He was still sharing the caboose with Gittridge when, less than a quarter-hour behind schedule, the northbound steamed to a halt at the Pelham City depot. They bade each other a fond farewell, after which Larry led his horse down the ramp, swung astride and slowly rode away from the busy railroad depot, to seek Pelham City’s main thoroughfare and enquire the whereabouts of the talented Dr. Bryson.
He accosted four locals before scoring. That fourth man recalled sighting the young medico some twenty minutes before.
“He was headed into the Big Welcome Saloon, stranger. That’s on Sonora Street. You ride two blocks up Main and turn left.”
“Much obliged,” Larry acknowledged.
As he ambled the sorrel towards the intersection, he passed Pelham County’s citadel of law and order, an imposing, double-storeyed structure of sandstone and adobe, with barred windows and a long, shaded porch. It was then that he saw the Pinkertons again. They were about to climb the steps to the law office porch, and were being escorted by a man Larry assumed to be the ambitious Barney Dreyfus, the county sheriff. Dreyfus, he noted, was a corpulent, well-groomed hombre in the mid-forties, with a ready smile and a flowing mustache.
Halfway along Sonora Street, he spotted the bright lights and garishly-painted shingle of a sizeable saloon, the Big Welcome.
Leaving the sorrel hitched to the rack with its head drooping to the trough, he climbed to the porch and nudged the batwings open. The barroom was crowded and he got the impression trouble was brewing here.
The Big Welcome seemed to boast double the normal staff of powdered and perfumed percentage women. He counted seven in all, as he began shouldering his way to the bar. Two of them were clinging to the well-tailored coat-sleeve of as handsome a young man as Larry had ever seen, while three rough-looking hombres voiced loud objections. Larry ignored this scene and accosted a passing table-hand.
“Hold it a second,” he grunted. “I’m lookin’ for Doc Bryson. Be obliged if you’d point him out to me.”
“Stranger in town, huh?” prodded the gambler.
“Just arrived,” said Larry.
“Well,” grinned the gambler, “he’s here all right—and in trouble.” He jerked a thumb towards the squealing women, the aggressive trio and the uncommonly handsome young man. “Help yourself. The good-lookin’ one is Doc Bryson.”
The table-hand moved on, and Larry had no alternative but to devote some attention to the impending fracas. Studying the harassed and well-groomed medico, he decided he could be over thirty, though he looked to be no more than twenty-four. His hair was dark-brown, thick and wavy, brushed back from a broad and noble forehead. His brows were even, his nose straight. He had a strong jaw, and expressive blue eyes. Every feature, in fact, was perfect. The carefully tended mustache did naught to age him. His town suit was of fine quality, but Larry wouldn’t class him as a flashy dresser.
The percenters were still clinging, the three hardcases still crowding.
“Ladies,” panted the medico, “if you please ...!”
“Don’t fight with ’em, Doc!” pleaded one of the women. “Don’t fight with anybody. It’d be an awful shame, if anything happened to that handsome face.”
“Hey, you Hacketts!” called a bartender. “Cut out the rough stuff!”
“The hell with him!” growled the brawniest of the trio. “We had our bellyful of this dude easterner—this ladies’ man.”
“But I’m not a ladies’ man!” protested Floyd Bryson. “I didn’t come here to be pursued by women. All I wanted was a drink.”
“It’s gettin’ to where us Hacketts can’t find a woman to drink with us,” complained another Hackett. “Every place this jasper goes, females fight each other to get at him.”
“Let go of me!” The medico finally shook free of his female admirers, and sternly eyed his accusers. “As for you three, I’ll thank you not to try pushing me into a fight.”
“You’ll fight!” snapped the eldest Hackett. “Like it or not, you’ll fight!”
He bunched his fists and stepped closer to the doctor.
The percenters hastily retreated, as did every drinker in the immediate vicinity. Larry saw no fear in the eyes of Floyd Bryson, only impatience and indignation. Just this once, Larry wasn’t looking for trouble. On the other hand, he needed this handsome healer.
His warning was drawled quietly, but it reached the belligerent brothers and temporarily froze them.
“Don’t lay a paw on the doc. It happens I need him—so move away from him.”
Naturally enough, Larry became the focus of all attention. The curious stares of the locals bothered him not at all. He took a step closer to the scowling trio, nodded curtly to the bemused medico and jerked a thumb.
“You—Doc—come over here beside me.”
“I appreciate your intervention, friend,” Floyd acknowledged, “but ...”
“But nothin’,” said Larry. “Move clear of these heroes.”
The youngest Hackett muttered a curse, and asserted, “You’re buttin’ into somethin’ that’s none of your business.”
“I said I need this sawbones,” drawled Larry, “and so I’m makin’ it my business.”
“Stranger ...” the eldest Hackett glowered at him, “we’re the Hackett brothers—and nobody pushes us aground.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” retorted Larry, “so don’t tempt me.” He gestured to the half-full glasses on the bar. “Drink your drinks and stay quiet. Forget about crowdin’ the doc.”
He was standing less than seven yards from them, and half-turning to address Floyd, when the youngest Hackett lost all control of his temper and made a rash move. As though that were a signal, his brothers imitated his action; all three dropped hands to their holsters. Only from the corner of his eye did Larry note that concerted movement, but that was enough—more than enough.
What followed was something for the watchers to relate and discuss for years to come, something to repeat and, perhaps, to exaggerate. To see the fast right hand of Larry Valentine in action was to see an exhibition of flashing speed and lightning efficiency, by one to whom gun handling was second nature. Every onlooker gasped incredulously, as Larry whirled and drew. His gleaming .45 was out, cocked and weaving to cover the three hardcases, while theirs were still only half-drawn.
“Raise your paws off those butts,” ordered Larry. “Let the hardware slide back into your holsters—easy now.” They obeyed promptly. He nodded his satisfaction, gestured to the batwings. “Out! Do your drinkin’ someplace else.”
In that tight silence, the dropping of a pin would have sounded as the clashing of cymbals. Furious, frustrated and humiliated, the brothers slouched across the barroom and out through the batwings. Larry hammered, down, holstered his Colt and took Floyd’s arm, while the house came alive again. The “professor” resumed his assault on the old upright, the poker-chips clicked and the drinkers converged on the bar for much-needed refills.
Noting that this establishment boasted a few back rooms, Larry muttered, “Let’s go. I aim to parlay with you in private.”
Still gripping Floyd’s arm, Larry started for one of the back rooms, but was immediately forced to pause. Floyd hadn’t budged. Larry glanced back and saw the reason why. Three more percenters had captured the medico. Two clung to his other arm, the third to his coat tails.
“Floydie boy ...!” cooed one of them.
“I saw him first!” panted another. “I’m invitin’ him up to my room to—to check on my rheumatics.”
“You’re lyin’, Sadie!” accused the third woman. “You’re too young for rheumatics!”
“Ladies!” gasped Floyd. “I must insist ...!”
“For gosh sakes.” Larry grimaced in disgust. “Does this happen all the time?”
“All the time,” nodded Floyd, and he was complaining, not bragging. “It’s incredible—and downright frightening!”
In order to extricate Floyd from the three struggling women, Larry need
ed, and was granted, the assistance of two barkeeps, a faro-dealer and the owner of the saloon. The fracas lasted a full and hectic three minutes, after which the repulsed Amazons turned on each other and began hair pulling, to the great amusement of the onlookers.
“This way,” growled Larry.
“Gladly,” sighed Floyd.
On his way to the back room, he bent to retrieve his hat. They hustled in, shoved the door shut and, while Larry braced his back against it, the medico trudged to a chair and flopped.
“I don’t understand it,” he muttered. “I simply do not understand it. Why me? Damn it all, sir, I’m no Lothario. I’m a doctor, and a good one. I came to Pelham County to practice medicine, not to court every man-hungry woman from Vogel Creek to Sunset Ridge. One of those painted hell-cats—ugh ...!” He shuddered and shook his head. “A week ago, she lured me to her room on the pretext of having sprained her ankle. And then—confound the woman—she locked the door and began removing all her clothes!”
“Was there a window?” Larry good-humouredly enquired.
“There was,” nodded Floyd. “I didn’t wait to open it—dived straight through—cut my shoulder in two places.” He shrugged helplessly. “It’s preposterous, but it keeps happening, and the so-called respectable element are as impulsive as these saloon girls. I’d swear the population of Pelham County was ninety percent eligible spinsters, over-stimulated widows and misunderstood wives. I’m disgusted!”
“And a mite scared, I’d say,” drawled Larry.
“Wouldn’t you be scared?” challenged Floyd.
“Clear down to my boots,” Larry soberly assured him.
“I need to get out of this town,” declared the handsome medico. “I need a breathing spell—some relief from this constant intimidation. Good grief, there are times when I feel like the only man in a damn-blasted harem!” He slumped lower in his chair, produced a couple of cigars, tossed one to Larry and gestured apologetically. “Forgive me. I have no right to burden you with my troubles-—especially as you were kind enough to separate me from those Hackett brothers. Need I say I’m deeply grateful?”
“You’re entirely welcome,” frowned Larry.
“I’m forgetting my manners,” smiled Floyd. “The name is Bryson—Dr. Floyd Bryson, at your service.”
“Larry Valentine,” offered Larry.
“My pleasure, Mr. Valentine,” said Floyd. “I take it you wished to consult me?”
“And then some,” growled Larry. “I got a chore for you. It’s important—to a whole townful of good people.”
“You mean—another town?” prodded Floyd.
“Town called Three Springs,” nodded Larry. “Couple days ride southwest of here.”
“Thank heaven!” Floyd leapt to his feet. “Let’s leave immediately!”
“Hold on,” frowned Larry. “You’d need to hear about your patient, so you’ll know what kind of medicine to bring along.”
“Of course, of course.” The medico produced a kerchief, mopped at his brow. “Go ahead. Tell me.”
With his back still pressed against the door, for fear all the percenters of the Big Welcome would try to force entry, Larry offered the doctor a full account of the Three Springs situation. Floyd listened intently, never interrupting, puffing pensively at his cigar.
“Everybody except the marshal,” Larry concluded, “figures Bean was a sharpy and a faker. He’d have told Buck anything—just to sell him a bottle of pills. Trouble is, Buck was fool enough to believe it.”
“The man actually believes he’s dying—of an incurable disease?” challenged Floyd. “Did this pedlar—this Bean fellow—name the disease?”
“Maybe,” shrugged Larry. “I don’t know. All I know is Buck won’t budge offa that doggone couch—and Three Springs is apt to need him bad, any time from now on.” He added, bluntly, “You’re entitled to that much warning, Doc. There’s an even chance we’ll hit Three Springs in time to get mixed into a shoot-out with the Stark gang.”
“I appreciate the warning,” Floyd assured him, “but I’m not squeamish.” He paced the room slowly, his brow wrinkled in thought. “This man Craydon—his condition isn’t so rare, you know. From what you’ve told me, I’d judge him to be a decent human being and normal enough, except for one failing.”
“Which is?” asked Larry.
“Isn’t it obvious?” shrugged Floyd. “He’s a hypochondriac.”
“He’s a what?” blinked Larry.
“I won’t subject you to a lengthy analysis of the condition,” smiled Floyd. “For the present, let’s just say I agree with your suggestion. You believe the marshal needs some reassurance from a qualified physician, and so do I.”
“And you’d be willin’ to start back with me right away?” asked Larry.
“Willing?” grinned Floyd. “Damn it all, I insist!” He donned his hat and approached the door. “Let’s be on our way, Mr. Valentine. We’ll stop by my house for my equipment. I’ll hire a good horse, and ...”
“Not this way,” cautioned Larry, waving him back. “Those she-wolves are likely still out front—waitin’ for you—and droolin’. Check the window.”
Floyd went to the window, raised it and stared out into a back alley.
“All clear,” he reported.
“All right,” said Larry. “Let’s make tracks.”
Floyd clambered through the window. Larry came away from the closed door and followed him. From that back alley, they moved around to the front of the building to fetch Larry’s horse.
Chapter Five
How to Leave Town Quietly
To Larry Valentine, tough, casehardened and accustomed to the unexpected, the events of the next hour were a revelation. It seemed impossible that so much could happen to a couple of men bent only on hiring a horse and riding out of town. It seemed impossible—but it happened anyway.
From the hitch rack of the Big Welcome, they walked to Main Street and followed it a block downtown to a livery stable. There, Larry chose a clean-limbed, racy-looking bay for his new ally. The proprietor saddled the bay and accepted payment. They led the bay and Larry’s sorrel out of the livery stable and began the short journey to Floyd’s home. Everything normal—so far.
“It won’t take me long,” Floyd was assuring the Texan, “to pack a few instruments and a spare shirt.”
And then came the first obstacle, large, female, tightly-corseted and all of seven years the doctor’s senior. She seemed to descend upon them out of nowhere. She placed a heavy hand on Floyd’s trembling shoulder, and said:
“I’ve been looking for you—dear doctor.”
“I’m sure, Mrs. Wakely,” gasped Floyd, “that you have no need of my professional services, and I must insist that our relationship remain on that level. Professional, ma’am.”
“I think of you constantly, dear doctor,” she huskily intoned, while Larry gaped incredulously. “All alone—existing in solitary bachelorhood ...”
“I like it that way,” Floyd earnestly assured her. “I enjoy solitude—believe me, madam!”
“Nonsense!” snorted the widow Wakely. “You need a wife, dear doctor.”
“Not at this moment,” he panted. “And now, I beg you to excuse me. I’m on my way to—uh—answer an emergency call.”
“Tomorrow night,” she hissed. “The white-painted house at the end of Virginia Avenue.”
“I’ll be there,” lied Floyd, as he hurried past her.
Larry followed, frowning, shaking his head.
“What did I tell you?” challenged Floyd. “Over-stimulated! All of them! An entire community of sex-starved Amazons—and I’m their target! Hurry, Mr. Valentine.”
“Boy,” frowned Larry, “you sure got a problem. From here on, you can call me ‘Larry’. When I run into a hombre with your kind of trouble, he doesn’t need to call me ‘mister’.”
“There are probably many men,” said Floyd, “who would relish such adulation from the so-called weaker sex. Well, I’m not such a
man. I’m trying to concentrate on my work. I have no time for conceit, nor dalliance with women—eligible or otherwise.”
In the short time it took them to travel the next block, the unwilling heartbreaker was accosted three more times, once by a dewy-eyed girl who ought to have been home in bed, once by a bosomy redhead who wanted him to take coffee with herself and her brother—the latter being a clergyman—and once by an irate father who demanded to be told Floyd’s intentions regarding his daughter, whom Floyd had never even met.
After assuring this latter obstruction that Floyd had a wife and eight children back in Indiana, Larry took a firmer grip on the doctor’s arm and hustled him onward, saying, “We’d better get clear of Main Street in a hurry—else we’ll never make it to your house.”
“Who is Josie Ann?” groaned Floyd. “I swear I’ve never even heard of her!”
“Just keep walkin’,” growled Larry.
They crossed Main Street and, at the doctor’s suggestion, made for the mouth of a side alley, a short cut to the street on which his home was located. Then, just as they reached the alley mouth, the final obstacles revealed themselves—three familiar, burly figures. The Hackett brothers, it seemed, had been waiting for them. One emerged from the alley. The other two moved in on Larry and the doctor from right and left.
“Now, look ...!” began Larry.
“Did you think we were through with you—you with the fast right hand?” challenged the eldest brother. “You think you can make us look foolish, and get away with it?”
“You proved you’re fast,” jeered the second brother, “but with a gun. We aim to find out if you’re just as smart with your fists.”
“And this dude sawbones,” scowled the third brother. “He’s been beggin’ for a busted jaw—and now he’s gonna get it!”
“I’m a patient man.” This wasn’t gospel-true, but Larry said it anyway. “If you three trouble-hunters’ll just skedaddle, I’ll forget you tried to crowd me—because it happens I’m in a hurry.”
“We’re in a hurry!” snarled the eldest Hackett. “In a hurry to settle your hash—but good!”
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