She’s gone now. Same as me.”
“There must be someone.”
“Bitter Springs.”
Not a person at all, but a place. Kellen’s Western journeys had taken him past the town on several occasions. It existed on Wyoming’s high flatland near the Medicine Bow Mountains, a survivor of the camps that sprang to life as the Union Pacific laid track from Omaha toward Utah. Instead of disappearing as so many of the camps did when the rails passed them by, Bitter Springs found commerce in cattle country and as a water way station for thirsty engines and their thirstier passengers.
Kellen had never seen anything from his train window that recommended Bitter Springs as a place of particular interest. Now he wondered what he might have missed by not spending a few days with the locals. “Is that your home? Bitter Springs? Were you going there?”
“Going there…not home.”
“Expected?”
Mr. Church nodded. “Pennyroyal. Should find her…tell her…she’s waiting.”
“Penny Royal. All right. I’ll be certain to—” He stopped, his attention caught by the coach door opening. Mr. Berg appeared on the threshold with a man on his heels that Kellen supposed was the doctor. The late arrival was explained by the doctor’s condition. The man required the conductor’s shoulder to keep him steady and upright. Kellen swore under his breath and got to his feet. “Right here,” he said. He stepped into the aisle, backing up as he pointed to Mr. Church. He jerked his chin at the doctor but addressed his question to Mr. Berg. “Yousure he can help? He looks as if he can hardly hold his bag any better than he can hold his liquor.”
“Don’t like the looks of you much either,” the doctor said, answering for himself. He kept pace with the conductor and then switched places so he could sink onto the bench beside Mr. Church. He flipped the clasp on his medical bag and opened it, offering his credentials to Kellen as he withdrew a ball of tightly wound bandages. “Woodrow Hitchens. Late of St. Louis. Graduate of Philadelphia Medical College, class of ’sixty. Cut my teeth in the field hospitals at Manassas, Gettysburg, and Shiloh to name a few that you might have heard of, you still being a whelp and all. That suit you?”
Kellen accepted the rebuke, knowing it was deserved. The doctor hadn’t slurred a syllable. Liquor didn’t account for the man’s unsteady gait or the slight tremble in his hands. Some sort of wasting disease did. “Suits me fine,” Kellen said. “What can you do for him?”
Dr. Hitchens gave his patient his full attention while Mr. Berg inched closer for a better look until Kellen put an arm out to ease him back. “You’re going to have to let me see your wound, Mr.—”
“Church. Nat Church.”
“Well, that’s something,” the doctor said equably. “I’ve been known to enjoy your exploits. Especially liked
Nat Church and the Frisco Fancy
.”
Kellen smiled wryly as Nat Church offered a modest thank-you. The man had no shame, perhaps another trait he shared with his fictional counterpart.
The doctor had some difficulty unbuttoning his patient’s coat. Aside from the tremor in his hands, his fingers quickly became slick with blood. “Can’t wait to read the new one. Have it on order.”
“
Nat Church and the Chinese Box
,” Church said as the doctor opened the coat at the site of the wound. “Got a copy for you right here.”
The conductor blanched and sucked in a breath when he saw the bloody mess that was Mr. Church’s midsection. Kellen took a step forward to block his view.
Kellen couldn’t distinguish between book, blood, and bowel. The doctor tossed the latest Church adventure to the floor, shoved slithering intestine back inside the gaping wound, and held one hand against Church’s bloody flesh while expertly unwinding the ball of bandages in the other. When he had a wad the size and thickness of his palm, he used his teeth to tear it off and replaced his hand with it.
“There must be someone.”
“Bitter Springs.”
Not a person at all, but a place. Kellen’s Western journeys had taken him past the town on several occasions. It existed on Wyoming’s high flatland near the Medicine Bow Mountains, a survivor of the camps that sprang to life as the Union Pacific laid track from Omaha toward Utah. Instead of disappearing as so many of the camps did when the rails passed them by, Bitter Springs found commerce in cattle country and as a water way station for thirsty engines and their thirstier passengers.
Kellen had never seen anything from his train window that recommended Bitter Springs as a place of particular interest. Now he wondered what he might have missed by not spending a few days with the locals. “Is that your home? Bitter Springs? Were you going there?”
“Going there…not home.”
“Expected?”
Mr. Church nodded. “Pennyroyal. Should find her…tell her…she’s waiting.”
“Penny Royal. All right. I’ll be certain to—” He stopped, his attention caught by the coach door opening. Mr. Berg appeared on the threshold with a man on his heels that Kellen supposed was the doctor. The late arrival was explained by the doctor’s condition. The man required the conductor’s shoulder to keep him steady and upright. Kellen swore under his breath and got to his feet. “Right here,” he said. He stepped into the aisle, backing up as he pointed to Mr. Church. He jerked his chin at the doctor but addressed his question to Mr. Berg. “Yousure he can help? He looks as if he can hardly hold his bag any better than he can hold his liquor.”
“Don’t like the looks of you much either,” the doctor said, answering for himself. He kept pace with the conductor and then switched places so he could sink onto the bench beside Mr. Church. He flipped the clasp on his medical bag and opened it, offering his credentials to Kellen as he withdrew a ball of tightly wound bandages. “Woodrow Hitchens. Late of St. Louis. Graduate of Philadelphia Medical College, class of ’sixty. Cut my teeth in the field hospitals at Manassas, Gettysburg, and Shiloh to name a few that you might have heard of, you still being a whelp and all. That suit you?”
Kellen accepted the rebuke, knowing it was deserved. The doctor hadn’t slurred a syllable. Liquor didn’t account for the man’s unsteady gait or the slight tremble in his hands. Some sort of wasting disease did. “Suits me fine,” Kellen said. “What can you do for him?”
Dr. Hitchens gave his patient his full attention while Mr. Berg inched closer for a better look until Kellen put an arm out to ease him back. “You’re going to have to let me see your wound, Mr.—”
“Church. Nat Church.”
“Well, that’s something,” the doctor said equably. “I’ve been known to enjoy your exploits. Especially liked
Nat Church and the Frisco Fancy
.”
Kellen smiled wryly as Nat Church offered a modest thank-you. The man had no shame, perhaps another trait he shared with his fictional counterpart.
The doctor had some difficulty unbuttoning his patient’s coat. Aside from the tremor in his hands, his fingers quickly became slick with blood. “Can’t wait to read the new one. Have it on order.”
“
Nat Church and the Chinese Box
,” Church said as the doctor opened the coat at the site of the wound. “Got a copy for you right here.”
The conductor blanched and sucked in a breath when he saw the bloody mess that was Mr. Church’s midsection. Kellen took a step forward to block his view.
Kellen couldn’t distinguish between book, blood, and bowel. The doctor tossed the latest Church adventure to the floor, shoved slithering intestine back inside the gaping wound, and held one hand against Church’s bloody flesh while expertly unwinding the ball of bandages in the other. When he had a wad the size and thickness of his palm, he used his teeth to tear it off and replaced his hand with it.