Sam Bass (6 page)

“Weren't you?” I asked.

“Ah, yes. I was. It's a curse that afflicts some people. There's nothing to be done about it.”

“Am I smart enough to be a doctor?”

“Of course you are. Intelligence has little to do with it, anyway. It's the being serious that's important. You'll know nothing about most things that ail people, but if you're serious, they feel better, and Mother Nature takes care of the rest, one way or the other. You must grow a beard, though, so you can tug on it at the right moments.”

“You're not serious now.”

He laughed. “You'll find out. Your reputation will depend on the fullness of your beard and your use of it.” He sucked at his coffee, making a noise like a horse at water. “What did young Bass want?”

“He wants me to go with him.”

“Where to?”

“I don't know.”

“Are you going?”

“No.”

“But you want to.” I said nothing.

“You tossed all night. Come, Frank, am I not your doctor?

Didn't I cure your croup? Doctors are sacred, like priests. We don't have to testify to anything.”

“Testify?”

“Bass is a bandit, isn't he? He helped that Collins fellow rob a train, didn't he? Amazing! He probably has some similar adventure in mind.”

“I don't know.”

“Well, he'll have an exciting life. It's a good thing he didn't ask me. I would go.”

“Now you're not serious.”

Dr. Ross arched his eyebrows. “Oh, I wouldn't have gone with him when I was young. I was
much
too serious. I thought an exciting life couldn't be a responsible one, and I chose responsibility. Now look at it.” He waved toward the clutter. “That's all there is.”

“It's not so bad,” I said.

“But this is all there has ever been, Frank. And it was my choice.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Yes. It isn't so bad for an ending, but the beginning was the same. That's what I regret. A young man should gather memories that he'll enjoy living with when he's old. All my memories are of denying foolish impulses and being responsible.”

We had never talked like that. I didn't know what to think of it. “I don't want trouble,” I said.

“And I'm not saying you should go,” he replied. “You're a good tinner.”

“But I'm going to be a doctor.”

“As long as you stay here, you'll be a tinner. That's the nature of things, my boy.” He pushed his chair back and got up and pulled his suspenders over his shoulders and buttoned them.

Well, that conversation and the memory of Sam's hand full of gold wove themselves in and out of my mind all day while I worked in Ben's shop. I had never paid much attention to the shop before, never looked at it closely. But I did now, and the battered work benches, the worn tools, the bits of metal littering the floor seemed squalid and hopeless. I tried to imagine myself ten years older, Ben's age, standing in the same spot, holding the same pair of shears. The ease with which I imagined it frightened me, angered me. All I had to do to make it happen was nothing more than what I was doing now. Just keep on living as I was living now, and it would happen. Wasn't that what everyone was doing? A man could ride into Denton, write a list of all the people he saw and a description of what they were doing, then leave and come back ten years later and do the same, and the lists would be almost identical. Oh, some would have died or moved on, but their places would be filled by others, and nothing would have really changed. And it was the sameness that people valued. A man who did the same thing over and over again for years, and nothing else, was a
good
man, like Ben. A man who refused to submit to sameness or got tired of it and got drunk too often or tumbled the wrong woman or got money in other than the prescribed commercial ways was soon dead, or was driven farther westward to places that were still uncivilized.

I wasn't really surprised to find Sam in Dr. Ross's barn when I went to tend the horses that evening. He had already fed them, including Jenny, who was in the stall next to my bay, still saddled. “Look at that gal eat,” he said. “She ain't had grain in a while.”

He was armed with two pistols and a Bowie knife, all tucked into a belt that bristled with bullets. The bulge above them told me he still wore the money belt under his shirt. Large spurs graced his heels. His gray hat was pushed back from his forehead. He looked nothing like a teamster now, sitting there on a grain sack, smoking and grinning.

“Hello,” I said.

“I got here before the doc.”

“He knows, then.”

“Yeah. Look, I come to make you an offer. I'll guarantee you a hundred dollars a month. There's little danger. I've never had no trouble yet…” He hesitated, studying my face, trying to determine what last card would play best. “I'll even let you ride Jenny sometimes.”

“All right, Sam,” I said.

He looked surprised, and answered so quietly I barely heard him. “Good,” he said. “Good.”

We walked to the house. Dr. Ross had built a roaring fire, and the room was stifling. He stood with his back to the fireplace, as usual, still wearing his coat, stroking his beard. He wasn't drinking, though. “You've made your decision?” he asked.

“Yes. I'm going.”

He nodded. “God help me. You could be killed.” “Sam says it's safe.”

“Well.” He frowned and rubbed the side of his nose with his forefinger. “Let an old man advise you. Don't hurt the people. They'll be your friends if you don't hurt them. It's the nature of this place. And Frank, when you get enough money, go to Lexington, Kentucky, and write to me. I'll see that you have a chance to become a doctor. I swear.” He stooped and picked up a set of saddlebags. I hadn't noticed them there at his feet. He handed them to me. “This is all you really need, anyway,” he said. “This and a beard.”

Sam, whose presence Dr. Ross hadn't acknowledged, was shifting from foot to foot, impatient. “Pack your gear,” he said. “It's dark. It's time we went.”

I started to unbuckle one of the saddlebags, but Dr. Ross said, “He's right. It's time.”

I carried the saddlebags to my room and laid them on my chair while I stripped the two blankets from my bed, wadded my spare shirt and pantaloons and rolled them into the blankets. Then I saw Dr. Aiken's book of songs on the table, unrolled the blankets and nestled the little volume among my clothes. I stuck my pistol in my belt, laid the saddlebags across my shoulder, picked up my old Spencer rifle and the bedroll and was ready. I looked around the small room that had been my home for five years and was grieved. But I blew out the lamp and closed the door.

Dr. Ross and Sam were standing just within the back door, talking quietly. “Say your goodbyes,” Sam told me. “I'll go saddle your horse.” He opened the door just wide enough to slide through, and Dr. Ross closed it and turned to me. I could barely see his face in the darkness.

“I'm sorry I encouraged this,” he said.

“Don't be sorry,” I said. “You were right. I'll be fine.”

“Stay alive.”

“Yes.”

“And don't kill, Frank. For God's sake, don't kill.”

“I won't. Really. I'll be all right.”

I felt his beard against my face. He kissed me. He opened the door again, and I slipped through. I looked back and gave a small wave, and he closed the door.

Sam was cinching my saddle when I got to the barn. “Tie on your gear, and let's ride,” he said.

The moon was high and almost bright enough to cast shadows. We avoided the square and stuck to the alleys and the streets where only a few lamps burned inside the houses until we were beyond Denton, riding at a trot toward the northwest. The horses were rested and moved effortlessly through the cool night. The moon flashed dimly off the withers and haunches of Sam's mare and the silver conchos of his saddle. It was a fine night for a ride, and although there was an emptiness in my gut at leaving the home and life I had known, I felt good. I knew I was not only leaving something but moving
toward
something, too, toward the fulfillment of some dream, the keeping of some right, unclear promise, something unknown and inevitable but not at all bad. Destiny, I suppose you could call it. And I had no wish to avoid it. Sam and I didn't speak until we were beyond the town and well into the prairie, which rolled before us in the moonlight like a sea. I asked where we were going.

“Cove Hollow. Do you know it?”

“No.”

“It's on Henderson Murphy's ranch, about forty miles from here. It's perfect for the likes of us. Prairie to run in and woods to hide in.” He flashed a grin in the moonlight. “It's good to have you, Frank. We can't lose now.”

“Joel Collins lost,” I said.

“He wasn't among friends, and we are.”

He spurred Jenny into an easy gallop, and I followed. We said nothing then for what seemed hours. We galloped until the horses began to tire, then we trotted, then walked awhile until they were rested, then galloped again. Both horses were strong, and I knew we were covering the ground fast. Just as I was beginning to tire, Sam reined to the left, toward a line of trees that grew along a watercourse. He pointed. “We'll stop there. We'll have an easy trip tomorrow.”

We entered the woods, ducking to avoid the branches of the scrubby, close-growing trees. Sam picked his way carefully through the brush, and I followed. Most of the leaves were gone, but the thickness of the branches above and around us almost shut out the moonlight, and I was suddenly blind, depending on my horse to follow Jenny's lead. “Hickory Creek,” Sam said. “I know a good spot by the water.” And soon we were in a tiny, grassy clearing beside the creek. Sam dismounted and started unsaddling. “We can have a fire,” he said. “I'll take care of your horse if you'll gather the wood.”

The night was cool enough to make the fire's warmth inviting, and when the blaze was well established we spread our saddle blankets on the ground and sat cross-legged on them. Sam pulled a bottle of whiskey from his saddlebags, uncorked it and passed it to me. “Warm yourself, pard. The first drink of a prosperous life together. One to remember when we're rich.”

I drank and passed the bottle back. He raised it in salute. “Here's to Joel,” he said. “May them that killed him fry in hell.” He drank, but didn't pass the bottle back to me. He held it a moment, then drank again. I knew then that he was more troubled by Joel's death than he admitted, and that if I wanted another drink I would have to ask for it. I did ask, and he stared at me without offering the bottle. “Let's see what the doc give you,” he said. While I was unbuckling the saddlebags he took another drink.

In the first saddlebag were three books and a leather case with a green velvet lining containing forceps, three scalpels, several probes and a pair of scissors. The books were Eberle's small volume of
Notes
, Dr. Henry H. Smith's Minor Surgery and Dr. Thompson McGown's A
Practical Treatise
on the Most
Common Diseases of the South
. The other bag was full of vials of various sizes, all filled and labeled with their contents: quinine, opium, sulphur, calomel, mercury, camphor, digitalis and just about every other medicine I had seen Dr. Ross dispense during my years with him. There was also a large packet of bandages, tied up in a piece of canvas. I passed the case of instruments to Sam, and he examined them with mild interest. I was returning the books to the saddlebag when I noticed a white envelope protruding from Eberle's Notes. It was a letter, sealed, with my name written in Dr. Ross's beautiful hand. I broke the seal and read it:

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“A letter from Dr. Ross.”

“Read it to me.”

“It's nothing. Just about the medicines he gave me.” I folded the paper and stuck it in Eberle's book and buckled the bag.

“I hope you don't get a chance to use none of that on me,” Sam said. “Or nobody, for that matter.” He gave me the whiskey bottle. He rolled and lit a cigarette and leaned back against his saddle and gazed upward into the dark trees. “This here's what you call freedom, Frank. It's worth taking chances for. No Dad Egan, no Ben Key, no doc telling us when to jump and how high. Just you and me and Henry. Horses, whiskey, cards, women and money. You'll like it, Frank.”

“I'm here, Sam.”