Dancing With Dead Men

by James Reasoner

  "I could sure use the work, Doc," Logan said. The words threatened to stick in his throat, and he had to force them out. It was a bitter thing, having to beg for a job like this, but his future, if he was going to have one, depended on it.

  Rusty said, "And there's more to it than that. Logan's had some problems, as you can see, and I was hopin' maybe you could help him the way you helped me after I was hurt."

  Doc nodded toward a couple of empty chairs and said, "Why don't the two of you sit down? We'll talk about it in a little while, after I finish with these fellas."

  "I've got to head on over to Mr. Baldwin's wagon yard," Rusty said, "but Logan doesn't have to be anywhere, do you, Logan?"

  "No. I don't have anywhere I have to be."

  It bothered him to admit that, too, but there was no denying the facts.

  "Can you find your way back to the boardin' house?" Rusty asked.

  "Yes, I think so." Logan had tracked men through rugged mountains and across vast prairies and blazing deserts. He thought he could manage a few blocks of Hot Springs.

  "I'll see you later, then." With a casual wave, Rusty left the barber shop.

  Logan sat there and looked around while the scissors in Doc Reese's hand snick-snicked around the customer's head.

  The shop had only the one barber chair that swiveled on its base and had a leather-covered rest for the customer's feet. An array of colorful bottles containing hair tonic sat on the polished wooden counter along the right-hand wall, and a large mirror covered the wall above the counter. Several straight-backed chairs where customers could wait their turn were placed along the other wall, which was decorated with signs advertising hair tonics, shampoos, and restorers. A painting depicting an English hunting scene, complete with foxhounds and galloping horses, hung on the rear wall. It was a comfortable place, although Logan wasn't sure he would want to spend all his days here.

  He could stand it for a while, though, until he found something better. At least as long as he worked here, he probably wouldn't have to worry about being kicked out of the boarding house.

  Doc Reese wasn't as talkative as some barbers Logan had seen, although he chatted pleasantly enough with his customers. He finished up with the first man, who paid and went on his way. The second man was balding, so it didn't take as long to cut his hair. When he was gone, Doc said to Logan, "If you'd like, you can grab that broom in the corner and sweep up these clippings. I've been doing it myself, but when things get really busy I don't have time. Decided I'd rather have somebody around to take care of it, as well as for company during the slack times."

  "Sure," Logan said as he got to his feet. He limped over to the broom, leaned his cane against the wall, and used the broom to help keep his balance instead as he began to sweep. For a moment, the humiliation of his situation soured his stomach, but he began to get over that as he concentrated on doing a good job.

  He had always prided himself on being a professional, after all.

  Doc sat down in the barber chair and said, "You were ill, weren't you?"

  "Infantile paralysis, one of my doctors called it," Logan answered without looking up from what he was doing.

  "I thought that might be it. I've seen cases of it before, you know. People come here to Hot Springs thinking the mineral baths will cure it."

  "Aren't the baths supposed to help things like that?" Logan asked. This time he paused in his sweeping and looked up at Doc.

  The barber shrugged and said, "If you ask some people, the baths are good for whatever ails you. Anything and everything. I'm not so sure, though. You've got one bad arm and one bad leg?"

  "Left arm, right leg."

  "Not an apoplectic seizure, then," Doc said. "Those usually confine their damage to one side of the body. I'd agree with the doctor who told you your condition is due to an attack of infantile paralysis. Those muscles hurt, don't they?"

  "Sometimes a great deal."

  "The mineral baths will help with the pain, no doubt about that."

  "What about the weakness?" Logan asked.

  Doc shook his head and said, "Nothing but using them – making them hurt even more – will do anything for that."

  "Dr. August Strittmatter claims that the mineral baths will restore strength and function to damaged muscles."

  Doc made a face.

  "Dr. Strittmatter," he repeated. "I've heard all about his claims."

  "You don't believe them?"

  "I don't like to criticize a man when I've never even met him . . . but I just don't see how what he says can be right."

  Logan realized he was leaning on the broom rather than sweeping and thought that might not be a good thing for him to do when Doc Reese hadn't actually offered him a job yet. He started sweeping again, but he said, "Rusty told me that you helped him when he came back from the war. He barely limps now."

  "It took a lot of time and effort on his part. I don't really deserve much credit. Rusty did all the real work."

  "Still, he thought you might be able to help me."

  Doc frowned in thought for a long moment, then finally nodded.

  "I suppose I could give it a try, especially if you're going to be working here. You want the job?"

  Logan hesitated. If he did this, his life was going to be a lot different than it had ever been before.

  Of course, it was already completely different from the existence he had led before that Christmas Eve night in Montana Territory. He said, "Yes, Doc, I do. When do I start?"

  Doc chuckled and said, "Looks to me like you already have."

  * * *

  Doc stayed fairly busy all day, and so did Logan. When he wasn't sweeping, there were other odd jobs around the shop that he could do, such as taking the smaller bottles of hair tonic into the storage room in the back and refilling them. Doc bought the stuff by the gallon jug. As it turned out, Logan was on his feet most of the day, and by the time Doc turned the CLOSED sign around in the window late that afternoon, the muscles in Logan's right leg throbbed from the unaccustomed use.

  He sat down to rub the leg while Doc folded the cape and laid it over the back of the chair.

  "Leg muscles hurting, are they?" he asked.

  Logan nodded without looking up and said, "Yeah, some."

  "That's good, you know. Shows that you used them more today than you're used to. Just be ready for the fact that they'll be even sorer tomorrow morning."

  "I expect you're right."

  "Still want the job?"

  Logan looked up and nodded. "Yeah, I do."

  "Want me to pay you for what you did today?"

  Logan considered that, then shook his head. He said, "No, wait until I've earned more. I'm paid up at the boarding house for a few weeks, so I don't really need any more right now."

  He had forgotten all about thinking that he might stop at Dumont's Saloon for a drink when the day's work was over. He was more concerned with getting back to the boarding house by the time everyone sat down to supper. He didn't want to come in late to one of Vickie Eastland's meals.

  "All right. I reckon I'll see you tomorrow."

  Logan pushed himself to his feet and said, "You sure will." He took his cane and left the barber shop.

  He walked at his usual slow pace toward the boarding house. His route took him along Bathhouse Row, and this time he noticed a large white building with columns out front. One of those columns had a brass plaque on it, and when Logan came closer he was able to make out the writing on the plaque. It read STRITTMATTER MINERAL BATHS. In smaller letters underneath those words was the name DR. AUGUST STRITTMATTER.

  The bathhouse was open. A few well-dressed men and women were going in and out. Logan paused to watch them for a moment, and while he was doing that, a buggy pulled up and stopped in front of the building. Logan glanced toward the vehicle and saw a short, rotund man in a dark suit and hat climbing out. He was clean-shaven, and in fact Logan didn't see any hair underneath the man's hat, either. He seemed to be bald as an egg. The man
looked at Logan through round, rimless spectacles and nodded pleasantly.

  "Good evening, mein herr," the man said.

  "Guten abend," Logan replied.

  The stranger looked surprised. He said, "You speak Deutsche?"

  "A little." Logan smiled. "Ein bisschen."

  He didn't explain that he spoke the little German he did because he had once spent most of a long, snowy winter in a Dakota Territory settlement with a Prussian whore named Ilsa. To pass the time, she had taught him some of the language.

  The bald little man rattled off something that Logan didn't understand except a word here and there. Still smiling, he shook his head and said, "Sorry, but I'm afraid you lost me on most of that."

  "I was asking about your injury." The man motioned toward the cane.

  "It's not actually from an injury. I got sick. The doctors say the illness damaged some of my nerves."

  "Ah. The paralysis. Yes, I am quite familiar with such conditions. I am a physician myself. Dr. August Strittmatter."

  The possibility that this man might be Dr. Strittmatter had occurred to Logan, but he didn't really expect it to turn out to be true. And yet it made sense, because this bathhouse did belong to the doctor.

  "I'm Logan Handley," Logan introduced himself.

  "Are you considering taking the baths?" Strittmatter nodded toward the impressive building in front of them. "They would do you much good, my young friend."

  "I would, but . . . I can't afford it right now."

  "Ach, well, too bad." Strittmatter patted Logan's upper arm. "You come see me when you can. We will make a new man out of you, you will see."

  He didn't really want to be a new man, Logan thought as he watched Strittmatter waddle into the bathhouse.

  He just wanted the old one back.

  Or did he? During the years he had packed a gun, he had never allowed himself to think too much about what he was doing for a living. The past months of forced inactivity had allowed time for doubts to creep into his mind. If his muscles ever returned to normal, did he want to pick up a gun again? Did he want to face a man, knowing that in another few moments one of them would likely be dead?

  Or would his nerves break if he even tried?

  With no answers to those questions, Logan turned away from the big building and walked toward the boarding house.

  8.

  Doc Reese was certainly right about Logan's muscles being sore the next morning. He groaned as he pulled himself out of bed. His left leg didn't want to move, and it tried to buckle when he put weight on it. Stubbornly, he stiffened it and willed it to not only hold him up but to help carry him across the room and downstairs as well.

  He didn't let Vickie Eastland or any of the other boarders see that he was hurting. He didn't want their sympathy. Rusty wasn't back from his freight run, so Logan didn't have to hide anything from him.

  The second day at the barber shop was much the same as the first, and so were the third and the fourth . . . and almost before Logan knew it, a week had passed. Rusty was back in Hot Springs, and he was the only one who knew how much pain Logan really was in. It was too difficult to keep that from Rusty, who turned out to be an astute observer of the human condition.

  Also after a week's time, Doc paid Logan's wages, dropping several coins into his palm. Logan had never been paid so little for a job in all his life, but he felt a surprising touch of pride as he closed his hand around the money.

  Late that afternoon when Doc closed for the day and Logan left the barber shop, he glanced across the street at Dumont's and thought that maybe one beer wouldn't hurt. Just to celebrate completing his first week of working at a real job. He limped across the street and went into the saloon.

  Unlike some of the saloons in Hot Springs, Dumont's didn't cater to the wealthy visitors who came to town for the mineral baths. Like Doc's barber shop, the customers here were more working class folks, although the place was fairly clean and neatly kept for a saloon. The hour was fairly early for the saloon trade, so the room wasn't crowded. About half of the tables were occupied, and there was plenty of open space at the bar. That was where Logan headed.

  He hooked his cane on the edge of the bar, rested both hands on the hardwood, and carefully propped his right foot on the brass rail to ease the muscles in his bad leg. A bartender in a white shirt, red vest, black bow tie, and sleeve garters came over to him. The man sported a handlebar mustache and his brown hair was parted in the center. Logan smiled and had to swallow a laugh because the man looked like a caricature of a bartender in a cheap melodrama. The mustache appeared to be real, though, not fake.

  "What can I get for you, friend?" the man asked.

  "Beer," Logan said. "If it's cold."

  "Coldest this side of St. Louis," the bartender claimed. Logan doubted if the claim was true, but as long as the beer wasn't warm, he didn't really care.

  He slid four bits across the bar as the man placed a mug in front of him. The beer was definitely cool and tasted good going down.

  The bartender lingered on the other side of the hardwood and said, "Seen you before."

  "Have you?" Logan said.

  "Yep. Comin' out of Doc Reese's shop every day. You workin' over there? You a barber?"

  Logan shook his head. "No, I'm just giving Doc a hand."

  "Wish somebody would give me one," the man muttered.

  Logan glanced around and said, "No offense, but you don't look all that busy."

  "Not right now. Wait a couple of hours. From then until midnight I'll be runnin' up and down this bar so much my tongue'll be hangin' out." The bartender extended his right hand. "Name's Dewey, by the way. Dewey Dumont. My folks had kind of a questionable sense of humor."

  Logan instinctively liked the man. He shook hands with Dumont, and as he did, an idea occurred to him.

  "You sound like a man who could use some help, Mr. Dumont. I assume you own this place?"

  "Indeed I do, sir. And I've fired half a dozen bartenders in the past year. Can't seem to find a man who's really willlin' to work."

  "You've found one now," Logan said. He told Dumont his name.

  "Are you askin' for a job?"

  "I am if you're offering one," Logan said. He was already pushing his body beyond the limits of what it was accustomed to, so this might not be a very good idea, but at the same time he had to ask himself if he could be that much more tired and sore than he already was. The answer was probably yes, he mused, but the extra money would put him that much closer to being able to afford treatments from Dr. Strittmatter.

  Dumont rubbed his chin and frowned. He said, "Let me think on that, Mr. Handley. I couldn't help but notice that you ain't real spry when it comes to gettin' around."

  "That's true, but I'm getting better," Logan lied. "My leg is getting stronger."

  "Do you mean to give up workin' in the barber shop to tend bar? And for that matter, have you ever tended bar before?"

  "To answer your last question first . . . no, not really, but I've been on the other side of the bar plenty of times. And you said you're only really busy in the evenings, so I thought that's when I'd work. I can keep on working for Doc at the same time. He closes early enough for me to get to my boarding house, have supper, and then come back here to give you a hand."

  "It ain't as easy as it looks, you know," Dumont said. "Bartendin', I mean."

  "I'm sure it's not. But I pick up on things quickly."

  You wouldn't believe how quickly I learned how to kill, Logan thought.

  "I suppose it couldn't hurt anything to give it a try," Dumont said with a shrug. "I warn you, though, I'm a stern taskmaster."

  "And I'm a hard worker. That means we should get along just fine."

  Dumont laughed and said, "You're not lackin' for confidence, friend, I'll give you credit for that much." He hadn't picked up the coins that Logan put down to pay for his beer. Now he pushed them back across the bar and went on, "I'll give those back to you as well, but that's the last beer you'll
get on the house, at least while you're working."

  "I'm not working now."

  "Close enough. Can you start tonight?"

  Logan picked up the mug, drank the rest of the beer in it, and said, "I'll be back."

  * * *

  Logan just thought he was tired before. By the time the evening rush was over at Dumont's and Dewey told him he could go home, the sort of bone-deep weariness that Logan hadn't experienced in years had seeped into his body. The walk back to the boarding house was only a few blocks, but it seemed like a hundred miles to him. And the stairs leading up to the second floor were as steep as the Grand Tetons . . .

  But as the days passed, he found that like Doc Reese, Dewey Dumont was a good man to work for, and not nearly as hard-nosed an employer as he had made himself out to be. As a matter of fact, Dewey was something of a soft touch, and his customers knew it. When they were running low on funds, he would let them have a drink on the cuff, as long as they didn't try to abuse his generosity.

  Logan's life as a feared gunman receded farther into his memory. Back then he had spent his days and nights enjoying the finest food, drink, lodging, and female company that money could buy, when he wasn't actually working. Now he was surrounded by people he would have considered common, in the boarding house and at both of his jobs. He was finding that he liked them, too, and was glad to be around them.

  The work was hard, though, and as far as he could tell it hadn't strengthened his muscles. He still limped heavily, and his left arm was too weak for him to do much with it. When he tried, he wound up with it aching all the way up into his shoulder and neck.

  The arm hurt particularly bad one night after he had worked at the saloon for a couple of weeks. By the time he got back to the boarding house, the place was dark except for a lamp turned low in the parlor. He knew that Vickie Eastland didn't like her boarders coming in late like this; when he had told her about the job at the saloon, her mouth had pursed in disapproval for a second before she controlled the reaction.