* * *
Kincaid walked into the sheriff’s office, stopped in front of Jack Llegg’s desk.
“So?” he asked.
The lawman looked up and said, “So what?”
“What do you think?” Kincaid put his bag down on the man’s desk.
“Nice bag?” Llegg asked.
“No,” Kincaid said. “I mean the holster.”
Sheriff Llegg looked him over.
“What holster?”
“Keep looking.”
Sheriff Llegg sat back in his chair and gave Kincaid the once over—twice. Then he got it.
“You got a shoulder rig?”
Kincaid pulled his jacket aside to show it.
“When did you decide on that?”
“When I was advised to get one.”
“By who?” Llegg asked.
“Bat Masterson.”
Llegg looked surprised.
“When did that happ—Oh wait,” the lawman said. “He just passed through here, didn’t he?”
“Right,” Kincaid said. “He stopped to talk to me last night, and gave me some advice.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“I think he feels partially responsible for what’s happened to me,” Kincaid said. “You know, the . . . name?” Kincaid hated to actually say Dr. Death.
“How’s he figure that?”
“He loaned me his gun, that first time,” Kincaid reminded Llegg.
“Have a seat.”
Kincaid pulled a chair over and sat in front of Llegg’s desk. The lawman opened a drawer, took out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. It used to be Kincaid only drank whiskey with Doc Edwin on the porch. Since the old sawbones died, he drank it from time to time with Jack Llegg, but only in his office.
Llegg poured two shots and slid one over to Kincaid.
“What’s this gonna accomplish?” he asked.
“Bat said seeing me with a gun might attract the wrong kind of attention,” Kincaid said. “This way nobody sees it, but it’s where I can get to it.”
“Not fast,” Llegg pointed out.
“I’m not a fast-draw artist,” Kincaid said. “I’m not a gunfighter, I’m a doctor.”
“Yeah,” Jack Llegg said, “like Doc Holliday was just a dentist.”
“Jack—”
“I get it, I get it,” Llegg said, waving Kincaid’s objection away. “You’re a doctor.”
“First and foremost,” Kincaid said.
“A doctor with a shoulder holster,” Llegg said. “Like gamblers wear. And detectives.”
Kincaid finished his whiskey and set the glass down on the desk.
“I just wanted to see if you could tell,” Kincaid said.
“Well, I couldn’t,” Llegg said. “But I can now.”
Kincaid stood up and grabbed his medical bag.
“I’ll see you,” he said.
“Doc?”
At the door Kincaid turned.
“I had to let those two yahoos go,” Llegg said, “from yesterday? I made ’em leave town, but I don’t know if they’ll stay out.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Kincaid said, and left.
Sheriff Jack Llegg poured himself another drink. He wondered how long his friend was going to keep denying what he was. The sooner he accepted it, the sooner he’d get on with his life.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Kincaid spent the rest of the day seeing patients, not that there were that many. He hung the shoulder holster on the back of a door, where patients wouldn’t be able to see it but where he could get at it if he had to. He was mindful of Jack Llegg’s warning about having to release those two would-be gunmen. So far, whenever he was challenged, it was in a saloon or on the street. No one had yet actually come into his office with bad intentions.
Kincaid knew that his friend, Sheriff Jack Llegg, thought he should accept that his life was going to involve medicine, cards, and guns. He knew he could eliminate cards just by not playing poker anymore. But how would he be able to get rid of the guns, so he could simply practice medicine?
The question haunted him until, one day, the answer walked into his office . . .
* * *
* * *
He had just finished treating a small child who had been bitten by a dog when the door opened and a man staggered in, doubled over in pain. He looked to be in his forties and was wearing a gun in a hip holster.
“Thank you, Doc,” the mother said, and hustled her boy out.
“You gotta help me, Doc,” the man said. “I can’t stand this pain.”
“Come with me.”
He helped him into the other room and got him up on the table, then started to unbuckle his gun belt.
“What’re you doin’?” the man demanded, grabbing the gun.
“Just removing this belt so I can examine you,” Kincaid said.
“This gun’s gotta be where I can reach it,” the man said. “At all times.”
“No problem,” Kincaid said. “We can set it down right here, where you can reach it.”
The man allowed him to take the gun belt off and set it aside, but reached out to put his hand on it.
“I don’t think you’ll need it here,” Kincaid said.
“The day I put this gun out of reach is the day I die, Doc,” the man explained.
“I understand,” Kincaid said, undoing the man’s trousers. “Now, tell me about this pain . . .”
* * *
* * *
He had pain on the right side of his groin that increased when he coughed or moved his bowels. There was a bulge to show where the pain came from.
“You’ve got a hernia,” Kincaid told him.
“What’s that?”
“It’s this bulge right here,” Kincaid said. “If it gets any worse it could cause strangulation—a cutting off of your blood supply.”
“I never heard of that,” the man said. “Is it somethin’ new?”
“No,” Kincaid said, “the Egyptians treated the condition back in fifteen hundred.”
“Treated how?”
“Well, the most effective way is surgery,” Kincaid said. “I can send you to the hospital in Kansas City, where they can do it—”
“It hurts like hell, Doc,” the man said. “Can’t you do it? Right here?”
“I could,” Kincaid said, “but—”
“If you can help me, Doc, I’ll do anythin’,” the man said. “Pay you whatever you want. Just make this pain stop. Look, I make my livin’ with my gun. If this gets out that I can’t even stand . . .”
“I understand,” Kincaid said, looking over at the man’s gun.
“Can you do it?”
“Just let me lock the door so no one will interrupt us,” Kincaid said.
* * *
* * *
The surgery was a fairly simple procedure that Kincaid was able to conduct with a local anesthetic. However, the big, tough man who needed to have his gun close at hand did pass out during it. Kincaid allowed him to sleep and wake at his own leisure, while he did some paperwork at his desk in the other room. No other patients appeared.
“Doc?”
Kincaid rose from his desk and went into the other room in time to keep the man from trying to get up.
“Whoa, not yet,” he said. “I’ve got to examine you and make sure it’s all right for you to stand up.”
“W-what happened?”
“You pass—fell asleep.”
“While you were cuttin’ me?”
“It happens,” Kincaid assured him. “Does this hurt?”
“No.”
“This?”
“It’s . . . a little sore.”
“That’s okay,” Kincaid said. “You’ll
need to stay here a bit longer. Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
“You got any whiskey?”
“Sorry.”
“Then I’ll take coffee.”
“Comin’ up.”
Kincaid had taken to keeping a coffeepot going in the office, for himself and for patients. He poured two cups and carried them into the other room.
“You can sit up to drink it,” he said. “I’ll help you.”
He took the man’s left hand and helped him into a seated position. The first thing the patient did was move his gun closer, then he accepted the coffee.
“Thanks, Doc,” he said. “Wow, I feel better already.”
“It’s still going to be sore for a while,” Kincaid said, “but there shouldn’t be any further severe pain.”
“Good to hear.” He sipped the coffee. “How much do I owe you, Doc? What can I do for you?”
“Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about,” Kincaid said. “My name is Dr. Gabriel Kincaid. Have you heard of me?”
“Can’t say I have,” the man said. “Should I?”
“Have you heard the name ‘Dr. Death?’”
The man looked surprised.
“That’s you?” he asked. “That feller’s supposed to be as good with a gun as with . . . well, whatever a doctor’s good with.”
“A scalpel.”
“Yeah,” the man said, “you seem to be really good with that.”
The man held his coffee cup with his left hand, put his right hand on his gun.
“You’re still not going to need that,” Kincaid assured him.
“You are?” he asked. “You got yourself a reputation, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Kincaid said. “That’s what I really want to talk to you about. Are you good with your gun?”
“I’m very good,” the man said. “My name’s Chance Armstrong. Ever heard of me?”
“I can’t say I have.”
“Well, your sheriff probably has,” Armstrong said. “And when I check in to hotels they look at me funny.”
“You said you make your living with your gun,” Kincaid said. “Is that what you’re here for?”
“Hell, no,” Armstrong said. “I just came here lookin’ for a doctor. I’m sure glad I found you.”
“So am I, Mr. Armstrong,” Kincaid said. “So am I.”
* * *
* * *
Hell, yeah, I know who Chance Armstrong is,” Sheriff Llegg said. “He’s a throwback to the early days of Hickok, Hardin, Thompson, and all those fast guns. Why? Is he in town?”
“He is.”
“Did he come after you?” Llegg asked. “Jesus, if you have to go up against him—”
“He’s a patient.”
“What?”
“He came to my surgery complaining of pain. He couldn’t stand up straight. He had a hernia, and I took care of it for him. He’ll be in town a few days, recuperating.”
“Does he know who you are?”
“He didn’t when he came in, but he does now.”
“And you think he’s gonna resist facing ‘Dr. Death’?” Llegg asked.
“We talked about it,” Kincaid said. “He really appreciates what I did for him.”
“Well,” Llegg said, “I for one will be glad when he recovers and gets out of town.” The lawman scowled. “I guess I’ll hafta go talk to him. He’s usually in a town on a job.” He looked at Kincaid. “Did he say he was here on a job?”
“He didn’t,” Kincaid said.
“I’ll hafta check,” Llegg said. “Thanks for tellin’ me he’s here. They say he’s fast!”
“Yeah,” Kincaid sad, “he said it, too.”
* * *
* * *
Armstrong took a room in one of the hotels so he could rest and recover. Kincaid went to see him on the third day after the surgery to examine him, again.
“How’s it look, Doc?” Armstrong asked, while flat on his back on the bed. His gun belt was hanging on the bedpost, within easy reach.
“You’re going to heal nicely,” Kincaid said. “I did a really good job.”
“Glad to hear it.”
He sat up.
“Hey, you wanna go get somethin’ to eat?”
“I don’t think we should be seen together in a restaurant,” Kincaid said. “We don’t want it to get around that we’re friendly.”
“Right, right. And when do you wanna do this?”
“You should take a couple more days,” Kincaid said. “Have you heard from the editor of the Gazette yet?”
“Oh yeah, you were right about him,” Armstrong said. “He came up here wantin’ an interview.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“I did,” Armstrong said. “Should be in tomorrow’s paper.”
“That’s good,” Kincaid said.
He walked to the door.
“You sure you wanna do this?” Armstrong asked.
“I’m sure, Mr. Armstrong,” Kincaid said, and left.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The next morning Sheriff Jack Llegg was sitting in a chair in front of the doctor’s office when Kincaid got there.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Kincaid asked.
“Have you seen this?” Llegg held up a copy of that day’s Gazette.
“You mean the interview with Armstrong?”
“Then you have seen it,” Llegg said. “He says he’s gonna call you out.”
“I read it.”
“After you fixed him up? He’s gonna do that to you?”
“He paid me for treating him,” Kincaid said. “We’re square on that account.”
“So now he’s after Dr. Death,” Llegg said.
“I guess so.”
Sheriff Llegg stood up.
“I can’t run him out of town.”
“I know it.”
“You still gonna wear that shoulder rig?”
“It’s the only holster I’ve got,” Kincaid said.
“And you’ll face ’im?”
“If he comes at me, I’ll have to, won’t I?”
“Not if you leave town,” Llegg said. “But you won’t do that, you’re stubborn . . . This would be your most significant challenge, Doc.”
“Thank you for the warning, Jack,” Kincaid said.
“Watch yourself, Gabriel,” Sheriff Llegg said, and walked away.
Kincaid unlocked the office door and went inside.
* * *
* * *
Nora Legend came to see him later that afternoon, also bearing a copy of the Gazette.
“Have you seen this?” she asked, waving it at him.
“Seems like I’m collecting them,” he commented, showing her his copy.
“What do you intend to do?”
“What can I do?” he asked.
“You can stay alive,” she said, sharply. “Go to the sheriff about this man.”
“The sheriff has already come to me,” Kincaid said. “He said there’s nothing he can do.”
“He can run this man Armstrong out of town!”
“Not without a reason.”
She looked lovely in a purple dress that day. He gave in to an impulse, taking her by the shoulders and kissing her.
“Are you ever going to ask me to marry you?” she demanded, her face coloring.
“Let’s wait and see what happens with Mr. Armstrong first, shall we?” he asked.
“Oh,” she said, pulling away from him, “you’re stubborn!”
“So I’ve been told.”
She turned and stormed out.
* * *
* * *
Nora’s question about whether or not he was going to ask her to marry him did not
shock him. He had been thinking about it for some time now. But before he could even consider settling down with her, he had to get his priorities straight. That meant putting medicine first.
When the end of the day came he had a lunch date with Maggie. She had been inviting him to supper for some time, but he finally told her he wanted to take her out. She agreed to meet him at the office.
“Are you ready?” she asked, walking in.
“Just about,” he said. “Let me get my jacket.”
He stepped into his examining room, put on his shoulder holster, and then covered it with his jacket and came back out.
“Let’s go.”
They started walking, then she realized they weren’t heading for the Sunflower Café.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I’m taking you someplace special,” he told her.
When they reached Hitchcock’s Grille, she stopped short.
“If I’d known we were coming here I would’ve worn something else . . . something special.”
He looked at her skirt and blouse and said, “You look fine, Maggie.”
Since Nora had first taken him there he had been back a few times with her, and other times alone, so he was now known.
“Hello, Dr. Kincaid,” the maître d’ greeted him. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you.”
“Your table is ready for you and your guest.”
They followed the man to a table set for two. Along the way Kincaid exchanged some greetings with patients, and there were also some who said hello to Maggie.
“You see?” he said, as they sat. “No problem.”
“In all my years I’ve never eaten here before,” she said.
“You’ll enjoy it,” he said. “The cooking is not as good as yours, but it’s good.”
“Oh, Gabriel . . .”
The waiter came over and Maggie told Kincaid to go ahead and order for both of them. He ordered the veal dish for her, the one Nora always liked, and a steak for himself. He told the waiter to bring them both a glass of white wine.
“Did you see the Gazette today?” she asked.
“I saw it, and had it pointed out to me by two other people,” he answered.
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