The Americans (23 page)

can't do it. Boston slammed his head against the earth, bellowing. And Will knew he could and would do anything to prevent an animal, or a human being, from enduring that kind of terrible pain. Tears running down his face, he killed Boston with a single shot.

The other cowhand mumbled half-coherent words of thanks. Will asked the cowhand his name. Frank Hixson, the young man said. He'd twisted his leg when he fell and was unable to walk. Will had to lift him, prop him up, and carry him back to the night camp. By the time he reached it, the rain arrived. He barely had time to slide Hixson under the wrangler's wagon before the rain poured out of lightning-lit clouds, soaking him. All the fires were instantly drowned. Soon the area was swimming in a foul smoke. Out of the smoke a bedraggled Bob Beaufort came riding. Will was on his knees in the mud next to the wagon, watching over the groggy Hixson. "Got a man hurt here, Bob," he called as the tired cowboy dismounted. Beaufort limped toward him through the downpour. "We got more than one, W. I heard one of the boys was really torn up when his pony took a tumble." "Do you know who it is?" Beaufort shook his head. "What happened to you?" "Same thing. My pony fell. So did his. Had to shoot both of "em." "comsaved me-I'd've been killed," Frank Hixson was muttering. Beaufort knelt next to Will, resting a forearm on the wagon wheel. Little waterfalls of rain water poured off the hub and spokes. Beaufort bobbed his head at the half- conscious cowboy: "Does he mean you?" "com saved me, he surely did." Will shrugged. "I just pulled him out of the way of some beeves that were chasing him. I did it mainly because they were chasing me too." But it was one time I didn't bungle. "Umm." Beaufort studied Hixson for a moment longer. "Maybe we can find some help for this fellow." Will knuckled rain from his eyes. Exhaustion and shock were beginning to make him tremble again. He fought the shuddering. "I didn't know there were any doctors in these parts," he said. Beaufort laughed wearily. "There aren't. The only sawbones within miles of here is Doc Stickney in Dickinson, and he isn't home but three or four nights a month. Someone told me he has patients strung out across a territory as big as all the New England states put together. We have to rely on somebody with a lot less book learning than Stickney." "Who are you talking about?" "Ever seen that lanky cowhand with the black sugarloaf hat?" Will had seen a lot of cowboys at the roundup; it took him a while to remember this one. He finally did: "The one who looks like an Indian?" "That's right. He's one quarter Cherokee. He works for Murtry of the Slash Bar. When Murtry can keep him sober. Name's Lon Adam. Doc Adam, some call him, though he's got neither license nor formal education. All he's got is a flannel bag full of dried-out plants, and plenty of experience. They say he's a good cowboy when he isn't drunk. I expect they've got him working on that man who's hurt bad. You might hunt around till you find him, and ask him to come by when he has a chance." "Lon Adam," Will said, to fix the name in mind. He found a dry shirt, donned a slicker from the wagon and set off through the rain. in It took him twenty minutes to locate the man he wanted. Lon Adam was working beside a newly kindled fire that generated more smoke than light. He'd supplemented the fire with a lantern, and was busy bandaging a cowhand's swollen ankle. Lon Adam struck Will as a nondescript man except for his immense black hat, his huge sharp nose, and his hands. Despite weather-roughened skin and calloused palms, they moved with the grace of a woman's. Will watched a moment or so, then he approached and asked whether he'd located Mr. Lon Adam. Adam nodded, a trickle of rainwater falling off the front of his hatbrim. "What do you want?" Will told him. "I'll come as soon as I finish here. This appears to be our worst casualty so far-was "No, Mr. Adam. I'm afraid we have a much more serious one." At the sound of the familiar high-pitched voice, Will spun around. Roosevelt walked into the dim circle of the firelight. His eyeglasses were canted on his nose, the lenses fogged with condensation. Raindrops gleamed on his cheeks. Almost like tears, Will thought. Roosevelt gestured behind him in an uncharacteristically vague way. "It's my man Tompkins-was "Oh my God," Will whispered. Was he the one Bob Beaufort had talked about? Roosevelt confirmed it: "His horse went down near our campsite. I've ordered that he not be moved. I fear his back's broken." CHAPTER X Old Doc Death QUICKLY, LON ADAM TIED a knot in the flannel strip with which he'd wrapped the cowhand's ankle. He gave the bandage a pat, then stood up. At his left hip hung a bulging bag made of worn material that had once been bright with madder dye. The bag was tied to his belt by a piece of frayed rope. "Let's look at him," Adam said to Roosevelt. "You have whiskey?" "I don't think it would be advisable for you to drink any-was "Not for me, Roosevelt." The man's dark eyes shone with rage. "For him." "I'm sorry, I misunderstood. I'm afraid I don't keep that sort of thing in my kit." "I know you don't. But there are men around here who do. Find them. Find me some whiskey." "Yes, of course," Roosevelt said as they hurried away through the rain. Will had never heard the ranchman speak so meekly. The storm blew itself out within two hours. The sky cleared, revealing a brilliant moon. The dry watercourse down which the cattle had stampeded contained a half inch of water now; water that looked like flawed onyx in the moonlight. No one in the roundup crew slept much that night. The men were still keyed up over the stampede, and worried about Chris Tompkins. Quite a few of the hands drifted to the place where the Elkhorn men had been sleeping before the alarm sounded. There, beside a cottonwood fire, Lon Adam bent over the injured Tompkins. The cowhands stood or sat in silent vigil on the other side of the fire. Will took his place among them. Every eye was fixed on Adam's patient. He lay under a blanket, his head thrown back, his cheeks and forehead sweat-covered despite the breeze. He was breathing through his mouth in a loud, labored way, as if to draw something from the air that would put an end to the agony visible on his face. Adam crouched down beside him. Close by stood a bottle containing three inches of whiskey. From the bag at his hip, Adam took a gnarled root the length of a little finger. He placed the root on a flat stone one of the cowboys had washed and dried, and chopped the root into small pieces with his sheath knife. Then, using the flat of the blade, he crushed each piece into powder. Will was fascinated by Adam's supple brown hands. Again he reached for the faded bag. When he opened it, Will saw that the bag had a buckskin lining. Adam pulled out something resembling dried grass. He crumbled this into an old tin cup, carefully added the powdered root, and poured in the whiskey. He stirred the concoction with the tip of his knife, smelling it, and seemed satisfied. Tompkins" eyes had a glazed look. Every minute or so, pain contorted his face, and he groaned. The sight brought tears to Will's eyes. He sniffed and blinked, not daring to look at the cowboys standing next to him. Adam wiped his palms on his jeans and slowly slipped his left hand under Tompkins' neck. Tompkins moaned. When Adam had his hand in position, he held his breath and exerted gentle upward pressure. Tompkins screamed as if he'd been seared with a branding iron. Will dug his nails into his palms. "I know it hurts," Adam murmured. "But I've got to raise you so you won't gag when you drink the medicine I fixed." Comprehension and panic showed in the eyes of the injured cowboy. He tried to speak, but the only sound he could produce was a kind of rattle. "I've got to go ahead, Tompkins," Adam said. After a moment, Tompkins blinked. Adam took that as a sign of permission. With a grimace, he exerted more pressure. Tompkins screamed again. Several of the hands turned away. Will heard one walk into the dark and retch. Even Roosevelt looked ill as he said: "In the name of God, be merciful to him." Adam fixed Roosevelt with a ferocious stare. "I'm trying. I can't save his life, but if he'll drink what's in the cup, the dying will be a mite easier." "Dying?" Roosevelt swallowed. "I thought-was "That I knew how to mend a broken back? No, sir. I kave a certificate from a Chicago diploma mill, and a. bag of remedies I've gathered in my travels. I've got some tricks I learned from my mother, who was an Ozark granny woman, and I know from first-hand experience how much the human body and the human soul can hurt. I also know how many charlatans sport the title doctor, and I know I deserve it as much or more than tkey do. In other words, Roosevelt, I know what I am and what I'm not. The main thing I'm not is a magician. This man's dying. Now if it's all right with you, I'll get on with helping him the best I can." Roosevelt gestured again, for once at a loss for words. in It took Adam five minutes to elevate Tompkins' head far enough so that the contents of the tin cup could be administered. Will found those five minutes almost unendurable. No matter how gently Adam lifted him, Tompkins experienced excruciating pain. He screamed repeatedly. And after he'd drunk the potion, he screamed again while Adam lowered his head to the ground. By then all but the hardiest had left. Those who lingered did so because they wanted to pay their respects to a man they had known and liked. Will, too, had ultimately come to like Christopher P. Tompkins, hard and profane though he was. That bond held him at the hissing fire with five other cowboys; that bond, and the fascination of watching Adam at work. He gently stroked Tompkins' cheek until the man's eyes closed caret nd he began to breathe in a more relaxed and regular way. Will had already been in the presence of great suffering once tonight. Now he was in its presence again. This time it wasn't the suffering of an animal, but of a human being. What a detestable thing that was, he thought while he watched Adam's hand. How terrible that it should exist at all. The sight of Tompkins brought Margaret to mind. Could a man like Adam have helped her? Given her some powder or elixir to relieve the anguish she'd suffered almost daily during her last years? Adam might be a drunkard, as Bob Beaufort said, but that hardly mattered in light of his talent. The slow, caressing movement of Adam's hand on Tompkins' face became for Will the symbol of the most meaningful skill a man could possess. Awed and moved, he watched for another hour. By then he was among the last three lingering at the low fire. Roosevelt sat on a log to his right. Abruptly, the motion of Adam's hand stopped. He frowned, then moved his hand so that the palm was almost touching Tompkins' mouth. The fire sputtered. Smoke streamed out. Adam looked from face to face, his gaze coming to Will last of all. Softly, he said: "He isn't breathing." "God pity the poor fellow," Roosevelt said. "At least he was in much less pain at the end. You helped him immeasurably." Adam snorted. "But not enough. You can never help anyone enough. They always end up taking their business to old doc death. Sometimes I wonder why we bother trying to outfox him." There was an almost feverish glare in his eyes. He gazed . s down at the dead man, who was beginning to give off an odor that was familiar and unpleasant. "Someone clean him up and cover him, for Christ's sake." Venomous, Adam looked at Roosevelt. "And even if it offends your morals, I'm going to have a drink now." "Of-of course, Doctor Adam," Roosevelt murmured. 11 Til find you one myself." IV Lon Adam stood with his head down, his great black hat in his left hand and his right moving back and forth across his eyes, as if he were trying to rub away a bad memory. Day was breaking. The cattle were becoming visible. They were lying down, spent after their run during the storm. Will wrenched his gaze from the dead man who had been his teacher to the other man who had succored him. In his cast-off clothing, Adam was a queer-looking sort. Obviously not a white man, nor a full-blooded red one either. He was unlike any human being Will had ever met. "Mr. Adam?" The man pulled his hand down. Focused his eyes on W. Finally remembered: "Oh, yes. You had someone for me to see." "He wasn't very badly hurt. I suppose he's sleeping by now." "Let me come have a look anyway." They started to walk toward Bob Beaufort's wagon. The ,, grass was wet and slippery. Adam momentarily lost his balance. To keep from falling, he grabbed WU-FT shoulder, then apologized. "I'm worn out," he said. "I feel like my legs are about to give out." "You worked hard," Will said. "Go ahead and lean on me." Adam accepted the offer. Tired though he was, he didn't miss the worshipful look in the younger man's eyes. Christopher P. Tompkins, address and origins unknown, was buried in the buffalo grass that morning. A crude wooden cross was pounded into the ground to mark his resting place. At noon the roundup moved on, behind schedule but having lost only eighteen head in the stampede-a surprisingly low figure, Beaufort said. When they reached camp that night, Roosevelt appeared. He drew Will aside and complimented him on his bravery. Frank Hixson had wakened and was repeating the story of Will's quick action to anyone who'd listen. "I appreciate your telling me, Mr. Roosevelt," Will said. And he did. For the first time in years, he'd done more than shout silent denials of Margaret's accusations. He'd done something to prove them wrong. Roosevelt started to say something else. Will spied a familiar figure and spoke first: "I wonder if you'd excuse me, sir." Before the rancher could answer, Will was off to catch up with Lon Adam. CHAPTER XI A Plan for the Future THE ROUNDUP MOVED ON to Gardiner Creek, Bullion's Creek, and Chimney Butte with no further mishaps or interruptions. Will enjoyed each one of the warm June days, and found the work exhilarating. He understood the routine of the wranglers now, and could handle all that was expected of him. Each evening he managed to find a few minutes to wander by the fires of the Slash Bar and talk with Lon Adam. More often than not, Adam could be found sitting by hmblebee self, a clay bottle not far from his hand. The first time he offered Will a drink, the young man hesitated. Adam laughed: "You won't be breaking any rules, Kent. This is my pokeroot tonic. There's hundred proof whiskey in it, all right. But since the purpose of the beverage is wholly medicinal, the boys can all take a dollop after a day's work and there isn't a blessed thing Boss Murtry can do about it." Will took the bottle. One drink taught him that if swallowed too fast, the tonic had an effect similar to a blow on the skull. But it was flavorful. And it certainly relaxed a body. It also loosened the tongue. On his fourth visit with Adam, he took two long swigs and then mentioned his new-found ambition. Adam laid his sugarloaf sombrero on his knee. By day he always looked undistinguished, even pitiable in his
shabbiness. At night, with the fire chiseling his face into planes of light and dark, he acquired a kind of regal aura. Now that aura was heightened by the cool, almost contemptuous way he responded to what Will had just told him: "You mean to tell me you're seriously considering a career in medicine?" Will was disappointed by the reaction but tried not to show it: "Yes, indeed." "When did you come to this momentous decision?" "The night I watched you help Chris Tompkins through his last hours." "That a fact. Sorry I'm the one responsible." He took another pull from the clay bottle. "Doctoring's fine if all you care about is feeling like a saint. If you like a roof over your head and three square meals a day, I recommend carpentry." "If doctoring's so bad, why'd you take it up, Mr. Adam?" A shrug. "Runs in the family. My mother was a granny woman. Winter or summer, she'd ride miles and miles on her mule to help birth a baby. All she had with her were her little black bags of muslin and camphor, cornstarch, and goose grease. That and the things she learned from her mama, and her mama's mama before her." He brushed at a fly deviling hjs veined nose. "Mama was a small woman. No more than ninety-five pounds. Tough as a she-wolf, though. Pretty as a daisy. A cancer took her when she was only in her forties." His eyes looked beyond Will, full of hurt. "The cancer ate her prettiness an inch at a time, and there wasn't a goddamn thing anyone could do except fill her full of tonic to kill the pain." Like an animal shaking off rain, he stirred his shoulders. A melancholy smile stole over his face, a smile of remembrance: "I grew up with dirt and disease. They're staples of life in the Ozarks. I watched old doc death take over the treatment of anyone he pleased, any time he pleased. Seemed to me there should be a way to put a stop to that. When my mother died, I decided to hunt for the way-which was my number one mistake. My life's been nothing but poverty and ruin ever since. In case I haven't made it clear by now, doctoring isn't a good way to make a living-not even for people who can afford to go into it with a proper education, which I couldn't." "That's all ne'w to me," Will said. "I don't know anything about the way doctors live." "They live miserably. Most of "em have another business to put food on the table. Medicine's just their sideline. I ran a farm implement store in Sedalia, then an apothecary shop in Colorado Springs, then a greasy spoon down near the Rio Grande where I went to study with the Mexican curanderos. All three of the businesses went bust. My three marriages broke up, too. My first wife was a poor crazy squaw who couldn't stand white men's ways. One night when I was off delivering a calf, she put a rifle bullet in her head. Second wife got weary of being poor and left me for a traveling preacher. Not much improvement that I could see. Third one disappeared too. To this day I don't know why, or where she went. She never even left a note. Amongst those three women, I fathered seven children. Before age five, every one of them died of measles, typhoid, grippe, or some damn thing. Always figured most of the fault was mine." "How could that be, Mr. Adam?" The older man shrugged. "I paid too much attention to doctoring and not enough to keeping the accounts, or mak- ing a woman happy, or putting shoes on the wee one's feet. Irresponsible, that's the word my second wife used. If I had to put a description to it, I'd say it was being too interested in death. Interested in trying to stop some of it because it's such a goddamn, dirty, disgraceful waste-was Once more he swigged from the clay bottle. Will didn't quite know what to make of this unkempt, sometimes wild- eyed man with the immense nose and gentle hands. Was he a lunatic or, to use Adam's own words from a while ago, a saint? "Had another problem since I was twelve or thirteen," Adam went on, waggling the bottle. "After I got married, it was worse. My drinking didn't contribute to the peace of mind of any of my wives. Sure helped mine, though. Say- you care for another sip?" "No thanks. You were saying doctors don't live very comfortable lives-was An emphatic nod. "I've been told only a few at the very top in the big cities make anything at all. If I were you, I'd avoid the profession like the plague. 'so, of course, you find you can't do anything else. That's the real cause of all my problems. I can't do anything else. If there aren't any humans who need help, I can treat a horse or cow and be damn near as happy. Yes, sir, Kent-was He drank again, finishing in a grave way: "I'd think twice about doctoring." Whenever Will visited the Slash Bar campsite and prodded Adam to talk of his favorite subject, the older man never struck anything but that same half-bitter, half-proud note. He repeatedly said it was doctoring that had destroyed all his chances for a normal existence. Yet he admitted he probably would have remained illiterate if his thirst for a knowledge of medicine hadn't driven him to learn to read. And if someone needed his help, he was always ready, no matter what the hour. On the icundup the demand for his services was fairly steady. One night one of the hands shot himself in the foot while cleaning his Navy Colt. Adam had an item in his bag to fit the problem. He worked up a paste from a kind of thistle called contra yerba. The paste kept the wound clean and free of infection. Two days later, Bob Beaufort complained of cramps and a bowel stoppage. Adam powdered a little of Ms preciously hoarded mandrake root, mixed it with whiskey, and next morning Beaufort was good as new. A third cowboy came down with the sniffles, then a high fever. Adam brewed a strong tea with something he called a fever plant. The tea brought the temperature down within twelve hours. Adam's activities continued to make a profound impression on Will, to the point where his worship of the raffish cowhand became a kind of joke. Other cowboys teased him about wanting to play medicine man. He surprised them by saying they were absolutely right. The roundup ended in late June. On the final day, Will went to say goodbye to Adam, who was already packed up and ready to ride out. He leaned down from his saddle to shake Will's hand: "If you're serious, and doctoring's still your choice, so be it." A smile, almost ugly in its mockery, twisted his mouth. "Just don't hold me responsible for what happens later." Will wished he could smash that smile to pieces. Adam was making light of his own gift. "You don't mean that, Mr. Adam." "Hell I don't. So long, Kent." Adam turned his pony to join the amused Slash Bar hands who were watching the exchange. Will started to run after Adam; felt foolish; stopped and called: "We never had time to talk about the plants and herbs you use. I'd like to write you-was "Do that. Be happy to hear from you," Adam called back, waving. His other hand was reaching for the clay bottle tied to his saddle by a thong. He was drinking as he rode out of sight. Eventually Will wrote three letters to the Slash Bar ranch. None was ever answered. ii On the first night back at the Elkhorn, Roosevelt came in after dark to find Will examining the book shelves. "Hunting anything special, Will?" "I wondered whether you might have a book on medicine." "I'm afraid not." Roosevelt eased himself into his rocker and plucked off his eyeglasses. That Indian made a profound impression on you, didn't he?" "Yes, sir. For the first time, I saw a man doing something I'd like to do myself. Something worthwhile." Dubious, Roosevelt countered, "Medicine isn't exactly a highly paid profession, you know." "So Mr. Adam told me." "Still, I applaud your humanitarian impulse. Even if it was prompted by someone as bizarre as Lon Adam. His boss, Dick Murtry, thinks the fellow's only half there. Dick wouldn't put up with him, but for the fact that Adam has a fine way with sick cows and horses." Roosevelt paused. "May I ask you a candid question?" Will grew apprehensive. "Of course." "Lon Adam was absolutely right. Most doctors can't earn a living wage. The night we talked on the veranda, you said you wanted to be well off-and achieve success on your own, not by inheriting your father's wealth. Have you suddenly abandoned those objectives?" Softly, almost heatedly, Will said, "No." "Then how do you reconcile them with this new ambition?" "Why do I have to, Mr. Roosevelt? I should be able to be a doctor and earn a good living at the same time." "Given the state of the profession, it's doubtful." "I'll find a way." "You'll be a very clever fellow if you do. It's more likely that at some point, you'll be required to make a choice." Roosevelt rose and started for the door. There he turned and looked at the younger man. "We discussed what kind of choice it will be. I'm sure you haven't forgotten." With a wave, he walked out, calling goodnight as he went. Will was so angry, he barely remembered to respond with a goodnight of his own. He glared at the doorway. You're wrong. I'll have it all. Without a choice. Without sacrificing any of it. Somehow, I'll find a way to have it all. in It almost seemed that events conspired to allow Roosevelt to keep reminding Will of the need to make a choice. The young rancher was invited to be one of two featured comspeakers at the Fourth of July celebration over in Dickinson, the county seat of Stark County which adjoined Billings County on the east. Roosevelt was flattered by the invitation, and immediately accepted. But as the Fourth approached, everyone on the Elkhorn saw the boss grow increasingly nervous. He'd often said he was no orator. With his high voice, he was handicapped the moment he stepped on a platform. Nevertheless, he worked hard on the speech, staying up till two and three in the morning several nights in a row. On Sunday, the third of July, a group which included Will left the Elkhorn and rode to the Maltese Cross, where they stopped overnight. Roosevelt was up long before dawn the next day. Shortly after first light, the group rode into Me- dora to hop an eastbound freight. It was less than fifty miles to Dickinson; they would arrive in plenty of time to see the big parade at ten o'clock. The weather was perfect for a holiday; cloudless and cool. While they waited for the train, Will found himself glancing up and down the platform. He hadn't been in Me- dora since the day after he'd arrived. The depot brought back unpleasant memories. Abruptly, he saw the skinny station agent looking his way and whispering to Wilmot Dow. When they were aboard the caboose of the freight rolling toward Dickinson, Dow took him aside: "I'm not trying to alarm you, but I think you should be forewarned. Back at the station, Perkins told me Cletus Maunders is still talking about getting even with you. Guess it hurt his pride pretty badly when you stomped on his hand and the boss ran him off." The caboose swayed and rattled around a curve. Will tried to shrug as if he wasn't concerned. "Mr. Roosevelt said Maunders was that kind. I'm not surprised he's holding a grudge." "Thing is," Dow went on, "Perkins said Maunders and his two pals jumped on a freight for Dickinson late last night. They were already drunk as ticks in a vat of beer. I'd keep my eye peeled today." Will's stomach started to hurt "Thanks very much for the warning," he said. The county seat of Stark County had been laid out on a hillside overlooking the Heart River, which cut across the prairie south of town. Dickinson had never before celebrated the Fourth in an official way, so that made the day doubly festive. People from miles around had driven, ridden, or walked to the celebration. A big crowd lined the main streets as the Dickinson Silver Cornet Band struck up a march and stepped off to start the parade at one minute past ten. Next in line came a corps of mounted horsewomen, their riding habits as elaborate as the trappings of their mounts. On a float created from a draped wagon rode thirty-eight little girls in white, each representing a state. The float drew heavy applause. So did the local Union Army veterans, who marched with tipsy enthusiasm but not much precision. Farm machinery went by, and dignitaries in buggies. The parade proceeded to the town square, where it disbanded. Will kept searching the crowd for Cletus Maunders and his friends but didn't see them. Perhaps the three men had already drunk too much and passed out in one of Dickinson's dingy alleys. A free picnic dinner was served on trestle tables in the square. Afterward the crowd was called to order for the program. It began with a lengthy invocation. Then the first orator, a politician named John Rae, was introduced. He delivered a typical Independence Day speech-too long and too bombastic. The crowd grew restless. Roosevelt followed Rae. The boss of the Elkhora looked ill at ease as the master of ceremonies introduced him. He got very little applause from the bored spectators. When he acknowledged his introduction, soft laughter rippled through the crowd. Someone behind Will made a caustic remark about Roosevelt's voice. Will turned around but couldn't identify the offender. Roosevelt launched into his address, speaking loudly enough so that even the men and boys clinging to nearby roof peaks could hear him: "I am particularly glad to have an opportunity of