A Frontier Christmas (14 page)

With the Lesters gone and the immediate crisis temporarily dealt with, Dr. Poindexter continued to research all he could find about diphtheria.

At the moment, he was reading the article on diphtheria in the
Boston Medical and Surgical Journal
. When he came to what he was looking for, he smiled. “Jenny, listen to this. ‘In 1883, a Swiss-German pathologist identified and described the bacterium that causes diphtheria. A year later, German bacteriologist Friedrich Loeffler developed an antitoxin, which has proved effective in treating the disease.'”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Jenny asked.

“It means that if I can get hold of enough of this antitoxin, I can treat this before it takes over the whole town.”

“Where are you going to find it?”

“Ahh, I'm afraid you've got me there, darlin',” Dr. Poindexter said. “I'm going to have to send a telegram off, asking for help.”

“Do you think it's wise to let people know that we may have diphtheria? Might it not spread a panic?”

“Yes, it could well do that. Another problem is that I may wind up having to put the entire town on quarantine, and if word gets out too quickly, I fear people will panic and start leaving town. That could spread the disease over the entire state, causing an even bigger disaster.”

“How are you going to send off a telegram without letting the telegrapher know? If he finds out something like that, the whole town will know within an hour.”

“I just won't use the word diphtheria. At least, not in the way that he would recognize it.” Dr. Poindexter stood and grabbed his coat. Leaving his office, he walked down to the telegraph office, where he wrote out a telegram.

“Please send this to the chief surgeon at the United Medical Center in Cheyenne,” Dr. Poindexter said, handing the message to the telegrapher, Howard McGill.

He read it. “What is this cory . . . coryne . . . ?”

“Corynebacterium,” the doctor said, pronouncing the word for him. “It's a type of respiratory ailment.”

“And this here serum will take care of it?”

“Well, Howard, it will if we send for it instead of standing here talking about it.”

McGill chuckled. “All right, Doc, I understand. I'll get it sent off right away.”

When Dr. Poindexter returned from sending the telegram, he found Tom Welch, the town mortician, had arrived in his office.

“Hello, Tom. What can I do for you?”

“Doc, I just got a man in that I think you'd better come have a look at.”

Dr. Poindexter chuckled dryly. “Well, Tom, if you've got him, it's probably a little late for me to be looking at him, isn't it?”

“Yeah, well, that ain't why I'm wantin' you to see him. It's the way he looks that I think you ought to see.”

“All right. I'll come down to your place and have a look.”

The undertaker's business was between the lumberyard and the hardware store, a convenient location because Welch not only embalmed the bodies, he also made the coffins. For that, he needed material from both his neighboring business establishments.

 

 

The body was that of a male who appeared to be in his early fifties. His neck was swollen to the size of his head. He was naked, and several large lesions were visible on both legs. His mouth was open as if he had been gasping for breath as he died

Dr. Poindexter leaned over to look into his mouth and saw several deep necrotic ulcers present on the tongue and the inner surface of the cheeks. The back of his throat was covered with a thick gray membrane. He straightened and asked, “Who is this man?”

“According to Hodge Doolin, his name is Ralph Walters,” Welch said.

“Doolin? From the hotel?”

“Yes, that's where this man was staying. Hodge said that after nobody had seen him for a couple days, he sent Mike up to check on him, and found him dead in his room.”

“Has his family been notified?”

“As far I know, he has no family here. I haven't been able to find anyone who knows anything about him. I'm going to have to get him declared indigent so I can bury him.”

“So he was just passing through town?”

“From what I've gathered. Hodge said he was sort of a traveling troubadour who went from town to town playing music and entertaining with stories.”

“Did he do a show here?”

“I don't know,” Welch said. “So, what about it, Doc? What killed this fella?”

“Diphtheria,” Dr. Poindexter said.

“Diphtheria? Damn, have I been exposed?”

“Probably not, but when you are finished with him, wash your hands thoroughly, and use a lot of soap.”

Leaving the mortuary, Poindexter walked two blocks to the Rocky Mountain Hotel. Hodge Doolin was watching as Mike and a volunteer were hanging a large banner on the wall above the fireplace. R
OCKY
M
OUNTAIN
H
OTEL
W
ISHES
M
ERRY
C
HRISTMAS
T
O
A
LL
.

“Joe, lift your end about an inch,” Doolin directed.

Joe complied.

“About another inch.”

Again the banner was moved.

“No, that's too much. Come back down.”

“Well, make up your mind, Hodge. We ain't exactly buildin' a house here, you know. All we're doin' is hangin' a sign,” Mike said.

“Yes, but we may as well do it right,” Doolin insisted. “All right, you've got it now. Put in the tacks.”

As the two men secured the sign, Doolin turned away, then saw Poindexter standing there. “Hello, Doc, what can I do for you?”

“I just left the mortuary,”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Walters. Damn. He must 'a been dead for two or three days. I ain't never seen a body that had a neck all swolled up like that.”

“Had he complained about not feeling well?”

“A couple days ago he asked for an extra blanket, said he was cold, but hell, that wasn't nothin'. This time of year lots of folks want extra blankets. He did say that his throat was sore. I asked 'im if he wanted me to call a doctor, but he said he didn't want one. I should 'a called you anyhow, I reckon. But I never figured he'd up and die on us like that.”

“Tom Welch said he didn't have any family here.”

“None that nobody knows anything about. He just got here last week.”

“Why was he in Rawhide Buttes, do you know?”

“I think he come here to entertain the kids in school,” the hotel clerk said.

“And did he?”

“That I can't tell you. You'll have to ask Miss Foley.”

 

 

“Yes, Mr. Walters was here,” the teacher said.

“What was he like?” Dr. Poindexter asked.

“Well, I found him to be quite a nice man. He even asked me out, but of course, I told him that wouldn't be possible,” Miss Foley said, smiling as she reached up to touch her hair. “He was very entertaining, though I think he would have been even more so, if had had been able to sing.”

“He didn't sing?”

“No, he said he was having trouble with his voice. You could tell just by listening to him. His voice was rather hoarse, though it carried well enough that he was able to keep the children entertained with his stories. Oh, and such marvelous stories they were, too. He told one about a Chris, the Christmas Bird who would eat flowers, then turn the color of the flowers he consumed. And he illustrated it by drawing pictures on the blackboard with colored chalk. The children were very entertained.”

Keeping his voice matter-of-fact, the doctor inquired, “Were Danny Lester and Laura Hastings present for his performance?”

“They were both here. As I recall, there were no children absent on that day, although both Danny and Laura have been absent since that day. I do hope Laura is back in time for our Christmas pageant. Oh. Even though you have no children in school, you are invited. The entire town is invited to see the children perform. They have been working so hard to prepare for it.

“How are you feeling, Miss Foley?”

“What do you mean, how am I feeling?”

“I mean, have you had any spells of dizziness? Is your throat sore?” Dr. Poindexter reached out to put the back of his hand on Miss Foley's forehead. “Have you had any fever?”

“No, I feel just fine. Why are you asking?”

“I'm asking because you were exposed to Mr. Walters.”

“What about Mr. Walters? Has he taken ill?” she wondered.

“I'm afraid he has died,” Dr. Poindexter replied.

“Died? Oh, heavens!” Miss Foley gasped, putting her hand to her chest. “Oh, how tragic. The children enjoyed him so.”

“I'm sure they did.”

“Dr. Poindexter, do you think I might be taken ill?”

“From Mr. Walters? Probably not, you were exposed to him long enough ago that if you were going to be ill, the symptoms would be presenting by now.”

“Oh. Well, that is good to know. The children have been working so hard on their play, I would hate to be the cause of it not being done.”

Dr. Poindexter started to tell her that there would be no play, regardless of whether she was ill or not, but he decided against it. “Yes, well, I thank you very much for the information, Miss Foley.”

“You're quite welcome, though I'm sorry it had to do with such a sad bit of news. Do tell Mrs. Poindexter hello, for me, won't you?”

“Yes, thank you, I will.”

 

 

Having returned to the office, Dr. Poindexter went straight to his desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He poured himself a drink that filled half a water glass.

Jenny looked up from what she was doing. “George! What are you doing, drinking in the middle of the day?”

He did not take the glass from his lips until he had drunk the entire thing. Then he wiped his mouth with back of his hand. “I have found where it started, Jenny. I know where the cases of diphtheria are coming from.”

“Where did it start?”

“It was brought here by man named Ralph Walters.”

She shook her head. “That's not a name I recognize.”

“You wouldn't. He just came to town a few days ago. You know why?”

“Why?”

“He was here to entertain the children at school. He already had the disease when he arrived.”

“Where is he now?”

Dr. Poindexter's heart was heavy. “At the mortuary. He's dead, but before he died, he exposed every child in town. And those children have exposed their parents, and those parents may have exposed others.” Dr. Poindexter

“What are you going to do?”

“I don't know. God help me, I don't know.”

“Doc! Dr. Poindexter!” someone shouted from outside.

Jenny stepped up to the window. “It's Mr. Sinclair. He's carrying Helen.”

The doctor walked over to open the door as Sinclair came rushing in, holding a little girl in his arms.

“Doc, it's my daughter! She's stopped breathin'! Do something! Please, do something!”

Dr. Poindexter could tell by looking at the little girl's face that there was nothing he could do. She had already died.