Mary Rose had all in readiness. Besides a pitcher of rich broth for his patient, she had prepared a brace of mutton chops with onions for Doc Roberts. Gathering up the blankets and assorted little conveniences, she helped the doctor carry the lot down to the bunkhouse. Once they had made up the better of the two bunks, Doc stripped the limp figure of Dean and tucked him down under clean warm blankets.
Mary Rose carefully fed Doc’s patient spoonfuls of the nourishing broth while Doc coaxed the potbellied stove to harbor a vigorous little fire to chase the ocean chill from the air. When all that could be set to rights was seen to and Mary Rose had returned to the house, Doc sat at the rickety old table to eat his chops. After supper he sat by the light of the smoky lamp and worked on his journal. Dean’s fever required some attention, but he seemed to calm down when Doc bathed his brow and wrists with cold water. This procedure continued until Doc fell asleep about midnight.
In the morning Doc awoke to find his patient sleeping peacefully. The fever had broken in the early hours of the morning, but between the rigors of exposure, exhaustion, malnutrition, and now fever, it would be some time before Jersey Dean would be up on his “pins” again, as the old man had phrased it.
While Dean slept, Doc prepared medications for both his patients. For the old man, he concocted a batch of the usual, but with only ten drops of laudanum to a pint of vanilla-flavored, clove-laced rum. Again he filled the bottles with diminishing amounts of the brew, topped up with water. Doc figured that this demi-placebo would keep the old man quiet if nothing else. Some people refused to believe they were being properly doctored unless they had a bottle of medicine to prove it. People found it difficult to comprehend the body curing itself with a little patience and care. They needed the medical props and potions to nurture their wilting self-confidence.
It was all the same from a medical point of view. What the brain believed, the body would believe as well. To harness the two in a harmonious fashion was sometimes a matter of psychological wizardry, but nothing unethical. Certainly nothing as unethical as what he would have liked to have done to the old reprobate, but Doc had not practiced that kind of venality since he was a child of six. Now it was too late to remember.
Dean’s medicines were another matter altogether. His instructions for their administration were precise, and some discipline would be required to see that Dean did not forego the prescribed course of treatment in a premature show of youthful bravado. He made sure Dean knew that he had placed Mary Rose in charge. Then Doc worked on his journals, looked after Daisy’s needs, and nursed Dean for the rest of the day.
Early the next morning Doc took Dean’s pulse. The patient still slept, though exhaustion mixed with bad dreams caused him to toss about on occasion. Then Doc Roberts packed his kit for the ride north. On the way to the house, he stopped at the barn to see to Daisy. She seemed content enough with her oats.
Doc delivered the old man’s medicine to the house with an admonition to take it by the spoon, not by the gulp. It would have to last the two weeks until Doc returned with more, if indeed it was still needed.
Doc also cautioned the rancher to treat his ailing guest with kindness for the sake of his medical bill. He calculated that the old man owed him more than all the chickens, goats, and pigs on the place, so he had better keep his end of the bargain.
The old man grunted and fumed, but said he would hold up his end of the deal. The checked anger in the rancher’s voice told Doc that he was scarcely delighted with the arrangement, but he knew the old cripple would comply out of fear, if nothing else.
Doc found Mary Rose in the laundry shed kneading soiled overalls on a homemade washboard. He asked her to join him for a short talk. Mary Rose wiped her hands on her apron and followed Doc to the bunkhouse. He handed her his written instructions and asked if she could understand them. Mary huffed and said she could read quite well, thank you. She even owned some books. Doc praised her literacy and went over the list with her point by point.
When they entered the bunkhouse, Dean was just coming awake with a terrible thirst. Doc gave him all the water he could hold and then explained that he was about to leave. He said that he had made certain arrangements for Dean to recover his strength on the ranch. He was to do as Mary Rose instructed without argument or complaint. Doc said the rancher’s wife didn’t need any further vexation than was already at hand up at the house with his other patient.
Though weak, Dean smiled and thanked Doc Roberts for all his many considerations. He owed Doc Roberts his life and would work hard to show his gratitude. Doc waved off the sentiment and said that he could best show his indebtedness by obeying Mary Rose. He had left specific instructions and expected them to be adhered to religiously. Dean looked at the rancher’s wife, blushed slightly, and agreed to all the doctor’s requirements.
Doc Roberts knew he couldn’t make it all the way back to Monterey in one shot, but he would travel as far as he could before Daisy lost patience. It took some effort, but Doc got as far as the Pfeiffer spread before night fell. He decided to beg a bath and a bed from his old friends.
The stress of the last week on the trail had caught up with the doctor, and he needed a good night’s rest on a decent bed before continuing. A generous hot meal, of anything but rabbit, would find a hearty welcome as well. He would see that Daisy got all the attention she could stand. Fresh fodder, sweet oats, and the company of her own kind would go a long way toward improving her disposition. Daisy was in favor of the decision to stop over. She shivered with delight the moment she felt her rig go slack. Doc rubbed her down and gave her a couple of apples before he retired to the bathhouse to pass a long-anticipated hour in hot soapy water, smoking his pipe, blowing imperfect rings, and thinking of wife, home, and hearth.
Two weeks later Doc Roberts traveled down the coast again. After making visits to the Grimes outfit and the Dani place, Doc was asked to stop down at Partington Cove to treat a sailor who had broken his arm loading tanbark on a schooner.
Old man Clarke had appeared out of nowhere, as he usually did, and told Doc about the injured sailor. Doc had been friends with Clarke for years. Though he lived in the wilderness as a hermit and few people saw him about, he had a way of knowing everything that went on in the Big Sur.
After treating the sailor’s arm to a custom-made splint, Doc spent the night at Tom Doud’s ranch. In the morning he borrowed one of Tom’s faster saddle horses to make a quick visit to check on the well-being of Jersey Dean and the old rancher. Since Daisy obviously hated the place, Doc saw no reason why she should pull the cart that distance when she could frolic in Doud’s lush pastures and roll in the dust with acquaintances.
The trip brought Doc to Grace Point in midafternoon. The first person he spied was Jersey Dean. He was sitting in front of the bunkhouse repairing Mary Rose’s butter churn. He looked happy and well when Doc first spotted him, but the moment Dean spied the doctor, he took on a glum and sorrowful expression.
Doc dismounted at the barn, and Dean joined him to help put up the horse. Doc easily sensed that something was wrong. When Doc asked how he was getting on, Dean replied that he was slow coming up to snuff, but with time he hoped to be fully recovered.
Doc made a perfunctory examination of Dean’s vital signs and came to the private conclusion that the cowboy was malingering just a mite. He asked why Dean had not taken the first opportunity to move on to fresher prospects. There were plenty of spreads that claimed a need for good hands this time of the year, and even the Devil knew that Dean’s present host was hardly the most congenial of men.
Dean toed the dust with his newly patched boots and struggled for a spontaneous-sounding answer, but none was forthcoming. Then Dean said sheepishly that he rather liked it where he was, but the old man showed no signs of wanting to take on help. The place sadly needed a qualified hand while the old man was laid up, and Dean said he had done his best to be helpful. He had taken over the heavier chores from Mary Rose, who seemed to have her hands fu
ll just taking care of her husband.
Dean had even fabricated a pair of padded crutches so the old coot could move about more easily, but the rancher expressed no gratitude for the gift. In fact, the old man had even showed the temerity to complain that Dean was nothing more than a saddle-tramp looking for a free handout. He had heard the old man say the same to his wife on several occasions when he was sure that Dean would overhear his comments.
Doc said he would look into the matter and then made his way to the ranch house with his medical bag.
As Doc mounted the front porch, he heard the old man swearing up a storm. This had become so usual that Doc paid little attention, though he found the old man’s constant use of profanity just a little more than he could stomach. It was one thing for men to rage at one another in such a manner, but to use such wicked language to a woman was unforgivable regardless of provocation.
The moment Doc made his presence known the old man ceased his ranting. He might try his will on others, but he was afraid of Doc Roberts and almost became obsequious in his presence.
Mary Rose was happy to see the doctor and managed something like a smile when he entered. Not wishing to pass the time of day with the old man, Doc set to work directly on an examination of his injuries. While this was being accomplished, Doc suggested to the old rancher that, though his leg was steadily improving, it would still be quite a while before he could run the ranch again. If his patient had any sense, he would hire Jersey Dean to work the place until the rancher was able to saddle up for himself again.
While the old man would have treated this suggestion with scorn if it had come from somebody else, he was willing to consider the recommendation since it came from the eminent Dr. Roberts. Mary Rose seemed pleased by the suggestion as well and encouraged her husband to accept for the sake of the ranch, which at present was going to the dogs without a man to oversee the stock and repair the fences.
When Doc returned to the barn to fetch Tom Doud’s horse, he found Dean setting out slop for the pigs. Doc told Dean that an arrangement had been agreed to. The old man would pay thirty-five dollars a month with room and board, and Dean would work the spread until the old man could take over again.
Dean appeared pleased, but tried not to show how much. He thanked the doctor for his assistance in the matter and went back to his chores with a tenacity that belied his earlier grievance of lingering ill health.
Doc bid Dean farewell as he mounted. He said he would be riding circuit again in about three weeks. He expected to find some improvements to the place when he returned. Dean happily waved good-bye and returned to the barn. Doc Roberts spurred Doud’s stallion in hopes of making it back to Tom’s spread before moonrise. Tom had promised him a thick sirloin steak for supper if he got back in time, and Doc could almost taste the promise. Doud’s stallion needed little encouragement to make a fast passage back to his own paddock. The animal seemed just as anxious to depart the old man’s property as Daisy had been.
Three weeks later, true to his word, Doc Roberts was again found jigging a reluctant Daisy toward the Grace Point ranch. When he arrived, it was to discover the homestead looking somewhat better, but noticeably deserted. Doc stabled Daisy, gave her a light measure of oats, and made his way toward the house.
When he was only a few yards from the porch a commotion of unusual verbal violence broke out from within. Doc thought he had heard the worst the old Stoat could generate when it came to vulgarity, but he now acknowledged that the old man had only skimmed the surface in the past. His well of obscenity was almost unfathomable. Doc Roberts had known men shot down in saloons for far less.
Not knowing what to do at first, Doc loitered, listening, not wanting to insert himself into the situation. His lingering embarrassment and chagrin at the low degree to which his patient had descended made him feel as though he might have avoided the exercise of ministering to the old reprobate in the first place.
Certainly the old man was an obscene aberration, but Doc Roberts maintained rigid scruples and would do nothing out of professional character. In spite of his personal feelings, it was not in his nature to be vindictive or vengeful. A patient was a patient and ethical considerations aside, his predisposition was keyed to curing people, not judging them.
The rancher’s enraged and wrathful voice mounted into a tirade of truly hideous proportions. It reached a crescendo with the sharp report of a slap and a brief stifled scream. Doc was about to change his mind and enter the fray before any more violence erupted, but he was too late. A melee exploded with a shattering crash of furniture, screams, shouts, and curses. Before Doc could reach the door, it splintered off its hinges with a bang, and out rocketed two figures. In the lead was the old man, screaming and flapping his arms like an earthbound albatross. At first Doc couldn’t believe any old man with a broken leg could move that fast until he noticed that Dean had the rogue by the collar and crotch and was giving him the bum’s rush. The Stoat weighed as nothing in Dean’s strong grip, and though the old man railed and waved his arms about, he was powerless.
While Doc watched, fascinated, Dean raced the old man across the yard, over the goat-trimmed grass, and toward the cliffs. Dean screamed that this would be the very last time the old blackguard would beat a woman this side of hell and with that parting sentiment, launched the old sinner out over the cliff like a bag of wool.
Doc Roberts stood agape. The old man seemed suspended in air for a moment, flapping his arms in the most optimistic manner. Then he disappeared like a rock, squeaking his last mortal profanity, something to do with excrement, as Doc recalled.
Dean didn’t remain at the precipice to inspect the scene below, but turned as though he had just thrown out the trash and walked back to the house. Doc was surprised to witness an expression of mature determination and resolve on Dean’s boyish face.
As he walked by, Dean looked up and noticed Doc Roberts for the first time. He nodded as though Doc had just witnessed a commonplace occurrence. He didn’t even take notice of Doc’s profound look of astonishment and dismay.
“Glad to see you, Doctor. How’ve you been keeping yourself?” Dean grasped the doctor warmly by the shoulder and walked him toward the door like a favorite uncle. Doc was still in something of a stuttering daze, but Dean continued to ignore it.
“Oh, but look at you, Doc! You’re surely a soul who could probably use some coffee. Won’t you come in and share a pot?”
Doc allowed himself to be seated at the kitchen table. The only remaining evidence of the lethal struggle was a broken chair and washbasin, and these were being gathered up by Mary Rose as they entered.
Mary Rose looked well enough, except for an angry-looking red welt the size of a saucer on her left cheek and eye. Despite this, she smiled at Doc, nodded, and proceeded to pour three cups of coffee without a word of explanation or comment. Then she sat down with her own cup and looked thankfully toward her young benefactor.
Dean turned his chair around and straddled it like a horse. He rested his crossed arms on the back of the chair and smiled broadly. “Of course you’ll be the best man at our wedding, won’t you, Doc? We couldn’t have a wedding without you. Mary Rose wants you there special. So do I.”
Doc looked up from his coffee and gathered his thoughts. Then he closed his eyes and grinned. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that. Thank you both for asking. When’s the happy day to be?”
An hour later Doc and Daisy disappeared east down the road while the new couple waved farewell. Doc noticed at once that Daisy’s gait had lost its agitated prance. She tossed her head with modest gaiety, as though amused by some cryptic witticism only a horse would appreciate.
Doc Roberts spent a considerable time pondering that day’s events. He wondered what kind of future the couple could expect with a homicide weighing in the balance. Either way, he wouldn’t be the first to mention it. But if, indeed, anyone should ever inquire what he knew of the matter, Doc Roberts would shrug and reply that as far as he knew, the old man simpl
y fell from grace under the weight of a lifetime of ponderous iniquity.
In point of fact, Doc was never questioned about anything. No one seemed to care, one way or the other.
As a gesture to honor his new bride, Dean changed the name of the homestead to Rose Point, and Mary Rose changed her last name to Dean.
THE DARK WATCHER
Professor Solomon Gill sat at his desk surveying his impatient pupils over the wire rims of his reading glasses. He had paused in his presentation of an article by Dr. Herbert Nash on aboriginal commonalities as they pertained to the indigenous coastal peoples of California.
His restless students took the hint and stopped their fidgeting when he paused in his reading and iced them with an expression of profound disapproval. His pupils bent every effort to stop squirming, but it was beyond expectation. This was their last class, on the last day of school before the commencement of their 1933 summer recess.
San Jose was a beautiful campus set in a landscape of abundance. Her scholars felt privileged to study under her ivied auspices, but summer vacation was summer vacation, and little mattered beyond thoughts of escape, freedom, and leisure.
It was a magnificent afternoon. Small, picturesque clouds skipped across the Santa Cruz Mountains to the west. Through the open windows of the classroom the calls of robins, jays, and sparrows penetrated the academic veneer with promises of long summer days of deliverance. For most students and faculty it was a joyful liberation from the routine demands of university life. The entire world waited in delighted anticipation, all save poor Professor Solomon Gill.
The hour chimed from the bell tower just as Professor Gill concluded his reading. He dismissed his class and formally wished his students a pleasant and stimulating sabbatical. The professor resolved his semester’s best efforts with a caution to keep up on their reading. This last statement went mostly unheard in the clamor and commotion of the swift mass exodus.
Down to a Soundless Sea Page 13