Ralph Compton Frontier Medicine

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Oh? Who else?”

  “The sheriff, and then Nora Legend.”

  “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

  “What can I do, Maggie?” he asked. “Have somebody shoot him?”

  “That’s one way to go,” she said. “Or you could have the sheriff run him out of town.”

  “He and I discussed that already,” Kincaid said. “The man hasn’t done anything, yet.”

  “So after he kills you, the sheriff will run him off?”

  “Not even then, if it’s a fair fight.”

  “How could it be a fair fight?” she demanded. “He’s a gunman, and you’re a doctor.”

  “I’ve done okay.”

  “You’ve been lucky, up til now,” she said. “This man is the real deal. Even I’ve heard of him, and I try not to pay attention to that nonsense.”

  “It’s going to be fine, Maggie,” Kincaid assured her. “Don’t worry.”

  “And what about Nora?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When are you going to ask that woman to marry you?” she said. “You’re seen together often enough.”

  “You’re the second person today to ask me that question,” he pointed out.

  “Oh? Who was the first?”

  “Nora!”

  * * *

  * * *

  During supper Maggie asked Kincaid if he was resisting asking Nora to marry him because she was older than he was.

  “She’s just over forty,” Maggie said, “but that’s not such a big difference. What are you now, thirty-five?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “There you go,” Maggie said. “What’s that, a five-year difference?”

  “I guess it is. How do you like that veal?”

  “Don’t change the subject,” she said. “A man like you should be married. For a while I thought it was going to be that teacher. She’s closer to your age, but she already has a daughter. I doubt you and Nora would be having children. Do you not like kids, Gabriel?”

  “I like kids just fine,” he said, “as patients.”

  “Ah, so there,” she said, “that’s why it’s going to be Nora.”

  “For your information,” he said. “Abby pulled away from me because she didn’t want Franny to be around any gunplay.”

  “Well, I don’t blame her for that,” Maggie said. “There are times, Gabriel, when you do seem to be acting like . . . well, Bat Masterson.”

  Kincaid was waiting and was glad when the name “Doc Holliday” didn’t come out of her mouth.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Bat Masterson,” he said,.

  “All right, then,” Maggie said. “Doc Holliday.”

  Damn!

  * * *

  * * *

  After supper Maggie agreed to a cup of coffee, but rejected the idea of pie.

  “But you go ahead,” she said. “You have to keep up your strength so you can pull that gun out of your shoulder holster. Did you think I didn’t notice? You never would’ve caught Doc Edwin wearing such a thing.”

  “No,” Kincaid said, “I don’t guess you would. I think I’ll have the apple pie tonight.”

  “All right go ahead and ignore my advice,” she said, waving her hand.

  “Maggie, so far your advice has been very good,” he said. “Get married, and don’t get killed. How can I argue with any of that?”

  “Then you will propose?” she asked, excitedly.

  “We’ll see.”

  She put her hands together and said, “That’s just what we need in this town, a wedding.”

  “There are still some other things I have to deal with before that can happen,” he told her.

  “You mean like Chance Armstrong?”

  “Let’s not go back to that,” he said. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “Me? Puttering around that big house alone. You know, if you do get married, you and Nora could move in.”

  “That’s your house, Maggie.”

  “I’m not saying I’d move out,” she said. “I’d keep house for you, do what I used to do for Doc. I’d do the cooking so Nora could keep up her shop.”

  The waiter came with his pie and he tried to give it all his attention while Maggie went on and on about what it would be like if he and “his missus” moved in.

  After supper they stepped outside and Kincaid said he’d walk Maggie home.

  “To tell you the truth,” she said, when they reached the house, “I’m thinking of selling.”

  “The house?”

  She nodded.

  “I keep thinking I hear Doc in his room, or on the porch,” she said. “So if you and Nora want it, it’s yours.”

  “I didn’t live here with him as long as you did, Maggie,” he said, “but I think it’d be haunted for me, too.”

  “That’s it exactly,” she said. “Haunted.” She stood there and stared up at the house. “I suppose I’ll just have to sell it.”

  “He left it to you, Maggie,” Kincaid said. “It’s yours to do with what you will.”

  She reached up and kissed his cheek.

  “Good night, Gabriel. Thank you for a lovely supper.”

  “You’re welcome, Maggie,” he said. “Good night.”

  He waited until she had gone inside and locked the door before turning and walking back toward town.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Kincaid woke the morning of the shootout. He wasn’t sure of the proper term for it—gunfight? showdown?—but he chose to think of it as a shootout.

  He dressed slowly, slipped into the shoulder holster, tucked the gun into it, and put on his jacket. Oddly enough, this was the most comfortable he’d felt in the holster since he’d bought it.

  He went down to the Sunflower for a leisurely breakfast. Kate brought him a Denver omelet and fried potatoes, to be washed down with strong coffee. He took his time eating, and eventually Chance Armstrong entered. He looked around, then caught Kate’s attention and asked for a table. The place was busy, but she was able to accommodate him. She seated him across the room from Kincaid.

  Kincaid noticed when Kate brought Armstrong his food the man had ordered steak and eggs. He also noticed when the gunman walked in that he was standing straight and tall, apparently completely recovered from his hernia surgery.

  When Kate brought him his food, Armstrong said something and pointed to Kincaid. Kate, looking dubious, came over to Kincaid’s table.

  “Do you know that man?” she asked him.

  “Yes, his name’s Chance Armstrong.”

  “He told me to ask you to join him.”

  “Tell him thank you, but I’m almost finished and would just as soon remain here.”

  “Gabriel, isn’t that the gunman from the newspaper—”

  “Just tell him, Kate,” Kincaid said. “Thank you.”

  Nervously, she went back to Armstrong’s table and relayed the message. The man didn’t look happy about the reply.

  Kate brought Kincaid more coffee and said, “He was insulted.”

  “He’ll get over it,” Kincaid said.

  Kincaid had a last cup of coffee, then paid his bill, and stood to leave. As he walked across the room toward the door Armstrong brought his fist down on his table, attracting everyone’s attention.

  “I’m not used to having my invitations refused, Doctor!” he shouted.

  “Sorry,” Kincaid said, “but I don’t eat with gunfighters.”

  “I’m a gunfighter?” Armstrong said. “Ain’t you the one they call ‘Dr. Death’?”

  Kincaid turned to face Armstrong.

  “I don’t like that name,” he said.

  Armstrong stood and tossed his napkin down on his half-finished plate.

  “As f
ar as I know, you’ve earned it,” Armstrong said.

  “I have no time for this,” Kincaid said, and walked out.

  He was crossing the street when Armstrong came charging through the door.

  “Don’t walk away from me, Kincaid!” he shouted.

  People in the street stopped to look. Diners from the Sunflower rushed to the door and windows to watch.

  Kincaid turned to face Armstrong, his medical bag in his left hand.

  “What do you want, Armstrong?” he asked.

  “I wanna see this famous move Dr. Death has,” Armstrong said, “I wanna see the gunfighter doctor.”

  “You don’t want to do this,” Kincaid replied.

  “I don’t?” Armstrong asked. “Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t wanna do it. You afraid, Doc? I can see you’re armed, wearin’ that fancy shoulder rig. Let’s see how good you really are.”

  “Armstrong—” Kincaid said, but it was too late. Armstrong was already going for his gun, leaving Kincaid no choice, but to go for his.

  Before Kincaid could clear his gun from his shoulder rig, he felt a searing pain in his right shoulder. His right arm went limp, his gun fell to the ground, along with his bag. He stared at Chance Armstrong, who was still pointing his gun. One more shot would end it.

  “Well, well,” Armstrong said. “Lookee here!” He said it loud enough for everyone to hear. Kincaid saw the Gazette editor, Paris, in the crowd, scribbling away on a pad of paper. “Dr. Death’s gun is in the dirt.”

  He was still pointing his gun at Kincaid when Kate came flying from the Sunflower.

  “Stop it!” she shouted. “You stop it.” She ran to Kincaid, stood in front of him. “He’s hurt. You won. What more do you want?”

  “And now he hides behind a woman,” Armstrong announced. “Well, I guess I’m done here.” He holstered his gun. “You folks are welcome to your doctor, now.”

  The gunfighter turned, walked to his horse, mounted up, and rode off down the street.

  Suddenly, people moved and crowded around Kincaid.

  “Help me get him to his office,” Kate snapped, and two men framed him and walked with him, while another picked his gun up from the dirt. Kincaid exchanged a look with Paris, and then the man hurried away to his office to do his job.

  * * *

  * * *

  In his office Kincaid had the two men take him into the examination room.

  “Okay, thanks, boys,” he said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “You sure, Doc?” one man said.

  “Yes, I’ll be fine,” Kincaid said. “It’s not a bad wound.”

  “We’re sorry about this, Doc,” the other man said. “It’s gonna be in the Gazette tomorrow.”

  “I know it will,” Kincaid said. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Your gun and bag are on your desk, Doc,” one of the men said.

  “Thanks.”

  As they left Kate helped him off with his coat. The right sleeve of his white shirt was soaked with blood.

  “Doc, what can I do?” Kate asked.

  Before he could answer, the door to the office opened and Nora Legend came running in.

  “Omigod, I heard what happened. Are you all right?”

  “It’s not bad,” he said. “Kate, thanks for your help. I think Nora can handle it now.”

  “Yes, of course,” Nora said. “Thank you, Kate.”

  “I’m glad you’re not hurt bad, Doc,” Kate said, and left.

  “What did you do, you fool?” Nora asked.

  “Just a bit of playacting, Nora.”

  “Playacting? Is that not real blood?”

  “Oh, it is,” he said, “but Armstrong put the bullet right where I told him to.”

  “What?”

  They both heard the back door open and somebody entered. Then Armstrong appeared in the doorway between the office and examination room.

  “You!” Nora said. “You’ve got some nerve—”

  “Easy, Nora,” Kincaid said. “He did just what I asked him to do.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “You wanted him to shoot you?”

  “He wanted me to beat him to the draw in front of all those people, ma’am,” Armstrong said.

  “What in the world fo—Oh, wait.”

  Now she was getting it, Kincaid thought, slipping out of his shirt.

  “You wanted Dr. Death to get beat,” she said. “And it’ll be in tomorrow’s Gazette.”

  “And then in any other papers that pick it up,” Armstrong said.

  “And hopefully,” Kincaid said, “it will put to rest the reputation of ‘Dr. Death.’”

  “And he can just be a doctor again,” Armstrong said.

  “So why are you back here?” Nora asked, examining Kincaid’s wound.

  “Just wanted to make sure the doc was all right.”

  “He’s fine,” she said, “but another inch to the right—”

  “Mr. Armstrong wasn’t going to miss by an inch, Nora,” Kincaid said.

  “And you were sure about that?” she asked.

  “I was.”

  “Well,” she said to Armstrong, “if anybody saw you come in here, they’ll wonder—”

  “I’m leavin’ town,” Armstrong said. “Just wanted to check on Doc and say thanks again for takin’ care of my hernia.”

  “You’re welcome,” Kincaid said, “and thanks for your help.”

  “I hope this does what you want it to do, Doc,” Armstrong said. He tipped his hat. “Ma’am.”

  Nora nodded to him, and he walked out the back door.

  “He doesn’t seem like any gunfighter I ever imagined,” she said.

  “He’s not,” Kincaid said.

  “A hernia?” she asked. “This was payback for you taking care of his hernia?”

  “He was in a lot of pain,” Kincaid said, “and he didn’t want to wait to go to a hospital.”

  “So you did the surgery here?”

  “It was a simple procedure—Ow, easy!”

  “I thought you said it wasn’t bad?” she reminded him.

  “It still hurts.”

  “Well, the bullet’s not there,” she said. “It nicked you in passing. Looks worse than it is.”

  “Let’s hope it looked pretty bad, out there,” he said.

  “Let me clean you up,” she said, “and then you can go home.”

  “No,” he said, “I might have some patients.”

  “Gabriel, you were shot—”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Just clean and bandage it.”

  “Stubborn!”

  She was none too gentle when she cleaned and bandaged his shoulder, and then he put on a clean shirt.

  “Thanks, Nora,” he said. “I can take it from here.”

  She turned to walk away, then stopped.

  “What do you think will be in the Gazette tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I hope Mr. Paris will write his eyewitness account of what happened,” he said. “That Dr. Death was cleanly and fairly beat.”

  “And that’ll be the end of it?” she asked. “Your so-called reputation.”

  “I hope so, Nora,” he said. “I sure hope so.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The death of Dr. Death, the headline read.

  Kincaid rose extra early the following morning to pick up the Gazette, and those words jumped out at him. He felt like going over to the editor’s office and thanking him. It was Paris who first dubbed him “Dr. Death” and now it was the same man who was taking it away from him.

  His shoulder was a bit sore, but it was a small price to pay. He actually went out that day without the shoulder holster, and no gun in his medical bag. People still waved or nodded to him on the street, although some of th
em did it with sorrowful looks on their faces. If they pitied him, he didn’t care. As long as they continued to come to him for their medical needs.

  He was surprised that morning when his first patient was Abby Cottrell, without Franny.

  “Gabriel,” she said. “I read the newspaper today. I wanted to be sure you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine,” Kincaid said. “The bullet nicked my shoulder. Nora was able to clean and bandage it.”

  “Ah, yes,” Abby said. “Nora.”

  Kincaid had no idea how the two women felt about each other, or if they’d ever spoken on any level higher than a simple “hello.” Their professions would certainly not make it necessary for them to ever interact.

  “How’s Franny?” he asked.

  “She’s worried about you.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be teaching school this morning?”

  “I will,” she said. “I’m going there right from here. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” he said.

  She started for the door, but hesitated with her hand on the knob.

  “I’m just wondering . . . Does this mean you won’t be carrying that gun anymore?”

  “I hope that’s what it means,” he said. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

  If she was regretting having pulled away from him, it was too late, considering he and Nora were talking about marriage. Although such talks had not really gotten serious, yet.

  “I see,” she said. “Well, I’ll tell Franny you’re doing all right. She’ll be happy.”

  “Tell her I said hi.”

  Abby nodded, and left.

  Kincaid did not want to get involved in comparing the attributes of Nora versus Abby. He spent the rest of the day seeing patients and filling in the spaces by examining all his medical instruments to make sure they were in proper working order and clean.

  * * *

  * * *

  Before supper he walked to the sheriff’s office. He knew the man would want a statement about what had happened. He found Jack Llegg eating at his desk.

  “I’ve got paperwork, thanks to you,” Llegg said. “Seems like the mayor and the judge are worried about what yesterday’s little gunfight is gonna do to the town.”