Longhorns East by Johnny D. Boggs

Author:Johnny D. Boggs [Boggs, Johnny D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Books
Published: 2023-06-05T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

He burned the shirt two days later, but Law gifted him a new one, even britches and unmentionables, and Tom was glad to have them. He soaked himself in Wilson’s Creek, let the sun dry himself before he pulled on the new undershirt, and then that gut- and shoulder-bruising money belt and suspenders, and finally slipped the blue shirt over his head.

“You done us a favor, Ponting,” Doc told Tom back in Springfield. “More than a blessing.”

“Balderdash,” Tom said.

“Well, folks aren’t scared as much of the smallpox.”

They shook hands, Tom thanked Law, grabbed the horn, let his foot find the stirrup, and pulled himself wearily into the saddle. Across the street, Washington Malone waited on the chestnut. Tom waved to the doctor and the merchant before turning the horse to his partner.

“I figured they would give you a parade out of town.”

Malone sounded and looked serious, but Tom chuckled. “More likely they wanted to parade me out of town on a rail.”

“You did good work.”

His head shook. “I just sat with some sick folks, gave them food and water, medicine, kept their spirits up, read to the little ones, which must have been torture seeing how slow I read. That doctor—and the Lord—they deserve the credit. But I am surely sorry, partner. Surely sorry indeed.”

“About what?” Malone genuinely looked surprised.

“About Marney,” he said. “We had an escort all the way to the Red River. A man who knows the trails and the country. And a man with a hundred mules.”

Malone laughed. “Still have them. He’s camped south of town.”

Tom waited for the joke, but Malone clucked his tongue and kicked the chestnut into a walk.

“He thinks you’re a doctor,” Malone called back. “And he has all sorts of ailments he would like you to look at.”

* * *

Marney said he was older than Methuselah, and he looked it. Smelled like he had not bathed since he had been born, either. He had a bruise on his thumb he said wouldn’t heal, and asked Tom if he could do something about this crooked thumb. While Tom was of little help with those ailments, he did say that hot tea with honey in the morning might help that hacking cough, and it did, though Marney added more whiskey from a jug than honey.

A big man with silver hair, balding at the top, and a dropping, brushy mustache that had rarely seen scissors or comb, Marney dressed in greasy buckskins and wore a hat made from a mangy coyote. Every fourth word uttered while herding the string of mules came out as a bellowing profanity, but in camp, Tom was glad they rode with him.

He sat in a saddle as though he had been born to it, and did most of the work pushing the many mules on the narrow trails.

“I always found mules to be stubborn,” Tom said one morning as he rode alongside Marney at the rear of the drove while Malone, far head, led the way.

Marney spit out tobacco juice.

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