Max Collins - The Legend of Caleb York

These were the two men who had handled the dispatching of Old Man Swenson out near the stage relay station — Colton swinging the gun butt. They’d been invited to this questioning less to back up their boss than because they had a stake in what their guest had to say.

Both men carried .44’s, the weapons on the table as if serving as ante, though really to avoid falling out of their tied-down holsters.

They seemed to be enjoying the show.

Gauge slapped the doctor viciously on his right cheek and, when the man’s face turned to one side with the blow, bloody spittle flying, the sheriff slapped him again on the other cheek, just as hard, returning it to the other side.

“You’re a damn good Christian, Doc,” the sheriff said with a grin. “Turnin’ the other cheek like that.”

Maxwell guffawed at that; Colton didn’t get it.

Dr. Miller, breathing hard, did not seem to find any humor in the remark, either. How much he was seeing out of those swollen eyes was up for conjecture. His reddened ears had been cuffed enough to be ringing, so how well he was hearing was questionable, too.

“Maybe you’ll notice, Doc,” the sheriff said, eyes half-lidded, smile easygoing, “that I got a real touch for this kind of thing. Touch a medic like you might covet. See, I know just how far I can go without gettin’ to where there ain’t no comin’ back.”

He swung a sudden fist deep into the older man’s stomach. Wind whooshed out, accompanied by an anguished cry that was a mix of pain and exhaustion.

And the sheriff had only been at this twenty or so minutes.

Gauge placed both hands on the round man’s shoulders and leaned in, his seeming good humor gone.

“No more lies, Doc... and don’t hold out on me, no, sir. Good as I am at this, I can only hold back so long... and you’re too damn old and weak to take much more.”

His breath heavy and ragged, the doc said, “This... this is one thing... you won’t... won’t live down... Sheriff. ”

That last word was uttered with unmistakable contempt.

Gauge let out some air, backed away, then began walking slowly around the seated man, like a stubborn loser at musical chairs.

“Touches my heart, Doc,” Gauge said gently. “That you’re so concerned about me, and my standin’ in the community. But, hell — you don’t need to worry yourself about Harry Gauge.”

Right behind him now, Gauge looped an arm around the doctor’s neck and pulled back, hard, as if flexing a muscle for an admiring female, forcing him back with the front chair feet off the floor, choking off the prisoner’s air, summoning a terrible gargling sound.

Then Gauge let go, chair legs finding the wooden floor with a jostle, and the sheriff again began walking slowly around the seated man.

“Just worry about yourself, Doc,” he advised.

When Gauge came around again, the doctor looked up at him, pleadingly. “I... I told you I didn’t bury anybody last night. Your man... who says... says he saw me... must have been drunk. ”

Gauge’s eyebrows went up and down. “Well, good chance that he was. But that don’t change what he saw. Simple question, Doc. Who did you bury? ”

“No... nobody.”

Gauge grabbed him by his suitcoat and shook him like the least obedient child on earth. Over at the table, Maxwell and Colton were smiling at each other, the smaller man giggling to himself.

“It was Old Swenson, wasn’t it?” Gauge demanded. “Don’t bother lying.”

His breathing ragged, the doc managed, “If... if you know... why ask?”

Gauge backed off, nodded slowly, hands on hips, appraising his bloodied interview subject. “Then we agree. It was Old Swenson you buried.”

The doctor’s nod was barely discernible, but it was there. “Can I... can I go now? Why... why don’t we... all agree that... that I’ll forget about this little incident... and you won’t tell anybody... what your man saw me do.”

“Guess that’s against medical ethics or some such, right, Doc? Not to worry — we don’t tell tales out of school here at the sheriff’s office. Though... we are about to move on to my next question.”

Miller’s swollen eyes closed in anticipation of what pain and indignities were yet to come.

But Gauge merely leaned back against the edge of his desk, arms folded, casual, friendly, implying that no more punishment was coming, as long as the doctor continued to cooperate.

“Tell me, Doc — why did you sneak off and bury Old Swenson?”

Miller shook his head, an effort that clearly had a cost.

Gauge lurched forward and slammed a fist into the side of the doctor’s head. The doc’s mouth went slack and pink saliva drooled from pulverized lips barely recognizable as lips at all.

The doctor began to cry.

To sob.

At the little table, Maxwell was grinning like a kid at the circus while Colton started in with a high-pitched laugh, saying, “He’s bawlin’ like a little girl ! Like a damn girl !”

Gauge frowned over at his deputies, shaking his head a tad.

Then he resumed his questioning. “Doc, we got us a problem. Good as I am at this, when we get past a certain point? You’re gonna be the next one buried out there in the brush somewheres. You do follow?”

The doc swallowed thickly. Nodded sluggishly.

“Okay, then. Why the fuss over Swenson’s body?”

“I... I think you know why.”

“Let’s say I don’t.”

Again the doc swallowed, and he lifted his chin, as if inviting yet another blow. His speech became less halting as he summoned strength from somewhere.

“All right... I’ll tell you why... though as I say... you likely... likely know already.” He sighed, tremblingly. “Swenson came down with the pox not long before he died.”

The deputies at the table weren’t smiling now.

The doctor nodded his head back, indicating the two spectators. His mouth was trying to form something that might have been a smile.

“Your men handled the body, didn’t they, Sheriff? Was it these two?... I hope all of you know that you can get this unforgiving thing, too. Maybe... maybe it’s not such a good time to be murdering your town doctor.”

Maxwell and Colton were on their feet, wild-eyed, the latter reaching for his pistol.

But Gauge waved at them to sit back down, giving them a few shakes of the head and a skeptical expression that seemed to tell them not to worry about what the doctor had said.

Bending over, hands on his knees, the sheriff stared into the grotesque mask he’d created where the doc’s face used to be.

“Don’t try to rattle us, Doc. We’ve been around cows too long. We’ve seen the pox before.”

“Then... then you must’ve seen people die from it. And maybe... maybe this is your turn. At least, if that is the case? You fools won’t spread the infection any further.”

Gauge scowled and drew back his hand to slap the doc.

But their guest’s chin had dropped to his chest, the man finally unconscious. Not dead, still breathing. But out.

The door half-opened and Rhomer stuck his head in. “Harry... better step outside here a second.”

Gauge told the two deputies to leave the doc be, then stepped out.

On the porch, hands on hips, Gauge asked, “What’s going on?”

The deputy gestured all around. “See for yourself — not a damn thing is goin’ on, and that’s the point.”

Main Street did look strangely deserted.

Rhomer went on: “We got a stage due through here this afternoon, right? Stage comin’, every merchant in town is standin’ outside of his place of business with a big welcomin’ smile plastered on his puss, and the ladies’re all dressed up and lined along the boardwalk rails to see who new’s comin’ into town. Now... what do you see this mornin’, boss?”