Ralph Compton Outlaw Town

by Ralph Compton

  “You say that about your own pard?” Chancy said in mild surprise. He was even more surprised that Finger Howard was willing to talk at all, as much pain as the man was in.

  “We are what we are,” Finger said.

  “What’s that mean?” Ollie said. “We’re cowhands. It’s why we work with cows. Usually shooting Injuns isn’t part of the job. It’s not like we’re Injun fighters or anything. Now, if we were army scouts, it’d be different. We’d tangle with a heap of redskins then.”

  “Jelly has his fancy six-gun and you have your mouth,” Finger said.

  Ollie’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Everybody has a mouth.”

  “Sad to say,” Finger said. He sighed and shook his head and drops of sweat went flying. Doubling over, he hissed like a struck snake.

  “Is it getting worse?” Chancy asked.

  “It’s not getting better.”

  They covered the next half mile in silence. Around them, the brown of the dry countryside belied the claims of Prosperity’s signs. Then, out of nowhere, they came to the crest of a low ridge and drew rein. Below, a gentle slope descended to a valley green with grass and scattered stands of trees. In the distance the blue of a small lake gleamed like a sparkling jewel. Between the ridge and the lake were buildings lining a single street. Horses were tied to hitch rails, and a couple of people were moving about.

  “Well, I’ll be dipped in tar and covered with feathers,” Ollie declared. “I’d never in a million years have guessed this was here.”

  Neither would Chancy. But a body never knew what lay over the next hill or the far horizon.

  A few yards away stood another sign. This one read YOU HAVE FOUND IT! PROSPERITY JUST AHEAD! COME ON DOWN!

  “I never heard of anywhere so fond of signs as this place,” Ollie said after Chancy read it to him.

  “Let’s go,” Finger said, and gigged his claybank.

  They weren’t quite to the valley floor when Chancy, squinting hard, made out SALOON on the false front of one of the buildings. He imagined slaking his dry throat with a couple of glasses of bug juice, and smacked his lips in anticipation.

  “I sure hope Stout lets us have a little fun while we’re here,” Ollie said.

  Feeling guilty that he had been thinking the same thing, Chancy said, “We’re here for Finger. Anything else is gravy.”

  “For a place that calls itself Prosperity,” Finger said, “it’s not much of a town.”

  Chancy had to agree. Only three of the buildings were of any size. The saloon, and what must be a livery stable, and a general store. Most of the rest were cabins. The street was empty now, the place as still as a graveyard. He gazed off toward the lake and noticed something else. “I don’t see any cattle. No other herds are here.”

  “Good,” Ollie said. “We don’t have to worry about ours getting mixed up with any others.”

  Finger Howard groaned louder than ever and bent his forehead to the claybank’s neck.

  “Hang on, Finger,” Chancy said,

  “I’m trying.”

  “Here,” Chancy said, and snatched Finger’s reins. Finger didn’t resist or object. Riding faster, Chancy led the stricken puncher to the near end of the dusty street. He ignored another sign on the outskirts.

  The cabins appeared deserted. Not one person looked out any of the windows or came to a doorway to see who was coming into town. The hitch rail in front of the saloon was lined with mounts, and two more were tied at the rail at the general store across the street. Further down the double doors to the stable were wide-open, and the heads of horses poked over some of the stalls.

  “Where are all the people?” Ollie wondered.

  The saloon’s batwings creaked and out ambled a man in a small hat and a well-worn vest with a six-shooter high on his hip. He had a ratlike face speckled with dark stubble. He took a few steps and raised his arms as if to stretch, then saw them and gave a mild start. Wheeling, he hurried back inside.

  “What was that all about?” Ollie said.

  The answer came when men poured out of the saloon. Six, seven, eight of them. All but one stopped and stared. A portly man in a bowler and Hessian boots strode briskly to meet them, smiling broadly.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen! I’m Mayor Broom. On behalf of the good citizens of our fair town, welcome to Prosperity.”

  Chancy drew rein. “Our friend,” he said, gesturing, and got no further.

  Mayor Broom took one look at Finger Howard and drew up short. “My word. That man looks terribly ill.”

  “It’s his worm,” Ollie said.

  “His what?” Mayor Broom said.

  “His appendix, our trail boss thinks,” Chancy clarified. “We’re hoping you have a sawbones.”

  “Ah. Don’t you worry.” Mayor Broom came to the claybank and patted Finger Howard’s leg in reassurance. “We don’t have a doctor, but we do have someone with a lot of medical experience. He was in the army during the war and helped with the wounded and whatnot. He’s healed a lot of us of various ailments.”

  “We need to see him right away,” Chancy said.

  “Of course,” Mayor Broom said. “Put your fears at rest.” He took the claybank’s reins from Chancy. “You’ve come to the right place, gentlemen. Prosperity is here to serve your every need, whatever those needs might be.”

  “You make it almost sound like heaven,” Ollie joked.

  “Better that than hell,” Mayor Broom said, and laughed heartily.

  Chapter 6

  Chancy Gantry was puzzled no end when Mayor Broom hustled toward the stable, tugging on the claybank’s reins every few steps even though the claybank wasn’t balking. Finger Howard was still hunched low, his left hand gripping the claybank’s mane. His body quaked now and again.

  Chancy was deeply worried. Finger and he were only acquainted through their work, but he liked him. Finger was easy to get along with, which was more than Chancy could say about some of the others. “Why are you taking us to the livery?” he demanded to know.

  “That’s where Dodger is, most likely,” the mayor replied.

  “Who?” Ollie said.

  “The one I was telling you about. His first name is Laverne, but he doesn’t use it much. He was the one in the army. He helped the surgeons cut people up.”

  “Who’d want to do a thing like that?” Ollie said.

  They were almost there when out of the shadows inside limped an apparition. He walked stooped over. An empty sleeve hung where his left arm should be, and his left leg ended in a wooden peg. Long hair hung from under a wool cap, partially concealing the left side of his face, which was badly scarred. On his right hip was a bowie. The hilt of another jutted from the top of his right boot.

  “Dodger!” Mayor Broom exclaimed. “We have a gentleman who is dreadfully ill.”

  “We think it’s his worm,” Ollie said. “That little wriggly thing in his gut.”

  The man called Dodger had mismatched eyes. The right was normal, but the left was narrowed by a thick scar across the eyelid. Both fixed on Ollie and Dodger looked him up and down. “Wriggly thing?”

  “His append-something,” Ollie said.

  “Quiet,” Chancy said, and appealed to Dodger. “Would you look at our friend and see if you can help him?”

  Dodger limped to the claybank. “How long have you had the pain?” he asked Finger Howard.

  “Pretty near a week now,” Finger said without looking up. “Came and went at first, but now it doesn’t go away.”

  Dodger grunted. “Get your friend down,” he directed, “and lay him on his back.”

  “In the middle of the street?” Ollie said.

  “I need a quick look. Could be his appendix has burst. If that’s happened, there’s not much I can do.”

  Chancy swung down and motioned for Ollie to help. Toget
her, they carefully lowered Finger, who grimaced and shook uncontrollably as they eased him from his saddle.

  “Sorry for any pain we caused,” Chancy said.

  “Not you,” Finger gasped.

  “Move aside,” Laverne Dodger said, and shouldered Ollie out of the way. Ollie opened his mouth to protest but must have thought better of it. Dodger kneeled on his good leg and pried at Finger’s shirt buttons. “Help me get this off.”

  “You’re undressing him?” Ollie said.

  “Can’t examine him with his clothes on,” Dodger said impatiently.

  “But in the street?” Ollie said.

  “Your friend is a nuisance,” Dodger said to Chancy as Chancy squatted to lend a hand. Chancy undid several of the buttons and Dodger told him to undo Finger’s belt buckle too and then had him pull Finger’s pants down past his hips.

  “Hold on there, mister,” Ollie said. “What if there are ladies out and about?”

  “In Prosperity?” Dodger said, and snorted.

  Chancy glanced up and was taken aback to find they were hemmed on three sides by onlookers. Only men, though. Close to twenty, those from the saloon, apparently, and others. Something about them pricked at the back of his mind but he shook it off and concentrated on Finger and on Laverne Dodger. “You were in the army, the mayor told us.”

  Dodger was peeling Finger’s shirt away from his body. “Medical corps. I was studying to be a doctor. Would have been one too if not for the cannonball that did this.” He wagged his left shoulder, and the empty sleeve swung back and forth.

  “You should pin that up,” Ollie said. “You might get it caught in something.”

  Dodger bent and placed his right hand flat on Finger’s abdomen. It was red from inflammation, and swollen. He gingerly probed, stopping whenever Finger groaned. “Have to check, mister,” he said. “Have to make sure.”

  “Do what you need to,” Finger got out.

  Chancy admired how professional Dodger was. The man seemed to know just what to do, and had a light touch, like a lot of doctors. The examination went on for two or three minutes, until Dodger sat back on his heel and his peg, and nodded. “What the verdict, Doc?” Chancy asked.

  “I don’t think it’s burst yet, but I won’t know for sure until I’ve cut him open,” Dodger said.

  “You’re fixing to operate?” Ollie said.

  “Unless you want to do it.”

  “Why, I’d plumb kill him.”

  “Then I guess it’s me,” Dodger said. Turning to the mayor, he said, “I didn’t count on anything like this.”

  “We do what we have to,” Mayor Broom said.

  “You’re asking a lot,” Dodger said.

  “It’s only neighborly,” Mayor Broom said. “We do this for them, they might see fit to bring their herd.” He glanced sharply at Chancy. “You gents are with a herd, aren’t you? I distinctly heard mention of a trail boss.”

  “Thanks for reminding me,” Chancy said, and jabbed his thumb at Ollie. “Go report to Stout. Tell him how things are. That Finger is being looked after, and there’s plenty of graze and water for the cattle.”

  “Why, bless you, son,” Mayor Broom said.

  “I’m only doing what my boss told me to do,” Chancy said.

  Dodger glanced at the mayor, and then at Finger Howard’s distended belly. “Same here,” he said.

  Chapter 7

  Chancy Gantry had never heard of anyone being operated on in a stable. Usually surgeries were done in a doctor’s office. But the closest thing to a sawbones Prosperity had was the peculiar Laverne Dodger, and Dodger insisted there wasn’t a minute to waste. “I’ve got to go right in,” was how he put it.

  Under the mayor’s direction, four townsmen carried Finger Howard into the stable and placed him on a horse blanket that Dodger had another man spread out. The horse blanket didn’t look any too clean, but Chancy figured it beat operating on Finger in the dirt.

  Finger was getting worse by the minute. He constantly trembled and uttered small sounds of agony. He dripped sweat. He looked at Chancy in silent appeal when Chancy hunkered and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “We’ll have you well in no time.”

  “I hope so,” the stricken puncher said. “I feel awful poorly.”

  “Would you like some whiskey?” Chancy knew that doctors sometimes used it to dull pain.

  Finger closed his eyes and gave his head a slight shake. “I feel like I’m burning up.”

  Chancy pressed his palm to Howard’s wet brow. He’d never felt a forehead so hot.

  Laverne Dodger limped a couple of steps toward the rear of the stable. Pausing, he said to Chancy, “Come with me, cowpoke.”

  “What for?” Chancy was loath to leave Finger’s side.

  “Do you want to save your friend or not?” Dodger said, and clomped off.

  “Watch him, will you?” Chancy said to the mayor, and quickly caught up to the disfigured stableman. “What do you need me for?”

  Dodger’s face, the right half, was set in grim lines. “I want you to understand so there’s no hard feelings, after.”

  Chancy didn’t like the sound of that. “Understand what?”

  “It might be too late. When an appendix is infected enough, it can turn the whole body septic, they call it. It’s where the blood goes bad, and once that happens . . .” Dodger shrugged.

  “You’re saying we can’t save him?”

  “I’m saying I’ll try my best, but don’t get mad if it’s not enough. I can only do so much.”

  “We’ll leave it in God’s hands,” Chancy said.

  “God?” Laverne Dodger glanced sharply at Chancy. “Have you taken a good gander at me, cowpoke? I stopped believing the day that Reb cannonball turned me into a ruin of the man I used to be.”

  “It was the Confederates who fired the cannonball,” Chancy said. “You can’t blame God for that.”

  “Like hell I can’t.”

  Chancy was uncomfortable slighting the Almighty. “I admit you have it rough, but you’re still breathing and that should count for something.”

  “You’re almost as dumb as that pard of yours.”

  “I won’t be insulted,” Chancy bristled.

  “What will you do? Hit a cripple?” Dodger said, and laughed bitterly. “Go ahead. Show everyone how tough you are.”

  “I’d never,” Chancy said, and added, “You’ve let that cannonball sour you on life, is your problem.”

  To his surprise, Dodger laughed again, only this time in amusement. “I take it back. You’re not dumb. You’re blind. You look but you don’t see.”

  “I don’t know what in tarnation you’re talking about,” Chancy admitted.

  “Forget it, cowboy. I’m having a bad day, is all.”

  By then they had reached the tack room. Dodger entered and moved to a far corner where a cabinet stood. He opened the door, leaned in, and stepped back holding a large black leather carrying case covered with dust. “Carry this for me, would you?”

  Chancy didn’t mind. The bag was heavy, and the man did have only one arm. He hefted it, and realized, “Why, this is a doctor’s bag.”

  “You’re not completely blind,” Dodger said, and started back out, chortling to himself.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I was in medical school, a year shy of getting my degree, when the war broke out. I was young and stupid and against slavery, so I volunteered and the army put me in the medical corps, and here I am.”

  “Why didn’t you go back and finish your schooling?”

  “Blind as a bat,” Dodger said half under his breath. “Look at me, cowboy. Look real good. I can’t hardly walk and I can’t hardly see out of one eye and with only one hand I can’t hardly do half the things doctors have to do to practice medicine.”

>   “It’s no cause to give up.”

  They were halfway up the aisle and Laverne Dodger almost stopped but muttered something and continued. “Out of curiosity, have you always herded cows for a living?”

  “I was raised on a farm,” Chancy said. “Wanted to see some of the world, and since I’d been around cows all my life, I figured herding them was something I could do and see some of the world at the same time.”

  “That’s your whole life right there? Cows?”

  “More or less,” Chancy admitted, wondering what the man was getting at.

  “Figures,” Dodger said, and didn’t elaborate.

  The mayor was waiting for them. He must have shooed everyone else out because they were beyond the double doors, looking in. “I sent Ira Reid for hot water and Carter for whatever clean towels he can find.”

  Dodger grunted.

  “Anything else I can do?” Mayor Broom asked.

  “You can try prayer,” Dodger said sarcastically.

  “Don’t start on that again,” Mayor Broom said.

  Chancy set the black bag down next to Finger Howard, and kneeled. Finger barely stirred when he touched his arm. “How are you holding up?”

  Finger’s eyelids fluttered and his throat bobbed. “I reckon I’m not long for this world.”

  Chapter 8

  Chancy reckoned that the large black leather case contained instruments and whatnot. He was right, and he was wrong. The cantankerous Dodger took out a long wooden box that once must have been highly polished but now bore nicks and scrapes and other signs of heavy use. Dodger worked two small levers and the box swung open on brass hinges. Inside were two trays. The top tray held a saw—at which Chancy winced—along with scalpels and scissors and other things. The bottom tray contained probes and instruments he’d never set eyes on. Under the bottom tray were clamps and needles and more.

  As Dodger rummaged in the tray, mumbling under his breath, Mayor Broom made as if to leave.

  “I don’t think I want to see this. Blood when a man is shot is one thing. Watching someone be cut open is another.”