Race for the Dying Read Free Page A

constructed entirely of rejected slab wood still carrying the bark. A stovepipe thrust through a tin thimble on the wall, pouring out dense wood smoke.
    And the dog. Thomas paused when he saw the animal—sure enough, untethered, unfenced, and intensely interested in this new human being who approached. Large, rawboned, grizzled at the muzzle, and proudly wearing a pedigree that might have included half a dozen parents, the dog sat calmly in the mud.
    â€œHow are you today?” Thomas said. The dog blinked and his large ears dropped a touch from the round dome of his skull. The animal’s tail was deep in the muck, but there were no raised hackles, no snarling lip. Thomas hefted his medical bag and switched hands with the soft duffel. The sharp, brass-reinforced corners of the bag would make a formidable weapon. The dog yawned and stood up slowly, sucking himself out of the mud. He shook and limped out toward Thomas as if the two of them were old friends. His mucky tail flopped from side to side like a length of dirty rope.
    Thomas knew he couldn’t outrun the beast, but gambled that the dog’s initial display of disinterest wasn’t a guise. He stopped walking and ignored the dog, gazing once more out to the southeast. Pressure against his right leg prompted him to look down. The dog had nosed between the medical bag and Thomas’ right thigh.
    Without moving more than necessary, Thomas reached out with just the thumb of his right hand and scratched behind the dog’s ear. The dog huffed a sigh and waited for more.
    â€œI guess you belong here, stranger,” a voice said from behind him. Thomas looked over his shoulder. A tiny person stood on the first raised step of the Mercantile, a large mug in one hand, a broom in the other. “You’ve been adopted by the Prince,” the man added, and laughed. “He either adopts you or bites you. Never seems to be a middle ground.”
    â€œThat’s good to know,” Thomas said.
    â€œI chain him up, but he always gets loose. Wizard of some kind, I guess. Wants to be out here, not out back. S’pose I’m going to have to shoot him one day, if someone doesn’t beat me to it.” He leaned the broom against the wall.
    â€œPerhaps you could move the chain out here, so he can enjoy the view,” Thomas allowed.
    The man, whom Thomas could see now was quite elderly, settled down on the step. He pushed his woolen cap back on his head, the stubble of gray hair about the same length as that studding his chin and cheeks. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
    â€œI’m Dr. Thomas Parks.” Thomas moved through the mud channel to the steps, placed the medical bag on the wooden planks, and extended his hand. The old man’s grip was as bony as Carter Birch’s, but fragile, as if too firm a grip would powder his arthritic knuckles.
    â€œI guessed that’s who you might be. Dr. John mentioned you were on the way. Pleased to have you with us.”
    â€œYou’re the owner?”
    â€œI am that. Lars Lindeman, in all my sorry old age.” He reached out a hand and tousled the dog’s ears. “I don’t know who Prince belongs to, but I wish he’d go home.”
    â€œHe’s not yours, then?”
    â€œI suppose now he is. Appeared one day last spring. Pain in the ass, mostly.” The dog looked up at Thomas, eyebrows arching a bit. “Want some coffee?” Lindeman held up his cup. “I probably make the worst coffee in Port McKinney. Discourages the deadbeats.”
    Thomas laughed. “Thanks, no. I’m just off the ship, and eager to meet John. It’s been a long trip.”
    â€œBet it was. When did you set out?”
    â€œThe twenty-sixth of August. From Leister, Connecticut.”
    â€œNot sailing all the way, surely.”
    â€œNo. I came by train to St. Louis, where I have a cousin. Then on to San Francisco and the steam packet up the