volunteered no information
whatsoever, not even a few days ago when he had been well enough to
let Logan feed him some beef tea without vomiting it straight
back.
The man seemed to be in his early
thirties and looked to be the sort of tough, sinewy gunman that was
attracted to the kind of establishments that thrived south of Grant
Street and made Dog Leg City what it was. That he had paid for a
week’s board implied that he had some business to do, or perhaps he
had even been aiming to gain employment as an enforcer for one or
other of the local ‘businessmen.’ At any rate he had clearly upset
someone enough to become a victim himself. And it was more than
that, for whoever had struck him down had then cold-bloodedly
stabbed him in the abdomen and twisted the blade enough to do him
real internal damage.
That had puzzled Logan when he had
first examined the man. He had seen enough of violent attacks to
realize that an abdominal wound that resulted in a perforated
intestinal loop spilling out was indeed a murderous act, which had
been inflicted in such a way as to ensure a lingering, painful
death. Far easier to slit the throat and cause instant death. This,
however, was both vicious and cruel beyond belief. It was done so
that the victim would know that he was going to die and that no one
could help. Not even the town doctor.
Certainly all that Logan had been
able to do was patch up the wound and treat the pain as best he
could. As for the law, after cursory investigation no one seemed
worried about the man’s fate. Only Logan seemed to feel any remorse
for the man.
Declan pulled the window up and
then turned and waved his hand back and forth in front of his face.
“Damn! The poor sod was starting to stink worse than some of the
dead things that we used to dig out of the peat bogs back home in
good old Connemara.”
Logan had to agree. The smell of
putrefaction had been overpowering toward the end. “At least the
poor devil is out of his agony now.”
“An amazing thing, isn’t it, Doc,”
Declan went on as he pulled out a battered corncob pipe and
fingered the bowl thoughtfully. “One second he’s lying there
writhing and blabbering away, then the next moment he’s gone. It
was like his spirit suddenly left him.”
Logan looked at the dead man’s
face. The lines of pain were gone and the pupils of his eyes were
already fixed and dilated in death.
With his finger and thumb he eased
the eyelids over the unseeing eyeballs, then with a sigh he stood
up and gave the little Irishman a rueful smile as he looked round
the spartanly furnished room. It was one of the ‘superior’ rooms
that Declan occasionally rented out instead of the rows of bunks
that were crammed into two dormitories, yet it was still pretty
basic. Apart from the bed, the only furniture consisted of a cheap
table, a chair and washstand with a chipped jug and bowl. The man’s
bloodstained clothes had been roughly folded up by Declan and
deposited on the table alongside a Remington, an old pepperbox and
a knife that he had kept in his right boot.
“Not much to show for a life,”
Logan mused as he pointed to the table.
“Maybe it wasn’t much of a life,
Dr. Munro,” Declan returned phlegmatically. “I reckon I had better
drop by Elijah Graveley’s funeral parlor and tell the old buzzard
that he has another customer.”
Logan poured water into the bowl
and washed his hands. “I’ll do that, Declan. I have to drop in
later to see another patient.”
Declan gave a short laugh. “Well
good luck, Doc. If you can bring some of his customers back to
life, you are one hell of a doctor!”
***
Elijah Graveley was not renowned
for either his sense of humor or his generosity. He was aware of
this reputation and indeed, he went to some length to foster it. In
his view both life and death were serious matters. Since he made
his living from the serious business of disposing of the dead, he
had long since made a business-like decision to
whatsoever, not even a few days ago when he had been well enough to
let Logan feed him some beef tea without vomiting it straight
back.
The man seemed to be in his early
thirties and looked to be the sort of tough, sinewy gunman that was
attracted to the kind of establishments that thrived south of Grant
Street and made Dog Leg City what it was. That he had paid for a
week’s board implied that he had some business to do, or perhaps he
had even been aiming to gain employment as an enforcer for one or
other of the local ‘businessmen.’ At any rate he had clearly upset
someone enough to become a victim himself. And it was more than
that, for whoever had struck him down had then cold-bloodedly
stabbed him in the abdomen and twisted the blade enough to do him
real internal damage.
That had puzzled Logan when he had
first examined the man. He had seen enough of violent attacks to
realize that an abdominal wound that resulted in a perforated
intestinal loop spilling out was indeed a murderous act, which had
been inflicted in such a way as to ensure a lingering, painful
death. Far easier to slit the throat and cause instant death. This,
however, was both vicious and cruel beyond belief. It was done so
that the victim would know that he was going to die and that no one
could help. Not even the town doctor.
Certainly all that Logan had been
able to do was patch up the wound and treat the pain as best he
could. As for the law, after cursory investigation no one seemed
worried about the man’s fate. Only Logan seemed to feel any remorse
for the man.
Declan pulled the window up and
then turned and waved his hand back and forth in front of his face.
“Damn! The poor sod was starting to stink worse than some of the
dead things that we used to dig out of the peat bogs back home in
good old Connemara.”
Logan had to agree. The smell of
putrefaction had been overpowering toward the end. “At least the
poor devil is out of his agony now.”
“An amazing thing, isn’t it, Doc,”
Declan went on as he pulled out a battered corncob pipe and
fingered the bowl thoughtfully. “One second he’s lying there
writhing and blabbering away, then the next moment he’s gone. It
was like his spirit suddenly left him.”
Logan looked at the dead man’s
face. The lines of pain were gone and the pupils of his eyes were
already fixed and dilated in death.
With his finger and thumb he eased
the eyelids over the unseeing eyeballs, then with a sigh he stood
up and gave the little Irishman a rueful smile as he looked round
the spartanly furnished room. It was one of the ‘superior’ rooms
that Declan occasionally rented out instead of the rows of bunks
that were crammed into two dormitories, yet it was still pretty
basic. Apart from the bed, the only furniture consisted of a cheap
table, a chair and washstand with a chipped jug and bowl. The man’s
bloodstained clothes had been roughly folded up by Declan and
deposited on the table alongside a Remington, an old pepperbox and
a knife that he had kept in his right boot.
“Not much to show for a life,”
Logan mused as he pointed to the table.
“Maybe it wasn’t much of a life,
Dr. Munro,” Declan returned phlegmatically. “I reckon I had better
drop by Elijah Graveley’s funeral parlor and tell the old buzzard
that he has another customer.”
Logan poured water into the bowl
and washed his hands. “I’ll do that, Declan. I have to drop in
later to see another patient.”
Declan gave a short laugh. “Well
good luck, Doc. If you can bring some of his customers back to
life, you are one hell of a doctor!”
***
Elijah Graveley was not renowned
for either his sense of humor or his generosity. He was aware of
this reputation and indeed, he went to some length to foster it. In
his view both life and death were serious matters. Since he made
his living from the serious business of disposing of the dead, he
had long since made a business-like decision to
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