by Sharpe, Jon
“How many people have you shot?” Fargo wanted to know.
“None yet,” Timmy said, sounding disappointed that he hadn’t. “But give me a few years and I reckon I’ll have done in as many as Dastardly Jack.”
“Who?”
Timmy came closer. “Don’t tell me you never heard of him? Why, he’s the most famous highwayman in Merry Olde England. Ain’t that right, Doc?”
“According to the stories,” Belinda said. “You might want to take your bandanna off. It’s sticking to your mouth when you talk.”
“Oh. Sure.” Timmy pulled the bandanna down around his throat. His nose was running and he wiped it with a sleeve. To Fargo he said, “You’re not pullin’ my leg, mister? You’ve never heard of the Prince of Highwaymen? I got me two of his adventures. I can read, with Ma’s help. I have to stick my face right up to the page, but they are the best books ever.”
“Books?” Fargo said.
“Penny dreadfuls,” Belinda said. “From England. His mother bought them for him at the general store a few months ago, and ever since, he’s gone around pretending to rob folks.”
“Pretending?” Fargo said.
Timmy looked mad. “I ain’t neither. I’m doin’ it for real but no one will take me serious. Everyone in these parts knows me so when I try to rob them they tell me to shush and behave and go on their way.”
“But you keep trying?”
Timmy nodded. “I want to be just like Dastardly Jack. Have all that money. Wear fine clothes. And them ladies swoonin’ at my feet. Just like in the pictures in those books.” He brightened and declared, “I thought for sure I’d get money from you, you bein’ a stranger and all.”
“What if I’d shot you, you dumb bastard?”
“Why would you do that?”
Fargo stared at him. “Some people, boy, don’t like being robbed.”
“Well, that’s just petty.” Timmy coughed and grumbled, “This damn cold.”
Belinda said, “I’ve told you before, Timmy. Those stories are fiction. They’re make-believe.”
“How can that be, Doc?” Timmy said. “They’re writ down, ain’t they?”
To Fargo the doctor said, “He thinks that anything on a printed page is real.”
“I need a drink,” Fargo said.
“I got me some squeezin’s,” Timmy said. He slid a hand under his shirt and produced an old battered flask. Smiling, he came over and handed it up. “My pa makes it himself in a shed out back of the barn. Ma won’t let him make it in the barn on account of the smell.”
Fargo uncapped the flask, wiped it on his buckskins, and took a swig. He’d had moonshine before and was braced for the jolt. Or so he thought. His throat seared with liquid fire and a keg of black powder went off in his gut. It was so potent, it set his eyes to watering and his nose to running. Coughing and hacking, he wiped at his face with his sleeve.
Timmy cackled. “Has a kick, don’t it? My pa likes to say that if liquor don’t curl a man’s toes, it ain’t worth drinkin’.”
“Good stuff,” Fargo wheezed, and gave back the flask.
“Any time you want a swig, just say so,” Timmy said, sliding it under his shirt.
“You’re the strangest damn outlaw I ever met.”
“Hey now,” Timmy said. “No need to be insultin’. I ain’t no outlaw. I’m a highwayman. Or I will be once I can get folks to give up their money.”
“Why don’t you go home, Timmy?” Belinda said. “I have to get to the McWhertle’s. Abigail is sick.”
“So is Old Man Sawyer, I hear,” Timmy said. He coughed some more. “I’m comin’ down with somethin’, too.” He sighed and cradled his rifle. “Oh well. Guess I’ll rob me somebody another time.” He grinned and walked off into the woods and coughed and wiped his nose and cheerily waved.
“That boy is going to get his fool head blown off,” Fargo predicted.
“We should pay Old Man Sawyer a visit after we’re done with Abigail McWhertle,” Belinda said.
“We?”
“You keep forgetting that thanks to you I don’t have any means of getting around.”
“I should have gone the long way around these mountains,” Fargo said.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing.” Fargo gigged the Ovaro.
“Don’t take this personally,” Belinda said, “but you’re a little strange.”
“I’d fit right in around here.”
“I don’t see what you mean by that. The people in these parts are as normal as anywhere. Most are farmers or have small homesteads and grow vegetables and raise hogs and the like. And as for Ketchum Falls, it’s no different from any other settlement. Most of the folks there are earnest and hardworking. No one is strange.”
“Tell that to Dastardly Timmy.”
“Oh, posh,” Belinda said. “His only problem is that he’s young yet, and doesn’t know his own mind.”
“If he has one.”
“Now you’re being mean. It’s perfectly normal for a boy his age to have a hero they look up to. Why, when Timmy was younger, his idol was Robin Hood. For the longest while he ran around with a bow and arrows and called all the women maiden-this and maiden-that. He was adorable.”
Fargo grunted. “Did Robin Tim shoot anyone with those arrows of his?”
“Well, there was an incident,” Belinda said, and laughed. “But it was mostly comical.”
“Mostly?”
“Mr. Barnaby, the banker, is the wealthiest man hereabouts. He has a fine house over on Turner Creek. One day Timmy snuck up on him and threatened to put an arrow into him if Mr. Barnaby didn’t turn over all his money.”
“That’s sure comical,” Fargo said.
“But the money wasn’t for Timmy. He wanted it to give to the poor, exactly like Robin Hood did. You know. Rob from the rich and give to the poor? Everyone thought it was precious of him, despite the calf.”
“There’s a calf in this now?”
“Mr. Barnaby thought the whole thing was a great joke. He laughed and told Timmy he wouldn’t give him any money and to run along. So Timmy let fly with an arrow.”
“I knew it,” Fargo said.
“Unfortunately, Timmy wasn’t wearing his spectacles and he missed by a mile. Or at least thirty feet. The arrow hit a calf over in the corral. Pierced its eye, if you can believe it, and the poor thing dropped dead then and there.”
“Arrows in the eye will do that.”
“Well, it was an accident, plain and simple. No one held it against Timmy.”
“Not even Barnaby?”
“He was upset, certainly. But Timmy’s father made it right by offering to pay for the calf in installments. I’d imagine it’s paid off by now.”
“You know that boy will shoot someone with that rifle. It’s only a matter of time.”
“We don’t know any such thing. Timmy will grow out of his highwayman phase sooner or later and no real harm will have been done. Boys will be boys, after all.”
“How old is he, anyway?”
“Eighteen.”
Fargo snorted.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Fargo said.
“You say that a lot. But go ahead. Mock us all you like. We’re proud of our community. It’s not much by big city standards but Ketchum Falls is a nice place to call home.”
“Unless you’re a calf.”
“Now you’re being silly.”
After that they rode in silence until they came to half an acre of apple trees and a rutted dirt track.
“That’s the orchard and the lane,” Dr. Jackson said, pointing.
“Must be all of ten apple trees,” Fargo remarked.
“What’s your point?”
The lane wound through the trees and past a field of corn to a two-story stone farmhouse. Beyond was a barn and an outhouse. Parked in front of the house was a van with a two-horse team.
Fargo felt Belinda’s fingers dig into his arm and her face poked past his shoulder.
“Who are you talking about?” Fargo asked in mild confusion.
Belinda jabbed a finger at the van. “Can’t you read?”
The van had been painted a bright yellow except for the seat, which was pink. On the near side, in black block letters, was the glowing pronouncement: CHARLES T. DOGOOD, MASTER OF PATENT MEDICINES. NOSTRUMS FOR ALL AILMENTS. REASONABLE RATES.
In smaller letters was the claim: CURES FOR GOUT, LIVER DISEASE, KIDNEY DISORDERS, CONSTIPATION, HEADACHES, TOOTHACHES, FEMALE COMPLAINTS, INCONTINENCE, HEART PAINS, LUNG DISORDERS, TOE FUNGUS, EARWAX BUILDUP, DRY SKIN, DANDRUFF, NAIL-BITING, AND SUNDRY NERVOUS CONDITIONS. SATISFACTION GUARANTEED OR HALF YOUR MONEY REFUNDED.
“Is there anything he doesn’t cure?” Fargo said, but Belinda didn’t answer. She slid off and started for the porch, muttering to herself.
The screen door opened and out strode a tall man in a knee-length coat that had seen better days and a straw hat frayed around the edges. His face made Fargo think of a ferret, only ferrets were better looking.
Belinda Jackson stopped and shook a fist at him.
“Dogood! How dare you. I have half a mind to take a scalpel and slit your throat.”
The patent medicine man balled his fists. “I’d like to see you try.”
3
To Fargo it appeared that Dr. Jackson might charge up the steps and tear into Charles T. Dogood but just then the screen door opened again and out came a stout middle-aged woman wearing an apron and with her hair in a bun. She had a kindly face, at the moment etched by sorrow.
“Dr. Jackson!” she exclaimed in relief. “You’ve come at last.”
“My buggy overturned, Edna,” Belinda said, hurrying to the woman’s side and glaring at the patent medicine salesman as she went past him. “Has there been any change in Abigail?”
The woman sadly shook her head.
“I must see her immediately,” Belinda said.
The screen door creaked a third time and a man as stout as Edna emerged. He had small eyes and his chin was covered with stubble. He didn’t look happy to see the physician. “What’s this? What’s she doing here?”
“I sent for her, Harold,” Edna said.
“I told you we don’t need her,” Harold said. “We have Dr. Dogood.”
The patent medicine man puffed out his chest and sneered at Jackson.
“He’s not a doctor,” Belinda said heatedly. “He sells quack concoctions, for God’s sake. I’m the real doctor. We’ve been all through this before, Harold.” She went to go by but he stayed in the doorway. “Let me through.”
“I told Edna plain,” Harold said. “You weren’t to come. Dr. Dogood has been treatin’ the folks hereabouts for goin’ on twenty years. You’ve been here how long? Four? Five?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Belinda demanded.
“I don’t trust you and your newfangled doctorin’,” Harold said. “I heard tell that the time you treated the Clovis boy, he died.”
“He ate some rat poison. He was too far gone by the time they sent for me. There was nothing I could do.”
“Sounds like an excuse to me.” Harold folded his arms and shook his head. “No, ma’am. You ain’t gettin’ inside and that’s final.”
“Oh, Harold,” Edna said.
“You shush, woman,” Harold told her.
Charles T. Dogood smiled and nodded. “You’re doing the right thing, Harold. The bottle I’ve sold you will cure your little girl in no time. I stake my reputation on it, and as you know, I am held in the highest esteem by everyone for miles around.”
“Please let me in,” Belinda pleaded. “I’m the only real hope your daughter has.”
“Go back to Ketchum Falls. You’re not wanted here.”
Fargo had heard enough. No one paid any attention to him as he climbed down. He stretched, then stepped to the bottom of the steps. Belinda and the farmer were arguing. He slowly drew his Colt and cocked it and fired a shot into the ground. At the blast everyone jumped and looked at him.
“What the hell?” Dogood blurted.
“Who’s he?” Harold asked. “What’s he doin’ here?”
Fargo pointed the Colt at him. “I’m the hombre who is going to put a slug into you if you don’t move.”
“What?” Harold said.
“I brought the doc all this way to see your girl. She’s going in whether you like it or not.”
“Here now,” Harold blustered. “You can’t threaten a man on his own property.”
Fargo cocked the Colt and at the click the farmer tensed.
“In case you haven’t heard, it’s a free country. I can threaten you anywhere I want.”
“What a preposterous thing to say,” Dogood said. “Have you no common sense, my good fellow?”
“Take your hat and throw it into the air,” Fargo commanded, and motioned at the sky.
“My hat?” Dogood said in confusion. “What on earth for? I’ll do no such thing.”
Fargo leveled the Colt at him. “Either you will or I will.”
Dogood’s Adam’s apple bobbled. “I don’t see—” he said. But he removed the straw hat and stepped to the edge of the porch and threw it high.
Fargo fired and the hat danced in midair. He fired again and it flipped and fell with a fluttering motion to land in a flower bed. He twirled the Colt several times, then cocked it and pointed it at Harold. “You were saying?”
Harold stared at the six-shooter, his jaw muscles working. Finally he swore and moved from the doorway.
Belinda darted inside, Edna hastening after her.
“I’m obliged,” Fargo said to the farmer. He spun the Colt into his holster.
“I’m goin’ in, too,” Harold said, and turned to do so.
“No,” Fargo said. “You’re not.”
“I don’t know who you think you are,” Harold fumed. “I’m warnin’ you now, if you don’t stop this, this instant, I’m goin’ to sic the law on you.”
“And I’ll be your witness,” Dogood said. “My honesty is considered impeccable.”
Fargo jabbed a thumb at the van. “All those cures you brag about. Do you have a cure for being stupid?”
“You are plumb ridiculous,” Harold said. “No one has a cure for that.”
“Too bad,” Fargo said.
The patent medicine man’s ferret features twisted in resentment. “You’re implying that Harold and I are in need of such a cure, am I correct?”
“He’s what, now?” the farmer said.
“How about the two of you come down here and sit on the steps and we’ll talk about cows and such?” Fargo said. He took a few steps back, his hand on the Colt.
The two men glanced at one another, and obeyed. Dogood glowered. Harold McWhertle muttered and clenched and unclenched his hands.
“The marshal will put you behind bars for this. Just see if he doesn’t.”
“How many cows do you have?” Fargo asked.
“Twenty-seven. Prime milk cows, every one. Why do you want to know?”
“How would you like to have twenty-six?”
“You’re threatenin’ my cows?”
“I could use a beefsteak,” Fargo said.
“He’s playing with us, Harold,” Dogood said. “He thinks we’re a couple of country hicks.”
“He does?”
Dogood sniffed at Fargo and declared, “I’ll have you know, sir, that I am regarded far and wide as an excellent authority on ailments of all kinds. As my good friend Harold, here, mentioned, for more than twenty years, more than two whole decades, I’ve roamed the highways and byways of this wonderful county offering my humble services to those in need.”
“That he has,” Harold confirmed with a bob of his chin. “Charles T. Dogood is a saint.”
“How much do you charge?” Fargo asked.
Dogood’s nose wrinkled in irritat
ion. “I must make a living, the same as everyone else. That I charge for my nostrums is no different from your physician friend charging for her pokings and proddings.”
“You tell him, Dr. Dogood,” Harold said.
“A dollar a bottle? Five dollars a bottle? Ten dollars a bottle?” Fargo said.
“I am on to you, sir,” Dogood said. “You’re suggesting that I fleece my customers. Were I less compassionate, I’d take umbrage at your calumny.”
“He only charged us two dollars for the swamp root and celery,” Harold came to Dogood’s defense.
“Swamp root and what?” Fargo said.
Dogood smiled. “Remarkably efficacious for the cure of fever, and sweet young Abigail is burning up.”
“Are there any swamps hereabouts?” Fargo asked.
“You don’t give up, do you?” Dogood said. “For your information, I have many of the ingredients for my nostrum remediums sent to me from far and exotic lands, the better to treat the afflicted.”
“He’s a marvelous man,” Harold said.
“My swamp root comes from the deep, dank swamps of Louisiana,” Dogood went on. “It is sent to me in powdered form by a local lad who scours the swamps near his home for the roots I require. Once every few months, without fail, Sir William—that’s what I affectionately call the young gentleman—sends me a new shipment. If you don’t believe me you can ask the Ketchum Falls postmaster.”
“I recollect you tellin’ me about him,” Harold remarked.
“Yes, sir,” Dogood said. “Swamp root. Eel skin. The eyes of newts. The extract from hippopotami gall bladders. I could go on and on. The entire world is my pharmacopoeia. I spare no expense in the interests of healing.”
“I told you he was wonderful,” Harold said.
“You don’t happen to have a bottle of whiskey lying around, do you?” Fargo asked.
“No. Why?”
Fargo sighed.
“I am on to you, sir,” Dogood said. “And I must say, you are uncommonly intelligent for one of the buckskin-clad brigade. Or is it that you are naturally cynical?”
“Naturally what?” Harold said.
“Don’t let his appearance deceive you, Harold,” Dogood said. “This man is as shrewd as they come.”
“I thought he was uppity,” Harold said.
“Of course you did. I’ve often said, and you can ask anyone, Harold, that you are a man of discernment. No one pulls the wool over your eyes.”
