Medicine Show

by Bill Crider

  17

  Colonel A. J. Mahaffey thought the crowd was the largest he had ever seen at one of his shows. They were going to sell a lot of Miracle Oil.

  Storey had been reluctant to perform the shooting exhibition, but the Colonel had insisted, and things had gone well. Storey had been as good as he had ever been, and the only thing that worried the Colonel was that after the shooting Storey went behind the wagon and reloaded his pistols.

  Storey didn't know why he did it, either. He didn't think there would be any occasion to use them, and he didn't think he would use them if the occasion arose. But he reloaded nevertheless.

  Banju Ta-Ta did her dance again, with as much fervor as ever, and possibly more.

  The Squaw Ro-Shanna repeated her story about the unusual rabbits, this time adding a few details that had not been included the previous day but that the Colonel had thought might improve the performance.

  Sophia had thought that people might notice, but no one seemed to.

  One reason that things went so well might have been Sheriff Wilson, who came out of the tent and watched the show from a bench that Storey and Stuartson had moved outside for him. He wasn't strong enough to walk easily and had to be assisted by Storey and Stuartson, but his presence seemed to reinforce the wonderful healing qualities of the Miracle Oil.

  There was no doubt that the Colonel would have sold more than a hundred bottles, in spite of the fact that everyone had bought a bottle the day before, except for one thing.

  That one thing was Carl Gary, who came riding up just as the Colonel was about to begin his pitch.

  Gary's horse was lathered, and the saloon owner had lost his hat on the road. His hair was sticking out wildly, and no one in the crowd could ever remember having seen him so discomposed.

  He reined in just at the edge of the crowd and started yelling about the Hawkins brothers.

  "They're tearing up the town!" he said. "They've killed Barclay Sanders, and they're wrecking the church!"

  "The church?" Lawton Stump said. He felt a horrible weight settle on his shoulders. It was his punishment for taking up the gun.

  "They rode inside on their horses, shooting," Gary said, and Stump felt the weight settle harder.

  Naomi put her arms around him. "We can fix it again," she said. "We can work together."

  Stump did not seem comforted, but the other citizens were not as worried about the church as they were about what the Hawkins brothers might do next. They voiced their concern, and Carl Gary said, "There's nobody in town left for them to shoot, not that they care about shooting. I think they might come here."

  * * *

  Gary was right; that was exactly what Sam and Ben were planning to do.

  They took some time at first, however, to look in on the saloon for a minute. The bartender had been instructed by Gary before he left to give them whatever they wanted. Gary had assured the man that there would be no trouble as long as Sam and Ben were not crossed, though he had not mentioned the condition of the late Barclay Sanders.

  When Sam and Ben entered, guns drawn, the dedicated drinker at the table picked up what was left of his pint and faded silently as a shadow out the back door of the saloon. The Hawkins brothers never even saw him.

  "What can I do for you fellas?" the bartender said in a voice that he had to work to keep steady.

  "We'll take all your money," Sam said, and the bartender immediately handed over everything that was in his cash drawer. He was going to follow Gary's instructions completely. Gary had been careful to leave an amount that he hoped would appease the Hawkinses.

  "Fifty-six dollars," Sam said, counting it. "Not bad for one place." Satisfied, he shoved the money in the pocket of his Levi's. "Now we want some of your whiskey."

  "Not the bar stuff, either," Ben said, holding his pistol so that it was pointed at the bartender's head. "The stuff you keep for your boss to drink is what we want."

  The fact was that Carl Gary did not drink. He did not see the point in it. If others wanted to do so, that was fine, but he chose not to partake himself.

  The bartender didn't try to explain any of that to Ben. He simply reached under the bar, brought out a fancy cut-glass bottle and handed it to him.

  "This better be your best stuff," Ben said, taking it with his left hand and continuing to aim his pistol with his right. He looked at the bottle with approval, holding it up so that Sam could admire it as well.

  "It's the best we got," the bartender said. He didn't really think Ben could tell the difference if it wasn't, but once again he hadn't taken any chances.

  Ben uncorked the bottle and tilted it to his mouth.

  He coughed, then said, "Damn that's smooth. You want a little taste, Sam?"

  Sam did. He had a swallow, and then Ben had another for himself.

  Then Ben plunked the bottle down hard on the bar. "I guess you were tellin' the truth. That's about the best whiskey I ever drank."

  "Yeah," the bartender said. "It's supposed to be good."

  "Just for that, I'm not gonna kill you," Ben said, and opened fire with his pistol.

  Behind the bar there was a long mirror, and on each side of it were glass shelves holding various bottles of amber fluid. Ben shot five of the bottles in rapid succession, sending glass and whiskey flying. He put his sixth bullet into the center of the mirror, or close to it, sending a spider web of cracks across its face.

  "We look pretty damn silly, don't we, Sam?" he said, eyeing their reflections in the cracked glass. A jagged line ran across their bearded faces, making it appear that the top halves sat slightly to the sides of the bottoms.

  "Yeah," Sam said. He looked at the bartender, who had not turned to see the mirror. He was still shaken by the shots. "Where is ever'body today?"

  "Out at the medicine show," the bartender said, wishing that he was there too.

  "Guess we oughta head on out that way, then," Sam said. The bartender had confirmed what he suspected.

  "Dam right," Ben said, grabbing the neck of the whiskey bottle and lifting it from the bar. "Let's pay ever'body a little visit."

  As they left the saloon, the bartender changed his mind. He didn't wish he was at the medicine show after all.

  * * *

  The crowd was in a dither. No one seemed to know what to do or where to go. They looked first to Carl Gary for leadership, but he was not equipped to provide it.

  It was one thing to confront the sheriff and demand that he take a posse to roust the Hawkins brothers, but it was another thing to know that the Hawkinses were coming your way with blood on their minds. Gary wanted no part of it, and he said so.

  "You people can't expect me to stand up to those two. It's not my responsibility. Anyway, it's not me they're after, judging from what they were doing to that church."

  Then everyone looked to Coy Wilson. The seven people who knew the truth about Wilson's relationship with the brothers knew that this would be a real test for the sheriff, and they knew that if he did not pass it they would have to tell what they knew. On the other hand, if he demonstrated that he had indeed changed for the better, they would give him the opportunity to redeem himself. The money he had extorted from the townspeople could be discussed later.

  Wilson struggled to get off the bench where he had been sitting. "I stood up to 'em once," he said. His voice was weak but firm. "And I'll do it again. Course I'd be mighty glad if some of you was to stand up with me, considerin' the way things turned out the last time."

  He didn't really expect anyone to agree to help him. He hadn't been a good sheriff, had in fact been something of a bully, and he knew that no one liked him very much. Why should they? He had betrayed them in ways that they didn't even know about. Nevertheless, he knew that he could no longer be a part of what Sam and Ben stood for.

  Maybe it had all started back in Kansas when he ran down that kid. He'd never been able to get that out of his mind. Or maybe it had started later on, when he saw that a decent life was actually a possibility
for him. Maybe he was just getting old. For whatever reason, he had to stand up to Sam and Ben now, no matter what.

  "I'll stand with you," Ray Storey said, and no one was more surprised than he was that he'd said it. In the first place, he didn't know what good he'd be. And in the second place, this was the man that had been responsible for Chet's death. None of that seemed to matter, however, as Storey walked over to stand by Wilson.

  That decided matters for everyone from town. There were two men with guns against two other men with guns. There was no need for them to stay around.

  "We've got the women to think of," a man said. "We better get them in the wagons and get back to town."

  "We've got property back there to look after," Carl Gary said, thinking of his saloon and wondering if it was still in operating condition. He thought briefly about his bartender and hoped that the Hawkins brothers hadn't killed him. It was hard to find good bartenders.

  "What if we meet the Hawkinses on the road?" a woman said.

  "We can go around by the old Wilton trail," Gary said. "I came out that way so they wouldn't come up behind me."

  No one bothered to point out that by taking that route he might have been too late to warn them, considering that the Wilton trail was a mile or more longer than the usual route to the waterhole. Everyone was too busy climbing into wagons and mounting horses to think about that.

  Before too long there was nothing except a lingering dust cloud in the air to remind anyone of their presence.

  "Well," the Colonel said as the last of them departed, "it appears that my expectations of a successful show are not to be realized. You were right, Sophia. We should have left yesterday."

  "There's still time," she said. "We can hitch the team and leave before they get here."

  "We could try to run," he said. "But we would have to leave the tent behind. Besides, they would catch us easily."

  "You folks better at least get in your show wagon," Wilson said.

  "I think we ought to do something to help," Louisa said. "I don't want to hide from those men. I'm not afraid."

  "You better be," Wilson said. "They wouldn't want to kill you if they could help it, but you wouldn't like what they'd want to do instead."

  "You and your mother get inside the wagon," the Colonel said to his daughter. "The doctor and I will be along directly."

  "You come now," Sophia said.

  "I'll be along. Don't worry about me."

  Sophia gave her husband a short look. "All right. Come with me, Louisa."

  Louisa looked as if she would like to say more, but she followed her mother.

  "Now," the Colonel said to Wilson. "What is it that you propose to do, exactly?"

  "Face up to 'em," Wilson said, unable to think of anything else. "That's all we can do."

  "That didn't seem to avail you much last evening," the Colonel told him. "And now you're not exactly in fighting condition."

  "You got a better idea?" Wilson said.

  The Colonel shook his head. "Unfortunately not."

  Wilson forced a smile. "Well, then."

  The Boozer looked at Ray Storey. "What about you?" he said. "How do you feel about this?"

  "I'd feel better if we had a few more people backing us up," Storey said. "I didn't think everyone would go off like that."

  "They've never wanted to stand up the Sam and Ben before," Wilson said. "They ain't gonna start now."

  "Perhaps they weren't encouraged to stand up to them," the Colonel suggested.

  Wilson gave him a shrewd glance. "How much do you know about that?"

  "Quite a bit. The reverend Stump's wife overheard you talking to those two reprobates last night."

  Wilson sighed. "I was afraid of that. I guess it don't do much good to say that I'm sorry about what I did. It's too late for that."

  "It may not be," The Boozer said. "People can sometimes be very forgiving. You might find that to be the case here."

  "It may not matter, not when Sam and Ben get through with me," Wilson said. "I was just tryin' to get rid of them and get on with my life when I sent 'em out here last night."

  "You sent them?" the Colonel said.

  "I hoped they'd take your money and just leave, go on back to Kansas. I shoulda known that it wouldn't work like that."

  "No, it didn't," the Colonel said. "It might have, though, and I suppose the money I lost would have been a small price to pay."

  "Maybe," Wilson said. "I'd still feel better if some of those folks had stuck around to help me."

  "Maybe they did," Storey said. "Here comes a wagon."

  * * *

  It wasn't a wagon that Storey had heard. It was Stump's buggy. The preacher drove into the clearing and stopped.

  "I couldn't go back to town," he said. "Not and leave you here to face those men alone. It would not have been right."

  Naomi sat beside him, holding his arm. She was frightened, but she was thrilled that her husband had proved to be so brave.

  "Are you armed?" the Colonel said.

  "No," Stump said. "But I don't require a six-gun to stand up to skunks."

  "Maybe not, but I'd sure advise one," Wilson said. "The skunks'll have 'em."

  Stump got out of the buggy and helped his wife down.

  "She can go into the show wagon with my wife and daughter," the Colonel said. He walked over to her and guided her inside.

  "I thought they might have gotten here by now," Stump said, joining Wilson and Storey.

  "So did I," Wilson said. "It ain't like them to be late to a fight."

  "Could they have gotten lost on the way?" the Colonel said, having stowed Naomi safely in the wagon.

  "Not them two," Wilson said. "It's a plain trail, and they know the way, day or night."

  The afternoon sun was nearly below the horizon. The trees cast deep shadows over the medicine show wagon and those standing near it. The full moon, white and huge, was already in the sky. There were no clouds.

  "Looks like we'll be able to see them when they come," Wilson said.

  Storey nodded. He didn't know whether that was good or bad. He just wished that Stump had a pistol. Or that he was sure that he would use his own.

  18

  The Boozer, had he known what Sam and Ben were doing, could have explained their delay in arriving. They had partaken heavily of the whiskey in the cut glass bottle, passing it back and forth as they rode until nearly all of it was gone. They had eaten little that day, and the whiskey took effect quickly, especially with Ben, who was less able to deal with alcohol than Sam was.

  Ben's eyes were bleary and red, and there was a trickle of whiskey running through his beard from the left corner of his mouth. He had drunk so much that he was actually beginning to regret having shot Coy Wilson.

  "He was all right when he wasn't being so damn uppity," Ben said. "I wish you hadn't killed him, Sam."

  Sam was not as affected as Ben, but he was feeling a bit dizzy. The motion of his horse was no comfort to his spinning head, and he did not feel like taking the blame for Wilson's imagined death.

  "I didn't kill him, you sorry bastard," Sam said. "You did. I just winged him. You're the one that killed him."

  Ben, who happened to be the one holding the bottle at the time, heaved it at his brother's head.

  Sam ducked back, but it struck him a glancing blow on the forehead, cutting a long gash just under his hat brim and nearly knocking him off his horse.

  As soon as he regained his balance, Sam jerked his reins and rode his horse into Ben's as hard as he could, at the same time reaching for Ben with the intention of dragging him from the saddle.

  Ben fought back with bobcat ferocity, ducking under Sam's thrashing arms and butting Sam in the sternum with the top of his head.

  Ben's hat softened the blow a little, but not enough for Sam, who leaned back, gagging for breath.

  Ben did not waste time or sentiment in following up his advantage. He balled up his thick fingers and smashed Sam on the side of the head.


  Sam tumbled off his horse and fell hard. Ben jumped down after him, prepared to kick him in the stomach or kidneys, but Sam was on his knees spewing most of the whiskey he had drunk into the dirt.

  "Phew," Ben said, turning away in disgust. He started looking for the bottle, wondering if there might be a swallow or two left in it. He was no longer interested in Sam.

  He found the bottle lying on its side near the trail. There was a thin puddle of whiskey inside.

  Ben was reaching for the bottle when someone dropped a tree on him, or at least that was what it felt like. Actually, it was only Sam, who was through retching and mad as hell.

  He bore Ben down, sat astraddle of him, tore his hat off, and began pummeling the back of his head. With each blow, Ben's face bounced off the hard dirt of the trail. A stream of blood began to flow from his nose, which was taking most of the punishment.

  "You son of a bitch," Sam said. "I didn't kill Coy. You did it. Say you did it."

  The blows on his head, or possibly the contact of his nose with the ground, had a sobering and cleansing effect on Ben's mind. He came up with an idea that he was sure would impress his brother.

  "Maybe we didn't either one of us kill him," he said, or tried to say. It was hard to understand him because his mouth had quite a bit of dirt in it.

  Sam caught part of it and stopped hitting him.

  "Huh?" he said. He did not get off Ben, however.

  Ben raised his head and spit out dirt and some of the bile that had risen in his throat. He would have wiped his nose, but Sam had his arms pinned to his sides.

  "I said, maybe we didn't either one of us kill him."

  Sam hit him in the back of the head, but not very hard this time. "You can't get out of it that way."

  "It's the truth," Ben said. "If we did, why is ever'body at the medicine show? Why ain't there a funeral."

  That made Sam think. But not for long. "They had it before we got there," he said.

  Ben craned his neck and tried to look around at Sam. "Didn't nobody say anything about it. Not Sanders or that bartender either one. We musta just winged him, and he played possum on us."

  Sam thought about that. His head was no longer spinning from the whiskey. He started to think that Ben might even be right.