by Bill Crider
Storey leaned down and rested his elbows on the bar and put a foot up on the rail. He laid a handbill on the bar.
The bartender looked down at it, continuing to polish the glass he had been working on. He was wearing a white apron as spotless as the polishing cloth. It was worn and patched and looked as if it had been washed a great many times.
"Medicine show, eh?" he said in a squeaky voice that was surprising coming from a man of such size. "Where'bouts you settin' up?"
Storey told him.
"Hasn't been a show through here in quite a spell," the bartender said. "You ought to do right well for yourselves if you got any kind of a show and if your pitch doctor can give a good lecture."
"The Colonel's as good as there is," Storey said. "I'd appreciate it if you'd let me leave some handbills here for your patrons."
"Don't know as I ought to do that," the bartender said. "The owner might not like it. He'd be lookin' at you as competition for the business around here, I expect."
Considering that the content of Indian Miracle Oil, which was not really an oil at all, was about 15 percent alcohol, the owner might not be too far wrong, but Storey's job was to get the handbills out.
"We'll only be here for a day or two," he said. "We're not going to lure away any of your customers. Not for very long, anyway."
"Well," the bartender said, "maybe it wouldn't hurt if I just left a couple of 'em around. I expect the fellas here in town will be hearin' about the show without me tellin' them."
"Probably so," Storey said.
"How about buyin' a drink?" the bartender said. "Just to prove your good faith, you might say."
Storey didn't drink, not even Indian Miracle Oil. He left that to The Boozer.
"It's a little early for me," he said, reaching into a pocket and coming out with a dollar. "But I do have a little something here for you."
"I can't take no money for passin' out your handbills. The boss'd kill me."
Storey clinked the dollar down on the bar. "That's not what this is for. This is for information."
The bartender looked at Storey suspiciously. "What kind of information would that be?"
"I'm looking for a man," Storey said. "Goes by the name of Sam Hawkins. You know anybody by that name living around here?"
It was a question that he'd been asking for almost a year now in every town where the show stopped. So far no one had known Sam Hawkins, but Storey was sure that sooner or later someone would.
Hawkins was from Texas, Storey knew that much, and that was the main reason he had joined the show. The Colonel had told him that they would be covering the state "like a blanket, my boy. There is not a city or a hamlet that we will not be visiting to bring the blessed relief of Indian Miracle Oil and Indian Vitality Pills."
Touring the state with something like the medicine show was just what Storey wanted to do. It was just the kind of thing that would give him a chance to find Sam Hawkins without drawing too much suspicion to himself.
He wanted to find Hawkins very much.
And when he found him, he was going to kill him.
2
The watering hole was just about what its name implied, a hole in the ground with water in it.
It was really more than that, however. It was a natural spring that bubbled out from under a mossy rock that was shaded by tall trees. The water trickled over the edges of the hole and down a little hill and ran into a straggling creek that probably wended its way to one of the state's rivers and then on down to the sea.
It was shady and cool near the spring, making it a fine place to rest for a couple of days, and there was a clearing on the other side of the road that was just right for setting up the medicine show.
The Colonel had already parked his wagon in the clearing, and he and Storey had raised the show's tent the night before. The tent served both as a shelter for Storey and The Boozer, should they wish to sleep inside, and as a place for setting up the anatomy exhibition.
The wagon was a testament to the Colonel's belief in making an impression. It was painted mostly white, but it had red wheels with red spokes, and the trim was all painted red and blue. On the sides of the wagon, in the same kind of script that appeared on the handbills, were the words COLONEL A. J. MAHAFFEY'S AUTHENTIC INDIAN MEDICINE SHOW in bright red letters.
The Colonel was justifiably proud of that wording, since the "authentic" was successfully ambiguous and could be taken to refer to either the phrase "Indian Medicine" or the phrase "Medicine Show." If pressed, that is to say, interviewed at the point of a gun, the Colonel might even have admitted that the second meaning could be considered far more accurate than the first, since to tell the truth he had never been acquainted with an authentic Indian in his life. He had met one or two, however, though he had never talked to them for very long.
The wagon was generally pulled by two lop-eared mules, which were now cropping the sparse grass under the trees. Watching them from where he was sitting in the shade of a tall cottonwood tree was The Boozer, whose real name was Albert Stuartson, MD. It was still early in the morning, but The Boozer was already well on the way to becoming stuporously drunk, swigging occasionally from a bottle of nearly clear liquid that he held carefully in his right hand. He gave the mules a languorous salute with the bottle, but they did not seem to notice him.
The Boozer was not required to do any of the work that went along with the show. He was there simply to give it legitimacy. He was, in fact, a real doctor, with a verifiable degree and a diploma.
He had once had a successful practice in a small community not too different from the one where the show would soon be performed, but the rigors of the work were too much for him. The hours were impossible, and he got little sleep; he was expected to travel to visit the sick in any kind of weather, including rain and snow; and he was often paid very little for his labors. Sometimes he was never paid at all.
After a while, he began to drink to ease the pain in his legs and back from riding ten miles through a driving rainstorm to deliver a baby, or to help him get to sleep after one of those times when he had been awake for thirty-six hours straight and was so tired that sleep did not want to come, or to get him through one more day when he had to share the grief of some young man and wife whose newborn son or daughter had died in spite of all the doctor could do.
After a few years of that, it was as if he were not drinking the liquor any longer. It was drinking him. It drank his ambition, his spirit, and his concern.
It was the latter that took the longest to leave him. His concern had been one of his biggest faults, and though he had tried, he had never been able to develop the detachment necessary to watch with disinterest as one of his patients died.
As the drinking grew worse, his wife left him, and eventually he gave up his practice. All in all, he was much happier.
He smiled now at the mules, looking at them through the clear glass of the bottle he was holding. They were only slightly distorted by the liquid inside.
He leaned forward. "'at's the ticket," he told the mules, who looked up at him with only mild curiosity. "You gotta learn not to give a damn." He took a drink from the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as the liquor burned its way down his throat.
The mules went back to pulling at the grass. They had heard the same advice more than once and had probably not been interested the first time.
"Life," The Boozer observed, leaning back against the tree. "What a wunnerful life."
He would most likely have given up his life, too, and willingly, had he not caught on with Mahaffey, who allowed him to drink but who refused to allow him to drink so much that he killed himself.
It was cool in the shade of the tree, and there was a slight breeze stirring the leaves. The Boozer no longer had to worry about a practice or about working at all. All he had to do was display his diploma and reveal on request or, as was more likely, on demand, that he had actual medical experience. And of course he had to endorse the w
onder-working properties of Mahaffey's oil and pills. That way no one could accuse the Colonel of fraud; after all, he had the approval and recommendation of an authentic, certified doctor.
Many medicine shows carried along men like Stuartson, and most of those men had the same habits he did, though perhaps for different reasons. All had the same generic name of Boozer. It seemed to fit.
The name didn't bother Stuartson any more than it probably bothered the others who shared it. He just didn't care. About the only thing he cared about these days was the first drink every morning and the last drink every night.
And all the drinks in between.
* * *
In the show wagon, Colonel Mahaffey and his wife, the Squaw Ro-Shanna, were making up the day's batch of Indian Miracle Oil and Indian Vitality Pills.
The Colonel was a middle-aged man with an impressive mane of thick black hair, graying only at the temples. He had sun-browned skin and startling blue eyes. His face was virtually unlined except for the smile wrinkles at the corners of those surprising eyes and at the corners of his lips.
His title was not a military one, for the Colonel had not fought in the late unpleasantness between the states, having had no interest in testing his courage on the field of battle. No, the title was strictly honorary, and in fact had been bestowed on the Colonel by none other than himself. He always felt that a title made a good impression.
Along with the title he had acquired a passable Southern accent, though he had been born in Indiana. "No one ever heard of a Colonel from Indiana, however," he had once told Ray Storey. "I prefer to say that I was born in Atlanta, Georgia."
His wife, a petite woman with a remarkable figure, one that she showed to advantage in her guise as Ro-Shanna, was a few years younger than the Colonel, and her dark hair had not yet revealed any trace of gray. Her real name was Sophia, but she used the name Ro-Shanna in the show because there were very few Indian squaws named Sophia.
There were very few Indian Squaws named Ro-Shanna, for that matter, but that did not bother the Colonel, who was quite taken with the sound of the name, which he had made up. He was apt to change its tribe of origin from day to day. Within the last year, Ray Storey had heard him tell various crowds that the name was Choctaw, Iroquois, Apache, Comanche, Sioux, and several others. The one he was most likely to stick with was Iroquois, thanks to the slim chance of running into anyone in the South or Southwest, the Colonel's preferred territories, who was familiar with that particular tribe.
"I think we shall need a large supply of the Miracle Oil this evening, my dear," the Colonel told his wife. "I have a feeling that this is going to be one of our more successful stops on this tour."
Sophia was not so optimistic, but she knew that her husband was often right about such things. She helped him pour the ingredients from their individual containers into a wooden bucket.
There was the alcohol, of course, and a good deal of water. A hint of oil of eucalyptus. A touch of oil of cloves. Coloring. (The Colonel preferred blue, bluing being easy to obtain and harmless to man.)
The mixture was stirred with a long-handled wooden spoon until the Colonel was satisfied that it was well blended. Then it was dipped out with a wooden dipper and transferred to the bottles by way of a metal funnel.
The Colonel regretted the use of the funnel. He would have preferred that nothing but wood touch his mixture. Wood, he felt was more natural, and more conducive to healing.
The bottles were a dark brown, with the figure of the head of an Indian chief in full war bonnet impressed into the glass. There was no label on the bottle, but on the side opposite the Indian head MAHAFFEY'S INDIAN MIRACLE OIL were stamped in the glass. All in all, the Colonel felt that he had an impressive container.
When the Colonel and his wife were finished pouring up the oil, they began work on the pills, although in fact the pills were not pills at all. They were made from licorice, which the Colonel was able to obtain cheaply and in large quantities. The licorice was cut into hundreds of tiny pieces which the Colonel and his wife, and sometimes his daughter, rolled into the shape of pills. The pills were then put into a sack with a small amount of powdered eucalyptus leaves and shaken until they were coated with the powder. Then they were put into tins and sold as Mahaffey's Indian Vitality Pills.
Actually, however, although they were advertised as costing three dollars per tin, the pills were never sold at all. They were given away, "Absolutely Free!" as the Colonel put it, with each purchase of a bottle of the Miracle Oil. The Colonel firmly believed that everyone liked a bargain, so he threw in the pills as a kind of bonus with each purchase.
He was also well aware that there might be some men who might not want to admit to being victimized by a Secret Sorrow, and such men would not want anyone to see them purchasing the pills. So he made it easy for them, by not requiring them to buy the pills. To get them, all they had to do was buy a bottle of the Miracle Oil.
The tins that held the pills were white with blue script lettering and once again the picture of an Indian, but this one was of a smiling Indian brave.
After all the bottles and tins had been filled, they were put into the baskets which would be carried into the crowd by Kit Carson, Ro-Shanna, and Banju Ta-ta (the Colonel's daughter, whose real name was Louisa).
"There, my dear," the Colonel said with satisfaction. "I believe that should last us for the two days that we will be here in this lovely vicinity. Unless, of course, your own lecture on the wonders of the Vitality Pills is so overwhelming that we have to make up another batch tomorrow."
Sophia smiled. She was used to her husband's flattery. He flattered everyone, all the time. It was just the way he was, and it was part of what had made him a success as the proprietor of his own medicine show.
"I'm sure that if we have a big success, your own lecture will be the reason," she told him.
"No, no, my dear. I will admit that I can be persuasive on occasion, but it is your own lecture--not to mention that wonderful outfit that you designed--to which we owe the largest percentage of our sales."
Sophia blushed, though it was hard to tell that she had done so. She was extremely dark, and she sat in the sun a lot to keep herself that way. It was important to her to look as much like an Indian as she could.
"I believe that the dress was your idea, Colonel," she said.
"Ah, yes, but you are the one who fills it so admirably." He reached for her and drew her to him. "Although I must admit that I like you almost as well when you are out of it."
She laughed and pushed him away. "Why, Colonel! And me an old woman!"
"Old woman, indeed!" the Colonel said. "If that is so, why do I have to take so many of my own pills?"
"I never see you take them," his wife protested.
"There are many things you don't see me do," he said. "Nevertheless, I assure you that without those pills, I long ago would have ceased to function as a virile man."
Sophia doubted that very much, but she knew that the Colonel actually seemed to believe in his own medicine. It seemed to be a contradiction, since he was making the stuff up right there in the wagon, making it up out of nothing more than candy, really, but he always insisted on its efficacy, even to her. She suspected that this was another reason he was so successful in making his pitch to the crowd. It was much easier to sell something that you believed in.
"Where is Banju Ta-ta?" the Colonel asked. He generally referred to everyone involved in the show by their assumed names.
"Setting up the anatomy exhibition, I believe. Or she might be practicing her dance."
"Good. I'm certain that this is going to be a successful stop. I can feel it in my bones."
Sophia hoped that her husband was right. For some reason she had almost the opposite feeling, almost a feeling of foreboding, but she would never have said so. Her husband was a man with a positive attitude. He did not like to hear contrary opinions, so she seldom gave him one.
Instead, she simply smiled and said, "
I'm sure you're right, Colonel. I'm sure we'll have a great success this time."
* * *
Louisa Mahaffey had arranged the two pictures for the anatomy exhibition in the tent, and now she was taking a walk through the trees near the clearing. it was a warm day, and she enjoyed the shade and the breeze and the songs of the birds, though her thoughts were more concerned with things other than her surroundings.
She was nearly eighteen years old, and a great deal of her life had been spent in the medicine show. It was actually unusual for women to be involved in such endeavors, but the Colonel liked to have his family around him, and both his wife and daughter had proved to have the necessary talent to help him sell his concoctions.
Louisa could vaguely remember a time when she had lived in a house all year round and when her father had been only an occasional visitor there, but that had been a long time ago. As soon as she was deemed old enough, she was taken on the road and the show wagon had become her home for most of the year. There was still a regular house for the worst of the winter months, when the Colonel preferred not to travel, but Louisa regarded those months as wasted time. She liked traveling around the country, seeing new places, meeting all kinds of people, much more than she liked sitting by a fire while her mother patiently taught her reading and arithmetic.
Last winter had been a particularly good one, with hardly any cold weather. Her father had taken advantage of the unusual circumstances to stay on the road almost the entire year. They had made a great deal of money.
Another reason Louisa liked staying on the road was that she got to be around Ray Storey that much more. It was true that he hardly ever noticed her, and it was true that when he did notice her he saw her only as a girl who worked for the show and occasionally got in his way, but she was determined that sooner or later he would see her in a different light. There had been a time or two lately, during the Healing Dance, when she thought she detected a note of actual interest in his eyes.