'Probably ain't even rainin' down there in Yuma,' the driver said, looking grim. 'This damn weather makes this road a gutter of mud and they don't pay me enough to drive a freight wagon at times like this.'
'I can appreciate that,' Longarm said. 'Just pick up that body and take it into Prescott.'
'I guess you'll want me to notify Marshal Haggerty,' the driver said.
'I'm sure that he'll find out. Tell him that Marshal Long will be coming back through to sort out the pieces.'
'He ain't going to be too happy waitin' until then.'
'Don't mean a damn to me if he's happy or not,' Longarm said abruptly. 'Just get the body to the undertaker.'
'You or the government payin' for his burial?'
'Sorry,' Longarm said, 'but I'm about broke. Take up a collection. Okay?'
'Sure.' The driver pulled his hat down a little lower, and then he spat a stream of tobacco juice into the mud. 'No, sir, they don't pay me near enough to drive in this kind of sloppy shit!'
Longarm reined his draft horse aside and the wagon passed. He wiped his face with his sleeve and clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. It was still, he guessed, about twenty miles to Wickenburg and it was going to be a long, slow ride.
CHAPTER 16
By the time he reached Wickenburg, Longarm was a sick and miserable dog. He was sneezing and his nose was running. He felt feverish, and decided that he had better get a hotel room and get to bed before he contracted pneumonia, an affliction that killed almost as many men in the West as did bullets.
He called for a doctor and went straight to bed.
'Marshal,' the doctor said a short time later, 'you're in pretty poor shape. You're underweight for a man your height and frame and your lungs sound like a bubbling brook. I'm going to give you some medicine and you're going to have to stay put for a couple of weeks.'
'A couple of days,' Longarm said before breaking into a fit of prolonged coughing.
When he was able to stop, the doctor produced a bottle of Dr. Ormly's Cough Elixir and Restorative. Longarm frowned. 'I never heard of this stuff. Who the hell is Dr. Ormly?'
'Beats me,' the doctor said. 'But the damned stuff seems to work. It's got some tar and licorice in it for the taste, some pure-grain alcohol, and some 'Indian healing herbs' according to the label. All I know is that it tastes good, it makes you feel a whole lot better, and it'll kill that nasty cough.'
'I'll take about three bottles,' Longarm said. 'Money is in my pants pocket.'
'You're going to need someone to bring you food and take care of your needs,' the doctor said. 'I'll be checking with you at least three times a day until you stop feeling feverish and your lungs clear up so that you can take a deep breath without drowning.'
'Do you have someone in mind?'
'There's the Widow Wallace,' the doctor said, 'but she's pretty damned bossy and she looks like she ought to be runnin' a prison chain gang. I will say she's strong and willing.'
'Well, I'm not willing,' Longarm said. 'Anybody else?'
'Mrs. Anastopolos is kinder, but she's Greek and doesn't speak very good English. Mrs. Chang is Chinese and-'
'She doesn't speak good English either.'
'Yeah,' the doctor countered, 'but you're not going to be much for talking until that sore throat starts to feeling better.'
'True,' Longarm agreed, 'but I thought that Dr. Ormly's medicine would take care of that.'
'In a few days, if we're lucky.'
Longarm pointed a finger at the man. 'Dr. Hubbard, luck hasn't got much to do with this. I'm counting on you to pull me through. I've got to get back to Yuma.'
'Excellent climate for what ails you,' Hubbard said with a tired grin. 'And I suppose that you've been in so many gunfights that the idea of dying of pneumonia must surely take some getting used to.'
'I'm not going to die,' Longarm said, realizing that Hubbard was teasing him in order to lift his low spirits. 'But isn't there anyone more... personable who wouldn't mind bringing up my meals?'
'Well, there is that new girl who is working at the Sagebrush Cafe. She's short, only about five feet tall, but fills out her blouse about as well as a man could hope to see. Her name is Willa. Willa Handover.'
'Does she act married or engaged?'
'She isn't,' the doctor said, 'but she's got every bachelor in Wickenburg eating out of her hand.'
'Do you think that she'd be willing to bring my meals up here?'
'I doubt it,' Hubbard said. 'But I enjoy being served by Willa as much as the next red-blooded American male. I'll ask her tonight when I have supper there.'
'You don't eat at home?'
'My wife of twenty-three years died last summer,' the doctor said, his grin fading, 'of pneumonia not much worse than yours. But she wasn't nearly as young or as strong.'
