Stampede

by Len Levinson

  ~*~

  Slipchuck, Blakemore, and Duvall came to the crest of a hill and saw a small black carriage shaped like a mollusk on the trail below. It was stopped, and the matching black horse grazed lazily on a clump of buffalo grass.

  Slipchuck pulled his gun. “Looks like the sawbones had trubble.”

  He spurred his horse, and the others galloped behind him down the hill toward the carriage. As they drew closer, they saw a figure slumped in the front seat, still as death. They approached the carriage, and the horse raised his head to look at them. A chubby man with white chin whiskers was sprawled on the seat, wearing a derby, frock coat, and string tie. No arrows or bullet wounds showed on him, and a jug of whiskey rested on his lap, while a black leather bag sat near his feet on the floorboards. Slipchuck leaned closer to Dr. Weatherford, and smelled that special stench that only a severely drunken man exudes.

  Slipchuck climbed down from his horse and stepped onto the running board of the carriage. “Doc?”

  Dr. Weatherford, graduate of the Southwest Tennessee College of Medicinal Arts, last in his class, having delivered many into the world and assisted many more to their graves, didn’t budge. Slipchuck took off his hat, touched his ear to the doctor’s chest, and heard a steady beat. “He’s just a little drunk,” Slipchuck said. “You boys tie my horse to the back of this buggy, and I’ll ride it into Colton. And while you’re at it, keep yer hands off his goddamn jug!”

  ~*~

  Stone opened his eyes and saw a different man behind the bar. He had no idea of the time, but an empty glass of whiskey sat in front of him. “Bartender,” he groaned, “hit me again.”

  Crenshaw carried the bottle to the table and filled the glass. “Fifty cents,” he said.

  Stone stood unsteadily, reaching into his pocket, and it was empty. “My pards’ll pay you when they git back.”

  Crenshaw removed the glass from the table. “I heerd that one before.”

  Stone watched with horror as the bottle moved away from him. “Wait a minute!”

  “Whiskey costs money, mister.”

  “I’ll trade you something.”

  “What you got to trade?”

  Stone thought of his Colt, but didn’t dare give it up. Then he remembered the genuine Indian hatchet stuck into his belt, for which he’d risked his life, for exactly this eventuality. He pulled it out and dropped it on the table. “Trade this for a bottle of whiskey ... a fine specimen of Indian workmanship as you can see. Beadwork, feathers, inlaid precious stones. Folks back east would pay twenty dollars for it, but it’s yours for only one bottle of whiskey, a bargain like this comes along once in a lifetime.”

  Crenshaw picked up the hatchet and looked at it skeptically. “Is that blood?”

  “My blood.”

  “Who wants a hatchet with blood on it?” Crenshaw placed the hatchet on the bar. “Not interested.”

  “I’d settle for a half bottle.”

  “Don’t want it.”

  “Tell you what. You pour me one good glass of whiskey, and this Comanche implement of war is yours.”

  Crenshaw thought for a few moments, shrugged, and poured the glass. Stone sipped some off the top, then carried the rest to the table, and pushed his old Confederate cavalry hat to the back of his head. He raised the glass to his mouth, drank some, and leaned back in the chair. This time he didn’t want to be a pig and down every drop at once. This time he’d savor the rotgut, like a gentleman.

  Whiskey killed the pain, and that’s why he needed it. A pleasant warm glow radiated out of his abdomen, wreathed his heart, and calmed his mind. So what if a bear kicked the shit out of him? He’d survive.

  He raised the glass again, and this time drained it dry. The glow burned brighter, and he leaned back in his chair. Crenshaw came out from behind the bar, carrying the bottle, and filled Stone’s glass.

  “Took a look at the hatchet, and it’s worth more’n one glass of whiskey.”

  “You’re an honest man,” Stone whispered gratefully.

  “You look like you been through a pile of shit.”

  “Tangled with a bear.”

  “I looked like you once, ’bout five years ago down Mexico way.”

  “Bear?”

  “Woman. Sixteen-year-old señorita to be exact, and I’ll stack her against any two bears any day.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Stone said.

  Crenshaw poured. “It was back in Old Laredo, and she was the cantina owner’s daughter. Now I might not look like much now, but in them days I was a desert rider with piss and vinegar in my veins. She was—I’ll just come out and say it—the best fuck of my life.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Stone said.

  “So will I,” replied Crenshaw, and he poured two more. “If I were smart, I would’ve stayed with her, and that cantina be mine now, but I was a crazy son of a bitch, and one night I had to screw her best friend in the kitchen. Everything was goin’ just fine, but then Carmencita walked in, picked up a cast-iron frying pan, must’ve weighed ten pounds, and walloped me over the head with it, while I was a-tryin’ to put me pants on. Look at this scar.”

  Crenshaw bent forward, parted his hair, and showed a wicked gash six inches long.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Stone said, and Crenshaw poured again.

  “And then,” he said, pulling up his shirt, showing a shriveled patch of scar tissue on his belly, “she got her hands on a pot of hot oil. You might think I was unlucky, but she was a-aimin’ fer me balls.” Crenshaw looked out the window philosophically. “But I don’t regret nothin’ ’cause now when I’m alone at night, the fire in the stove’s gone out, and it’s a little cold ’neath my blankets, Carmencita’s the one who keeps me warm.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Stone said as his eyes glazed over and his head hit the table like a gong.

  ~*~

  “Hey, Slipchuck, why don’t you pass that jug up here?” asked Calvin Blakemore.

  Slipchuck sat with the reins wrapped around his hands, and he glanced disapprovingly at Blakemore. “You don’t steal a man’s whiskey, you damned varmint. We got work to do.”

  “A little snort won’t hurt, Slipchuck. If the sawbones drinks it, how bad can it be?”

  “You can see what it’s done for the sawbones. He ain’t opened his eyes since we met him. I like my whiskey as much as the next man, but we got work to do.”

  “We’ll do it better with a leetle whiskey.”

  Slipchuck heard something to his right, and swung in that direction in time to see Duvall’s hand lift the jug out of the sleeping doctor’s lap.

  “Now just a minute!” Slipchuck roared. “I said no drinkin’!”

  Blakemore and Duvall ignored him, dropping behind the carriage. Slipchuck craned his head around the black canvas roof and saw Duvall holding the jug to his mouth.

  “Goddamn drunken no-good cowboys!” Slipchuck roared. “Wa’al, if you’re gonna do it, I might as well join in! Pass that jug over here!”

  ~*~

  Opening his eyes, Stone saw night had fallen; a coal-oil lamp burned atop the bar. He heard voices.

  “I estimate three thousand head of mixed longhorns.”

  “How many cowboys?”

  “’Bout ten, but most of ’em’s greasers. Looks like a real stove-up outfit. They even got a woman ridin’ the drag.”

  “A woman ridin’ the drag?” somebody asked incredulously. “What she look like?”

  “Hard to see from a distance, but what could she be if she rides the drag?”

  Stone turned his head to get a better look at them. They numbered nearly a dozen, and the lamp on their table illuminated their grizzled faces. They appeared to be men who lived in the open, and the one doing most of the talking wore a patch over one eye.

  “Easy pickin’s,” he said. “We’ll sneak up on ’em when they’re sleepin’, and …” One-eye dragged his forefinger across his throat. “They won’t know what hit ’em. Then we’ll shoot the night riders
and take the herd. A piece o’ cake.”

  “Nothin’s ever a piece of cake.”

  “You’re right on that,” another voice said. “You remember the time we hit them pilgrims over in Rattlesnake Pass? You said them pilgrims’ll never fire a shot in anger, but the damned Bible bashers blew so many holes in Buffalo Joe, why there weren’t hardly nawthin’ left of ’em. I’m still carrying lead in me left leg, and sometimes, after a long day in the saddle, I’m a-tellin’ you, boys, it hurts.”

  Stone’s face lay against Frisco Sal, the voices receded far away, and he drifted into the darkness.

  “Their chuck wagon looks like a piece o’ shit, but we should be able to git somethin’ fer it. We can take turns with the wench, if’n she’s not too ugly.”

  Stone straightened, burped, placed his fists on the table, pushed hard, and rose to his feet. Adjusting his hat low over his eyes, he stumbled toward the door, but his legs were shaking and black ink filled his eyeballs. The room tilted to the side, and next thing he knew he was on the floor. He tried to raise himself, but his elbows buckled and he collapsed unconscious onto the floorboards.

  One-eye turned to him. “What the hell’s that all about!”

  Crenshaw the bartender held out his hands. “Can’t hold his liquor, I guess.”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  “Saddle tramp.”

  One of the rustlers said, “I’ll see if he’s got anythin’ on him.”

  “You don’t steal from a man wearin’ a Confederate cavalry hat,” Crenshaw replied.

  “Probably ain’t his.”

  “Leave ’im alone,” said one-eye. “We got work to do.”

  The rustlers finished off their remaining whiskey, hitched up their gunbelts, and walked toward the door, stepping over John Stone’s limp body.

  ~*~

  It was dark when the black carriage rolled into Colton, and a lone light shone from the window of the Perseverance Saloon. Slipchuck brought the carriage to a stop in front of the hitching rail, turned to the doctor, and grabbed his lapels.

  “Wake up, sawbones!”

  Dr. Weatherford opened one eye, and his jowls were covered with a three-day growth of gray beard. “Who the hell’re you?” he mumbled.

  “Slipchuck’s m’name, cows is m’game. We got a sick friend in that there saloon, and you got to help him.”

  “You got money?”

  “Damn shore have.”

  “I can help him.”

  Dr. Weatherford lifted the medicinal jug out of his lap, took a few swallows, then adjusted his derby and climbed down from the carriage. Slipchuck, Blakemore, and Duvall followed him into the saloon. They pulled the door open, and saw John Stone passed out in the middle of the floor. Crenshaw sat behind the bar, reading his out-of-date paper.

  “It says here we bought Alaska. Now what in the hell do we want Alaska for? Ain’t nothin’ there ’cept snow and ice, and the damn fool government spent seven million dollars for it! That’s where yer tax money goes, boys!”

  Blakemore and Duvall picked up Stone and laid him on one of the tables.

  “You’ll have to take off his clothes so’s I can examine him,” Dr. Weatherford said, lifting the jug to his lips.

  Dr. Weatherford staggered from side to side, while Blakemore and Duvall struggled with Stone’s clothes. Slipchuck lifted the jug from the doctor’s hands and took another swig.

  “Git headaches,” Slipchuck said, “and sometimes see pink gophers.”

  “Know the feeling,” Dr. Weatherford said with a burp. “Happens to me every day.”

  Finally Stone lay naked on the table, his body covered with gashes and bruises. Slipchuck, Blakemore, and Duvall stepped out of the way, and Dr. Weatherford cleared his throat, then removed his frock coat and rolled his soiled sleeves to his elbows. With an air of majesty, and still wearing his derby, the graduate of Southwestern Tennessee College of Medicinal Arts, last in his class, approached Stone and looked at him gravely.

  “Looks like he fell off a cliff.”

  “Run into a bear.”

  Dr. Weatherford felt Stone’s pulse and said, “Mmmm.” Then he pressed his ear to Stone’s chest. “Appears to be alive.” Dr. Weatherford’s filthy fingernails probed various portions of Stone’s anatomy. He bent closer to take a better look. “Mmmm.”

  He turned to his black medical bag and removed a small black leather case about a foot long. He opened it, and inside was a saw.

  “I’ll have to amputate that leg, if you want to save this man’s life.”

  Slipchuck, Blakemore, and Duvall looked at Stone’s leg. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Suppuration. You hold his left arm,” he said to Duvall, “and you hold his right arm,” to Blakemore. Dr. Weatherford blinked as he tried to focus on Slipchuck. “You sit on his leg.”

  “Now jest a minute,” Slipchuck said. “You can’t cut off a man’s leg jest like that.”

  The doctor narrowed one eye and placed his hand on Slipchuck’s shoulder. “My good man, I’ve been a doctor for thirty-seven years, and I’ve amputated more legs than you ever dreamed of. Now if you’ll please get out of my way ...”

  Slipchuck looked at Blakemore, and Blakemore looked at Duvall.

  “D’ruther be dead than have just one leg,” said Duvall.

  Dr. Weatherford turned to him. “It’s easy for you to say, because you’re not in danger of dying. But this man is. If that leg don’t suppurate, I’ll burn my medical diploma. This man won’t live, less’n we act fast. Why, you can see he’s out like a light.”

  Dr. Weatherford walked toward Stone, holding the hacksaw by its leather grip, and at that moment Stone opened his eyes. The hacksaw gleamed in the light of the lamp, and Stone saw Dr. Weatherford, Slipchuck, Blakemore, and Duvall. “What’s going on?” he asked weakly.

  “It’ll hurt for a while,” Dr. Weatherford said, “so I’d advise you to bite down hard on this.”

  He rammed a piece of wood into Stone’s mouth, and Stone spit it out. “What’s going to hurt real bad?”

  Dr. Weatherford looked down at him with his best bedside manner. “My boy, I’m sorry to tell you this, but your leg must be amputated without delay, otherwise you’ll die of blood poisoning.” He picked up the wood, wiped it on his greasy pant leg, and stuffed it into Stone’s mouth again. “Hold ’im steady, boys! Once I amputated a leg in forty seconds!”

  Stone reached for his gun, but was buck naked. He struggled to rise from the table, but the doctor pushed him down. “Be a man,” he said. “I’ve had children gave me less sass than you. Now hold ’im steady, boys. I ain’t got all day. The Travis woman is supposed to pop one tonight, and old Doc Weatherford has to be there to brang another young cub into the world.”

  Duvall scratched his stubbled cheek. “Don’t believe much in doctors myself. D’ruther take my chances than have an old drunk saw my damn leg off.”

  “Now see here!” said Dr. Weatherford indignantly, raising himself to his full height. “I’ll have you know there are more healthy one-legged men in this county than anywheres else in this great land of ours. Why, just the other day, old Clem Taylor says to me, ‘Doc, I owe everythin’ I got to you.’ “

  Stone rolled off the table and fell on the floor. As he struggled to stand, something nagged in the back of his mind. He wondered what it was, while reaching for his pants. “Nobody’s cutting my damn leg off,” he mumbled.

  Dr. Weatherford’s professional dignity was hurt, and he ceremoniously unrolled his sleeves. “That’ll be five dollars!”

  “You ain’t done nothin’!” Slipchuck protested.

  “My time is valuable, sir, and you brought me all the way here for no good purpose. Why, there might be some other poor soul out there who needs his appendix pulled out, which I don’t have to tell you is an extremely delicate medical procedure,” he said, and took another swig.

  Slipchuck paid him, and the doctor bit the coin to make sure it was genuine. Then he dropped it into his pocket and p
icked up his jug.

  “A man’s gotta rustle up a livin’ anyways he can,” the doctor said as he headed toward the door.

  Stone’s ears perked up. Rustle. He looked around the saloon, and his eyes fell on the round table in the corner. It all flooded back, and he staggered toward Slipchuck, who was examining the supplies they were supposed to bring to the camp.

  “We’ve got to warn them!” Stone uttered.

  Slipchuck picked up a bag of beans. “Have a seat, Johnny. We’ll be a-leavin’ in jest a few minutes.”

  Stone nearly fell on him as he grabbed his shoulders. “I was sitting over there, and I heard a gang of rustlers say they were leaving to steal our herd!”

  Slipchuck pointed his finger at Stone’s nose. “I’ve told you once, I told you a hundred times—you got to stop drinkin’. It’s ruinin’ yer mind, boy.”

  “I heard it, I tell you! The outlaw boss had a patch over his eye, and they were a hardcase bunch!” Stone turned toward Crenshaw the bartender. “Didn’t you see a man with a patch over his eye, sitting over there with about ten others?”

  “They was there all right.”

  Slipchuck looked at the bartender. “Did you hear ’em say somethin’ ’bout cattle rustlin’?”

  “Nope.”

  Slipchuck turned to Stone. “Like I said, Johnny. You got to leave the firewater alone.”

  Stone wavered and gripped the edge of the table. I’m so goddamned drunk I can barely see. I’ve ruined my mind, and I’m imagining things. A wave of despair and self-disgust ran through him. I’m so drunk I nearly just got my leg sawed off.

  Slipchuck weighed a bag of coffee, to make sure the Triangle Spur hadn’t been cheated. Crenshaw stepped out from behind the bar. “You ast me before if I heard them fellers talkin’ ’bout rustlin’, and in truth I din’t, but that was one slimy crew of owlhoots, you ask me. I heard ’em arguin’ about whether to rob yer friend here when he was passed out cold on the floor. Wouldn’t be surprised if the one with the eye patch was Monty Kendrick hisself, and he’s wanted for murder, robbery, rustlin’, and every other damn thing you can think of.”