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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Doc Hannah’s Replacement
Tom Sheehan
Caliper, Texas poured just about every citizen out for the goodbye to Doc Hannah and his wife Beth as they were bidding goodbye to the pair, off for a new location in west Texas. With two boys in tow the pair was bound for Clinton after Doc had arranged for Toby Maxwell, his assistant for two years, to be his replacement in Caliper. The gala was attended by the whole town of Caliper, saying goodbye to the good doctor who had served them for almost ten years. The doc was a beloved individual whose work had touched practically every person in the town.
Toby Maxwell, blond and excitedly good looking according to some of their younger female patients, reveled in his new assignment, believing he had learned just about all the ropes that Doc Hannah could twirl. That included the business of doctoring and the business of people. Ever on, he remembered what Hannah had said about being a doctor in a small western town: “Don’t close your eyes to anything that’s worth seeing, Toby. Keep it all with you. It may help in decision-making somewhere down the trail, down-range.” Ten years as a horse and buggy doctor gave serious credence to anything Doc Hannah ever offered to a listener.
Toby Maxwell was a listener.
Shorter than Hannah, smaller in his frame, but sporting a blaze of red hair, Maxwell had made a notable start in Caliper after finishing school in the East. His arrival in Caliper was a memorable if not enviable occasion. When he alighted from the Caliper-Fremont stage, two robbers bolted from the Caliper Bank with a bundle of cash and took Maxwell as a hostage. He was gone for five days before the sheriff and one of his deputies found him wandering alone in the foothills of the Morgan Mountain Range. For a newcomer, he had quickly become saddle-broken, trail-wise, and able to handle a hot skillet over an open fire, all under direction of a revolver waved at him by one of the bank robbers.
He quickly understood some of the gestures. “I know what you mean most of the time, the way you point that gun,” he’d said on occasion, but always adding, “you still can’t be too careful waving a gun around. Just ask me how many “accidents” doctors have treated. There have been awful accidents where none of them could do a thing for the injured party; not when they turn out deadly. I hope I don’t have a turn at treating any of you gents.” Once again, before any of them could reply, he wondered what Doc Hannah would do in this situation, as the Doc’s reputation had “gone east” after many incidents.
“I hope that’s not a threat, Doc,” one of the men said. The others called him “Z.” Maxwell figured “Z” was the boss. He’d keep his eye on that man, he vowed softly, and thought of Doc Hannah again and what he had written in the letter that stated the new need for a doctor in Caliper. The words had stuck in his mind.
“Use your brain,” came to him in internal translation, “Don’t be timid. Doctors can’t be timid. Doctors take chances. We doctors must find ways not yet in our hands.” Strange as it seemed, the internal voice seemed, at every syllable, to be Doc Hannah’s voice, though he had never written the words that Maxwell was sure he heard. “As a doctor, you may be the last stand, the final great barrier between you and quick death for untold people. Be ready, Toby. Be ready.”
The letter was in Maxwell’s pocket, creased a dozen times, re-read a dozen times.
With these thoughts working in the gray matter, three times Maxwell tried to escape, two times recaptured, two times punished.
When they caught up to him the first time, they beat him up pretty badly. But Doc Maxwell did not punch back, not wanting to hurt his hands. “I’m no surgeon,” he readily admitted to himself, “but I have to take care of these hands.” He was, of course, talking about ministering to all those patients on his western horizon. “Down range,” he might have said, “or somewhere along the trail.” It was all said out there in his future, if there was going to be a future. He’d have to do his best to get away; “The West, people kept saying, “was wide open.”
One of his captors, called Bucko, said to his padres after the first escape attempt, as if admonishing them, “Let’s treat the doc better next time. We might need him.”
The next day was the next time. Maxwell jumped on a horse, but it was hobbled and went nowhere. Bucko said, “You got spirit and gumption, Doc, but damned foolish, if you ask me. Nobody jumps on a horse still hobbled. Can hurt the damned animal if you think about it.”
Then he turned to Maxwell, jabbed him on the shoulder and said, “Doc, if we ever git into a runnin’ gun fight, make damned sure you keep your head down. We gotta keep you lucky long as we can. If the Big Man gets a new job for us, you might come in handy. Never can tell who’s a better shot than the last guy. Some of ‘em couldn’t hit a barn door if they was standin’ on it and pointin’ down.”
Maxwell figured “Z” and the “Big Man” were not one and the same, but he kept his eyes on Bucko from the first moment he had seen him fall asleep as soon as he dismounted from his horse in a wooded section. That’s when he remembered hearing about a French doctor named Gelineau who studied people who fell asleep easily. Gelineau called the disorder “narcolepsy,” having derived its name from two Greek words, “narko” meaning numbness, and “lepsis” meaning attack. This was not the first time Maxwell had seen a case of the sickness.
The young doctor put that information in a corner of his mind. He hoped the situation to use it would arise.
In the meantime, Doc Hannah and his wife Beth decided they could not leave Caliper with the new doctor’s life at risk. They truly didn’t know if they’d ever see him again. Beth told her friends that Doc Hannah thought Toby Maxwell would become one of the west’s truly fine doctors. “Doc says that he knows Toby has come in contact with newer medicine developments and various treatments. So, he’ll be a great medical addition to the town. And you better treat him right if and when he gets back here. Doc’s convinced it will take a great deal to hold Toby down. He’s heard a lot about him from folks he trusts. Let’s hope he’s right.”
Eventually the grimy robbers, about 50 miles away in the foothills, took time to have a swim in the heat of the day. Bucko was assigned to keep his eye on Maxwell, but he fell asleep in the middle of a yawn. With the other two bank robbers in the middle of a washing swim, Maxwell simply rode away, riding one horse and driving off all the other mounts with the loudest yells he could muster. In turn, he was shot at, ducked, rode hard, and made his way over a hill and down into a series of canyons. Finally, after being lost for a whole day, Sheriff Slade Burton and a deputy, coming from a town down in the lower territory, found him sitting beside the road, his horse halted by a limp.
Maxwell told them where he had been.
Sheriff Burton said, “We heard all about your problem with them bank robbers, Doc. A couple of freighters told us on the trail. Where’d you leave them robbers takin’ their yearly bath? Stream water or pond water?”
“They were in a small stream, Sheriff, getting rid of half a year of crud.”
Maxwell was trying to remember all he had seen, but so much of the land had appeared for him in such a short and tenuous time. “The water came right off a small waterfall. A drop of no more than 20 feet. Lots of trees around the place, so no one could see us from the trail. I had no idea where I was, but when I got on the horse, I blazed out of there. I heard them talking a few times, saying they couldn’t afford to let me go because I’d know them any place, especially in court, after spending a few days waiting on them.” He shook his head in exasperation. “It was like I graduated from cooking school instead of medical school.”
Burton laughed, but not too heavily. He had decided he admired the redheaded doctor in a quick assessment. “That’d be on Elm Hill Creek, Doc,” he said, “where there’s a small waterfall I saw once or twice. A dozen or more mile from here, and back up that way.” He tossed his head half-heartedly in a northerly direction, as if signifying it was too late or of no use starting out at this time.
“It’s best we go back now,” he said in qualification. “We’ll look at a few posters, if you don’t mind, Doc. Sounds like it’s the Main Street Gang from Independence. Pretty active this side of the big river, but if they stay this side, they’ll show up somewhere along the line. We’ll have to look at the posters. If it ain’t them, we’ll get Curly Somers the drawer to draw up some more and let you do the decidin’ on their looks.”
A second thought came to Burton. “You catch any of their names, Doc?”
“’Z,’ Big Man and Bucko were all I heard for names, like they might have been covering up, but that’s kind of ridiculous because they knew I could and would identify each one if given the chance later on.”
“That tells me, Doc, they wasn’t about to let you go less’n you hotfooted out of there like you did. That was darn good on your part, Doc. Doc Hannah would say so hisself. But none of those names mean anythin’ to me, includin’ what I know of the Main Street Gang.
They were just about to mount up when the sheriff said, “Doc, you notice any brands on their horses? Any marks to set them off? Might say somethin’ else about them, if you was to remember anythin’ like that.”
“Well, Sheriff, that’s funny you should ask me that,” Maxwell said. “They changed horses one time way off in some canyon, from another guy who kept himself out of my site. But one of the new horses had a mark like a small arrow wearing a circle. I didn’t see anything on the other horses.”
Burton, winking slyly at his deputy and pursing his lips just as slyly, said “Why, thanks a lot, Doc. That’s some kind of help. On the way back to Caliper, we’re goin’ over to Ridley for a quick visit. Yes, siree, Doc Hannah’s got hisself a real good replacement. He’d say you’ll do, Doc. Yes, sir. Nothin' like Doc Hannah’s cure for the trouble that ails you.”
The deputy’s mouth still hung open as they mounted, the sheriff nodding “No” with his head or “Keep your mouth shut.”
He believed Maxwell was oblivious of his signals.
Four lazy hours later, Maxwell faring well in the saddle as if he was born on a ranch, the trio approached Ridley. Burton spoke at length to Maxwell in a huddle, and then he and his deputy rode into town ahead of Maxwell, who followed a few minutes later and rode slowly and unobtrusively down the main street and rode down between the Prairie Dog Saloon and the general store.
The sheriff and his deputy rode directly to the Ridley sheriff’s office.
But Toby Maxwell had his own ideas.
Burton, on entering the sheriff’s office, said to the big man standing beside his desk, “Carl Ruskin, it’s been a couple of years since I ran into you. You ain’t much older.”
“Hell, Slade,” the Ridley sheriff said, “If I chased you on my best horse, I couldn’t catch up to all those years you got pilin' up. But I can say, you’re wearin’ well as could be supposed. What trots you all the ways up here?”
He looked at the young deputy and said, “You look dry as turds, son. I’ll git you a beer at the saloon in a few minutes, seein’ as the boss there hasn’t let you wet your whistle yet.”
Slade Burton, sitting wearily on a straight-back chair, rubbed his sleeve on his badge and said huskily, as if to set the tone for his visit, “We’re here after a local, Carl, for kidnappin’ our new doctor and robbin’ our bank. We found the doc wanderin’ on the trail after near a week off with the robbers, one of them sportin’ a Circle Arrow brand. Man might be a horse thief or workin’ off the spread. If he’s at the saloon or comes in, the doc will be in town later on and we can grab him, maybe without firin’ a shot, which would be my choice.”
“I’m with you there, Slade. The quieter the better for old folks such as us.”
All that wishful thinking was about to fly the coop as Doc Maxwell rode directly into the livery after looking at the half dozen horses tied up at the saloon hitch rail.
“Good day, sir,” Maxwell said to the livery man. “My name’s Toby Maxwell. I’m Doc Hannah’s replacement at Caliper, and I need a gun. Can you loan me one?”
“Well, Doc, I done heard about you. All us here at Ridley been talkin’ ‘bout it for near a week. Is this getting’ even time for you?” Visible to him was a fire starting up in Maxwell’s eyes, and his cheeks showing some real color in a quick change.
“Yes, it is,” Maxwell said, “and the man who kidnapped me and kept me waitin’ on him and his bunch is pretty sure to be in the saloon right now. I saw a horse I’ve seen before. I want to see the look on this gent’s face when a gun’s in my hand. I figure it’s part of my western learning. Can you help me out, like a good neighbor?”
“My pleasure, Doc. I got me a Colt revolver will make a man say ouch in a hurry. It’s all yours. And I know where that horse comes from, the one you’re ridin.”
“Stolen?”
“Permanen’ly, as some might say,” he mumbled, as if aware of his speech pattern, “or for holdin’ on, ‘cause it was stole from me right here ‘bout two weeks ago, when I was at the saloon havin’ my supper one evenin’.”
“You have your horse back,” Maxwell said, “and,” as if to balance an equation, added, “I’ll borrow your Colt.”
“Evens goin’ Stevens fits me good, Doc. It shoots a little high,” the livery man said as he handed Maxwell the Colt. “You’ll have to stick it in your belt. I ain’t got no holster for it. Be careful of them guys who steal horses, rob banks, take doctors for hostagin’. They don’t care for nothin’, seems.”
“Being as mad as I’ve ever been doesn’t make this easy for me. Not even being made a fool of. I just like to see Old Lady Justice get the line toed and in order, and the bad guys properly put in place.”
With the Colt stuck under his belt, Doc Maxwell headed for the saloon. The red was on his face and in his eyes, as if the long-dormant fire had found ignition. Dust rose under his stomping feet from the one road in town. Like an avenging angel he strode, with the gun suddenly in his hand. An old-timer jumped into the sheriff’s office.
Doc Maxwell slammed open the door of the saloon as if he was a marshal on an arrest. In one glance he saw two of the robbers, two of his kidnappers. Bucko was asleep, hanging over a table. The other, still nameless in Maxwell’s mind, went to draw his gun, but the new doctor had a Colt aimed at his face.
“I have all the right in the world to kill you right now, but I suspect the sheriff is on his way here right now. Maybe I’ll wait for him and maybe I won’t.” The Colt was as steady in his hand as if it was a scalpel descending for the initial cut.
Bucko woke up, fishing his eyes around for clarity, trying to see what he thought he was seeing; the doc standing there with a gun on his pard. Something in the doc’s face said, “Don’t play with me now. I’ve got the drop on you roustabouts.”
Bucko knew the doc had a lot of guts. Flat on the table he placed his hands, just as the two sheriffs and a deputy entered the saloon, guns drawn.
Immediately all the people in the saloon were measuring things: the bad guys looking at the drawn guns; Sheriff Burton, all the way from Caliper, studied Maxwell from stem to stern; the Ridley sheriff watched the bad guys still sitting at a table; the owner of the saloon looked at the third mirror behind the bar in less than two years; and Doc Maxwell, counting his five days as a working hostage, felt something leaving him, like a phantom was losing ground.
Slade Burton, waving his gun, said, “Hold it there, Doc. Don’t let the last five days take care of forever. Doc Hannah still needs you in Caliper. Hell, all of us need you, so you drop that weapon and we’ll get on with takin’ care of them five days for you, best we can.
The old livery man, standing at the door of the saloon, was heard to say, “This here’s sure a right sight, Evens Stevens gettin’ done. And the doc’s right again.”
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