Ralph Compton Frontier Medicine

by Robert J. Randisi

  “You’re Dr. Kincaid?” the man asked.

  “That’s right. And you?”

  “Mayor Michael Linder,” the fiftyish man said. “I’m looking for my sheriff. He was one of your patients.”

  Kincaid took the badge from his pocket and held it out to the mayor.

  “He’s the only one we lost,” he said, as the mayor took the badge.

  “What? How?”

  “Some preexisting condition,” Kincaid said. “It’ll take an autopsy to determine exactly what.”

  “Can you do it?” the mayor asked.

  “I’m a physician, not a pathologist.”

  “Then where do we get it done?”

  “You can send the body to Kansas City,” Kincaid said, “or request a pathologist from Kansas City come here.”

  “Why did you have his badge?”

  “I borrowed it.”

  The mayor looked at the piece of tin, then at Kincaid and the gun in his belt.

  “They say you’re good with a gun,” the mayor said. “Can you take the job until I appoint someone?”

  “Oh no,” Kincaid said. “I’ve got a job to do. You’d better appoint someone real soon.”

  The mayor closed his fist around the badge.

  “I’ll send some boys over to take the body to the undertaker’s,” he said.

  “Good.”

  He turned to leave, then turned back.

  “Thanks for everything you did, Doc.”

  “It was my job,” Kincaid said.

  The mayor nodded and left.

  * * *

  * * *

  Early the following morning, after the last patient walked out of the church—the children with their mother or father—Kincaid accompanied both Nora and Maggie back to Hays City. Riding alongside Maggie’s buggy, which used to be Doc Edwin’s, they dropped Nora at her place first, then he rode with Maggie to Doc Edwin’s old house, which was also now hers.

  “Do you want to come in for something to eat?” she asked him.

  “No thanks, Maggie,” he said. “I’m going to get some sleep before somebody else comes up with an emergency.”

  “I haven’t seen much of you lately, Gabriel,” she said. “Come for supper soon.”

  “I will,” he promised. But he knew it depressed both of them to sit in that kitchen and eat without Doc Edwin. “Better still,” he added, “I’ll take you out to supper one night.”

  That brightened her face and she said, “That’d be nice. Let me know when.”

  “Sure thing.”

  He turned his horse and rode back to town. First he went to the livery to leave his horse, then started walking to his place above the Sunflower. Before he got to his street he found his way barred by two men. Both had guns in their belts.

  “We hear you’re the doc,” one said.

  “That’s right.”

  “You don’t look so good,” the second man said. “Seems to me a doctor oughtta take better care of himself.”

  “It’s been a long week,” Kincaid said. “If you fellas want to come and see me in my office, I’d suggest tomorrow morning. Unless it’s an emergency, but you both look fine . . .”

  “But we ain’t, Doc,” the first man said. “We ain’t fine, at all.”

  Kincaid studied both men. They were in their twenties. The men who were coming after him these days were all ages, and all looking for the same thing: a reputation. And they all assumed he was easier pickings than the Wyatt Earps and the Bat Mastersons.

  “But it ain’t you with your black medical bag we need, Doc,” the second man said. “It’s you and your gun.”

  “Look, I’m a little tired . . . in fact, I’m a lot tired. Why don’t I accommodate you on another day.”

  “But this is the day we pick, Doc,” the first one said. “Today’s the day.”

  “I guess you boys have been waiting for me to get back to town.”

  “You got that right, Doc,” the second man said.

  “So I guess you’re going to want to do this one at a time, huh?” Kincaid asked.

  “Oh no, Doc,” the first man said. “We’re a package. You’re gonna have to face us both.”

  “And you think you’ll earn a reputation, two against one?” Kincaid asked.

  People had crossed over and gathered across the street, because they saw what was happening.

  “We got plenty of witnesses that’ll say it was a fair fight, Doc,” the second one said. “That’s all that matters.”

  A man came out of the crowd and crossed the street. He had his gun in his hand.

  “You boys just stand still,” Sheriff Llegg said.

  The young men looked over at him.

  “This is a fair fight, Sheriff,” the first one said. “You got no right—”

  “Shut up, you young fool. What’s your name?”

  “Patrick Wood,” the first one said.

  “And you?” Llegg asked the other.

  “Harlan Wilkes.”

  “I’ve never heard of either one of you,” Llegg said.

  “You’ll know us after today,” Wood said.

  “Nobody’s gonna know you after today,” Llegg said. “Take your guns out slow and drop ’em in this horse trough.”

  “What?” Patrick Wood said.

  “In the water?” Wilkes said. “That’ll ruin ’em.”

  “Only if we leave them there long enough,” Llegg said. “You both are gonna come to my office with me for a little talk. Then you can come back here and fish ’em out.”

  “Sheriff—”

  “Do it! With your fingertips.”

  The two men reluctantly drew their guns out of their belts and dropped them into the water.

  Jack Llegg looked at Kincaid.

  “Heard it was a few tense days for you over in Craddock,” he said.

  “You don’t know how tense,” Kincaid said.

  “Well, go get some sleep,” the lawman said. “I’ll see to it that these two idiots don’t wake you.”

  “Much obliged, Jack.”

  “You boys start walkin’ that way,” Llegg said, gesturing with his gun.

  The crowd across the street began to disperse. Most of them looked disappointed that there hadn’t been any action.

  Kincaid continued his walk home.

  * * *

  * * *

  He slept like a log for hours, woke when it was dark out. He rose, made some coffee and drank it looking out the front window. Now he owed Jack Llegg. They were taking turns owing each other favors, and had become friends while doing it. He nursed the lawman back to health when he needed it—anything from a cold to the one time he was shot—and Llegg kept him from getting shot, or from shooting someone else, unless it was unavoidable.

  Because on occasion he was forced to use his gun, he had stopped reading the Gazette. The editor, Carl Paris, reveled in exaggerating. Kincaid tried his best to give the man nothing to write about. Maybe he’d write about the past three days, but Kincaid doubted it. It wasn’t violent enough for him.

  He poured a second cup of coffee and thought about the sheriff in Craddock. He felt bad about losing him, but thank God he hadn’t lost anyone else, especially not a child.

  He was hungry, and knew the Sunflower would still be open, but he didn’t want a big meal, or a long conversation with Kate. So he decided to go over to the Silver Dollar Saloon, where sometimes they had sandwiches or hardboiled eggs.

  * * *

  * * *

  He was sitting at a table, eating three hardboiled eggs and washing them down with beer when someone appeared at his elbow.

  “Thought I’d stop and say hi.”

  He looked up, saw Bat Masterson standing there.

  “Bat! How are you?”

>   “The question is, Doc,” Masterson said, “how are you? Mind if I sit?”

  “No, go ahead,” Kincaid said.

  Masterson sat across from him. He was wearing an expensive black suit and bowler, a tie with a diamond stickpin in it, and cuff links to match.

  “I hear you’ve had an interesting year since you got here,” Masterson said.

  “I’ve had my ups and downs. You want a beer?”

  “Sure.”

  Kincaid waved to a saloon girl and she brought two beers over.

  “Thanks, Candy.”

  “Sure, Doc.”

  They watched her walk away until she melted into the crowd. The Silver Dollar was doing its usual business.

  “Playing poker, Bat?” Kincaid asked.

  “I was. I took a break to come and say hello. I understand you got yourself quite a reputation since I saw you last.”

  “Not my fault.”

  “I guess it was mine, for loanin’ you my gun,” Masterson said. “But if I hadn’t, you might be dead now.”

  “Not your fault,” Kincaid said. “It’s the damned newspaper editor here.”

  “Ah,” Masterson said, “the one who called you . . . that name.”

  “Right.”

  “That’s a hard thing to get rid of,” Masterson said. “And then you have to defend it.”

  “And I have,” Kincaid said. “When there’s been no other choice.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Have you?”

  Masterson nodded.

  “Every time. Word gets around.”

  “What are you doing back in Hays City, Bat?” Kincaid asked.

  “Passin’ through,” Masterson said. “On my way to Dodge. Just to have a look-see.”

  “Ah.”

  “Heard you had a tough week in Craddock.”

  “It was tense,” Kincaid said, “but we came through it all right.”

  “That’s good.”

  Kincaid finished the last of his eggs, washed them down.

  “You think you’re going to settle in Dodge again?” Kincaid asked.

  “No,” Masterson said. “I like Denver too much. Like I said, just takin’ a look. I actually stopped here to see you.”

  “Me?” Kincaid said. “What for? Got an ailment?”

  “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You came here to be a doctor,” Masterson said. “You ended up bein’ somethin’ else. Maybe, if I’d handled things different back then, maybe took care of the guy myself—”

  “Whoa, Bat,” Kincaid said. “My problems are my own doing. I appreciate your concern but . . . we’re not even friends.”

  “Really? I thought we were. We played poker together.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Sometimes that’s all it takes,” Masterson went on. “If you don’t want to be friends, just say so.”

  “That’s not it,” Kincaid said. “I’d be honored to be considered your friend.”

  “Well, there you go, then,” Masterson said. “That’s all it took.” Masterson finished his beer. “I wish we had time to play some poker, but I’m pullin’ out tomorrow. Maybe on my way back.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “Before I go,” Masterson said, “let me see your gun.”

  “My gun?”

  Masterson put his hand out. Kincaid took the gun from his belt and handed it over.

  “It’s a good one,” he said, hefting it. “Reminds me of mine.”

  “I know,” Kincaid said, “I remembered what yours was like.”

  Masterson held the gun out to return it. But when Kincaid reached for it, he snapped it back.

  “Doc,” he said, “don’t ever give up your gun, especially if somebody just asks for it. I could’ve used it to shoot you dead.”

  “Like you said, Bat,” Kincaid replied, “we’re friends.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Masterson said. He indicated the medical bag on one of the other chairs. “That bag is gonna keep other people alive. This gun is gonna keep you alive. Understand?”

  “Yes, Bat,” Kincaid said, “I understand.”

  The man handed the gun back, and Kincaid tucked it into his belt.

  “You know, you might want to get one of these,” Masterson said, drawing back his jacket to reveal a shoulder holster.

  “Isn’t it hard to draw from there?” Kincaid asked.

  “You could buy a hip holster, or keep carryin’ it in your belt, but when people see your gun, it’s often an invitation to try and get you to use it. In a shoulder rig it doesn’t invite trouble, but it’s available if you need it.”

  “I understand.”

  “Tell me, Doc,” Masterson asked, “how many men have you actually killed face-to-face?”

  “I believe it’s five,” Kincaid said. “And always against my will. That’s probably not very many, to you.”

  Bat Masterson laughed.

  “Do you know how many I’ve killed in a so-called fair fight? I get credit for twenty-six. I’ve actually killed one.”

  “What? Where? How?”

  “I had a little difficulty with some soldiers,” Masterson went on, “but one of them shot me and shattered my hip. I killed him, shooting from flat on my back. That was in Sweetwater, Texas, in 1876.”

  Masterson stood up.

  “Everything else you hear about me is bull crap,” he said. “But yes, there are times when you have no choice. But keep those times few, Doc. You’re not a man who should be killed with a bullet.”

  As Masterson left, Kincaid had the feeling that he had come to Hays City specifically to tell him that.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Bat Masterson was gone the next day.

  The legend had come into Kincaid’s life on two occasions, and each time had made an impact. He probably owed the man a debt of gratitude for still being alive, as well as staying alive in the future. The man’s advice was priceless, as was his friendship.

  Kincaid was sitting in the office the next day, having had no patients the first two hours. When he was there he tended to keep the gun in his bag. Then, when he went out, he’d move it to his belt. He did just that now, and proceeded to the mercantile.

  “Hey, Doc,” the owner, Fred Shipley, said as he walked in. “What can I do for you?” Shipley was also one of the people Kincaid had to win over in his attempt to be accepted as Doc Edwin’s replacement. Luckily, he had managed to do so.

  “Have you got any holsters, Fred?”

  “Sure, I’ve got a few,” the man said, pointing. “They seem to be gettin’ more popular these days. They’re hanging on the back wall.”

  Kincaid went to have a look while Shipley dealt with some other customers.

  The specimens on the wall weren’t what he was looking for. They were all hip holsters, and most of them had flaps on them. The point of the flaps was to keep the guns protected from dust, but that wasn’t Kincaid’s concern.

  He went back to the front counter and waited until Fred Shipley was available.

  “Find what you wanted?” Shipley asked.

  “No, I didn’t,” Kincaid said. “I’m looking for a shoulder holster.”

  “Ah,” Shipley said, “that’s a specialty item. I probably have some catalogs—”

  “Isn’t there anybody in town who might carry them?” Kincaid asked.

  “Only one place,” Shipley said.

  * * *

  * * *

  When Kincaid entered the Hays City Leather Shop he took a deep breath and inhaled the aromas.

  “Doc,” Dave Parr greeted. “Ain’t seen ya at the poker tables lately.”

  “I’ve been kind of busy these days, Dave,” Kincaid explained. />
  “Well,” Parr said, “at some point I need a chance to get my money back.”

  “Maybe I can give you some back now, if you’ve got what I’m looking for.”

  “And what’s that?” Parr asked, his face contorting with curiosity.

  “A shoulder holster.”

  Parr’s face brightened.

  “I’ve got one!” he pronounced. “Wait here.”

  He came around his counter and rushed into the back room. Kincaid heard lots of commotion and grumbling, then Parr shouted, “Ah-ha!”

  When the man reappeared he looked disheveled and covered in dust, but was brandishing a brown leather shoulder rig in one hand.

  “I knew I had one,” Parr said. “A fella rode through a few months ago and ordered one. By the time I got it in, he was gone.” Parr frowned. “Or was he dead? I can’t remember which.” He shook his head and looked at Kincaid. “Want to try it on, Doc?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take off your jacket.”

  Kincaid removed his jacket as Dave used a cloth to clean off the holster. Kincaid slipped it on. It felt odd, but he thought he’d get used to it. He took the gun from his belt and slid it into the holster, then put the jacket back on.

  “You can’t see it,” Parr said, “that is, unless you knew what you were lookin’ for.”

  Kincaid walked over to a mirror on the wall and took a look.

  “I know the Pinkertons are wearin’ that,” Parr said. “And I heard Bat Masterson started wearin’ one. But it ain’t really good for a fast draw.”

  “I’m not concerned about that,” Kincaid said. “I just want it where I can get to it, but not out in the open where it can be seen.”

  “I understand,” Parr said.

  “I’ll take it,” Kincaid said, “and I’ll wear it out.”

  They settled on a price and Kincaid paid.

  “See ya at the poker table soon?” Parr asked, as Kincaid headed for the door.

  “You just got some of your money back,” Kincaid pointed out.

  “I know,” Parr said, with a grin, “but now I’m lookin’ for some of yours.”

  Kincaid laughed, and left.

  * * *