“I thought you were going to be at the office.”
“I was, but nobody was there,” she said. “Then I saw this, and I thought you should see it, too.”
“What’s that?”
She handed him a copy of the Hays City Gazette. In bold print, right on the first page, it read: dr. death comes to hays city.
“‘Dr. Death’?” Kincaid said.
“Read it.”
The story explained that Dr. Gabriel Kincaid had come to Hays City to work with Dr. Edwin, the town’s longtime physician, but it appeared the new doctor had other talents as well. It went on to describe the incident in the saloon, which ended with a man’s death at the hands of the new doctor.
“‘Perhaps Dr. Kincaid’s name should actually be Dr. Death,’” the story suggested.
“This is outrageous!” Kincaid exploded, throwing the newspaper down. “Who wrote this?”
“The editor of the newspaper himself,” Maggie said. “Apparently, he was in the saloon last night.”
“Well, I’m going to be giving him a piece of my mind!” Kincaid said, standing.
“How did it go with Doc?” Maggie asked. “Should you be leaving him?”
“It went fine,” he assured her. “He’s resting, and breathing better. I have to go to the sheriff’s office anyway, to make out a statement. Why don’t you stay here with Doc, and just keep an ear out in case he calls. And don’t let him get up by himself.”
“I won’t,” she said. “Gabriel . . . I’m sorry, you don’t deserve this.”
“I’m going to give that editor what he deserves!” he snapped.
He left the kitchen, then returned to pick up the newspaper and take it with him.
“Remember, don’t let him get up.”
He left the house and headed for the sheriff’s office.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
What the hell is this?” Kincaid demanded, dropping the newspaper onto Sheriff Llegg’s desk.
“As far as I could tell,” Llegg said, “it’s an eyewitness account of what happened last night. Mr. Carl Paris, the newspaper editor, was there, so he wrote it himself.”
“And this!” Kincaid pointed to the words dr. death! “Who’s idea was this?”
“His, I guess,” Llegg said. “He doesn’t check with me on what he writes.”
“Where do I find him?” Kincaid asked.
“In his office, probably,” Llegg said. “I’ll tell you where that is right after you finish your statement.” He took a sheet of paper and a pencil out of his desk drawer. “Just write it out, as it happened, and sign it.”
“And if it doesn’t match what’s in the newspaper?” Kincaid asked.
“That’s gonna be Mr. Paris’s, problem, ain’t it?” Llegg said.
Kincaid sat and started writing. When he was done he signed at the bottom and pushed it over to Llegg.
“Now, where do I find Mr. Paris?” he asked, picking up the copy of the Gazette.
Llegg crooked a finger at Kincaid and took him to the door. He opened it and pointed. Across the street was the office of the Hays City Gazette.
“There it is,” he said. “He should be in there now.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.”
“By the way, you missed Masterson. He was in earlier to write out his statement and then left town. He wanted me to tell you to keep playin’ poker.”
“I’m a doctor, damn it!” Kincaid said. “Not a gambler, or a gunman.”
He stepped out and marched across the street to the newspaper office. When he opened the door he kept himself from slamming it hard enough to break the glass. But it was enough to attract the attention of a man standing at a printing press. He had smudges of ink on his forehead, his chin, his fingers, and his white shirt.
“Help ya?” he asked.
“Are you Mr. Paris?”
“Not me,” the older man said. “He’s back in his office, thataway.”
“Thanks.”
Kincaid went to the back, down a hall to a closed door. Still angry, he opened the door without knocking. Instead of finding the editor hard at work on a story, the man seemed hard at work on a whiskey bottle.
“Are you Paris?” he demanded.
The man turned his chair, bottle in one hand, glass in the other, and asked, “Who’re you? You’re interruptin’ my breakfast.”
“I want to know how you can justify writing garbage like this,” Kincaid said, throwing the newspaper into the man’s lap.
“That garbage happens to be my livelihood. What do you do for a livin’?”
“I’m a physician!”
Paris, who appeared to be in his fifties, with thinning hair and obvious thinning eyesight, pulled his glasses down from his forehead and stared at Kincaid.
“It’s you,” he said. “You’re—”
“Don’t say it!” Kincaid said. “In fact, I want you to retract it in your next edition.”
“Retract . . . what?”
“The name, damn it! The name you’ve given me.”
“Name?” Paris repeated, frowning. “Oh, you mean Dr.—”
“Don’t say it!” Kincaid shouted. “Just retract it.”
“But why?” Paris asked. “It’s gonna make you famous.”
“For the wrong reason,” Kincaid pointed out. “I’m a doctor, not a gunman.”
“But you killed a man last night,” Paris said. “Everybody saw it. Me retracting the name now ain’t gonna change it. It’s gonna stick with you.”
“I don’t want it to stick with me,” Kincaid said. “I want it to go away.”
“You ain’t been out here long enough to know this, but names don’t go away.” He poured some whiskey into his glass. “You want a drink?”
“Whiskey for breakfast?” Kincaid said. “You’re going to kill yourself.”
“Sir, I am livin’ up to the great reputation of reporters and editors everywhere,” Paris said, and drained his glass.
“All right, so retracting the story won’t do any good,” Kincaid said. “Then I want you to interview me.”
“What?”
“Do an interview with me and put it on the front page.”
“And when would you like to do this interview?” Paris asked.
“Soon,” Kincaid said, “but on an afternoon when you’re not drunk.”
“Well,” Paris said, staring at Kincaid owlishly, “that leaves out this afternoon.”
* * *
* * *
When Kincaid got back to Doc Edwin’s house Maggie was sitting on the sofa.
“How is he?” he asked.
“Still asleep,” Maggie said. “His breathing sounds so much better, Gabriel. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” Kincaid said. “All we can do is manage the situation, we can’t reverse it.”
“So he’s going to keep getting fluid in his lungs?”
“And I’ll have to keep draining it out.”
“How long can he stand that?”
“I don’t know,” Kincaid said. “We’re going to find that out.”
“What were you doing this morning?” she asked.
“I went to see the sheriff, and then the editor of the newspaper.”
“Paris,” she said. “Was he drunk?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say he would retract the story?”
“No,” Kincaid said, “but I got him to agree to interview me, so I can set the record straight.”
“And when’s he going to do that?”
“The first afternoon he’s sober.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Then it may never happen,” she told him.
“Look, I came back to get my bag, and then I’m going to the office,” Kincaid said. “You keep an eye on hi
m.”
“I will.”
“When he wakes up, if he wants to get out of bed, help him. Don’t take no for an answer. Then give him this.” He took something from his bag and handed it to her.
“What is it?”
“Green tea,” Kincaid said. “It’ll help with the fluid buildup.”
“How often are you going to have to drain his lungs?” she asked.
“That remains to be seen,” Kincaid said. “Let’s both listen to his breathing, and we’ll see.”
“All right, Gabriel,” she said, standing up. “Have I told you that I’m glad you’re here?”
“Thank you, Maggie. I’ll be home for supper.”
“What about lunch?”
“I’ll find something,” he said, heading for the door.
“Go to the Sunflower Café,” she called out to him. “Tell them I sent you.”
He waved behind him and went out the door.
* * *
* * *
It turned out to be a good day. The patients who stayed for treatment by Kincaid outnumbered those who left when they saw that Doc Edwin wasn’t there. He discovered that a good number of the patients came from outside of town. Those patients hadn’t read the newspaper, but the ones from inside town had.
He was called “Dr. Death” several times: once by a man, once by a woman, and once by a child. He corrected them all by saying, “I’m Dr. Kincaid.” He controlled his anger because it wasn’t their fault, it was the fault of the damn newspaper editor.
When he walked to the Sunflower Café for lunch and dropped Maggie’s name they treated him very well. The middle-aged waitress named Kate served him with a smile, talked about what a wonderful “girl” Maggie was, called him “Doctor,” and never mentioned the newspaper story. He had a chicken sandwich and coffee, and went back to work.
* * *
* * *
The afternoon was slow, and he closed the office an hour early then headed back to Doc Edwin’s house. When he got there the old sawbones was sitting on the porch. Thankfully, he did not have a cigar in his hand, but there was an empty whiskey glass next to him.
“One drink,” he said, as Kincaid stepped up on the porch, “that’s all I had, and it wasn’t full.”
“And a cigar?”
“Later tonight,” Edwin said. “I’m going to start having just one a night, after dinner.”
“Even that—”
Edwin put a shaky hand up to quiet him.
“Let me take baby steps, Doctor,” he said. “Maggie’s gettin’ supper ready. Seems she had an idea you’d be back early.”
“Stay where you are,” Kincaid said. “I’ll come and get you when it’s ready.”
Edwin nodded, put his head back, and closed his eyes.
Kincaid entered the house and went to the kitchen.
“Glad to see you’re early, Gabriel,” Maggie said. “Supper’s almost ready. Get yourself washed up. You can use the pump in the sink, here, instead of going out back.”
“Thank you, Maggie.”
He washed his face and hands in the sink, then went to his room to change his clothes. When he came out she was setting plates down on the table.
“You wanna go out and get Doc?” she said.
He nodded, went back to the porch. Doc Edwin’s eyes were still closed, and his breathing was so easy for a moment Kincaid was afraid he wasn’t breathing at all. But then he saw the doc’s sunken chest rising and falling.
“Time for supper, Doc,” he said.
Edwin opened his eyes and said, “Give me a hand up?”
Kincaid helped the old man to his feet, and they walked into the house together.
* * *
* * *
Over supper Kincaid and Maggie told Doc Edwin the “Dr. Death” story for the first time.
“That idiot Paris,” Doc said. “He’s gonna end up gettin’ you killed.”
Kincaid told Doc about his plan to do an interview to hopefully make his position clear.
“Paris is right about one thing,” Doc Edwin said.
“What’s that?” Kincaid asked.
“Names like that stick,” Edwin said, “they don’t go away. You can say what you want in an interview, but if you never pick up a gun again, never kill another man, you’re still gonna be Dr. Death.”
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind when I came out here,” Kincaid complained.
“Well, you’re not exactly what I had in mind when I put that ad in the papers,” Doc Edwin said. “Looks like we both got surprised.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Two Months Later . . .
As Kincaid walked to Doc Edwin’s house from the office he exchanged greetings, head bobs, and smiles with people along the way. The townsfolk of Hays City had started to come around and accept him as Doc Edwin’s “assistant.” That was a good start toward ultimately being accepted as a doctor.
When people from out of town rode in from their farm or ranch to see a physician they still expected to be able to see Doc Edwin. It would take a while longer for Kincaid to be fully accepted.
The “Dr. Death” story in the Hays City Gazette had been no help to him. What the editor, sheriff, and Doc Edwin had said about the name sticking turned out to be true. Although the Gazette had printed an interview with Kincaid, in which he tried to put that name to rest by talking about his plans to bring new medical procedures to Hays City, it hadn’t made the least bit of difference.
But even with the “Dr. Death” name sticking to him, so far no one had come to town wanting to make him earn the name.
He had, however, given in to the point of buying a gun. He went to the local gunsmith shop and bought a fairly well-used Colt Peacemaker. Remembering the gun Bat Masterson had loaned him, he had the man cut the barrel shorter. Now, if the need arose, he could carry it in his bag, or on his person, without a telltale bulge.
Doc Edwin’s knee had healed well enough that the man started going into the office three days a week. On those days he and Kincaid would be together. The other days, Kincaid would man the office either alone, or with Maggie, depending on how many patients they knew they were going to have.
As for the fluid in Doc’s lungs, Kincaid had drained it four times in two months. Whenever he stood in Doc’s doorway, listening to his breathing while he was asleep, and heard the fluid again, he’d do it the next morning. That usually kept Doc home that day, with Maggie looking after him.
Doc Edwin remained curmudgeonly and cranky, which was probably pretty normal for an eighty-year-old man. Kincaid still called him “Doc” while Edwin referred to him as “Dr. Kincaid.” No first names. Maggie, on the other hand, continued to refer to Edwin as “Doc” but was now pretty used to calling Kincaid “Gabriel.”
Walking from the office to the house on that day, two months since his arrival in Hays City, Kincaid was thinking it was time to get his own place. He just needed a full day to look around town for one.
When he got to the house Edwin was on the porch, the ever-present shot glass next to him, empty. Kincaid had just drained his lungs again that morning.
“How you feeling, Doc?” he asked.
“Better,” the old sawbones said. “As usual, after you get that dung outta my lungs.”
“Did you drink the green tea?” he asked, sitting down next to Doc.
“Maggie made it for me.”
“Did you drink it?”
Edwin scowled and said, “Some.”
“You have to drink it all,” Kincaid said.
“Ain’t there somethin’ else I can drink?”
“Right now all we know is that there’s something in the green tea that might help.”
“You hear that from that witch?”
“Nora’s not a witch,” Kincaid said. “Her apothecar
y has a lot of new medications that can be helpful.”
“Goddamned tea ain’t a medication,” Edwin pointed out. “It’s goddamned tea!”
“Well,” Kincaid said, “maybe I’ll tell Maggie to put a little whiskey in it.”
“Now yer talkin’!” Doc Edwin said. “Patients today?”
“Not many,” Kincaid said.
“How are the folks in town treatin’ ya?”
“Better and better.”
“You got yerself a woman yet?”
“That hasn’t been at the top of my list,” Kincaid admitted.
“Maggie wants to get you married off,” Edwin said. “She’s plannin’ on introducin’ you to some of her friends.”
“We’ll have to see about that,” Kincaid said, standing up. “I’ve got to get cleaned up. I’ll come and get you when supper’s ready.”
“You do that.”
Kincaid went into the house, dropped his medical bag off in his room, and went into the kitchen to greet Maggie and wash up. It had become habit, now, that he used the pump in the sink and only went out back to use the outhouse. His real reason for wanting to get his own place was to find something with indoor facilities. He felt he had learned enough not to have to live with Doc Edwin and Maggie anymore. The rest of what he needed to know would be learned during the course of each day.
“Hello, Maggie,” he said, on his way to the sink.
“Good evening, Gabriel. You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Good. I made a lot tonight. Have you noticed Doc’s appetite is returning?”
“I have noticed that,” he said, drying his hands.
“You’ve been really good for him, in more ways than one.”
“Have I?”
“You know you have,” she said. “He can breathe more easy, he’s eating more, resting more . . . and he likes you.”
“Does he?”
“He doesn’t like many people,” she said, “but he likes me, and now he likes you.”
“But he’ll never admit it, right?”
“Of course not,” she said. She turned around, holding a large pot in both hands. “Would you go and get him and tell him supper’s ready? Chili, his favorite.”
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