Medicine Show Read online

  Medicine Show

  By Bill Crider

  Crossroad Press & Macabre Ink Digital Edition

  Copyright 2010 by Bill Crider & Macabre Ink Digital Publications

  Recreated from scans by David Dodd

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  l

  Kit Carson felt like a fool.

  He always felt that way when he rode into a new town, but it was part of what he was paid to do for the show, so he did it.

  One reason for his feeling foolish was simple; his real name wasn't Kit Carson. His name was Ray Storey, but the Colonel wanted him to be Kit Carson, and that was what he had been calling himself for almost a year now.

  There was nearly always some self-appointed wit in every town who would point out that Ray, who was only twenty-three, looked to be in pretty fair shape for a fella that had been dead for ten or fifteen years. Ray would have to smile and go along with the joking, which he never found anywhere near as funny as the fella who brought the subject up, and explain that he wasn't that Kit Carson, that they just happened to be two people with the same first and last names.

  Then there was his outfit. He had let his dark hair grow long, down past his shoulders, and it curled up on the ends. The hair was covered, on top at least, with a beaver hat. He wore buckskin pants and a buckskin shirt, both of them with enough fringe on them to strangle a horse.

  He supposed that some people might have liked wearing such a gaudy outfit, but he didn't. It was the Colonel's idea of what Kit Carson ought to look like, however, so there wasn't any arguing about it.

  At least he was allowed to carry his own pistol, a Colt's Peacemaker .45, instead of whatever it was that the real Carson might have carried. However, the Colonel had insisted that he wear a foot-long Bowie knife in a buckskin scabbard hanging from his beaded belt, just in case he ran into anything that needed skinning, not that Ray could have skinned it.

  So here he was, feeling foolish again, riding into a little town in East Texas, getting ready to set the folks up for a visit from Colonel A. J. Mahaffey's Authentic Indian Medicine Show. He sat straight and tall in the saddle, which helped call attention to the outfit. He was well over average height, an inch above six feet, and people couldn't help noticing him, not with his long hair and all that fringe hanging down.

  In fact, he never got far into any town before he was noticed by nearly everyone who was out and about. He had just gotten to the first houses of this new place, and already there were two small boys and a collie dog jogging alongside his horse. The boys were both wearing straw hats and kicking up puffs of dust with their bare feet. The dog was barking.

  "Where you goin', Mister?" one of the boys asked in between barks. He was the older of the two, probably about ten years old.

  "Just into town here," Storey said. "I have some handbills to pass out. Maybe you two would like to assist me."

  "Sure," the boy said. "We can help, can't we Tad?"

  The other boy, about nine, said, "I guess so, Bobby. Ma won't mind, will she?"

  "Course not," Bobby said with complete confidence.

  Storey reined his horse to a stop and climbed down. They weren't quite into the business district yet, but he could see some of the shoppers and loafers looking down the street to see what was going on. Any stranger was news in a small town like this one.

  "My name's Kit Carson, boys," Storey said. He hated saying it, but the Colonel said it was important that he let people know. Storey didn't find it easy to lie to people, even kids, when he was talking right to them. On the other hand, he didn't mind at all the other lies he had to tell in connection with the show. He could lie to a crowd with no trouble at all. Somehow, it didn't seem like the same thing.

  His name did not make much of an impression on Bobby and Tad. They were probably too young to have heard of the real Kit Carson. They wanted to see the handbills.

  Storey reached into one of his saddlebags and took out a stack of the bills. He handed the stack to Bobby, who looked the top one over carefully as the dog sniffed around Storey's low-heeled boots. That was another thing he had insisted on. No moccasins, though the Colonel had tried for weeks to convince him to wear them.

  The handbills were another thing that the Colonel put a lot of emphasis on. "You got to have good handbills," he always said. "You got to make an impression."

  Making an impression was something the Colonel thought about all the time. That was why Ray Storey had become Kit Carson. It was why the Colonel's wife dressed up like an Indian, and why his daughter did the "Indian Healing Dance." It was why they had The Boozer with them, and why the Colonel spent more for the bottles and tins his medicine was sold in than he spent for the medicine itself.

  The handbill was bordered on all sides with structures that looked like wigwams, alternating with figures of buffalo and warbonnets. The Colonel was partial to Indian themes.

  At the top of the bill in impressive script lettering were the words COLONEL A. J. MAHAFFEY'S AUTHENTIC INDIAN MEDICINE SHOW, and below that was a picture of an Indian woman cooking up something in a pot while another woman danced around it.

  Beneath the picture were the words "Indian Miracle Oil, Relieves all Diseases of the Skin, including Wounds and Sores! Taken Internally, will Relieve Weak Stomachs and Flush the Kidneys! Good for Man and Beast. One Dollar a Bottle." There was a picture of a bottle, which did not show up very well, and then more writing. This time the writing said "Indian Vitality Pills, the True Gift of the Indian to the White MAN! Only Three Dollars!" No more was said about the pills, but Storey was pretty sure everyone got the right idea. If they didn't, the show would leave no doubt in their minds.

  The show was described next: "The SECRETS of Indian Healing Revealed! Hear the Squaw Ro-Shanna as she describes the Miracle Discovery of Indian Vitality! SEE the Miraculous Secret Indian Healing Dance! FREE entertainment!!! Songs and Festivity!"

  The Squaw Ro-Shanna was the Colonel's wife, dressed in a buckskin outfit that had almost as much fringe as the one Storey was wearing, but which had more beading and was much more revealing. The songs and festivity were provided by the Colonel himself. He played a fair banjo and sang songs like "Oh, Susannah" in a rough baritone.

  The next words were the clinchers, however. "FREE Exhibition and Lecture on Human Anatomy. Women and Children POSITIVELY NOT ADMITTED!"

  Sometimes there was really not even a lecture, because The Boozer was too drunk to give it. That being the case, the Colonel would provide a few words about the exhibit, which consisted of two colored posters of a nude female, front and back view. The posters were a bit disconcerting to some who saw them, since the woman was divided by a line from top to bottom and half skinned in each one, in order to show her muscles, but no on
e had complained about that in the year that Storey had been working for the show.

  "What you boys want to do," Storey said, "is to pass these out to all the adults you see, men especially. And there's one other thing. Tell them that the show starts at one hour before sundown at that little watering hole about half a mile east of town. Can you remember all that?"

  "Give 'em to the grown-ups," Bobby said. "Show starts an hour before sundown at the waterin' hole."

  Storey figured that was close enough. "Right. Now you boys run on and get busy. I'll see that you get a treat if you come to the show."

  Bobby handed Tad a stack of the handbills and the boys took off at a lope, followed closely by the dog.

  Storey mounted his horse and rode slowly into the town, taking his time, looking to right and left and trying not to overtake the boys. Each time he passed someone, he tipped his beaver hat, smiled, and wished them a good morning.

  When he got to the center of town, he dismounted and tied his horse to the wooden hitchrail in front of Sanders Dry Goods. He always liked to start with the dry goods stores. They usually had a lot of women customers, and he knew that even in his Kit Carson rig, or maybe especially in his Kit Carson rig, he had a certain appeal to women. He carried several handbills with him.

  He went inside, removing his hat at the door, and stood until everyone was looking at him. The pause gave him time to get a look at whoever was inside and to overcome the slight discomfort he always felt at beginning his remarks.

  A short, fat man that he judged to be the proprietor was behind a counter, measuring material from a patterned bolt, getting it down to the brass tacks. There was a matronly woman in a calico dress and sunbonnet in front of the counter, evidently the purchaser of the material. Another woman paused in her examination of several cards of ribbon, and a third, somewhat younger than the others, looked up from where she was admiring what appeared to be a girdle. She was blushing slightly.

  "Good morning to you all," Storey said when he was sure all eyes were on him. "My name is Kit Carson, and I represent Colonel A. J. Mahaffey's Authentic Indian Medicine Show."

  He swept down in a practiced bow, practically mopping the floor with his hat. Then he stood up and smiled, concentrating on the women. He figured the man would be at the show anyway. The anatomy lecture nearly guaranteed it.

  "I'm inviting all of you to attend our show," he said, stepping up to each one and giving her a handbill. He took care to smile into their eyes as he did so.

  The younger one smiled back. She was short and dark, with black hair and eyes and a ripe figure that Storey appreciated instantly.

  "Now all you ladies look perfectly healthy to me," he said, stepping back and still smiling. "But you never know when you might need something to put on a wasp sting." He turned his attention to the woman buying the cloth. "Or you might even accidentally stick a needle in your finger."

  She giggled and looked down at the floor.

  Storey walked over to the counter. "And I suppose that you must be Mr. Sanders," he said, remembering the name on the store.

  "That's right," the man said. He had a squirrel-colored beard that was starting to go gray. "But you don't look like no Kit Carson."

  Storey kept right on smiling. He didn't feel like getting into an argument, and besides, he was looking for Sanders's help. He didn't think the women would be coming to the medicine show; they never made up much of the crowd, and in fact there were a few of them in every town who would actively disapprove of at least two of the show's activities, the anatomy exhibition and the Indian healing dance, which had certainly not originated in any tribe Storey had ever heard of. Sanders was different. He was a man, and he knew other men. He would talk to them about things even their wives would not. The men were the ones the Colonel counted on for his crowd and his profits. It wouldn't do to make Sanders angry.

  "I have to admit you're right," Storey told Sanders. "I'm sure the Kit Carson you're thinking about was a much bigger man." Storey drew himself up so that he towered over Sanders by six inches. "They don't make men like that in these times, but I believe the Colonel's Indian Vitality Pills can make a lot of us more like that Kit Carson than we ever believed possible."

  He tipped Sanders a wink. "They aren't called the Indian's greatest gift to the white man for nothing, you know." He gave Sanders a handbill. "I hope that you'll display this in your front window, sir, and let people know about our show." He gave Sanders and the women the details that he had give the boys.

  "I hope to see all of you there," he said, moving toward the doorway. When he reached it, he performed his bow again and made his exit.

  Out on the boardwalk he looked around. He thought he'd done a good job in the dry goods store. The women had gotten the idea about the pills as well as Sanders had, though he hadn't addressed himself to them or become offensive. They might let their husbands know. And if Sanders knew any men with Secret Sorrows, as the Colonel liked to call problems of masculinity, he would give them the hint.

  Smiling at the curious looks of the people he passed, Storey passed each one of them a handbill, saying "At the watering hole, one hour before sundown," as they took it.

  Some of them were already clutching handbills given them by Bobby and Tad, but Storey readily gave them another. According to the Colonel, it never hurt to double up on things, to strengthen the impression.

  Storey made his way to the end of the block of stores and stepped off the boardwalk. There was a church only a few paces away down the dusty street, and that was where he headed next.

  Most people might have expected him to go to the saloon, which was on the other side of the street, diagonally across from the dry goods store, and he would go there eventually; but it was a proven fact, at least as far as the Colonel was concerned, that most of the men who had a Secret Sorrow were not going to be found in saloons.

  They were going to be found in churches.

  Why that might be true, Storey had never inquired. He simply accepted it, as he accepted most things the Colonel told him. The Colonel was a hard man to disbelieve, even when you knew him.

  The parsonage was a neat frame house next to the church. It was freshly painted and even the yard was neatly kept, with rows of flowers planted along the picket fence.

  Storey walked through the open gate, up the flagstone walk to the house, and knocked on the door.

  He was greeted in a moment by a rotund man of about thirty with a very red, clean-shaven face and a shiny bald dome that was surrounded, except for the forehead, with a fringe of close-cut brown hair. He was wearing a black coat and pants, white shirt, and a black string tie.

  "Reverend . . . ?" Storey said.

  "Stump," the preacher said in a rumbling bass perfect for lining out hymns or delivering a ringing sermon on the follies of sin. "The Reverend Lawton Stump, sir. And who might you be?"

  "Kit Carson," Storey said, not feeling as guilty as he usually did. Hell, he might be.

  "And what might I do for you, Mr. Carson?" Stump said.

  Storey was, even on such short acquaintance, irritated by the preacher's habit of asking what might be or what he might do. He wanted to say that Stump might jump over the house, but he didn't. He needed the preacher's help, just as he had needed Sanders's.

  "Actually, Reverend, I'm going to do something for you," Storey said, giving him a handbill.

  Stump gave it a cursory glance. "I don't see how this is going to help me," he said.

  "Not you in particular," Storey said. "Your flock. You see, Reverend, I know that you are privy to many secrets." The Colonel had taught him to talk like that. A year ago, he'd thought "privy" meant something else entirely.

  The preacher nodded. "I suppose that I am, but I fail to see what that might have to do with a medicine show." His mouth twisted on the final two words as if he had bitten into an apple and found half a worm.

  "It might have--I mean it has a great deal to do with it," Storey said with all the sincerity he could muster
. "You see, I know that there must be a number of men in your flock who tell you of their"--he paused significantly--"Secret Sorrows."

  The preacher looked at him blankly, but Storey went right on. "If you were to get them word about our show, and about the Colonel's Indian Vitality Pills, they would be forever in your debt. Tell them to be at the watering hole, an hour before sundown."

  He pointed to the handbill. "Indian Vitality Pills," he said. Then he began backing away. "Thank you, Reverend, for your time."

  He left the preacher standing in the doorway, looking down at the handbill. He would not be at all surprised to see the preacher himself that evening at the watering hole.

  Back outside the fence, Storey waited for a moment as a buckboard creaked down the street. A virtually toothless man grinned at him from the seat, and Storey, grinning back, passed him a handbill. The man looked at the bill, shaking his head, and Storey wondered if he could read.

  Then the buckboard was past, and Storey crossed the street and went back toward town. He stepped up on the boardwalk and went directly to the Western Dandy Saloon.

  Without hesitation he pushed through the batwing doors. It was cooler inside, as if the hot air of the day had not yet had time to penetrate. Storey was not really expecting to find many people there at that hour of the morning, and he was not surprised.

  There was a bartender, a large, slab-faced man with a handlebar moustache, standing behind the bar and polishing glasses with a sparkling white cloth. There was a man sitting at one of the tables staring into a half-empty glass of whiskey as if hypnotized by it. And there was another man at a different table, but he was not exactly sitting. He was in a chair, but his upper body was lying across the table and he was snoring loudly, his mouth open.

  Storey ignored the customers and walked over to the bar.

  The bartender looked at him as if surprised to see someone entering his establishment at that time of day. He continued to polish his glasses. There was a long mirror behind him, and the long wooden bar in front. The mirror was lined with glass shelves holding bottles of various liquors, most of which were probably never requested by the patrons of the Western Dandy. A brass foot rail ran the length of the bar, and there were brass spittoons spaced out for the convenience of the customers.