Doctor Who_ Peacemaker - James Swallow [27]
Now he had the cure-all. He had, if it wasn’t too pompous to think it, the power of life and death in his very hands.
And the cashy money was rolling in. Behind him, Walking Crow followed with his perpetually morose expression, dolefully taking the offers of coins and paper dollars, even family jewels and other rarities.
Heck, back on the medicine show’s box wagon, they even had an oil painting that some rancher had traded for a little of Alvin’s tender care.
67
He halted at the steps to the old woman’s house and held up his hands again. ‘Please! Good people, there is but only one of me and I can move only so fast to do my works.’ Godlove looked out and saw desperate faces, all of them turned to him, pleading and imploring. The little mining town was crying out for help; the smallpox had come and ripped through their populace like a tornado, and those that weren’t already newly interred in the bone orchard with the rest of the deaders, were either dying in the sick tent off main street or perishing by inches in their own homes. This place was perfect. Already a lot of folks were back up and walking around, thank to his ministrations, and in a day or so the old biddy who lived here would be joining them. . . Provided, of course, that she could cross his palm with silver. Or gold. Or whatever valuables she had to give.
‘Allow me to do what I can for the poor lady. . . ’ He glanced at Walking Crow, unable to remember the name.
‘Weems,’ whispered the Pawnee.
‘Mrs Weems!’ Alvin smiled wider. ‘I must attend to her!’
Inside the house, Godlove once again allowed Walking Crow to deal with the business of the payment from the old lady’s son while he climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Entering, he fought down the urge to choke. The air inside the room was foul with sweat and that nasty old-people funk. A frail thing, more a bag of skin full of bones, lay on the bed.
‘Hello?’ said a reedy voice. ‘Are you the doctor?’
He bowed. ‘Professor Alvin Q. Godlove at your service, ma’am. I am here to rid you of the vile smallpox.’
She pointed feebly to a brown bottle on the nightstand. ‘I’ve been taking your potion, but it’s done me no good.’ Alvin came closer and saw the now-familiar scarring of smallpox lesions on her aged face.
‘Don’t you worry none,’ he soothed, in his best Southern Gentleman accent. ‘I’m going to administer a proper treatment, now that you’ve made a suitable donation.’ Godlove reached inside his jacket and drew out something that resembled a handgun. He gasped as he touched it; out of sight, tiny needles nipped at the flesh of his palm where he held it, and the skin seemed to merge into the strange organic metal 68
of the device.
‘Oh my!’ gasped the woman. ‘Is that a pistol? Are you going to put me out of my misery like some lame mule?’
‘Nothing of the sort.’ Alvin shook his head, twisting a dial on the side of the device. Usually they didn’t talk back to him when he was working. Most of the time, they were too out of it to even know there was another person in the room, and he made sure that he had his privacy. ‘Doctor-patient confidentiality,’ he would say.
The lengthy barrel shifted and retracted, revealing a glowing green nodule. His breath came in short gasps, as it always did when he used the cure-all. ‘You just hush up now.’ He aimed it at her body and squeezed the trigger; at once a fan of emerald light washed out and engulfed her. The old woman moaned, and slipped into unconsciousness. Gradually, the pockmarks and scars across her flesh became faint and faded, as something approximating a normal tone returned to her skin.
Walking Crow found him on the back stoop of the house after he was done. Alvin was panting and sweating.
The Pawnee folded his arms. ‘It’s getting harder, isn’t it?’
Godlove got up abruptly and stalked away. ‘What the hell are you talkin’ about?’
‘I watch you,’ he said, following him back toward the wagon. ‘I see you.’ He pointed to where Alvin had his hand clenched tight.