Ralph Compton - Bullet for a Bad Man

‘‘I don’t recollect being asked.’’

‘‘You are not nearly as hilarious as you think you are.’’

‘‘I try.’’

‘‘Old Man Radler was right. You are not hard enough. And I don’t see you getting any harder.’’

Boone flicked his coiled rope at a bay that was inclined to dawdle. ‘‘Maybe I will surprise you.’’

‘‘You can fool the others but you can’t fool me or Old Man Radler,’’ Skelman said without looking at him.

‘‘I am not out to fool anyone. I am just me.’’

‘‘He tolerates you because of Drub. But he does not like you. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can be his friend, because you can’t. If he gets the hair, he will kill you, and you won’t see it coming.’’

‘‘Why are you telling me all this?’’

Skelman pulled the black brim of his hat low over his eyes. ‘‘After you get your cut, light a shuck. Everyone else will head off to seek entertainment. They will be back, but if you are smart you will never show your face in this part of the country ever again.’’

‘‘You didn’t answer me.’’

‘‘Don’t prod me.’’

Shimmering particles of dust settled over them. The horses were plodding dully along, heads drooping. They needed water and they needed graze and they needed both soon.

Skelman let out a sigh. ‘‘I have been at this a good long while and I aim to stay at it awhile more. Some might call me loco for liking to ride the owl-hoot trail, but it is in my blood. I like the killing more than anything. It is the one thing I am good at.’’

‘‘That is the first time I have heard you brag.’’

‘‘You have seen for yourself. Don’t accuse me when I am only stating fact.’’ Skelman raised his reins.

‘‘Now I have said my piece. Whether you take my advice or not is up to you.’’

‘‘You still haven’t told me why you went to this bother.’’

‘‘Use your head for something other than a hat rack. When the time comes, Old Man Radler might not do it himself. He might have one of the others do it. Or he might ask me.’’

‘‘I think I savvy.’’

‘‘At last.’’

‘‘You don’t want to have to kill me.’’

‘‘Damn, you are as stupid as Drub,’’ Skelman said, and rode off.

To Tree a Sawbones

Doc Baker was a kind man. Good and kind, everyone said. The salt of the earth and a blessing to the community, was the opinion of its churchgoing members. Everyone knew him or knew of him.

His snow-white hair and ever-present black bag were common sights in Tucson and along the dusty country roads and rutted tracks he traveled in his buggy day in and day out, year after year.

People liked to joke that Doc Baker had helped give birth to more babies than God. He had been there for half the mothers in the territory in their time of trial, and the ladies who benefited from his presence praised him to high heaven.

Doc Baker had stitched knife cuts and bandaged bullets wounds. He had treated bite marks and set practically every bone in the body that could be broken. And he always did his work with that warm smile of his, and always with a kind word for the stricken and afflicted.

He was a constant in their lives, like the sun and the moon. He was steady of mind and habit, a rock in a sea of life’s uncertainties, as dependable as a human being could be.

So when he started to change it was all the more startling.

Abby Harker out to the Harker Ranch was the first to notice. She was eight months along and sent for Doc Baker because of stomach discomfort she was having. She was outside taking a stroll when his familiar buggy came up the road. Some of the punchers waved, but Doc Baker did not wave back. He brought the buggy to a stop near the white picket fence and stiffly climbed down.

Abby hurried to greet him. ‘‘Than you for coming so quickly,’’ she began gratefully. She had more to say, but the sight of him so shocked her that she did not say it. Instead, she asked, ‘‘Are you all right?’’

Doc Baker pushed open the gate. He wore his usual suit and hat and had his black bag. But his face was unnaturally pale and slick with sweat, and he had dark rings under his eyes. ‘‘I am fine,’’ he said brusquely.

‘‘You don’t look fine.’’

Doc Baker motioned toward the house and she fell into step by his side. ‘‘I have been under the weather for the past week or so. Even doctors come down sick, you know.’’

‘‘What is wrong?’’

‘‘A touch of something or other.’’

Abby tried to make light of his pallor. ‘‘You a doctor and you don’t know what it is?’’

‘‘I have been a trifle restless and keep having headaches,’’ Doc Baker revealed. ‘‘Suppose you diagnose what I have.’’

‘‘Pshaw,’’ Abby said. ‘‘You are the doctor.’’

‘‘I trust you will remember that. It is probably the onset of a cold. I rarely get them, but when I do they tend to lay me low.’’

‘‘Try chicken soup,’’ Abby said. ‘‘A physician I know recommends it to all his patients.’’

‘‘If it is the physician I think it is, I wouldn’t listen to anything the old quack says.’’

They repaired to the privacy of Abby’s bedroom and Doc Baker took out his stethoscope and carefully examined her. He asked questions as he moved the stethoscope across her swollen belly and twice probed gently with his fingers. When he was done, he sat back on the stool.

‘‘If you were any healthier you would be a horse.’’

‘‘Thank you, I think,’’ Abby said as she did up her stays and buttons. ‘‘Why am I having so much discomfort?’’

‘‘There is bound to be some. Have you been taking the remedy I prescribed the last time I was here?’’

Abby went to a cabinet and brought over a large bottle. ‘‘See for yourself. It is almost empty.’’

A label on the bottle proclaimed that it was DR. KILMER’S FEMALE REMEDY. THE GREAT BLOOD PURIFIER AND SYSTEM REGULATOR. SYSTEM VITALIZER. IN-VIGORATOR. DESTROYER OF ALL KINDS OF BLOOD HUMORS. SPECIALLY ADAPTED TO FEMALE CONSTITUTION.

Doc Baker shook the bottle and said, ‘‘Yes, I can see that you have.’’ He handed it back. ‘‘What about your diet? Any peculiar cravings?’’

‘‘Just pickles.’’

‘‘That is normal. God knows why, but more women crave pickles when they are in your condition than anything else.’’

‘‘I like the big fat sour ones. I have my Tom bring me a dozen at a time when he goes into Tucson. Then I sit at the kitchen table and stuff myself. I dip them in mustard so it makes me pucker with each bite and—’’

‘‘Wait,’’ Doc Baker said. ‘‘You do what?’’

‘‘I dip the pickles in mustard. I have always been fond of mustard but not very fond of pickles, so I dip the pickles in the mustard to take away the taste of the pickles.’’

‘‘Land sakes, woman.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘You are lucky you have not exploded.’’ Doc Baker closed his black bag. ‘‘From now on eat the pickles alone or the mustard alone but do not mix them.’’

‘‘But my craving.’’

‘‘Then put up with the stomach discomfort and don’t send for me when there are people I must visit with real ailments.’’

‘‘Oh!’’ Abby said, putting her hands to her cheeks. ‘‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’’

Doc Baker pressed his hand to his own brow. ‘‘No. I am the one who is sorry. I should not be short with you. It is this infernal headache.’’

Abby walked him out and as he climbed into his buggy she said sincerely, ‘‘I hope you get to feeing better.’’

‘‘So do I,’’ Doc Baker said.

Four days later young Pedro Rodriquez was trying to bust a mustang, but the mustang busted him. It bucked him against the corral so hard he broke a rail and his leg and his family did not know what else, so they sent for Doc Baker. Although a gringo, Doc Baker was highly thought of by the Spanish-speaking segment of the citizenry. He treated everyone regardless of race or skin color. White, Mexican, black, it made no difference to him. He even treated the few Indians who came to him for help.