by J. T. Edson
When questioned, showing a pathetic desire to behave in a co-operative manner, Blaby had at first tried to pretend he was given the two revolvers. Finding out that his captors were not particularly interested in how the weapons had come into his possession, he had described their owner. On hearing him mention that there was a scar in the shape of a flattened ‘W’ running across ‘Lashricker’s’ forehead, all of the Texan’s last lingering doubts had been removed.
As his father was otherwise engaged, it had been Doc who stitched the jagged wound that had caused the scar.
Having obtained the necessary corroboration, the Texan had found himself on the horns of a dilemma.
In fact, even after a night of thought and deliberation, Doc still had not settled the matter of what to do about his discovery.
During the bitter days immediately following the death of his parents, Doc had had much on his mind. In addition to putting off his departure to commence what would have been his formal medical education, so as to start straightening out his father’s involved and far from satisfactory financial affairs, he had worked at finding out who was responsible for the killings. According to what he had learned, four men were to blame. Three of them had died, although only one at his hands, but the fourth and, by all accounts, the most culpable had evaded his attentions.
The result of Doc’s inquiries had established that Lindrick was the man in question. As if wishing to supply the conclusive proof of his guilt, he had fled from Lampasas County—in spite of serving what was emerging as the Victorious side in the range war—and, apparently, had quit Texas too.
Finding a pressing need to both earn a living and acquire sufficient money to pay off various debts incurred by his father had precluded any chance of Doc either embarking on his proposed education, or carrying out a deliberate quest for vengeance. Not that he had ever completely forgotten Lindrick and, particularly in the early days, he had been alert for news concerning his whereabouts. None had been forthcoming.
Strangely, considering Lindrick’s prominence and the interest taken by people out West in the activities of men in his line of work, Doc had heard nothing of him all through the years that had followed. Certainly he had never been mentioned in connection with any of the numerous types Of conflict which called for the services of specialists in his deadly trade.
Always a realist, Doc had gradually come to accept that Lindrick might be dead or otherwise beyond his reach. So he had never considered carrying out what was likely to prove a futile search for the hired killer. The memory of his parents’ death had never completely left him, but he had not permitted himself to brood upon its cause.
Having learned where Lindrick could be found, Doc had felt a resurgence of the old bitterness and anger. Yet he knew all too well how his situation had changed since the days when the incident occurred. Then he was a footloose drifter, with no other responsibilities than to earn sufficient money to clear off his father’s debts. He had had nobody except himself to consider whatever he chose to do. Now he was a married man and on the threshold of the career he had so long desired.
All too well Doc appreciated the problems of confronting him. Within six months, perhaps less, he could take the qualifying examination that would entitle him to the title ‘Doctor of Medicine’. Then he would be free to return West. He had already decided that he would set up his practice in Two Forks, Utah Territory, but visiting the town of Kenton would not take him too far out of his way when he left the trans-continental railroad.
However, in six months—or even less, depending upon how successful the Union Pacific Railroad were in establishing their right of way—Lindrick could have moved on. Men in his profession could not be hired cheaply. Nor, once they had served their purpose, did their employees care to retain them as reminders of the measures which had been employed to bring victory. So there was no assurance that he would be at Kenton by the time the Texan could reach the town. On the other hand, to set off sooner could mean that Doc would have to give up his hopes of becoming a qualified doctor.
Sensing his friend’s dilemma, St. Andre had not carried out a protracted investigation into Coffee Dan’s connection with the attempted bank robbery. While he had suspected that the saloonkeeper was aware that it would take place, he knew proving the point would be practically impossible. So there had been no reason for them to linger. Leaving his sergeant to deliver Blaby to Police Headquarters, the captain had accompanied the Texan to the restaurant where Lynn had taken Alice St. Andrew and them out to dinner.
Not until Doc and his wife were alone in their apartment had he told her of the latest developments and his dilemma. Guessing at his inner turmoil, Lynn had not attempted to influence him one way or the other. She had stated that whatever he decided was all right with her.
For all his wife’s support, Doc had spent a somewhat restless night. Nor had he reached any conclusions by the time he had risen that morning. In fact, the matter was nowhere near settled when he had left for the hospital.
On his arrival at the College, Doc found that his activities of the previous day were public knowledge. The first thing to greet him on his entrance at the student’s lecture room, deliberately he suspected, had been the sight of the glaring headlines on the front page of the New Orleans Intelligencer.
‘MEDICAL STUDENT INVOLVED IN DOUBLE SHOOTING!’
Accepting the copy of the newspaper and reading the story, Doc discovered that the reporter had done more than cover what had happened at the bank. In some way, he had found out about the incident at Coffee Dan’s saloon. With an eye on the possibility of a law suit for libel—but mainly due to fear of the Texan’s proven ability and proficiency in the use of lethal weapons—Mudgins had toned down the calumnies it had been his original intention to submit for publication. Instead, he had stated most—but not all—of the facts he had gathered, naming Doc and the Hospital, with no more than the usual near distortions his kind always employed when dealing with a person who refused to subscribe blindly and fully to their lofty ideals.
On turning to it, Doc had found the newspaper’s editorial column to be an impassioned declaim on the propriety of allowing a man to become a qualified doctor who was willing to kill other human beings, as they put it ‘in what passes as the interests of “justice” ’.
While studying the content of the editorial, Doc had guessed that there would be repercussions.
Confronted by two junior students, whose disdain for personal hygiene proclaimed their ‘liberal’ pretensions, the Texan had listened to their demands that he stated his views on ‘the moral ethics of one person considering he had the right to take another’s life’. He had answered in a way that left no doubt where he stood on the matter of a law abiding citizen’s right to defend himself against thieves—even to the extent of killing—when the porter had delivered the message from the Dean. Leaving his interrogators to be mocked by their more sensible colleagues, he had come to answer the summons.
The Dean of the Medical College looked at the Texan from behind a desk upon which lay two newspapers. The upper, hiding the other, was a copy of the Intelligencer with its headline showing. ‘Come in and sit down, please.’
Few people who came into contact with Doctor Alphonse Jules Dumoulin could have guessed from his present appearance that, in the days of his youth, he had led a wild and reckless life which had almost ended in an unnecessary duel. xlv
Of slightly more than medium height, always faultlessly—fussily even—dressed in the peak of a fashion permissible for a man of his years, the Dean of the College exuded an aura of conservative and conventional behavior. The passage of time had added weight to his frame, but not to the extent of corpulence. What little hair remained was snowy white. Yet his still handsome face retained more than a suggestion of strength of will and his eyes showed something of their earlier restless fire.
Unlike many of his contemporaries, he had accepted over the past few years that his hands were not as steady as in the days when he had
been building and maintaining his well-deserved reputation as a surgeon par excellence. Now he did not take an active part in the performance of operations. However, as Doc was all too aware, he was still a powerful and influential factor in medical and surgical affairs in the city and throughout the State of Louisiana, as well as in matters that concerned that Soniat Memorial-Mercy Hospital and its Medical College.
To the students under him, as Dean of the College, Doctor Dumoulin was the epitome of authority and wielded a decisive control over their hopes for the future. Intolerant of idleness and incompetence, he also had a reputation for being a stickler where the regulations governing their deportment and behavior were concerned. For all that, there were vague rumors of how he had on occasion acted as a shield when high spirits had brought willing and capable students into conflict with their superiors.
Being older and more mature than all but a few of his classmates, Doc also had a young wife with whom to spend his leisure hours. So he had little contact with the activities of the students outside the College. Nor had he done anything inside that could have brought him before the Dean for disciplinary purposes since his arrival.
‘I suppose you’ve seen this?’ Dumoulin commenced, more as a statement than a question, waving a hand at the upper newspaper after the Texan had taken a seat and was facing him across the desk.
‘Yes, sir,’ Doc admitted. ‘I don’t buy the Intelligencer, but I’ve had it brought to my attention.’
‘So have I,’ Dumoulin grunted and repeated with a little more emphasis. ‘So have I. What have you to say about it?’
‘It’s true,’ Doc conceded. ‘As far as it goes.’
‘You did what it says?’ the Dean challenged.
‘Yes, sir,’ Doc replied, his voice flat, neither defiant nor apologetic. ‘I shot both of those men.’
‘Both?’ Dumoulin said, showing slight relief. ‘Then you weren’t involved in the incident at the saloon?’
‘I was, sir.’
‘Then what do you mean, “both”?’
‘I killed the man at the bank, sir. But, although none of us mentioned it to the newspaperman, Lynn shot the other one.’
‘Mrs. Leroy?’ Dumoulin barked and just a hint of an admiring smile came to his lips then disappeared just as quickly.
‘She did it to save me, sir,’ Doc stated and explained the circumstances.
‘I understand that you have served as a peace officer in the West?’ Dumoulin remarked when the Texan had finished speaking.
‘I was a deputy town marshal under Dusty Fog twice, sir, in Quiet Town and then later at Trail End,’ xlvi Doc confirmed. ‘Then I became a member of the Arizona Rangers.’
‘But you’re no longer an officer of the law?’ the Dean asked.
‘No, sir. Nor have I said I was.’
‘But you’ve had experience with situations similar to that at the bank?’
‘Not that close, but some.’
‘Enough for you to be convinced that they wouldn’t stop with just one shooting?’
‘I didn’t know it for certain, sir,’ Doc admitted. ‘But it didn’t seem like a good notion for me to stand waiting to find out before making my move.’
‘I’m not gainsaying that,’ Dumoulin declared.
Having delivered that sentiment, the Dean paused. Drumming his fingers on the top of the desk, he glanced from the slender young Texan to the two newspapers. The one underneath was that morning’s edition of the New Orleans Picayune. It too carried the stories of the abortive bank robbery and the gun fight at the saloon. There was, however, a noticeable difference in the way the incidents were recorded. Although naming Marvin Eldridge Leroy as being involved in each occurrence, the Picayune claimed he was a peace officer from Texas and omitted all reference to his present occupation. They also included another piece of information which their rival newspaper had deliberately omitted.
Considering the latter item, Dumoulin turned his gaze back to the Texan’s pallid and composed face. The Dean was impressed and far from displeased by the other’s demeanor. A lesser man in similar circumstances would have tried to use the fact that he had performed a difficult surgical feat under far from ideal conditions, thus saving the life of the man he had been compelled to shoot in self-defense, as a reason why he should be excused from the consequences of behavior which was not in accord with that expected from a student hoping to embrace the medical profession.
Such an idea had never entered Doc’s head. He had read the Picayune while eating his breakfast at the apartment, and he guessed that a copy lay beneath the Intelligencer, as it was unlikely that the Dean would subscribe to the “liberal” newspaper. However, he had not envisaged that he would be facing the Dean over the matter. Nor, even now, did he consider that he needed to make any excuses for what he had been compelled to do.
In spite of the career upon which he was hoping to embark, Doc had no guilty feelings over shooting either man. A search of the wanted posters at the headquarters of the New Orleans Police Department had produced evidence that Big Hadle had murdered at least once in the commission of crimes. Royster had been a hired gun hand, selling his ability with firearms to the highest bidder, and had in all probability taken human life. Each had been prepared to throw lead into him if an opportunity to do so had been granted. So, as far as Doc was concerned, he had found himself in the ironic position of having to use his special knowledge to save the life of a man he had shot He neither expected praise for the one, nor blame for the other.
For almost a minute, neither man spoke. It was Dumoulin who broke the silence.
‘Nobody has the right to blame you for defending yourself and your wife, even to the extent of killing a thief who’s threatening you,’ the Dean declared. ‘And it will be a sad state of affairs if the time comes when a man isn’t allowed to do that!’
‘Yes, sir,’ Doc agreed and, remembering an incident Waco had told him about, xlvii went on, ‘Likely even a soft shell wouldn’t object to having it happen should it have been them who’ve been threatened.’
‘I also have nothing but respect and admiration for any man who is willing to risk his life helping a policeman in an emergency,’ Dumoulin continued, without answering the comment. ‘But was there any need for you to go with young St. Andre to the saloon last night?’
‘There was, sir,’ Doc said quietly, but with complete conviction.
‘I hope that you have a very good reason,’ Dumoulin warned. ‘From the way the Intelligencer is carrying on, it’s the end of your career they’re after. And there are those, even on the Hospital’s Management Committee, who will be sufficiently influenced by this muckraking garbage to support it.’
‘I’m sorry to have brought this on the Hospital, sir,’ Doc replied. ‘But I did have what I feel is a damned good reason for going to Coffee Dan’s.’
‘Then tell me about it, please,’ ordered the Dean of the Medical College.
Starting at the beginning, Doc began to tell the full story. All the time he was speaking, he knew that his career hung in the balance and that he might have ruined his chance of becoming Marvin Eldridge Leroy, M.D.
Author’s note: The events in the next Chapters take place some ten years earlier than those recorded up to this point.
Part Two – Lil Doc and Sir John
Nine – That’s Mean, Boy, Real Mean
Considering the state of affairs in Lampasas County, it might have been thought injudicious for Doctor Eldridge Jason Leroy, M.D. and his son, Marvin Eldridge—who had already, by his eighteenth birthday, acquired the sobriquet ‘Doc’ xlviii —to have gone hunting along the Owl Fork of the river which had given their home County its name.
In some respects, like most of the problems which were besetting Texas in the summer of 1871, the feud between the Wensbury and Maudlin families, embroiling almost everybody else in the district, had its origins from the War Between the States. While Boone Wensbury and his sons—two of whom did not return—had ridden off to fight i
n the Army of the Confederate States, Taylor Maudlin had elected to keep all the members of his clan at home. There had been no suggestion of disloyalty to the South in the latter’s decision. He had freely supplied cattle to help feed the Army of North Texas & Arkansas which, under the command of General Jackson Baines ‘Ole Devil’ Hardin, C.S.A., had proved a serious thorn in the Union’s side during the last two or so years of the conflict. xlix What was more, the Maudlins had taken active part in the defense of their neighbors’ properties against the depredations of marauding Indians and Mexicans while the other men were away fighting the Yankees.
Nobody in Lampasas County, probably not even the participants, could say exactly who or what provoked the feud in the first place. Certainly Maudlin’s family were not entirely blameless. Equally, the fault could not be laid completely upon the Wensbury clan. The latter, struggling for economic survival on account of all their money having been exchanged for the now valueless currency of the former Confederate States, resented the comparative affluence of their neighbors. Maudlin had had the foresight to retain well over half of his finances in negotiable gold coinage.
A further bone of contention had become a factor to increase hostility. While the terrain for hundreds of square miles around had never known a fence, each family had laid claim to a large area as their respective holdings. Wisely, in the days when they had settled in the vicinity, they had accepted that a strip of land a mile wide on each bank of the easterly flowing Owl Fork of the Lampasas River—which formed the boundary between their ranches—should be considered as a kind of ownerless buffer state common to them both. As each faction’s domain was adequately watered from other sources, there had been nothing to be lost through the agreement.
