Bullet Advertising

Peacemaker

Bullet Advertising

by

Michael Sutch

     Barton climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor. It took him some time because his legs weren't working too well. It was funny, though, there wasn't as much pain as he thought there would be. Behind him he imagined a trail of bright red blood. He didn't look back down the steep staircase, though, as dizziness would likely cause him to fall. At last he reached the top and leaned heavily against the railing. Before him was a wooden plank door with a small window set at head height. The door was white, the window trimmed in green. In the center of the door was fixed a wooden sign that read, "M. Daniels, M.D." Barton knocked on the door.
    There was no answer.
    Barton pounded with his fist on the door.
    "Ok," came a voice from inside, "I'm coming."
    Barton leaned against the doorframe, not wanting to fall in when the door opened. It opened.
    A girl stood there...no, a woman, he decided. She wasn't as young as he first thought. She wore a green night dress, cinched at her narrow waist. Her straight brown hair was held back with a green ribbon. The doctor had good taste, he thought, she was pretty.
    "Yes?" she said. Then she saw the blood welling from beneath the hand clenched at his waist. "Oh. Come in. Quickly!"
    He staggered forward. She tried to help him, but he pushed her away.
    "Where's the doctor?" he asked.
    She pointed to a table in center of the room. It was heavy, about five feet long. "Lay down there. On your back."
    He leaned against the table, but did not lay down.
    "Where is Dr. Daniels?"
    "I'm Dr. Daniels," she said.
     Barton watched as she took water from a pitcher and poured it into a pan on the sideboard and took scalpel and forceps from a black bag.
    "That can't be," he said.
    "Certainly, it can," she said briskly. "Boston College, class of '84."
    She opened a cupboard door and took down took down a bottle of whiskey. She handed him the bottle. "You better start drinking this."
    He put the bottle on the table next to him and levered himself to his feet. "Look, I think..."
    "What's your name?" she asked.
    "Lawton Barton." he said, and waited.
    "I've heard of you."
    "So has everyone else," he said, and looked down at the wound in his side.
    "Someone wanted to prove he was faster with a gun than Lawton Barton?"
    "I don't think so," he grinned a little even though it was an effort. "Whoever it was shot me from an alley."
    "Another fool who wants a reputation."
    "That would, indeed, be a fool, ma'am."
    She was close, her large green eyes intent on his. He saw her irises were flecked with gold. Her warm breath was fresh. She leaned close to him, reached for something on the table. It was a large wooden mallet. His hand went to his gun.
    "Don't be silly," she said, and moved away to the middle of the room, knelt down and pounded the floor planks with the mallet.
    "What was that for?  Something they taught you at Boston College?"
    She smiled at him and he realized that she was more than pretty.
    "You have a sense of humor."
    "Yeah, I'm a regular Mark Twain."
    "I just signaled Cephus to come up."
    "And who is Cephus?"
    "A large black man."
    "Why do we need a large black man?" he asked uneasily.
    "When you have had as much whiskey as you can take, Mr. Barton, Cephus and a friend will hold you down while I cut that bullet out of you. If it's still in there."
    "It's still in there. I would of knowed if it took a notion to leave."
    He stood up and moved heavily toward the door.
    "Where are you going?" she asked.
    "Lady," he answered, "in other circumstances I would be tickled to stay here with you, 'cause you're just plain pretty. But I can't believe you're really a doctor. No offense, but I best see the other doctor in town."
    Her green eyes flared wide in anger, or maybe, he thought, just frustration. When she spoke there was no hint of either in her voice. "Mr. Barton. Are you good with that gun?"
    "You know I am." His tone was flat, sure.
    "As expert a gunfighter as you are, Mr. Barton, I'm just as expert a doctor."
    He stared at her, then shook his head. "Ok, you don't lack for spit, at least."
    "Do you know old Doc Hamlin?"
    "I'm new to town, so no, I don't."
    "He's a competent frontier doctor, which means he saves the lives of half the patients with serious ailments he treats. That is, when he's not drinking. This being a Saturday night, I expect he's been drinking since around two this afternoon."
    "You don't pull no punches, Lady."
    "On the other hand, Doc Hamlin has been here in Curtain for nearly twenty years. He has done a lot of good work, delivered nearly every baby, set every broken bone, nursed every fever, brought the town through the plague single-handed, and patched every gunshot victim brought his way. Everyone in town swears by Doc Hamlin."
    Barton considered her. She was tense, the muscles in her bare arms as defined as if she were lifting a heavy weight. Her expression was grim and her gaze direct.
    "So old Doc gets all the doctoring business in town," he said softly. "Right?"
    "Yes. Oh, a few of the women have come to me with special problems. But few and far between."
    "And fixin' up Lawton Barton would be good advertisin'," he said harshly. "Right, again?"
    She didn't flinch. "Yes, of course. It would show I was good for more than soothing women's vapors."
    He laughed and felt something pull in his wound.
    "That smarts," he said. "I should go have a drink with old Doc Hamlin."
    "You're choice," she said, and turned away.
    Outside on the stairs came the sound of a heavy tread moving slowly upward. Presumably Cephus coming in response to the hammered summons.
    "What the hell!", he grinned over the increasing waves of pain. "What gunfighter doesn't like to take chances? And I think I like my chances here."
    He walked to the table and picked up the whiskey bottle. He drank, liking the burn in his throat. The brief smile she flashed him, before getting busy with her preparations, was unexpectedly gratifying.
    "If I'm dead in the morning, don't wake me," he said.
    "If you're dead in the morning, I'll take my shingle down and leave this town behind. And I really hate moving."
    He laughed again and then held his fist to his abdomen in response to the pain. "I'm glad to see we both have a personal stake in this, doctor."
    He lay down on the table and took another drink.

    In the morning he woke hot and achy. It felt like a beast had savaged his lower gut. The room was dim behind heavy curtains. She was sitting in a chair by his bed, her breathing was even, her eyes closed.
    "Hey," he said, and was surprised at the weak rasp of his voice. "I told you not to wake me."
    She opened her eyes, leaned forward abruptly, took his wrist in her hand and gauged his pulse. Then she put a cool palm on his forehead.
    "You told me that only if you died, Lawton Barton. You're alive, and I intend to keep you that way."
    She rinsed a cloth in water in a pan on the sideboard, folded it and placed it on his forehead.
    "Glad to hear it, doc," he said, closing his eyes and savoring the cool. Then he slept again.

(c) 2014 by Michael Sutch