Doctor Who_ The Gunfighters - Donald Cotton [12]
‘You are entirely heartless!’
‘Of course we’re not,’ put in Dodo. ‘Don’t worry – it’ll soon be over. And to show you how much we really love you, Steven and I will go on to the nearest hotel, and book three rooms and an enormous meal.’
‘Yes,’ said Steven. ‘So you can just think of that, while you’re screaming with agony in there. It will take your mind off things...’
‘Very well. I honestly think I’d rather face a murderous, drunken dentist, than listen to you two in this mood. If I am spared, I will join you later...’
And he lurched into the shop – a very gallant gentleman... Dodo giggled – and Steven looked at her with some concern.
‘I can’t see there’s a great deal to laugh at,’ he said.
‘Well, I was just thinking,’ spluttered the callous hoyden, ‘I hope he isn’t expecting an anaesthetic. They haven’t been invented yet!’
And slapping each other merrily, like a touring version of ‘The Clanton Boys at Home’, they set off for the Last Chance Saloon.
The Doctor’s first impression of the premises was better than he had been led to tremble at, by Wyatt’s laconic encomium. To begin with, the place was fairly clean, because, after all, it hadn’t been used yet. On the table in the waiting-room was a fairly recent selection of ‘Wanted’
notices for him to browse through; and also a few back numbers of ‘Headstone Highlights’, Tombstone’s crusading weekly news-sheet.
‘Mad Dog Killer To Stand For Mayor’ announced a surprisingly bold headline. Ah well, most mushroom towns have a little trouble getting off the ground – and apparently its previous mayor had experienced the same difficulty.
‘Popular incumbent to be planted on Boot Hill’, began the article; ‘where he can be confidently expected,’ it continued, ‘to fertilise the cactus with as much dedication as he has previously shown in Ma Golightly’s establishment of a Saturday night, where he was a valued client.
‘He departed this life, mourned by some, in Crum’s Alley on Thursday last, Pa Clanton officiating. Interviewed by our Social Correspondent, Pa later said that although he did not seek high office, he would be glad to accept it on the usual terms – thought to be drinks on the house in perpetuity at the Last Chance Saloon.’
The Doctor read this titillatory ‘chat-piece’ with some misgiving; and having skipped lightly through the kangaroo-court circular, and the annoucements of forthcoming shotgun weddings, he flung the periodical aside with a muttered ‘Tut!’, and proceeded to explore further.
The surgery in which he presently found himself did little to calm his qualms; but he fancied it would serve, in his present predicament. After all, you don’t expect to find a Temple of Hygiene in a cow-town; and you are right not to.
But there was at least a comfortable looking chair –
which he was not to know had previously seen service in the Death House at San Quentin – and adjacent to it, on a splintered saw-bench, lay a selection of curious instruments, gleaming, it seemed to him, with anticipation.
In fact, there was everything a festered tooth could wish for
– except a dentist to manipulate these macabre devices, prominent amongst which, he now noticed, was a brace and bit.
Groaning, he crossed the room and opened yet another door, which he presumed led to the living-quarters. They proved, however, to be the sleeping-quarters – and they were currently being used as such by the surgeon; and a lady who could only be, or so the Doctor supposed, the receptionist; who resented his intrusion, and. said so.
In fact, Doc Holliday went so far as to produce a six-gun from beneath the pillow, and ask if the Doctor thought he was some kind of dad-blasted purity enforcement officer from the Band of Hope – because, if so, they could settle the matter right now.
But the Doctor explained his business; and, in practically no time at all, the misunderstanding was resolved to general satisfaction. Because, as Kate pointed out, he was their very first customer – and she further urged both