Down to a Soundless Sea (15 page)

Doc was in heaven. He hadn’t had a good hot meal in two days, and he knew this would lift his spirits. The girl reappeared with her own small portion and sat on the porch steps to eat.

Together they watched the ocean and the wheeling birds while they enjoyed their meal. The view of the water was striking, but deceptive as to distance because of the cliffs on which the property sat. The homestead simply ended abruptly a hundred feet west of the porch at a sheer sandstone cliff that fell away to the rock-strewn surf ninety-five feet below.

The goats had cropped the grass neatly to the edge of the precipice, so the illusion of great distance and height was splendid and unique. The long drop, however, guaranteed sure fatality to the unwary. The pair quietly watched as large pods of gray whales breached and played just a few hundred yards from shore.

The rancher’s wife at last stood and came to take Doc’s trencher and fork. He smiled, complimented her on the food, and thanked her for the delicious hospitality. She smiled sweetly in response and turned to go. As an afterthought, Doc Roberts politely asked her name, her maiden name, of course. The girl turned, but did not choose to look at Dr. Roberts directly.

“Mary … Mary Rose … Mary Rose Dolan.… But now my name is …” Mary Rose Dolan elected not to finish the sentence. Instead she carried her burden to the kitchen.

Doc Roberts had no difficulty coaxing Daisy into harness. Indeed, one would have held the impression that it was all her own idea. The mare’s intuitive faculties were highly developed, and immediate departure was her preferred option. She twitched her ears about as though divining malevolence from every quarter.

Doc climbed up on the cart and took the reins to calm the sensitive creature. Mary Rose reappeared carrying a small cloth bundle that she handed up to Doc Roberts. “It’s only some leftover chicken and biscuits,” she said meekly. “But you might find the need of it before morning.” Doc smiled and accepted with gratitude. “Thank you very kindly, ma’am. Now, you just remember everything I told you to do. I have patients to see farther south, but I will return in a few days to change the dressings and check the splint. Try to keep your husband quiet in the meantime. Just make sure he gets plenty of clean water to drink, especially if he takes a lot of the medicine I left. Thanks again for the food. It’s much appreciated, I assure you.… Good-bye.”

Daisy needed no snap of the reins to inspire departure. She cocked her ears east and set off at a strong trot the moment
she heard the word “good-bye.” Doc was about to lift his hat to the rancher’s wife in farewell, but he found himself attending to a horse with a serious itinerary. The combination of event and gesture had a comic effect that, Doc noticed, induced a broad smile to blossom on the doleful girl’s face. Mary Rose watched Daisy prance off, bouncing the cart along with little regard for the good doctor’s dignity, balance, or comfort. Daisy seemed determined to put leagues between her and that forlorn splinter of land.

Doc Roberts had brought Daisy to a better understanding of her equine obligations by the time they joined the broad coastal trail. Her first instinct was to head north toward Monterey, so Doc Roberts had to exert some authority to direct her to the southerly route. When the willful animal had settled into a known and trusted course, Doc left the minor details of the road to Daisy’s circumspection. He loosely tied the reins through a knothole in the kickboard and lay down in the bed of the cart with his bedroll for a pillow. Within moments he was fast asleep. Daisy preferred to travel without supervision and when left to her own devices provided a gentle excursion. She had learned to avoid most common obstacles and could be trusted to sojourn on her own account for hours without amendment unless hunger or thirst intervened.

Doc awoke as darkness fell. Daisy had become halting and more judicious in her progress, so Doc Roberts hung a kerosene lantern from the kickboard. The flame distributed a reassuring arc of soft light that encouraged the mare when traveling at night. Doc opened Mary Rose’s gift and chose a chicken leg with which to pass the time. Then it began to rain.

It had been an inclement month, so Doc had come prepared with oilskin ponchos for both himself and his horse. As
long as Daisy could remain essentially dry, she would work on, but once soaked she would just stop, hang her head with a despondent air, and wait for Doc’s compassionate intervention. Once wiped down with dry straw and covered with the oilskin poncho Doc had especially fashioned for her, Daisy would set off again with renewed vitality.

For the next six rain-soaked days Doc Roberts attended to his far-flung patients, some of whom were recuperating from a stubborn strain of lingering influenza. When the trails became too muddy for the cart, Doc left the rig at Tom Doud’s place.

At this time of year, Doc always carried his old saddle and tack in the cart for just such an eventuality. He pared his medical kit down to those items he could carry in his saddlebags, bedroll, and haversack. The mud-washed tracks would never tolerate the cart, and there was always the danger of landslides obliterating the route altogether. Daisy appeared satisfied with the decision and became almost cooperative in a disinterested sort of way.

Over distended saddlebags, which were in effect dispensary, surgery, and consulting library all in one, Doc tied Daisy’s sweet oats. His modest bedroll was secured over the pummel along with canteen straps secured over the horn. Doc had to admit that his saddle was always a bit crowded with cargo, and he determined for the hundredth time to look into the acquisition of a solid pack mule to carry all the necessary gear. It would mercifully lighten Daisy’s burden and go a long way toward reviving her formerly lighthearted disposition.

After a modest breakfast by lantern light with Tom Doud, Doc and Daisy bent their course south just as the first light halos of dawn picked out the hills to the east.

The rains had tempered and scrubbed the air. Every molecule sparkled as the sun rose butter yellow over the mountains. Every dusty barn was rinsed of its dung-colored mantle, every painted house looked almost new, and every pasture and hillside vibrated with vigorous green shoots that had emerged only within the last few hours. The birds too had taken on a display of enthusiasm. The dawn was thick with their greetings, warnings, and gossip.

Doc’s thoughts at last turned to his patients. He’d had several hard cases he’d promised to make calls upon, and in the end he was grateful that they had fared better than he had hoped. They all appeared to be on the mend. Doc was always pleased not to have to make any final pronouncements that would affect the future of friends or clients.

Doc’s two-day journey back north to Doud’s ranch proved relatively uneventful, and for that he was truly appreciative. At Tom’s ranch he hitched Daisy up to the cart, which put the animal in something less than a cheerful frame of mind, and headed out toward Monterey.

On the trip back, Doc could not help but think about the old rancher and his child bride. He knew their next meeting would be the most discomfiting stop of his trip home. Daisy appeared to be of the same opinion once she recognized the route to the cliffs at Grace Point.

The Stoat’s compound reserved to itself a singular air of fateful abandonment. The ocean breezes fifed through the bleached boards of the barn and sheds, the corral gates hung ajar on sprung hinges, and the only livestock in sight (three pigs, eight goats, and a score of chickens) scattered at his approach. There was scant sign of human habitation, no smoke from the chimney, no laundry hanging out to dry, no chores in progress.

Doc called out to the house, but there was no answer. He dismounted from the cart, unhitched Daisy, and led her to the corral before letting her drink her fill. In spite of the signs, Doc Roberts was sure he was being watched, and when he turned, he saw the rancher’s young wife standing silently amidst the split shadows within the ragged barn. She was holding a baby goat. The kid nestled happily in her arms.

Though slightly taken aback by the sudden appearance of the girl from the shadows, Doc managed a smile and a warm greeting. “Mary Rose, I didn’t see you standing there. How are you doing, child? Is my patient still with us? Come now. Help me with these things.” The girl set down the kid and moved to lend a hand. She spoke only to answer direct questions. Her rejoinders were as brief as she could make them, and she never forwarded a personal sentiment on any subject.

Doc learned that her husband still complained of great pain. He had taken to drinking home brew since the medicine ran out. He had finished that off in no time. The old man wouldn’t allow himself to be bathed, and all he did was yell, complain, and curse. At least the liquor kept him quiet now and then.

She had tried, when possible, to feed him the foods recommended by the doctor, but the old man would have none of it. He also believed gangrene had set in, and blamed Doc Roberts for not taking better care to see he had plenty of that medicine for his pain.

But for all the fuss and shouting, Mary Rose believed that her husband must be on the mend. He had yielded up to his previous habits without slack. She refused to say more, and soon after they entered the house she disappeared again.

Doc entered the old man’s bedroom and was immediately assaulted by the stench of filth and decay. It wasn’t the fetor
usually present in cases of gangrene, but it was no less repugnant for all the medical difference it made. Doc Roberts propped up all the windows, allowing a steady cross breeze to scour the thick effluvium from the room. The old man came to his senses with a healthy burst of curses and grievances.

He thrashed about like an upturned crab until Doc Roberts calmed him down through superior moral will and natural authority. The old brigand wasn’t afraid of much on the surface, but Doc knew the man was a coward at heart; he gained ascendancy over the fellow without too much trouble.

Doc checked and cleansed the wound, disinfected and redressed the leg, and then relaced the whalebone splint to give greater comfort. As a reward for his relative passivity, Doc Roberts presented the malodorous convalescent with another bottle of his special medicine, this batch substantially weaker than the last, though persisting in all the tang and whip of the original thanks to the rum, clove oil, and vanilla.

Doc admonished the old man to do something straightaway about the abominable state of his hygiene. He went on to suitably frighten his credulous patient with chilling tales of rampant infections and, of course, premature graves attended by grieving but prosperous young widows. Doc Roberts had seen it all too often, sad to say. Hopefully his patient would not be counted among that small number of complete fools who failed to take reasonable precautions. The old man was cursing and shouting out for hot water before Doc Roberts had finished tinting this portrait of impending doom.

Exhausted by the emotional excitement of Doc’s chilling anecdotes, the rancher swigged a long pull on the concocted medicine and fell back on his filthy pillow, muttering dark curses under his breath.

Doc retired to the kitchen to find Mary Rose already heating two large kettles of water. She stopped to hand Doc a mug of strong coffee and a large sweet biscuit. He thanked her and retired to the porch to refresh himself. Mary Rose soon joined him. They stood watching the ocean for a moment. Doc cleared his throat by way of punctuation and said that he had calls to make up in the Los Burros district, but that he would return in a few days to check on his patient. For the moment he would be content if Mary Rose could get her husband just to clean himself enough to avoid an infectious disaster. Mary nodded and after a moment returned to her chores.

Doc sat on the porch steps to drink his brew and ponder his patient. He was unfortunately being drawn to the same verdict as those he had accused of jumping to ignorant conclusions. The Stoat was an extremely poor excuse for a
Homo sapiens
, and of that there could be little doubt. Doc had heard that the evil-mouthed villain couldn’t even keep a hired man about the place for more than a week. No one would work for the parsimonious old cur. He never wanted to pay his hands on time, so they quit. He had a wicked mind and wicked ways, and there were none to care if he just fell off the earth one day. This led Doc to worry about Mary Rose, but her situation was really none of his business. She would have to look after herself. She had managed this far, and Doc had other patients who needed his ministrations every bit as much as the flinty old rancher.

Doc Roberts was pleased to find his other calls less tiresome, though the trek into the mountains was made more difficult than usual by the several rain-hammered landslides. These difficult patches were traveled under threat of constant peril, so Doc got out to lead Daisy through these hazards. The
mare perked up, perhaps in the hope that a precedent was being set.

Manchester was a relatively prosperous mining town nestled high in the Santa Lucia range. It formed the hub of the lucrative Los Burros mining district. Mining, by its very nature, was a precarious and risky affair. Accidents of every imaginable variety were commonplace, and Doc always left town in profit. Unlike some of his other patients, miners always paid cash on the barrelhead for everything, including death, and they expected the same courtesy in return. Their expectations were always backed up with sidearms. In fact the only people who still went about fully armed were miners and lawmen. Over the years it had become almost a tradition to rob immigrant miners in California. As a result they had become edgy and unpredictable. One just came to expect that every miner had a gun on his person and acted accordingly.

After making his first rounds, Doc Roberts usually put up for the night at Willie Cruikshank’s little cabin in town. Willie was rarely in residence, preferring to sleep rough near his mines to discourage ore poaching. Doc took his supper at the Gem Saloon as usual and passed the evening trading stories with local friends and acquaintances.

Hard rock miners were a breed of true raconteurs. Storytelling was considered an art form in Manchester, and a man without a ripping good yarn to impart was rarely invited to share the hospitality of the host’s bottle.