Longarm on the Fever Coast (12 page)

She rinsed away more blood and made another skillful stitch as she pensively added, "Maybe they had a point. The oath physicians take makes no mention of running off and leaving patients to die, but it happens. YOU should have seen the stampede we had over to the northeast in New Orleans in the last bad yellow fever outbreak."

Longarm nodded soberly. "I heard. This fever we got in Escondrijo ain't like yellow jack?"

She shook her head, either unaware of or not caring about the one soft brown strand of hair on her sweat-beaded brow, as she replied, "I'm sure it can't be that. Nobody's been vomiting black bile, even in the last stages. It's more like the classic plague, or malaria, save for the fact that quinine sulfate seems to have no effect at all. I'll know better as soon as I finish here and administer some quinine I know to be the real McCoy."

Longarm didn't ask any dumb questions. She'd said she'd gotten the Medicine she'd been giving them from government medical stores. But on the other hand, he'd arrested more than one son of a bitch for cheating the taxpayers with worthless drugs and inedible Indian rations.

Before he could ask any brighter questions, the sheeting parted and a blandly pretty gal, wearing too much face paint and red hair Mother Nature had never issued her, popped in, the butcher's apron over her blue calico summer frock smeared with all sorts of crud. She sobbed at old Norma, "I think the poor boy from the Coast Guard station must be dead, Doctor Richards!"

Norma went on stitching as she muttered something to her self, and then asked Longarm, "Would you know, and could you make sure for us, Custis? As you see, I only have four arms."

Longarm allowed he'd seen a few dead folks in his time, and followed the mock redhead outside. As they passed the cluster Of worried Mexican folks, he assured them in Spanish their Papacita was doing just fine. The older daughter still tagged along as he followed the fancy nursing sister across the cavernous icehouse between the rows of close-packed cots.

The Mexican gal made the sign of the cross as they approached a sad scene against the far wall. Two more nurses in fancy clothes were gathered over a nice-looking half-naked corpse. There was no mistaking unconscious from dead once a person's nose turned to wax like that. As he joined the gals over the dead Coast Guardsman, Longarm declared, "At least a couple of hours. You'd best cover his face, ladies. He wouldn't want us looking at him as he commences to stiffen."

One of the gals sobbed, "He was ever so nice, even when the ague was on him, and I feel so awful about not looking at him sooner. But we thought he was asleep!"

Longarm said soothingly, "I doubt there's much any of you ladies could have done for him had you noticed sooner, No offense, but are you ladies volunteers from town?"

The three Anglo gals exchanged blushing glances. Only one burst out laughing. To cover up, the mock redhead asked, "Is rigor mortis when they get that silly grin on their dead faces, Doctor?"

Longarm grinned sort of silly himself, and replied, "I ain't no sawbones. I'm a federal marshal and, like you all, just helping out as best I know how. That wild mirthless smile you just mentioned is only part of what's called rigor mortis. It commences three to six hours after death, and you'll doubtless be glad to know they go limp and peaceful again in less than seventy-two. I have to know about such things in my line of work because sometimes it helps if we can make some educated guesses as to when somebody was killed."

He had no call to unsettle gals further with remarks about bloating, funny colors, or blowfly maggots. It made more sense to see if Norma Richards wanted the poor cuss buried before anything like that took place around here.

He said he'd tell her for them, and headed back across the icehouse. That Mexican gal in white cotton frills was still with him, which seemed reasonable seeing her kin were all gathered along that far side. He found her less reasonable when she asked him, in Spanish, if he had any notion what those painted and fancy-dressed Anglo gals really were.

He answered severely, "At the moment they seem to be acting as the only medical staff under the one Professional in this improvised fever ward. The respected physicians and no doubt a lot of the other respectable citizens of this town have all run away like rabbits. So why don't we just call those braver women nurses for now, and save ourselves the worry of what they might or might not do for a living on other occasions?"

She blushed but didn't answer, or back down as far as he could tell, as they passed a sweat-soaked form in a bed croaking, "Agua, Por favor. Estoy mareado. Pero no puedo dormir."

Longarm nodded and told the Mexican gal, "There you go. Those ladies you've been low-rating might not know this gent's asking for a drink of water, and could likely need more help than that right now. I'll go tell Doc Richards he's feeling dizzy and restless. Why don't you go back and tell them other gals he needs some water poco tiempo?"

She said she would. Longarm continued on past her kin with a nod, ducked back inside, and said, "That redhead was right about the Coast Guardsman. There's a Mex out yonder croaking for water and complaining he's too dizzy to get up and too restless to lie down. What do you want me to do for him, Doc?"

She went on bandaging the groggy Mexican farmer's knee as she replied, "I could use some help with that heavy Saratoga, Custis. But once it's in here I can manage, if I'm right about the quinine sulfate."

As he turned to go he heard her murmur, "If I'm wrong, I don't know what I'll do."

Longarm ducked out into the bright morning sunlight, half blinded but surprised at how cool it felt next to that steamy stink inside. South Texas did tend to stay pleasant for a few days after a nasty storm. The air smelled more of sea foam than mosquito swamp right now. He wondered if that was going to rid Escondrijo of this fever outbreak. Sometimes a change in the weather helped. Sometimes it didn't. He wasn't packing a badge to worry about such matters all that much.

He untethered the mules and led them, along with the wagon, around to the slot of shade between the icehouse and a smaller warehouse to its north, explaining, "We were in a hurry with that gator victim, amigos. I know you're both anxious to get out of those traces and put yourselves around some fodder and water. I'll be dropping you off at the address La Bruja gave me in just a few more minutes. So just bear with me till I tote old Norma's trunk inside and find out where she's stored my own shit, hear?"

Neither brute was in any position to argue as he tethered them again, reset the wagon brake, and slid the heavy trunk out the back of the wagon box.

As he carried it back inside on his back, the older of the Mexican kids came to join him, offering to help. So Longarm let him. Aside from not wanting to show off, he didn't want to insult a macho ten-year-old by implying he needed no help from such a squirt.

So, between them, they had the Saratoga trunk over by old Norma about the time she'd slid some of the sheeting out of the way to let everyone else at Papacito. The mangled Mexican was sitting up, though a mite green around the gills, as everyone said how brave he'd just been, unconscious Or not.

The matronly Anglo doctor fell upon her trunk with ill-disguised glee, saying, "I know for a fact I packed fresh full-strength quinine sulfate among my other Supplies. Lord knows how I'll get more, on such short notice, should that prove to be the answer."

Longarm suggested, "I could wire the Rangers in Corpus Christi for more medical supplies, seeing I got to wire in a progress report this morning in any case, Miss Norma."

She shook her head. "No, you can't. Did you think that I was on my own like this because I enjoy sweating? The wires were swept away in that storm last night. I did get off one overly optimistic report when I first arrived. I had half as many fever victims to worry about and plenty of quinine to fight it with, so I thought!"

Longarm grimaced. "Didn't have all that many answers to wire Billy Vail yet anyways. I'd best carry that borrowed rig and team over where I promised I would. You can tell me about my own saddle and such when I come back from that and mayhaps a few other morning errands."

La Bruja had written down the name and address of a small chandler's shop down the quay from the regular steamer landing. With no steamers in port the quay was nearly deserted as Longarm drove along it, the mules cropping and wheels rolling crisply on the oak-block paving. There were a dozen-odd Mexican fishing luggers tied up at the south end, with some smaller cat boats hauled up on the mud just beyond. He found a row of modest Mexican-owned shops just south of the fair-sized brick-walled edifice that proclaimed itself a meat packer in big block letters. He'd expected a larger operation. The chandler shop a few doors down was modest as well. But as soon as one studied on it, neither an outfit shipping occasional cargos of cold-storage beef nor a chandler selling ship's stores to a mess of Mexican fishermen had to look as if they belonged in Chicago.

He got down and tethered the team to a hitching rail out front. He went on in to find the chandlery poorly lit, pungent with the odors of hemp, tar, and peppers, and presided over by a big fat Mexican with a pleasant smile and deliberately stupid attitude.

When Longarm introduced himself and allowed he had a rig and mule team belonging to La Bruja outside, the chandler looked confused and said, "You stole that wagon from some witch, you say, senor? Forgive me, I mean no disrespect, but you seem to have me confused with someone else. On the head of my children I know nothing of witches or stolen goods!"

Longarm said patiently, "They told me the wires were down and I don't want us endangering any kid's head. So what say I just leave that team and rig tied up out front, the way I promised La Bruja I might, and we'll just say no more aboutit."

The chandler shrugged. "Is a free country, no? Who am I to say where an Anglo lawman parks his wagon along a public quay?"

Longarm allowed that sounded reasonable and, as long as he was there, offered to buy a box of those Mexican waterproof matches. But the fat chandler told him to just help himself to a box and go with God. So he did, certain he'd left El Bruja's property with someone smart enough to see she got it all back.

He strode over to the main street, a block inland, and asked some kids playing marbles in the still-damp street the way to their town lockup. They directed him to a brick building across from the white-washed Methodist steeple one could see for miles around.

As he strode the plank walk along the shady side of the street, he heard the kids behind him debating his station in life. They seemed divided as to whether he was a Ranger or simply some other pistol-packer with business at the town lockup.

Longarm had been a kid one time. So when one of then announced he'd just ask and jumped up to chase after him, Longarm stopped and turned with an indulgent smile.

But then his smile froze as a distant shot rang out and the kid caught a bullet aimed at Longarm's spine with the back of his poor little head!

Longarm's own gun was out and he was already running as the kid who'd taken a bullet for him beat a heavy mist of blood and brain tissue to the boardwalk with his small dead face. Longarm yelled at the other kids to get down and stay down as he tore past. The dirty white cloud of gunsmoke he'd spotted still hung shoulder-high near the corner he'd just turned. It was easy to see some son of a bitch had trailed him from the more open waterfront and pegged a back-shot down this other street from cover. Before Longarm could run that far he heard the receeding hoofbeats of a rapid mount. But he still caught a glimpse of a roan rump and a rider wearing an ankle-length duster of tan linen under his gray Texas hat as he tore around yet another corner with Longarm bawling after him, "Stand and fight like a human being, you yellow-bellied baby-butchering back-shooting bastard!"

Then, sick at heart at that butchered kid, Longarm had to turn around and see if there was anything he could do to help.

There wasn't much. A crowd had already gathered and the dead kid's young mother, a care-worn dishwater-blonde, had already dashed from her quarters nearby to cradle her child's shattered skull in her lap, oblivious of the mess it was making of her thin calico dress as she rocked mindlessly on her knees, assuring him it wasn't his fault and nobody was going to give him a licking this time.

Just beyond her, a copper badge and drawn.45 were staring at Longarm thoughtfully. So Longarm lowered his own.44-40 to his side and quickly called out, "I'm the law too. Federal. We're after a killer in a tan duster and gray Texas hat, mounted on a roan. Last seen headed south along that dirt path past those fishing boats along the lagoon."

The town law, an older as well as shorter Texican with a walrus mustache, with his badge riding the buttoned black vest over a crisp white shirt and shoestring tie, called back, "Lucky for you others further down the street at the time tell the same story. So who are you and why was that warmly dressed rascal out to back-shoot you?"

To which Longarm could only reply, "I'd be U.S. Deputy Marshal Custis Long. I don't know the answers to your other questions yet. But I sure aim to find out."

CHAPTER 8

A long time passed slowly by as Longarm and the local law did their best to restore some damned law and order in the middle of Escondrijo. They got the dead boy to the undertaker's, and got statements backing Longarm's from the kids he'd been playing marbles with that morning. Constable W.R. Purvis decided, and Longarm was inclined to agree, it might be best in this climate to have the dead kid tidied up and embalmed ahead of any formal findings by the county coroner, who was busy enough with that fever going round.