enough to kill a thousand men for, let alone a hundred.”
Doc whistled. If Kane’s estimate was anywhere near correct, it was a stake high enough to induce murder, no doubt of that. And to get possession, wholesale murder had been called for, a method of killing which would leave no witnesses behind. A scourge of smallpox had been the perfect answer to that, but Doc’s arrival had spoiled that plan.
He hid his feelings.
“Anyway, you’re getting better, Sam,” he said. “I’m going to send somebody over to clean up your cabin. Make up your bunk fresh, and all. You’ve been too sick to do it before, but it needs it.”
“Guess it could stand a touch of tidyin’, for a fact,” Kane agreed. “Have Tom do it, will you? Him and me get on fine.”
* * * *
McTigue readily agreed to the job. Busy in his own cabin, one which had been empty on his arrival, Doc worked for several hours. It was late afternoon when he went outside again. The glimmer of pale sun was setting in a frigid west, but there was an air of festive excitement in town over the impending banquet. Great preparations were going forward in the miner’s hall, close by Peavey’s store. Long tables had been set, stoves warmed the room. The cooking was being done in a back kitchen.
Doc glanced in at the tables, then went on to Kane’s cabin. It ought to be all cleaned by now. He pushed open the door, stopped in bewilderment.
Instead of neatness, all was confusion. The interior of the cabin was a wreck. And Kane was huddled out in the middle of the floor, dried blood running down the side of his head.
Kane wasn’t dead, but he was not far short of it. Doc got him back into the bunk. Then he set about trying to revive him. There was a half-filled bottle of whisky in the little cupboard, and it served its purpose. The sick man groaned, opened his eyes, and glared wildly about. Then his face cleared at sight of the medico.
“What happened?” Doc asked.
“Tom—found a blanket—in my bunk,” Kane whispered. “I—never put it there. He said it was an Injun blanket—he’d seen it wrapped around a—dead Injun, buried last fall—miles from here. He died—of smallpox—”
Kane’s voice trailed off. Then he made a final effort.
“Tom—started to find you—”
It was too much. Kane’s head fell back, exausted.
Doc covered him, then straightened, his face hard and cold. Now he had the picture, in all its dirty ugliness. That blanket, wrapped around a man who had died of the plague, had been brought to camp by Matt Peavey or one of his men who, having once recovered from the disease, were immune to it. It had been hidden under Kane’s other blankets, where he had not discovered it, and so he had contracted smallpox. Which explained why no one else had come down with it at the same time.
Then the six of them had planned, under the guise of necessity, to give it to all the camp in a virulent form which would kill like bullets. His arrival had spoiled that.
Seeing the blanket, McTigue had understood, and had started out to find him. But that must have been quite a while ago. McTigue had not arrived. And in the meantime, Peavey or some of his men had come here and had understood as well! Kane had been left for dead—
Doc whirled toward the door and saw that it was opening from the outside. Peavey’s face, which looked now as though the cold had frozen it in a snarl, was framed there. And Peavey was starting to jerk off a mitten and grab for his gun.
Doc acted on instinct. His hand closed on the Indian blanket and hurled the cursed thing with all his might. It draped across Peavey’s shoulders before he could raise the gun, blinding him. Doc lunged ahead, bowled Peavey over, and was outside the cabin.
It had been Doc’s intention, as he flung the blanket, to stop and settle things there and then, man to man. The hot rage which filled him blotted out all fear of the man or the gun. But what he saw through the open door caused him to change his plans. He had little doubt but what Tom McTigue was dead before this. And a pair of Peavey’s henchmen were converging on the cabin, coming at a run. To linger here was to die.
Sprinting, Doc reached the corner of the cabin, ducked around it. The others were pursuing, but they were not shooting. It was pretty cold for that, and they preferred not to raise an alarm if it could be helped. That was his salvation for the moment.
There was no one else in sight, the early winter dusk was closing down, the last yellow tinge of the sunset gone in bleakness. Doc knew that he had to reach the miners and warn them. Warn them of what, he couldn’t guess. But that it was something on a grim par with what had gone before, and somehow connected with the coming banquet, he was certain. And by now, the whole populace would be gathered in the hall, waiting for the dinner to be served.
Doc sprinted for the hall, saw that one of his pursuers was taking a shortcut and circling to cut him off, so that he couldn’t reach the front door. He changed his own course and plunged for the rear door, to the kitchen. As he jerked it open, a hubbub of voices and laughter drifted to him from the big, crowded hall beyond, though the door in between was closed.
The dinner was nearly ready, cooking on a big stove. His first hasty glance made it look as if Peavey was really splurging. There was all sorts of stuff that the store contained, ready for serving. A big kettle-full of stew bubbled on the stove. One of the cooks was just emptying one of a number of cans of stuff into it, his back to Doc, and speaking to another man who was looking in a cupboard.
“These cans been standin’ open all day long, in this hot room,” he said. “Reckon they’re ready to serve, eh. Hot stuff!”
Hot stuff! In a flash, Doc saw the whole scheme. Any canned goods, no matter how pure to begin with, if left to stand open in the can in a hot room for hours, were apt to go bad. It was certain that many of the cans would be contaminated by now, and they would
leaven the whole kettle of stew. Yet there would be nothing in the taste to show that it was bad—nothing until the effects of mass poisoning began to take effect, later on.
Here was mass murder again. Only a doctor could save them, and he was scheduled to eat this with the rest of them! Months later, when a report had to be made to the outer world, Peavey and his men would blame it all, and rightly enough, on food poisoning, and would of course protest that they too had been desperately sick but had pulled through, and were the only survivors. And who would there be to contradict them?
‘‘Right smart scheme uh Peavey’s,” the cook added, and then he turned suspiciously. So did Doc. Matt Peavey and his other two gunmen were plunging toward him through the back door. Doc couldn’t retreat now. He tried a dash to reach the door beyond, to break in among the waiting crowd and shout a warning.
But that door opened before he could reach it, and Peavey’s other man came through. He was the red-haired giant who had been aiding Peavey when Doc had first arrived in camp, and he was quick to grasp the situation.
Right now, Doc was of no mind to be stopped. He sent the big man reeling back with a short right to the chin, eluded one of the others. And then, just as he was reaching for the door knob, the floor seemed to rock and pitch out from under his feet, and he found himself tumbling headlong into reaching darkness.
Doc had time for one startled yell, but he knew that it would not be heard. Nearly everyone in camp had finally been convinced, by this expansive gesture on Matt Peavey’s part, that they had been wrong in their first opinion of him, and that he was really the benefactor he claimed to be. They were talking and laughing, and the noise they made would override his yells, even if he shouted his head off.
Striking a dirt floor about ten feet down, Doc sprawled headlong, then picked himself up gingerly. He wasn’t much hurt by his tumble, he found, but he was in a bad way—and so was everyone else. Someone had been quick-witted enough to spring that trapdoor, and now they had him.
It was completely dark down here, but he soon discovered that the room was crowded. Apparently a lot of old boxes and barrels, mostly empty, had been stored down here. Which, so far as he could figure, wasn’t going to help him any.
The Second Western Megapack Page 45