Doc - Mary Doria Russell [79]
“How much?” Wyatt asked. “For all of it? With the ana—”
“Anesthetic. It’ll take quite a bit of time. The materials are not cheap, but I will cut no corners on quality and my work is durable.… Call it thirty dollars.”
“You’re not just trying to scare me? About the toothache?”
Doc stared.
“That, sir, would be un-pro-fessional,” he said, his drawl more pronounced, the last word drawn out in emphasis. “Is there anything about my demeanor or my procedures that strikes you as un-pro-fessional?”
“No! I don’t know!” Wyatt said, startled by the sudden hostility. “It’s just—Look, that’s a lot of money. Can I think it over?”
“Of course,” Holliday said evenly. “You know where to find me. Good day.”
Dismissed, and embarrassed, Wyatt had his hat in hand and was halfway into the corridor when the dentist’s voice stopped him.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I forget my manners as well,” Doc said in a conciliatory tone. “I understand from your brother Morgan that condolences are in order.”
Wyatt blinked. “Morgan told you about Urilla? My wife died … almost eight years ago,” he said, a little surprised by that himself, “but thanks.”
“You are a widower? I am truly sorry, sir. I did not know. My sympathy for that terrible loss as well, but I was referrin’ to the untimely passin’ of our mutual young friend, John Horse Sanders.”
It was Wyatt’s turn to stare.
“I participated in the investigation of his death,” Holliday told him. “Now, if you wish to speak of unprofessional procedures,” he said, hot again, “I would direct your attention to the local authorities, sir! In my opinion, the inquest could have been considerably more thorough.”
Wyatt was stupid with the need for sleep. “What’re you talking about, Doc?”
“Well, as you may know, I sometimes supplement my income with games of skill and chance. I was in a position to have observed young Mr. Sanders at similar employment in the weeks prior to his death. I calculate he was at least eighteen hundred dollars to the good when he died and—”
“Eighteen hundred dollars!”
“In my estimation, yes. I have only resided in Dodge since the end of April. He may well have won more prior to my arrival. There was no mention of the money in the local press. I would like to call your brother Morgan a friend of mine, and I would never wish to question his competence, but it seems to me that someone in authority might have at least considered robbery as a motive for assault and arson! I told them there was every indication that the boy sustained an ante-mortem blow to the back of the head before the fire, but Sheriff Masterson decided the death was an accident and that was the end of it. Justice was not well served, in my opinion.”
Wyatt shook his head. The man never used one word when twenty would do the same job. “Make it simple for me, Doc. You’re saying somebody killed Johnnie for the money and set the fire to cover it up?”
“Yes—”
Wyatt turned on his heel and strode away without another word.
Mouth open, John Henry Holliday watched until the lawman had disappeared down the hallway. Then he went back inside No. 24 to ready the office for the next patient, if and when such a one might arrive.
“About time somebody took this seriously,” he muttered, cleaning out the basin so he could rinse the instruments in carbolic. “That boy deserved better than he got.”
Isabelle Wright was just entering the lobby of Dodge House with little Wilfred Eberhardt at her side when Wyatt Earp brushed past her looking like thunder.
This was the first time Belle had seen Mr. Earp since he left Dodge in the autumn to track down David Rudabaugh. Ordinarily, she would have welcomed him back to town, and told him how glad she was that he’d been rehired by the city police department, and introduced Wilfred to him, and so on, but the deputy was out