A Frontier Christmas (19 page)

“The doctor? What does he have to do with it?”

“He's the one that established the quarantine. All I'm doin' is enforcin' it.”

 

 

“Doctor Poindexter, I don't understand why we can't go home,” Meagan said. She and Sally had gone there as soon as they left the marshal's office.

“Diphtheria is a terrible disease, Miss Parker. Surely you understand that we can't take a chance on spreading it to other towns.”

“Diphtheria?”

“Yes, ma'am, diphtheria. We have an outbreak in this town, and I'm trying to keep it from getting any worse.”

“But neither one of us are sick. I would think you would want everyone who isn't sick to get out of danger,” Meagan said, taking in Sally with a wave of her hand.

“You don't know whether you are sick or not. You were in contact with young Laura Hastings, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“That means you have been exposed. Some contract the disease, but present no symptoms at all. But even though they are not affected by the disease, they are still carriers and can infect others. You might already have infected this young woman.”

“But you don't understand. It's Christmas. I have obligations back home. And forget about me. What about your own citizens? Don't you realize that if they aren't able to do business during the Christmas season some of them could go bankrupt?”

Dr. Poindexter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you think I wanted to do something like this at Christmas? Everyone has obligations. Including me. And my biggest obligation is to prevent, if at all possible, an epidemic of diphtheria.

“Now, which is worse, Miss Parker? Would you prefer several businesses go broke, or several men, women, and children die of diphtheria?”

“Diphtheria?” Meagan asked in a quiet voice. “Are you saying we have an epidemic of diphtheria?”

“Yes, ma'am, or so it appears.”

“The little Hastings girl? Oh, my God, has she died?”

“No, but a little girl named Helen Sinclair has died. And a man named Ralph Walters. And others are sick.”

“Oh, I . . . I didn't know that. Yes, of course, if that is the case, I can see that you have no choice.”

Meagan recalled the visit of young Laura Hasting to Cora's store, as well as the conversation she'd overheard in the dining room of the hotel. Even then, she'd begun to have a rather disquieting feeling that some sort of illness was going around.

“Diphtheria?” Smoke said, when Sally returned to the hotel to tell him what she had found out at the doctor's office.”

“Yes. Evidently two have already died. Smoke, I feel like such a fool going there to complain the way I did.”

“You aren't a fool. On the contrary, it would have been foolish not to follow up on this. You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think Matt and I should go back to see Marshal Worley.”

Sally chuckled. “Didn't you once say never apologize, that it makes you look weak?”

“Oh, I don't plan to apologize.”

 

 

Marshal Worley was standing in front of his office, leaning on the post that supported the overhanging roof, when Smoke and Matt approached.

“Did you speak to the doc?” Worley asked.

“No, but Sally did,” Smoke said. “Marshal, we were wondering . . .”

“I can't do it, Smoke,” Worley said, shaking his head. “I can't let you folks leave, and keep ever'one else here. How would that look?”

Smoke smiled. “It would look like you're playing favorites. but that's not what I was about to say.”

“Oh? What was it?”

“It's going to take some effort to enforce this quarantine. If you think you could use us, Matt and I would be happy to volunteer as deputies.”

“You would do that?” Marshal Worley asked, surprised and obviously pleased by the offer.

“Yes. That is, if you want us.”

“Yes, absolutely I want you! That would take a lot of the worry from me. I don't know how to thank you, Smoke.”

 

 

There was only one church in town, and its pastor, the Reverend Nathaniel Sharkey, was Presbyterian by affiliation. Despite his denomination, he conducted his services in an ecumenical way so as to accommodate every citizen in town, regardless of their religious background.

Sharkey was working on his Christmas Eve service in his office with the door open when he happened to look up and see Dr. Poindexter come in through the front of the church. He found that a little strange, for while Poindexter was a regular attendee of the Sunday services, he had never come to church in the middle of the week.

Sharkey stood, assuming that Poindexter was coming to see him, but the doctor walked down to the front of the church, then kneeled before the altar. The pastor stepped out of his office, but not wanting to interrupt the doctor at his prayer, he stood there quietly as Dr. Poindexter remained on his knees.

Not until Dr. Poindexter stood up, did Reverend Sharkey approach him.

“Good afternoon, Doctor.”

“Reverend.”

“Won't you come into my office and have a cup of coffee? I'm working on my Christmas Eve sermon, but I'm due a break. I would love it if you drink some coffee with me.”

“Thanks, I believe I will,” Dr. Poindexter said, following the preacher back into his office.

A small wood-burning stove sat in the corner, doing a good job of keeping the office warm. Reverend Sharkey used an old purificator cloth as a hot pad and lifted the blue metal coffeepot off the stove, then poured two cups. “You look troubled, George,” he said as he handed one of the cups to the doctor.

“I'm afraid there won't be a service on Christmas Eve, or Christmas Day,” Dr. Poindexter said.

“What? Why of course there will be a church service. Why would you even suggest such a thing?”

“Reverend, we are facing an epidemic of diphtheria.”

Reverend Sharkey's eyes widened. “We have a diphtheria epidemic?”

“We are on the verge of one, yes.”

“Oh, my. I hadn't heard. I can see why you came to the Lord in prayer.”

“I'm going to need more than the Lord. I'm also going to need the Lord's house.”

“What do you mean?”

“As you know, Reverend, we don't have a hospital in town. If someone needs extra care, I generally keep them in my office for a few days. I have a room in the back just for that. But I'm afraid we may wind up with fifty, sixty, maybe even a hundred patients. I simply don't have room for that many patients, and I can't be running from house to house to tend to them. I'm going to need a place to keep them.”

“In other words, you want to turn the church into a hospital,” Reverend Sharkey said.

“Yes,” Dr. Poindexter replied. “Reverend, I know this is asking a lot of you, and if you don't want to . . .”

“Of course I will do it,” Reverend Sharkey replied. “I don't know what we will do for beds, or even sheets and blankets. But I'm perfectly willing to let the church be used as a hospital.”

“We can use the pews as beds. I hope we can convince people to bring any extra sheets and blankets they may have to you. They will have to donate them, because after they have been exposed to the diphtheria germ, it will be necessary to burn them.”

“If you give me some instruction on what to do, I'll be glad to help you tend to them.”

“I can't ask you to do that. You'll be exposing yourself to the disease.”

“Aren't you exposing yourself?”

“It's my job to tend to people. I'm a doctor.”

“And it's my job to tend to souls. I'm a pastor. I will be here with you, Doctor.”

Dr. Poindexter smiled, and reached out to put his hand on Sharkey's shoulder. “You're a good man, Reverend.”

Sharkey's smile was grim. “I'll start around town now, gathering up as many sheets and blankets as I can.”