He eased the pillow from under him. Lifting his right leg over and down caused him such agony that after he had his left boot clear of the stirrup he had to lean for a moment, forehead resting against the cantle, sweating. He tucked the pillow under an arm then, tied the roan to the picket fence, and walked on unreliable legs up the steps and knocked at the door of the house, a double door with stained glass insert panels.
A woman opened it. He wanted board and room for a day or two. She said she preferred more permanent lodgers. He persisted, saying he had ridden nine days and was too tired to scout around. She let him in to see the room. It was at a rear corner, downstairs, through an entry after a parlor on one side, a dining room on the other. It had a south window and a west and a washbowl with running water. The bathroom, she said, was down the hall, and the rate would be two dollars a day.
"That bed is not ticky, is it?"
"It certainly is not."
"I will take my meals in here."
"I serve in the dining room."
"I will give you three dollars a day."
She hesitated. "Oh, very well. Since you're only staying a day or two."
"Can anyone around here run errands?"
"I have a son. Gillom."
"Have him take my horse to a livery. And bring in my valise first. Then look up a doctor named Hostetler and have him come see me."
"You can telephone the doctor. We have a telephone."
"I don't know how. And I do not feel up to learning today. You do it."
"You sound like a man accustomed to giving orders."
"No, ma'am. To doing as I please."
"I see."
She left him. Opening the taps at the bowl, he washed his face and hands, then placed the crimson pillow in a leather armchair, sat down gingerly, elongated his legs, and closed his eyes.
In a few minutes she brought the valise. "On the bed," he said, eyes closed.
"I called Dr. Hostetler. He'll stop by soon. He wanted to know your name."
"Who else rooms here?"
"I have three regulars. Two railroad men and a schoolteacher, a woman. They're upstairs. I am Mrs. Rogers. I don't know your name."
"Is it necessary?"
"For anyone living under my roof, it is."
He opened his eyes and considered her. She was forty, he supposed, with a decent face and a strong body and white collar and cuffs and a husband, he supposed, who wore an eyeshade and sleeve garters and sat at a desk and made love to her once a week, in the dark after a bath. The West was filling up with women like her, and he would not give a pinch of dried owl shit for the lot of them. "Hickok," he said. "William Hickok."
"Where do you hail from, Mr. Hickok?"
"Abilene, Kansas."
"I've heard that's a wild and woolly town."
"It is."
"What do you do there?"
"I am the U. S. Marshal."
"Oh. That's nice."
"No, it isn't."
She bit her lip. "I'm glad you're not staying long, Mr. Hickok. I don't believe I like you."
"Not many do, Mrs. Rogers," he said. She backed toward the door. "But I am widely respected," he assured her.
From a corner of the south window Gillom Rogers spied on the new lodger. The man unpacked his valise and put things in a drawer of the chiffonier, then hung his Prince Albert coat in the closet. When he turned from the closet he was in shirt and vest. The boy's eyes rounded. Sewn to each side of the vest was a holster, reversed, and in each holster was a pistol, butt forward. As he watched, sucking in his breath, the man took the weapons out, revolved the cylinders, filled a chamber in one he had evidently fired, and replaced them before hanging the vest, too, in the closet. The pistols were a pair of nickel-plated, short-barreled, unsighted, double-action .44 Remingtons, obviously manufactured to order. The handle of one was black gutta-percha, the other of pearl.
Gillom slipped away to take the horse to the livery, letting the breath of revelation out of his lungs. He was seventeen, and spent much of his time in saloons. He was not yet served, but he enjoyed himself and picked up a great deal of miscellaneous information, some of it true, some of it of doubtful authenticity. But the man in the corner room was no stranger to him now. He had heard enough scalp-itch, blood-freeze stories to know that only one man carried a similar pair of guns in a similar manner.
He had taken a bottle of whiskey from his valise and set it on the closet shelf. Now he had a pull at the bottle and sat down on his crimson pillow and unfolded the El Paso Daily Herald he had bought. He skimmed the pages, waiting. He read a social item:
Mrs. Harry Carpenter gave a most delightful party Monday night at Mrs. Holm's in honor of her guest Miss Johnson. High five was the game played and after a number of games it was found that Miss Anne Martin had won the ladies' prize, a beautiful hand-painted tray. The gentlemen's prize, a lovely ebony clothes brush mounted in silver, was captured by Frank Coles. About eleven o'clock the guests were shown into the spacious dining room where delicious refreshments were served. After supper Miss Martin and Miss Trumbull delighted the audience with their beautiful singing.
He read an advertisement:
Dr. Ng Che Hok Graduate Chinese Physician Over 20 years' experience in treating all diseases of men and women. He guarantees to cure Blood Poison, Lost Manhood, Skin diseases, Dropsy, Hernia, Gonorrhoea, Scrofula, Paralysis, Rheumatism, Diseases of Brain, Heart, Lung, Kidneys, Liver, Bladder, and all Female Complaints. All diseases cured exclusively by herbs without surgical operations. Consultations Free.
Someone knocked at the door.
"I am Charles Hostetler."
"Doctor." He did not rise. "Have a seat." He indicated a straight chair. "Do you know me?"
"I don't think so."
"You took a bullet out of me in Bisbee, Arizona, eight years ago."
The doctor put down his bag and seated himself. "Bisbee. Let me see." He leaned forward. "Books."
"That's right."
"John Bernard Books."
"That's right."
"You've changed."
"None of us gets any younger."
"Though I must say you look better than you did that night."
"I expect so. That was quite a fracas."
"You killed two men."
"They nearly did me in. The only time I was ever hit. I took one in the belly, in a restaurant, around midnight. Damned lucky for me you were handy."
"I remember. A close thing. I don't know to this day how you pulled through."
"Are you sorry?"
"Sorry?"
"You don't approve of me."
"I'm a physician."
Books smiled. "How did I?"
"What?"
"Pull through. Tell me what you did."
"In detail?"
"In detail."
Charles Hostetler removed his spectacles and polished the lenses. "Well, as I recall, you were hemorrhaging internally. Bleeding. Entry of the bullet was on the median line of the epigastric region, and it emerged about three inches above the crest of the ilium. We laid you out on a table in the restaurant and some miners held lamps. A barber friend of mine administered anesthesia. I carbolized everything—my hands, instruments, sponges, even the table. I opened the abdominal cavity and flushed it out with two gallons of hot water, which stopped the hemorrhaging. I sutured up the liver and repaired the gastric perforations and sewed you up again. Simple as that."
"Simple hell."
"I was sure shock would kill you, but it didn't. You must have the constitution of an ox."
"We'll see. That's why I am here."
"Oh?" The doctor put on his spectacles.
Books made a church of his fingers. "Ten days ago I was in Creede, Colorado. I hadn't been feeling up to snuff for a month or so. I went to a doc there and was examined. The next day I got on my horse and started for El Paso. I heard you were practicing here."