The Legend of Shamus McGinty's Gold

by I. J. Parnham

  With a small bow, Quinn nodded and backed outside. Once they were alone, Randolph turned to Fergal.

  “He seems like a nice man,” Randolph said.

  As Fergal rummaged under the cabinet, he shook his head.

  “How long have you been my protector?”

  “You know to the day,” Randolph snapped.

  Fergal dragged his black bag from under the cabinet. This bag was his only authentic medical possession.

  “I do know to the day. I meant that after our time together, you might have learned to read people with more skill.”

  “I see no need to learn that skill. You see, I also know to the day how much longer I have to work for you, and that day is coming fast.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Fergal muttered.

  Randolph set his hands on his hips. Four years ago, Fergal’s traveling tonic service had visited Randolph’s hometown and in a typical gesture, Randolph’s father had let Fergal sleep in his barn. That night a fire broke out.

  Randolph frowned. “You dragged my brother from our burning barn and saved his life. In repayment, I pledged to protect you for five years.”

  Fergal puffed his slight chest. “You sure did, except you sounded a lot more grateful then.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know you then. I used to think you were a hero, but now, let’s just say I wonder how that fire started.”

  Fergal sighed. “You don’t suit being cynical.”

  “Maybe I don’t, but take my advice. However much you enjoy selling your tonic, quit when I leave. Jed won’t keep you alive through one visit to a new town.”

  Jed had fallen in with them two years earlier when Fergal had used most of their spare funds to buy new horses from Jed’s father. Jed had wanted to see a little of the world and to learn a trade. It hadn’t taken him long to discover that the world was full of angry people who’d consumed Fergal’s universal remedy and the trade wasn’t worth learning.

  Fergal scratched his head. “In that, you’re probably right, but tonight we’re helping Quinn, even if that man is trouble.”

  Randolph laughed. “It’s a pity he couldn’t read you with the same skill.”

  “The pity is all for him. Now make sure you’re ready to defend me; it’s not the end of your sentence yet.”

  With this extension to the day’s duties, Randolph frowned. His own sense of duty meant he would never abandon his promise to Fergal, but sometimes he wished his morals were as low as Fergal’s were.

  “I defend you against irate customers all day. This is the first time someone has been stupid enough to come after hours to receive your particular brand of service.”

  Fergal turned and smiled. “That’s a good point. Perhaps life is about to improve for us.”

  As Randolph followed Fergal from the wagon, Quinn rested a hand on his gunbelt.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  Randolph sighed and followed Quinn into the night.

  Chapter Four

  RANDOLPH KEPT A FEW yards back from Fergal as Quinn led them into New Hope Town. Halfway down the main drag, Quinn headed into the Lazy Dog Saloon, which, this late in the evening, was full and noisy.

  Randolph sighed at this reminder of the pleasures denied him by his enforced duties with Fergal. They mounted the stairs at the side of the main saloon room. At the first door along the upstairs corridor, Quinn stood to one side and with a mock bow, beckoned them inside.

  Randolph strode through the doorway. Inside the room, he smelled a variety of odors. Most of the smell came from the ancient moldering furnishings, but a cloying hint of sickness overlaid everything.

  A bed filled most of the room, in which an old man lay hunched in blankets. A few wisps of hair framed his thin face and a bony hand rested on the top of the covers. These were the only body parts that emerged from the old-timer’s cocoon.

  Lined against the wall were four men, each as rough-clad as Quinn. With a short nod to the men, Randolph stood by the door and Fergal and Quinn strode inside.

  “Here’s your patient,” Quinn said, pointing at the old-timer.

  Fergal stood by the bed. “He’s vaguely familiar.”

  “He’s been around, so you might have seen him on your travels,” Quinn said.

  “It’s possible. Who is he?”

  “He’s Morgan, my pa.”

  “I thought so,” Fergal said as he dropped his bag on the bottom of the bed. “I can see the resemblance. Anyhow, aside from age, what’s wrong with him?”

  “That’s why you’re here,” Quinn snapped. “You tell me.”

  “I assume he’s seen a doctor.”

  Quinn chuckled and while rubbing his chin, he glanced at the floor. Randolph followed Quinn’s gaze to a small brown patch beside the bed.

  “The quack said nothing useful,” Quinn said. “He seemed to think he’s too old.”

  From a few yards back, Randolph agreed with the doctor’s assessment. Even the benefits that Fergal claimed to dispense with his universal remedy probably wouldn’t suffice for Morgan.

  “Age is so subjective,” Fergal said. “Take my own pa for instance—”

  “Forget the chat,” Quinn snapped. “Fix him.”

  “I will,” Fergal said and then with a deep breath, he slipped into his usual oratory speaking routine. “Before I work my magic, I’ll tell you about the skills I am about to employ. Many years ago, an ancient native tribe who lived on the banks of a river to the north of New Hope Town worshiped a god whose name is no longer known—”

  With a lightning lunge, Quinn grabbed Fergal’s arm. He dragged Fergal around so that their faces were inches apart.

  “Tonic seller, I’ve heard your speech,” Quinn said. “I don’t need to suffer it again and neither does my pa. Now fix him.”

  Fergal frowned until Quinn released his arm with a quick snap of his fingers. While flexing his arm, Fergal walked around the side of the bed and leaned over Morgan. He laid a hand over the frail hand on the bedclothes, causing Morgan to stir and open a rheumy eye.

  “Who are you?” he said with his voice just audible.

  “The name’s Fergal O’Brien. I’m the finest tonic seller on this side of the Mississippi, and probably the finest on the other side, too.”

  “I don’t need a quack. I don’t need a tonic seller. I do need to sleep. I’ll be fine then.”

  Fergal rose up from the bed and shrugged to Quinn.

  “I’m sorry. It would appear your pa doesn’t want my help.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Not for your pa. We men of medicine have professional ethics.”

  In the short silence, Randolph struggled with his throat, which felt smaller than usual. Professional and ethics were two words that he doubted Fergal knew the meaning of, except in how to avoid them.

  “And?” Quinn snapped.

  Fergal spread his hands wide apart. “When a patient doesn’t wish me to help him, I honor that request.”

  “And?”

  Fergal lowered his head and Randolph sighed. Fergal rarely surprised him, but today he’d shown compassion. He could have taken advantage of this situation by prescribing his universal remedy and charging an exorbitant fee.

  Randolph strode from his position by the door and stood beside Quinn. He provided his most disarming smile.

  “Fergal is telling you that we can’t help your pa,” he said.

  “I respect Fergal’s viewpoint,” Quinn said.

  Fergal smiled. He patted Morgan’s hand and tipped his hat with a finger.

  “I’ll bid you and your pa goodbye and wish you all the best.”

  As Fergal strode by him, Quinn grabbed Fergal by the upper arm.

  “I said that I respected your viewpoint. That doesn’t mean you are going anywhere until you fix my pa.”

  Standing rigid, Fergal winced. In retaliation, Randolph grabbed Quinn’s arm, feeling the wiry, taught muscles beneath his fingers.

  “I don’t like people touching m
e,” Quinn said.

  With his stance set firmly, Randolph squeezed his hand.

  “Then let Fergal go and I won’t touch you anymore.”

  Fergal raised his free hand. “Everything’s all right, Randolph. There’s no need for trouble.”

  “Then fix my pa,” Quinn said.

  “I can’t.”

  “What?” Quinn said.

  Quinn’s muscles bunched as he gripped his hand tighter. Wincing and crouching, Fergal cried out until with a jerk, Quinn released his grip. Randolph released his own grip on Quinn’s arm. Keeping his movements slow, he slotted a thumb into the top of his gunbelt, inches from his Colt Peacemaker.

  Fergal took a deep breath. “Look, this is sad to say, but everyone has an allotted time. Your pa is close to his. I can do nothing for him.”

  “I don’t want to hear that.”

  “I’m sure that nobody does.”

  A wide grin spread across Quinn’s face and he leaned forward to Fergal.

  “More to the point, you don’t want to say that,” Quinn said through clenched teeth. “He widened his grin more. My pa hasn’t enough time left for me to fetch anyone else to fix him. If he dies, that’ll be unfortunate for you.”

  Randolph slipped back and judged his position in relation to everyone in the room. Quinn was an arm’s length away, so he flexed his hands, ready to dive at Quinn at the right time, but then Fergal coughed, interrupting Randolph’s thoughts.

  “I’ll do what you ask,” he said.

  Quinn nodded to Fergal. “I thought you might see sense.”

  “But it’ll cost you.”

  With his bottom lip stuck out, Quinn folded his arms.

  “That sounds fair. Fix my pa and you can name your price.”

  Randolph winced. He never expected anyone to make this type of offer to Fergal.

  “I’ll do that,” Fergal said. “I’ll be back to fix him soon.”

  “You can fix him now. My pa hasn’t got the time to wait.”

  “I need to fetch more equipment than I have in here,” Fergal said, patting his medical bag.

  When Fergal hefted the bag that contained only a bottle of the universal remedy and a few logs for bulk, with another mock bow, Quinn stepped back, clearing an area to the door.

  “You can return to your wagon for more equipment, but Vance will come with you and make sure you don’t get lost on the way back.”

  “You’re too kind,” Fergal said and strode to the door.

  As Randolph followed, he wondered what Fergal would do. Getting lost was a skill Fergal possessed in abundance, but doctoring wasn’t. On their journey back to their wagon, they avoided speaking. Once they were inside the wagon, leaving Vance on guard outside, Randolph turned to Fergal.

  “What will you do?” Randolph asked. “You can’t help Morgan, unless you’ve been hiding a skill I don’t know about.”

  Fergal threw his bag on to the cabinet and opened it. He pushed aside the logs and removed the bottle of universal remedy he’d taken to the Lazy Dog Saloon. He slipped out the stopper and placed the bottle on the cabinet.

  “I’ll worry about the cure and you worry about getting us out alive, afterward.”

  Fergal withdrew a key from his pocket. He threw open one cabinet door, dragged out a flask and locked the door. Standing straight, he swirled the flask, regarding the thick amber liquid within.

  As the main ingredient of the universal remedy, the recipe, sloshed in the flask, it caught sparkles of light from the oil lamps and seemed to glow with its own inner radiance. Fergal placed the flask on the cabinet next to the bottle.

  With a deep breath, he dragged out the stopper. From his jacket, he produced a short glass tube. He held the tube to the light and then removed his jacket. He took another deep breath and lowered the tube into the flask.

  Then he placed a finger over the end of the tube and raised it to leave an inch of the amber liquid trapped inside. Fergal then allowed the excess liquid to drip back into the flask. Keeping his movements slow, Fergal slipped the tube toward the bottle of universal remedy.

  He counted three large globules of the amber liquid as they dripped into the bottle. The added liquid swirled inside the bottle, mingling with the original contents, and Randolph was sure that the universal remedy had a deeper glow afterward.

  Fergal dripped the remainder of the amber liquid in the tube back into the flask and replaced the stopper. He raised the universal remedy to his face and rocked the contents. With a small smile, he pushed the bottle into his medical bag and locked the flask back in the cabinet.

  “It’s all done,” Fergal said. “We now have a new, improved universal remedy.”

  Bemused at the care Fergal had shown, Randolph frowned.

  “You put one drop of your recipe into each bottle of the universal remedy,” he said. “Now there’s four drops in that bottle. How will that help Morgan?”

  Fergal grinned. “Despite what you think of me, I’m not a huckster. Some of what I say is true. Although the other ingredient bulks the universal remedy and makes it taste interesting, the recipe is the only element that matters. It can cure . . . Actually, it does no harm. Hopefully four times the normal dose of my recipe will have four times the usual effect.”

  “What is your recipe?” Randolph asked, curious despite the situation.

  “That’s my secret,” Fergal snapped back.

  Ignoring the response he expected to receive, Randolph shrugged.

  “So, it won’t cure Morgan?”

  “Who knows?” Fergal said with a shrug of his own. “Stranger things have happened.”

  Randolph strode a pace to stand before Fergal. “I’m not happy for you to hurt him.”

  Fergal shook the medical bag at Randolph.

  “Quinn threatened me and that changes everything. Self-preservation is in order and my recipe will provide.”

  Randolph didn’t like to admit it, but Fergal was right. Once Quinn had threatened them, the rules changed.

  “How will it provide?”

  “With luck, after one spoonful of the improved universal remedy, Morgan will liven up.” Fergal sighed. “At least he will for a while.”

  Fergal shrugged into his jacket and strode to the wagon door. Vance still stood outside and he regarded them with the same suspicious air that he’d had when they left him.

  “Are you ready?” Vance said.

  “I sure am,” Fergal said, and patted his bag.

  Chapter Five

  ONCE RANDOLPH HAD RETURNED to Morgan’s room above the Lazy Dog Saloon, he again stood by the door and faced Vance and the three other men on the other side of the bed. With Quinn standing behind him, Fergal leaned over Morgan.

  “Old-timer, how are you?” he said.

  Morgan opened a tired eye. “I haven’t changed since you were last here,” he said. “Go away.”

  While smiling Fergal withdrew the bottle of the improved universal remedy from his bag. He shook the bottle, making the contents sparkle in the reflective light from the oil lamps. With a lunge, Quinn ripped the bottle from Fergal’s grasp. As he tried to grab the bottle back, Fergal stumbled forward.

  “What’s this?” Quinn said.

  “It’s a cure,” Fergal said.

  Quinn yanked the stopper and, with his eyebrows knitted, sniffed the contents. He pushed the bottle from his face while blinking his eyes.

  “This isn’t that filth you were peddling this afternoon, is it?”

  “This afternoon I was selling quality goods. What you clutch in your hand is a delicate blend of expensive ingredients. They are matured and blended with loving care using an ancient tribe’s secret recipe.”

  Quinn slipped the bottle back under his nose and sniffed.

  “This smells like a cross between Vance’s armpits and a dead polecat.”

  “Nothing that does good smells nice.”

  “I can’t see much good coming from a dead polecat.”

  “That is as it may be, but let me
tell you about the complex procedure I use to produce this universal remedy.”

  Quinn bared his yellow teeth and growled deep in his throat.

  “The only thing I want to know is: will it work?”

  “The sooner you let me have my universal remedy back, the sooner we’ll find out.”

  With his nose wrinkled, Quinn replaced the stopper and shook the bottle.

  “I hope for your sake that this smelly potion does work. You’d hate to see the mess I’ll make of your features if it doesn’t.”

  Randolph strode forward to stand in front of Quinn. He raised his heels to gain a few inches height advantage.

  “If Fergal says he’ll fix your pa, he will,” he said.

  For long seconds Quinn faced Randolph and then laughed.

  “You’re backing the wrong man. Let’s hope the mistake isn’t terminal.”

  “That depends on whether the mistake is terminal for you or for me.”

  Quinn laughed long and hard, throwing his head back as he prolonged his mirth. By the wall, Vance and the other men chuckled, too.

  “I like you,” Quinn said, and removed his smile in an instant. “Don’t push your luck.”

  Having defined terms with Quinn, Randolph tipped his hat. He backed away to the door and awaited developments. With his gaze locked on Randolph, Quinn threw the bottle over his shoulder. Fergal scrambled forward and grabbed the bottle, juggling it before he had it under control.

  “If you gentlemen have finished, I have work to do,” Fergal said with a sigh, while clutching the bottle.

  “What part of my pa are you rubbing that stuff on?” Quinn asked.

  “It’s not an ointment. He’ll drink it.”

  With his eyebrows raised, Quinn rubbed his forehead and gulped. Fergal rolled up his sleeves and leaned over Morgan.

  “Stay away from me, tonic seller,” Morgan said. “I can take on you and your hired gun, so don’t rile me.”

  “I can see you have your son’s temperament, but let me treat you and I assure you, that boast will come true again.”

  Fergal slipped a large spoon from his jacket and dribbled the universal remedy into it. Then, with a steady hand, he angled the spoon toward Morgan, but when the old-timer kept his toothless mouth clamped, Fergal waggled the spoon in front of his face.