The dapper man shot him a sidelong inspection. “You look about at the end of your line, sir.”
“The war didn’t leave me with much. But, to be honest, I didn’t expect that getting a new start would prove so difficult.”
“If I might ask, what were your sympathies in the recent unpleasantness?”
“Staying alive … and keeping as many of my fellows in that state as I could. A goal at which I often did not succeed.”
“Big Ed served with the Colorado Volunteers. Under Colonel Chivington. He was proud to punish the red heathens hiding under the American flag at Sand Creek. Does that cause you any inconvenience of conscience, Doctor?”
“Mr. Hare, once upon a time I had the luxury of moral outrage and an amount of rectitude. Since then life has managed to stamp, slap, and beat me free of any such silly preoccupations. My purpose, these days, is to ply my craft to the best of my ability, to allay suffering, and establish a practice that allows me and my brother to live in comfort.”
“We might have a solution for your current circumstances.” Hare paused. “Assuming you have the requisite skills that some of the hoosieroons claim you have.”
“And what solution might that be?” Doc coughed into his sleeve. What could the drunks and vagabonds be saying about him?
“Don’t be so suspicious, Dr. Hancock. First, let’s see if you can help Lottie.”
“Ah, she has a name now.”
Hare shot him a cold look as they turned onto Blake Street. The line of prominent two- and three-story brick buildings were the center of Denver’s night life. A line of wagons, teams waiting head down, filled the center of the street. Despite the closed doors, the sound of a piano could be heard from the Arcadia.
Butler, who had remained remarkably quiet, made mumbling sounds as they stepped through the Cricket Club’s doors and into a blessed warmth. Hare led the way through the restaurant and gaming room to the back, climbed the stairs, and into the back hallway.
At one of the doors a third of the way down the dark hall, Hare slowed, knocked, and called, “Lottie? It’s Mace. I’ve brought a doctor.”
“Mace?” The voice sounded weak as Hare opened the door.
Doc took his surgical box, inclining his head toward Butler, as he said, “If you could keep my brother out of trouble?”
“Sure, Doc.” Macy Hare asked Butler, “Do you play monte?”
“Don’t even think it,” Doc told him. “Neither Butler nor his imaginary soldiers have a penny to their names. Nor will I cover their debts.”
“Maybe we’ll play for matchsticks.”
“Hell, we’ve less than a dozen of those left.” Doc closed the door behind him, and blinked in the dim interior. A coal oil lamp, its chimney black, barely cast a gleam in the room. Doc turned up the wick.
Lottie lay on a narrow, metal-frame bed against the wall; a thick sweater protected her from the chill. She stared at Doc through leaden eyes as he laid his case on the mirrored dresser.
“I’m Doc Hancock, Lottie. I’m told you’re bleeding.”
“Doc Flannagan said I’d be fine. That I’d be back to dancing for Mace in a week. But it just won’t stop bleeding, Doc. And it sure stays sore down there.”
Doc glanced down at the chamber pot next to the bed. Even in the poor light he could see it was full of bloody rags.
“Well, Lottie, let me clean your lamp, then I’ll see if I can find the trouble.”
His preliminary inspection sent a shiver down his spine. He’d seen the like in a female corpse once while in medical school in Boston. He glanced at his surgical kit. But for forceps and sutures, instruments for women weren’t included.
“I’ll be right back.”
He hurried out into the hall, then down the stairs to the dingy kitchen, calling, “I need a gravy spoon. It’s an emergency.”
The cook, a toothless, gray-haired man wearing a dirty apron, his cheeks covered with stubble, picked up a serving spoon from the counter. “All we gots is this.”
Doc looked at it, grimaced, and wiped it off with a grease-impregnated rag. As he burst out the door, the cook called, “You bring that back when you’re done!”
“Don’t think you’re going to want it when I’m through with it,” Doc muttered, heading to the bar, stepping behind, and grabbing a whiskey bottle.
“Hey!” The bartender started his way. “You can’t be back here.”
Doc pointed at Macy Hare, who’d risen from his chair opposite Butler. “I’m working for Macy. I’ll bring back what I don’t use.”
Then he was off, dashing for the stairs, splashing the dirty spoon with whiskey and wiping it on his pants. Stepping into Lottie’s room, he bent down before her.
“Doc?” she whispered.
“Lottie. I’m going to have to anesthetize you. And then we’re going to do our best to save your life.”
After he’d placed the cloth to her nose and mouth, monitored her weakening struggles, he positioned her legs, and stared thoughtfully at the spoon. The story about Dr. Simms—the Alabama madman—had been apocryphal. That he’d used a bent gravy spoon prior to inventing his speculum.
“Philip,” he told himself, “if you can do this, you’re going to prove yourself one hell of a surgeon.”
Then he crouched between her legs and began bending the spoon backward around its handle.
It might have been an hour later when he closed her door, arching his back against the cramp. He made his way down the hall, his case in hand, and descended the steps.
Butler still sat at the corner table, his concentration on the cards as Macy Hare dealt and shifted them around with fluid dexterity.
“How is she, Doc?” Hare asked, his eyes still on the cards.
“I think she’ll make it, Mr. Hare. If—and I do say if—she doesn’t come down with an infection.” Doc pulled up a chair, lowering his voice. “Flannagan did the abortion?”
“He did.”
“A man can murder a woman through incompetence just as
