Not to say that doing so wouldn’t have made him feel better … but it didn’t exactly bode well for Butler’s recovery.
When had he begun to embrace such a sick sense of humor?
Or I could end the pain.
He’d come so close that day in Camp Douglas before James and the rest hauled him back. But here, in Denver, on the dismal outskirts of the city, there was no steely-eyed guard with a ready rifle. No deadline. Here, he’d have to do it himself.
He glanced down at the varnished wood of his surgical case. The one Butler had stolen during his “raid” at Fort Scott. All it would take was a scalpel. A small incision to open an artery. In cold like this, he’d hardly feel it, could bathe himself in the rising steam as his hot life pumped out onto the frozen tent floor. Dying from exsanguination wasn’t such a bad way to go. He had watched the process so many times. Seen the slowing, the fading of the senses as the eyes stilled. Breath went shallow, and the muscles relaxed.
A graying that faded to darkness.
Eternity.
Peace.
“Doc?”
“Leave me to my fantasy, Butler.”
“Doc? There’s a man here.”
Doc lifted his head, took a deep breath in the cold air, and fought the need to cough. The damned stove was going cold. Even that small joy was failing him. He had no more wood to toss in for fuel. The frozen horse apples filling the streets were too full of ice to burn.
The man outside was well dressed—a black broadcloth suit visible beneath the buffalo coat that hung open in front. A high beaver-felt hat—banded with a wide brown ribbon—topped his head. Long black hair, washed, hung over his collar. A fine black mustache flared in defiance of his thin face and arrogant black eyes.
“It is said that you are a doctor,” he began in a well-modulated voice. Then his eyes flicked dismissively Butler’s way. “Word is that you are remarkably skilled, but inconvenienced by having to care for your brother.”
“People know a lot about me.” Though why that should surprise him, he had no idea. Butler made enough public scenes they should have been the talk of the town.
“Word does pass, sir.” The man looked around the shabby tent, at the rickety beds Doc had cobbled together on either side of the tin stove. This was everything. Doc had sold the wagon and mule back in November to pay for food.
“How can I help you?” Doc asked, forcing himself to rise and offer his hand. “I’m Dr. Philip Hancock. I was trained in Boston, worked as a prominent surgeon in Memphis until the war. Plied my trade at Shiloh, though it was more akin to butchery, given the conditions.”
“Macy Hare. I’ve got a job for you, if you’re a good enough surgeon.”
“What is it?”
“Woman with female troubles. Bleeding from the cunt.”
Doc stopped short, a dull acceptance making him draw a breath. “A man doesn’t say a woman’s ‘bleeding from the cunt’ if she’s his wife or sister. I assume we are talking about a line girl?”
Another penniless bit of human wreckage who couldn’t pay him enough to buy an evening meal?
“She’s a burlesque dancer. Works for Big Ed Chase.” Hare crossed his arms. “You’ve heard of him?”
“Runs the Cricket Club. Combination gambling hell, saloon, and variety theater. That, and I hear he has financial interests in several other gambling and recreational businesses. I guess he’s what they call a kingpin.”
“The woman we’re concerned with, she’s a dancer at the Cricket who suddenly found herself in a motherly situation. That good enough for you? Or do I need to go find another doc?”
“I’ll come. Do what I can. I’ll need to take my brother. If this morning’s any indication, I can’t leave him alone.”
“The men and I will be fine, Philip.” Butler grinned. A gesture meant to reassure, which only served to open his split lip. “We can go scouting for firewood. Maybe see if we can find Yankees to raid.”
“Bring him. We can find someone to keep an eye on him, I suspect,” Macy Hare said coolly.
“You can carry my case, Butler.”
Doc stepped out into the cold day. Sunlight glittered on the thin crusting of snow. Ice floated in the Platte. The distant Rockies rose in white splendor against the sky. Doc and Butler’s camp lay in the no-man’s-land beside the river’s rocky shores, just below the confluence with Cherry Creek. Ground abandoned as too dangerous after the ’64 flood. Several other tents were pitched close by, the occupants similarly pressed in circumstances.
Hare led the way, winding through piles of empty and rusting tin cans, bottles, and accumulations of trash. Down at the water, a pack of dogs worried the frozen corpse of a dead mule. The occasional tang of offal, urine, and feces tickled the nose.
Word was that the spring runoff would finally “cleanse” the entire river bottom.
To Hare, Doc said, “My brother suffers from the fatigue. Not all casualties of the recent war were caused by bullets or flying metal.”
“Yep,” Hare said without concern as they climbed the bank and took the Cherry Creek trail. “He’s kind of the talk o’ the town. And looks like he’s keeping you down on your luck, Doctor. As to my problem? It seems that, like today, Doc Flannagan can’t always be found. And when he is, he’s generally engaged in finding the bottom of a whiskey bottle. A talent at which he excels.”
“Even sober I wouldn’t trust him to lance a pimple with a—” Doc stopped himself short. “Excuse me. I have no right to vent my feelings about another physician.”
Macy Hare bit off a smile, almost slipping on a patch of ice. The wind played with the silky hair on his fine buffalo coat. The thing looked remarkably warm.
Macy said, “Big Ed says Flannagan does more damage than good. And somehow the drinks he credits against his account are perpetually more than he’s paid.”
Doc looked back where Butler was
