CHAPTER NINETEEN
The sickly journalist flipped a page in his notebook and scribbled a few more words before he looked up from the desk in the Montana Post office and studied Seth Beckstead intently.
“You walked all the way down from the slide rock?” Thomas Dimsdale hailed from England. Beckstead had figured that much out.
“No, I guess a couple of miles down from there. That’s where they picked up two other men and a woman, turned the stagecoach around, and loped off for Bannack City. And I never saw anything resembling a slide rock.”
The Irish printer, also captivated by Beckstead’s truthful account of the lynching of those two criminals, chuckled. “Because it took its name after a miner slipped on ice and rolled down thirty feet. That was back in ’63.”
Beckstead sighed. “I just want to find the marshal’s office to report this crime. The first person I asked when I arrived in this city, sent me up the hill to a graveyard. There was no marshal’s office or jail there.”
Dimsdale’s eyes twinkled and he said, “Someone played a joke on you, sir, I am afraid to report.”
“That’s where most of our hangings happen,” the printer informed him. “And our municipal lawmen, Marshal Deascey or his assistant, Lewis, would tell you they have no jurisdiction outside the city limits.”
“The next man,” Beckstead lamented, as if he had not heard the printer, “sent me some blocks over to a shack—I dare not call it a house, not even a toilet—a house . . . that stood in the middle . . . of the blasted street.”
“We are trying to get most of those houses removed,” the editor said.
Of course, another joke. Have fun at a journeyman from Maryland’s expense. He had experienced similar attempts at frontier humor in Salt Lake, Corrine, and, especially, Bannack City.
Beckstead sat up straight, demanding, “Who is sheriff of this county?”
“That would be Neil Howie.” Dimsdale added in disgust. “A rough Scotsman.”
“And where might I find him?”
“Our capital.”
Beckstead stressed every word, speaking deliberately, while blood rushed to his head. “This is the capital of Montana Territory, sir.”
“I meant our nation’s capital, sir. Washington City. Most of our politicians and elected officials went there. To lobby for statehood.”
Trying to breathe steadily, to avoid dropping dead from an apoplexy, Beckstead clenched and unclenched his fists, rocked back in the chair, gently. Statehood. Like this nightmare of crime and regulators ever had any chance of becoming a state.
“Howie wouldn’t have helped you anyhow, me boy.” The Irishman screwed off the top of a flask. “Vigilantes are pretty much his deputies, even when he doesn’t give them orders. Besides, he gave a scoundrel named Tweed fifty lashes back in March—took quite a few vigilantes with him. Told him he had ten days to get out of Alder Gulch or he would get a hundred. And if he had not vanished by then, they’d hang him. Am I right or wrong, Tom?”
“I rode up there with them,” Dimsdale said. “Tweed left, of course.”
Refusing to give in to these ruffians, Beckstead tried another approach. “How about the United States marshal?”
Dimsdale and the printer exchanged looks. “You mean George Pinney?”
“If he has been appointed United States marshal, yes, I mean George Pinney.”
“Lincoln, God rest his soul, made the appointment,” the journalist affirmed.
“Then could you direct me to the territorial capitol? Or wherever I might find Marshal Pinney.”
The newspaper editor coughed, laughed, and shook his head. “Bless you, Dr. Beckstead, but the good citizens of this city, and this territory, have yet to build a capitol or courthouse or any official government building. We have plotted out a good spot for the capitol.”
“Good-size chunk of land,” the printer said. “Lot of baseball games been played over there in the summer.”
Beckstead stared in disbelief.
“Let’s see, the territorial legislature usually meets above a billiard hall, but which billiard hall, it just depends. The last time the House met, I believe that was on the second story of Stonewall Hall.” He rubbed his chin as if in thought. “There has been talk of constructing a county courthouse,” Dimsdale added. “But courts usually are held inside a saloon. Drinks aren’t served, of course. Till after a verdict has been reached.”
“They ever figure out where to store all those records that got sent up here after they moved the capital from Bannack?”
Dimsdale straightened and scribbled something on the top of his notepad. “That might be worth reporting,” he said. “Thank you for the idea, Patrick.”
The printer drank from his flask.
“But what about Marshal Finney?”
“Pinney,” the Irishman corrected.
Dimsdale was already shaking his head when, with a wry smile, he looked up from his notebook. When he opened his mouth, Beckstead beat him to the answer. “Washington City.”
“He is a man with ambition,” Dimsdale said.
“He doesn’t spend much time here anyhow. Leaves that to Howie, his deputy marshal here. Pinney’s a Helena man. Works out of Butte, mostly, but that’s because it’s closer to here and Helena. Helena’s the big to-do right now because of the strike at Last Chance Gulch.” He held up a smeared piece of newspaper. “You can read about it Saturday.”
“I can hardly wait.” The doctor bowed his head.
How long he sat like that, he did not know, but he smelled pipe smoke and felt a shadow over him.
“Sir, you are new to this territory, as was I when I first arrived,” Dimsdale said. “But this is, and will be, a vibrant community. Virginia City is the center of wealth, population, and intelligence of the territory.”
“You should write that in your paper, sir.”
The man patted Beckstead’s forearm. “I did. Back in February when the capital was moved from Bannack. Now, might I ask you a question?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “What brought you from Baltimore, Maryland, to the wilds of Montana?”
“To save lives,” he said sadly.
“Noble. And needed. And why did you choose our humble burg?”
“When I reached Bannack City and saw how deserted the town was, the citizens said Virginia City could use a man with my abilities. Abilities.” He spat out the word. “Oh, yes, I have refined certainly one of my abilities.”
“We have a number of doctors across the Fourteen Mile City already, I am afraid to report, sir,” Dimsdale said. “Oh, I mean not to insinuate that the residents of Bannack sent you here as another one of their larks. More than likely, they thought we could use another surgeon. Last year, this city boasted five thousand residents, with another five thousand in the other camps in the Fourteen Mile City. But now, what with Helena booming and the strike at Emigrant Gulch, we have lost more than our share of settlers.”
“Most of them, I hope, have been doctors,” Beckstead said.
“Good show, lad. A jolly wit. You will do well in our town, sir. And, I will affirm, that some practitioners of the Hippocratic oath have removed their shingles and bid adieu. Let’s see, off the top of my head, Tibbetts, he’s our undertaker. Cornell, he sets bones quite well—good to know in this town. Dr. Turner prefers horses. I don’t mean to say he is a veterinarian, but he likes to race horses. Rarely will one find him in his office. F. V. P. Moore practices next to Clayton & Hale’s Drug Store. You might visit A. L. Justice, who offices next door to the City Drug Store on this street. His partner, Mr. Crepin, left recently for . . . sadly, I report, Helena. They advertised regularly, and, lucky for me, Dr. Justice continues to advertise his services in the Post. But I should think Dr. Sparhan would be the doctor in most need of a partner. Where is he now, Patrick?”
The printer replied with a snort: “Champion Saloon on Jackson Street.”
Shaking his head, Dimsdale sighed. “Alas, Patrick is not merely attempting a witti
cism. My recommendation, Dr. Beckstead, would be to seek out a doctor that needs a partner. Share expenses. And profits. Two is more powerful than one, and Dr. Justice still advertises in the Post, even without Mr. Crepin to help with the rates. Now, I would like more information about these brigands who attempted to rob the Holladay stage . . .”
Beckstead told them what he could, and that proved to be a wise choice. Because when Professor Thomas Dimsdale said he would take a wagon up to the slide rock with some of the vigilantes, he asked if there were anything Beckstead might have left behind that he would like conveyed back to Virginia City. So . . . Beckstead mentioned some clothes and equipment in the back of a photographers van.
“Delighted to assist you, lad.” The editor started again, but a ravaging cough ended the conversation.
“Might I assist you?” Beckstead asked when the spell ceased. He saw the flecks of blood on the editor’s lips, chin, and handkerchief.
Dimsdale’s eyes saddened as he shook his head. “I am afraid not, Dr. Beckstead. My next doctor shall be our good Dr. Tibbetts.”
The mortician.
“You can bunk with me, Doc,” Patrick the printer said. “I’m at the Weston Hotel. I’ll tell the landlord that you’re my bunky till you find another place.” He sipped from the flask. “Your share of the rent will be ten dollars. A month.”
As Beckstead walked toward the front door, he began, facetiously, to figure out how much he would have to charge for . . . leg amputations . . . arm amputations . . . probing for bullets, canister . . . cleansing bayonet wounds . . . telling the orderly to put the soldier by that tree and bring in someone who wasn’t mortally wounded. It wasn’t until he reached the door, that he remembered.
Turning, he asked Professor Dimsdale, “Sir, would you by chance know where I might find the residence of Missus Ellen Story?”
The journalist lowered the handkerchief. The printer turned and began cleaning the ink off his fingers with a rag.
“You . . .” Suspicion vanished from Dimsdale’s face. “Of course, of course, but Nelson would have asked you to check on his wife.”
Nelson Story wasn’t the only person who asked, Beckstead remembered. The man Story mockingly called his “ward,” the dark-haired lad named . . . what was it? Boone. Of course, like Daniel Boone, but not Daniel. Mason Boone. That man had pulled Beckstead aside; in fact, Mason Boone had asked before the woman’s husband had.
He pushed prurient thoughts to the back of his head and listened as Dimsdale continued.
“Patrick, would you be a good lad and take Dr. Beckstead over to the Story cabin? I would . . . but this cold, the snow, and my lungs are just not worth a farthing at the moment.”
“That shall be a pleasure, Professor. Come along, Doc. I’ll point out Doc Justice’s place, too, and show you which way to go down Jackson Street to find the Champion Saloon where Doc Sparhan is likely pissing out forty-rod, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The last thing Ellen Story wanted this evening was a visitor, but she left Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary on the table, pulled on her slippers, and crossed the cabin. Before opening the door, she slipped on an overcoat and pulled it as tightly as she could to cover her growing belly.
“Good evening, Missus Story.” A tall, dark-haired gentleman removed his hat in one hand and presented a card in the other. “I am Dr. Seth Beckstead, and I met your husband on the trail. He requested that I drop by and see how you are doing.”
He seemed to be pleasant enough. She saw the black satchel and a rectangular wooden box of red resting by his worn shoes.
“Ah.” She smiled, took his card but did not look at it. “You are that doctor.”
The man blinked, and straightened, and finally shook his head and sighed. “I was told the newspaper would not be printed until Saturday.”
“There are no secrets in Virginia City, sir. Won’t you come inside?”
Closing the door, she offered him Nelson’s chair, while she dropped the business card on the table and settled onto the chaise.
“Would you care for coffee, Dr. Beckstead?”
“No, thank you.” He set the red box on the floor, but kept the black valise on his lap. He pursed his lips, locked his fingers together, unlocked them, and cleared his throat. “Exactly what did you hear about me, Missus Story?”
“That you were involved in a wreck at the slide rock. That you helped thwart a daring attempt at robbing the Holladay stage . . . and then walked . . . walked all the way from the slide rock to town. In the snow. That you are a man of gumption.”
He wet his lips, rubbed his hands on his trousers, and looked at her with the innocence of a child. “You heard all of that?”
Ellen laughed. “Well, Doctor, I made up part of it.” When his eyes dropped, she added: “But not the part about gumption. I should apologize for Nelson’s rudeness, but if I did that, I would have no time to bake pies and clean the cabin. He is a hard man, as you know, but he could have and should have returned to Virginia City to report the robbery attempt himself. He’s in a hurry.” She sighed. “He is often in a hurry.”
“The walk provided good exercise, ma’am.”
“It could well have provided you with double pneumonia, sir. I noticed your limp, too, when you came inside.”
“The limp came from the accident, Missus Story, and blame for the accident rests on me.”
“A Good Samaritan would have driven you into town, sir.”
“Spilt milk. I am here. I am healthy. And I am at your service.”
“Bully for you, Doctor.”
He wet his lips again. She thought she should get him coffee, or water, or brew tea, but that would mean she would have to stand.
“Well,” he said.
“Well,” she said to fill the lengthening pause.
“Your husband, ma’am, he asked me to check on you, but did not give me any particulars. I do not mean to pry, Missus Story, but . . . are you of need of a doctor’s services?”
“I am with child.”
He paled. Slid back into the chair. His lips parted, closed, and he ran his fingers through his hair.
“I have arranged services of a midwife when the time comes, Doctor. Miss Papadakis. She is Greek.”
“I see. I’m sure you will be in capable hands.” He swallowed. “And how far along are you?”
She grinned. “Not as far as from slide rock to town . . .” Waited for his smile, which she liked very much. He reminded her, strangely enough, of Mason Boone. “More like from here to Jackson Street.”
“Oh. That soon.”
“You know where Jackson Street is? And you just arrived in town today? You are a fast learner, Doctor.”
“The street was pointed out to me by the man—a printer at the Post—who gave me directions to your home.”
“Ah, Mr. Walsh.”
“I did not know his surname.” He laughed. “And we are to be bunkmates for a while. Odd.” He stared at the ceiling. “A man offers me lodging—to split the rent, of course—and yet he never even introduces himself. I only know his Christian name because Mr. Dimsdale addressed him as such. He knows nothing about me, except that I claim to be a doctor, and yet he agrees to let me share his hotel room. Odd.”
“Welcome to the West, sir.”
When he looked at her again, she asked, “Are you a doctor?”
He seemed taken aback. “You said you claim to be a doctor.”
“Well. Oh. Yes. I see your point. Yes, no, yes, I am a doctor. Graduate of the University of Maryland School of Medicine. Class of 1859. What I meant was that a man could have claimed anything, that I was a remittance man from Liverpool, that I was an investor from Philadelphia, that I . . . But . . . well, Missus Story . . . let me . . . I assure you . . .”
Her laughter cut him off. “Doctor, I jest. I never doubted your credentials. And Nelson would not have sent a remittance man or investor to check on my needs.”
Finally, after a heavy sigh, he smiled.
> “That’s better.”
“Do you have a doctor, ma’am? Not for your . . . your . . . well, as you know . . . a midwife, an experienced midwife, will be valuable to you. But . . . in other cases. I’m . . .”
“Nelson and I have been seeing Dr. Crepin.”
“Oh.” His eyes narrowed as though he wanted to remember.
She helped him along. “But he has left our town for Helena.”
“That’s right.” Excitement filled his voice.
“I supposed Nelson would choose our next doctor,” she said. “Although he detests doctors. Refuses to see them. Mostly because he is such a skinflint. But, it is for him to say who will be our doctor of choice.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose . . .”
“On the other hand, Dr. Beckstead, I believe he has already made that choice.”
His head bobbed. “Dr. Justice, I presume. Dr. Crepin’s former partner.”
“No, Doctor. He sent you to see me. The way I read that, is that he has chosen you, sir.”
“Me?”
“You are a man of gumption.”
“I don’t think so, ma’am.”
“From the stories I have heard today, while selling my pies, you stood up to Nelson. Not many men have enough gumption to do that.”
“I did not win my case.”
“There are not many men who do that, either, sir. Not against my husband.” A sharp twinge caused her to straighten and clutch her stomach.
“Missus Story?”
Her eyes were closed, but she answered, “I am all right.” The voice was tight, and she did not know if he even heard her.
A moment later, she found him on his knees in front of the chaise, stethoscope in his hand, looking up at her.
“Let me listen, ma’am,” he said. “If you would unfasten your coat. This will not hurt in the least, and I will not invade any of your privacy, ma’am. I can listen through your clothing. If you are uncomfortable with any of this, I can find Miss Papadakis if you would just tell me where she lives.”
* * *
He had the kindest touch, but she saw him blushing all the while he listened with the device.
A Thousand Texas Longhorns Page 11
