A Thousand Texas Longhorns by Johnny D. Boggs

Author:Johnny D. Boggs [Boggs, Johnny D]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Published: 2020-08-20T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Setting his cup of tea down on the bench, Dr. Seth Beckstead walked to the pole he had nailed to the sides of the cabin and the privy. Shirtless, Thomas Dimsdale hung over the poll, wheezing.

“I think that has been long enough, Professor,” Beckstead said.

The Montana Post’s editor said something that Beckstead could not understand. He bent his knees. “Excuse me.”

Dimsdale wheezed. “Help me . . . up.”

Sweating profusely, clammy, pale, Dimsdale eventually stood in his stocking feet, leaned forward, and braced himself against “Beckstead’s Torture Chamber.”

“What good . . . does this . . . do?” the newspaperman asked.

“Professor, I’m not sure it does any good, but it might clear out your lungs.” Beckstead walked back, grabbed the journalist’s shoes and shirt from a rough-hewn chair, and returned. He held out the clothing. The doctor still worked his lungs.

“Some doctors perform surgery that allegedly reduces your lung capacity. There has been success with . . .”

“A cure?”

Beckstead’s head shook.

“Do you have backaches?”

“I hurt everywhere, Doctor,” Dimsdale said. “I’m a journalist.”

“And your back?”

“When you bend over to read, and write, as much as one does in my profession, yes, your back hurts. So does my head. And my eyes.”

“Bend over.”

“Sir, I . . .”

Beckstead began to push, and, after an arrogant blast about English dignity, Dimsdale leaned over again. The doctor’s right hand ran over the backbone, gently at first, stopping at each vertebra but focusing on the lower-thoracic and upper-lumbar areas.

Dimsdale wheezed. “What . . . are you . . . doing . . . now?”

“Consumption can destroy the spine,” Beckstead said. “Have you heard of Pott’s disease?”

“No . . . haven’t you tortured . . . me . . . enough?”

“The lung illness can spread to other areas, usually the spine. Eventually, the vertebrae will collapse.”

“So . . . I’ll be a . . . crippled cougher.”

“You may stand, Professor.” Beckstead lifted his hand. “The good news, Professor, is that I find no protuberance or depression. So far, I feel I am able to say that Pott’s disease has not taken root. You may put on your shirt.”

* * *

“Your prognosis, Doctor?” Dimsdale asked as Beckstead found the bottle of brandy and began to pour.

“You have consumption.” The doctor brought two cordials to the office desk.

“Astute.” Dimsdale lifted his drink, the glasses clinked, and he sipped. “My parents had consumption. My grandfather had consumption. I was born to suffer and eventually die from consumption. It’s in my lungs and my blood.”

Beckstead sighed. “I am not certain of that.”

“Meaning?”

“A professor said that his belief is that our preconceived notions to this illness are wrong, that one does not inherit this disease, but it spreads from a contagion.”

Dimsdale’s head tilted to one side.

“Others agree with him, but . . .” Beckstead shook his head. “There is so much about consumption that we do not know.”

“But there is no cure.”

“Exercise and—”

Dimsdale laughed. “And go to the West. Fresh air. Yes, Doctor, that is what brought me to Montana. And might I inquire as to what brought you here?”

“I desired to become a doctor.

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