Hummingbird (3 page)

They walked through an archway into Doc Dougherty's waiting room, which was only slightly tidier than the parlor.

On a sagging sofa beneath a triple window a man lay unmoving. He wore a city suit, its vest and jacket unbuttoned. One of his feet, brown-stockinged, stuck out from a pant leg while the other sported a bandage covering the forefoot but leaving the heel bare where it rested on a pillow. His face, in repose, was pleasant. His hair was nondescript brown and fell away from his forehead in boyish waves. His ears were flat and his nails clean. And that was good enough for Miss Abigail.

"This is the man who robbed the train?" she asked.

"No. The other one robbed the train. This one—Melcher's his name—apparently interrupted the proceedings. The way Tuck tells it, Melcher here took a stray bullet from that one's gun." Doc thumbed over his shoulder in the direction of the surgery. "Must've been some kind of scuffle involving a bunch of passengers because by the time Tuck got the train stopped and got back there to see what was going on, everybody was telling the story a different way and these two were lying there bleeding. One of the shots took Melcher's big toe clean off his right foot."

"His big toe!" she exclaimed, pressing her fingers to her lips to hide the smile.

"Could've been worse if the shot had been higher. On the other hand, it could've been little or nothing if he'd had a sensible pair of boots on instead o' them flimsy city shoes he was wearing."

Miss Abigail looked to where Doc Dougherty pointed, and there on the floor sat a single stylish brown shoe of fine, soft leather.

"Had to cut the other one off him," Doc informed her. "Wasn't any good anyway, with the end shot off like it was."

Miss Abigail had to smile in spite of herself. First at Doc's keeping the single shoe, which was no good without its mate, and secondly at the absurdity of the town's first hero saving the day by getting his big toe shot off!

"Is something funny, Miss Abigail?" She sobered at once, chagrined at being caught in a state of levity at this unfortunate man's expense.

"No… no, forgive me, Doctor. Tell me, is the loss of a toe a serious injury? I mean, is his life in danger?"

"No, hardly. The toe came off real clean, and there was no lead shavings or powder left on him once the bullet went through that shoe. He was in awful shock and lost some blood, but I put him to sleep and stitched him up and he'll be good as new in no time. When he wakes up, that toe is gonna throb like a bitch in heat, though…" Doc suddenly seemed to realize to whom he was talking. "Oh… forgive me, Miss Abigail. I forgot myself."

Miss Abigail colored deeply, stammering, "I… oh, I shall certainly sympathize with poor Mr. Melcher."

"Yes… well…" Doctor Dougherty cleared his throat. "Mr. Melcher will undoubtedly find himself walking with a limp from now on, but that should be the worst of it. We'll keep the foot propped up, keep it bandaged for a couple of days, and I'll give you some salve for it. But mostly time and air will have to heal the stitches. You're right—Mr. Melcher will need good old-fashioned sympathy most of all."

"So much for the damage done here. And what about the other?" Miss Abigail asked, relieved that her composure was returning.

Turning toward the surgery door, the doctor walked a step or two toward it. "The other bullet, I fear, did far more damage. This scoundrel will undoubtedly rue the day he set foot on that R.M.R. train… if he lives long enough."

They came to the doorway and Miss Abigail preceded him into its cream-colored depths. Here at last was cleanliness, although she devoted not even the quickest glance to it. Her eyes were drawn to the rectangular table where a sheet shrouded an inert figure. The table faced the doorway, so all that was visible was the sole of a left foot—a very long left foot, thought Miss Abigail—and the rise of sheet covering an updrawn right knee and leg.

"This one is lucky to be alive. He lost plenty of blood from the gunshot and more when I had to clean the wound out. He'd have been better off if the bullet had stayed in him. As it was, it came out the other side and blew a hole in him twenty times bigger than the one it made going in. Left a pretty big mess on its way through, too."

"Will he die?" Miss Abigail whispered, staring at that long foot that made her insides jitter. She'd never seen a man's bare foot before, other than her father's.

"No need to whisper. He's dead to the world and he's going to stay that way for a while, or I miss my guess. But as to whether or not the poor son of a b—the poor fool will die, that I can't say yet. Looked to be healthy as a horse before this happened to him." Doc Dougherty had walked farther than Miss Abigail into the room and now stood beside the man on the surgery table. "Come and have a look at him."

Miss Abigail experienced a sudden stab of reluctance but ventured far enough to see bare shoulders with the sheet slicing them at armpit level. Above was a chest shadowed with dark, curled hair, broad, tanned shoulders, and the bottom of a dark-skinned face that sported an evil-looking moustache. She couldn't see any of the features above the moustache from this angle, only the nostrils, which were shaped like half hearts, and the lower lip, which suddenly twitched as she looked at it. His chin wore only a trace of the day's growth of whiskers, and she suddenly found herself thinking that for a train robber he certainly kept himself up, if the clean foot and the recent shave were any indication.

The sheet covered him from biceps to ankle, giving no indication of where he was injured or how seriously. From here he looked as if he might have stretched out for a nap, one knee slung up haphazardly as he serenely dozed.

"He was shot in the groin," Doc said, and Miss Abigail suddenly blanched and felt her stomach go weightless.

"In… in the—" she stammered, then halted.

"Not quite… but very close. Do you still want the job?"

She didn't know. Frantically she thought of everyone in town hearing the reason she had changed her mind. She stood there considering a man coming to such an end. Whether she still wanted to care for him or not, she felt somehow sorry for the unconscious fellow.

"A train robber might expect to come to a bad end, yet nobody should come to this."

"No, Miss Abigail. It's not a pretty sight, but it could've been worse. A few inches difference and he could've lost… well, he could have been dead."

Miss Abigail blushed again but nevertheless looked resolutely at Doc Dougherty. Nobody else had come forward but herself. Even a hapless train robber deserved human consideration.

"I quite understand, Doctor, what the man's dilemma might have been, but don't you agree that even a robber deserves our sympathies, in his present state?"

"My sympathies he's got, Miss Abigail, and plenty of them. He'll get every bit of care I can give him, but I got to warn you, I'm no miracle worker. If he lives it'll be just that—a dad-blamed miracle."

"What am I to do for him, Doctor?" she asked, suddenly deciding that a man this age—he looked to be thirty-five or so—was much too young to die.

"You're sure about this? Very sure?"

"Just tell me what to do." The look in her eyes, just like years ago when she'd taken on the care of her father, told Doc Dougherty she meant business.

"You'll keep the knee raised, keep the thigh up, so the air can get at the underside as well as the top. I managed to staunch the flow of blood, but if it starts up again, you'll have to apply alum to try to stop it.

Keep the wound clean—I'll tell you what to disinfect it with. Watch for any putrefaction and if you see any, come runnin' like a cat with her tail on fire the minute you see any sign of it. We'll have to try to keep his fever down. For the pain there's not much we can do. Keep him still. Try to get him to eat. Do you think you can handle that, Miss Abigail?"

"Everything but setting my tail on fire," she replied dryly, surprising Doc with her wit. He smiled.

"Good. You go home now and get a good night's rest because it'll probably be your last for a while. I'm expecting a run on the place in the morning and I'd like to have these two out of here before it starts. I

'spect everyone with so much as an ingrown hair will be in here hoping for a glimpse of either a genuine robber or a genuine hero."

"Ah well, I expect I'm the lucky one then, to have seen them both at close range." A brief smile tugged at the corner of Miss Abigail's mouth.

"I 'spect you are at that. How can I thank you?"

"I'll see you in the morning. Everything shall be in order for their arrival."

"I'm sure it will be, Miss Abigail. Knowing you, I'm sure it will be."

She turned to leave, but at the door turned back.

"What… what is his name, the robber's?"

"We don't know. Men in his profession don't carry calling cards like Mr. Melcher did."

"Oh… oh, of course not," she replied, then hesitated a moment longer to add, "but it would be a shame if he should die and we should not know whom to inform. He must have someone somewhere."

Doc Dougherty had scarcely had time to think of that yet.

"Only a woman with a heart would think of that at a time like this."

"Nonsense," Miss Abigail said briskly, then turned to leave.

But of course he was right, for her heart was doing monkeyshines as she walked home, remembering a bare long foot; a dark, furred chest; and the prospect of caring for a wound near the man's—

But Miss Abigail McKenzie not only avoided speaking such a word. She could not even think it!

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The sun was hotter than ever the following day as Doc approached the loiterers on the sagging veranda of Mitch Field's feedstore. They congregated there to drape on the feed sacks, spit and chew, and never give poor Mitch so much as a lick of business.

"All right, which of you lazy no-goods is gonna give me a hand," Doc challenged.

They even laughed lazily, then squinted at the sun, gauging the discomfort of exerting themselves against the chance of getting a gander at them two up at Doc's house. Old Bones Binley scratched his grizzled jaw with the dull edge of a whittling knife and drawled, "Reckon you can count me in, Doc."

It was Doc's turn to laugh. Bones had a yen for Miss Abigail and the whole town knew it. Bones looked just like his name, but along with some help from Mitch and Seth Carter, the transfer of patients was handled without mishap.

Miss Abigail was waiting at her front door and directed Doc and Mitch to place David Melcher in the southeast bedroom upstairs and the other man in the downstairs bedroom, since it was probably inadvisable to carry him up the steps.

The train robber was too long for the mattress, and his feet hung beyond the footrail, so the sheet covered him only up to the waist. Bones and Seth watched Miss Abigail's face as she came around the doorway and saw that bare, hairy chest lying there, but she barely gave it a glance before turning to the pair and dismissing them coolly and unquestionably. "Thank you, gentlemen. I'm sure you have pressing business down at the feedstore."

"Why, uh, yes… yes we do, Mizz Abigail." Bones grinned while Seth elbowed him in the ribs to get him moving.

Outside, Seth said, "It might be ninety-nine degrees everywhere else, but a body could freeze to death anywhere within fifteen feet o' Miss Abigail McKenzie."

"Ain't she somethin', though?" Bones gulped, his Adam's apple protruding.

"Whole town knows she can twist you around her finger, but that sugary voice of hers don't fool me none. Underneath that sugar is mostly vinegar!"

"You really think so, Seth?"

"Why, sheee-oot, I know so. Why, lookit how she just excused us, like we was clutterin' up her bedroom or somethin'."

"Yeah, but she took in that there train robber didn't she?"

"Did it for the money, the way I heard tell. It's prob'ly the only way she could get a man in her bed. And that one that's in it now will be sorry he didn't die when he comes to and finds hisself bein' nursed by the likes of her."

There were those in town, like Seth, who considered Miss Abigail just a touch above herself. Granted, she was always soft-spoken, but she had that way, just the same, of elevating herself and acting lofty.

When Doc had settled the patients and told her to send Rob Nelson if she needed anything, he promised to check in again that evening, then left with Mitch in tow.

She thought Mr. Melcher was asleep when she crept to the door of his room, for his arm lay over his forehead and his eyes were closed. Though his beard had grown overnight, he had a very nice mouth. It reminded her of Grandfather McKenzie's mouth, which had always smiled readily. Mr Melcher looked to be perhaps in his late twenties—it was hard to tell with his eyes closed. Glancing around, she spied his suitcase under the Phyfe library table near the window and tiptoed across to open it and find his nightshirt. When she turned, she found that Mr. Melcher had been watching her.

"Ah, you're awake," she said gaily, disconcerted at being caught searching through his personal belongings.

"Yes. You must be Miss McKenzie. Doc Dougherty said you'd volunteered. It was very good of you."

"Not really. I live alone and have the time that Doctor Dougherty doesn't." She looked at his foot then, asking, "How does it feel this morning?"

"It's throbbing some," he answered honestly, and she immediately colored and fussed with the nightshirt.

"Yes, well… we'll see if we can't relieve it somewhat. But first I believe we'd best get you out of your suit. It looks as if it could stand a flour bath." The brown wool worsted was indeed wrinkled but Miss Abigail had grave misgivings about how to gracefully get him out of it.

"A flour bath?"

"Yes, a dredging in clean flour to absorb the soil and freshen it. I'll take care of it for you."

Although he moved his arm off his forehead and smiled, he was smitten with discomfort at the thought of undressing before a lady.