its blood and to have their own blood spilled into its desert sands.
Bogie laid aside his swabber, selected a clean cloth and gave the glasses their final polish. Then he observed a stranger who had just entered through his swinging doors. Here was a character, thought Doc instantly. He was straight and handsome, swarthy of complexion, smooth of face, his mass of wavy dark hair hanging low on his neck beneath a small black felt hat.
He came up, placed his long-fingered hands on Doc’s shiny bar. “Howdy,” he said, an air about him shading between insult and insanity.
“Howdy,” said Doc, inwardly amused.
* * * *
Doc Bogannon was a tall, broad-shouldered individual with dark hair parted loosely upon a fine head. Physically he was a gentleman fit to walk with kings. He was a man of great mind, too, a philosopher in both intelligence and disposition, understanding men, good and bad, and finding them equally interesting. Despite his obvious fitness for greater things, Bogannon was, for reasons best known to himself, contented as owner and operator of a gold-town saloon—and happy as companion of a good-looking Shoshone half-breed wife.
This man who stared out of queer, far-looking brown eyes would have irritated a less charitable person than Doc; patently he regarded himself as a superior being. “I am Spurlock Mosely,” he announced importantly.
“I am Doc Bogannon,” said Doc, as matter-of-fact as Mosely was pompous.
Spurlock Mosely nodded with condescension. “Now that we are so well acquainted, I presume I may make myself at home in your delectable whiskey palace?”
“A pleasure,” said Doc.
“Thank you.”
Doc smiled, found something to do. Prior to that interruption from Spurlock Mosely, his attention had rested quizzically upon another stranger—a small, unfriendly nonentity who sat alone, had spoken to no one and taken no drink. When he’d looked about at all, he’d done so with incomparable gloom. It was worth a drink, thought Doc, to know what this poor mortal’s trouble was. Few patrons remained; it was a leisure time, approaching midnight.
Doc filled a wine-glass, poured himself a small drink and joined his silent, lonely guest. “Mind?” he asked gently.
“I suppose not.”
“Bogannon is my name.”
“What of it?”
Doc took that one smiling. “Sorry, if I offend.” He proffered his wine. “I brought you a drink. Now, knowing your name would promptly improve our social relations.”
Free wine deserved some measure of gratitude. “I’m Winthrop—Thackery Baine Winthrop. I’m stopping in your town merely because it’s so little worse than what I left.”
Winthrop drank sparingly, found his wine good and drank some more.
“You’re not a Boston Winthrop, by chance?” asked Bogie.
“I should hope not.”
“Ah? What’s wrong with Boston?”
“What’s right with Boston?”
Bogie sipped wine. “Well, sir, you’ve put me in a quandary. But I’d say—for men like you and me—Boston is a fine place to stay away from.”
“So is every other place,” declared Winthrop. “If you leave one place because it’s sorry, it will only be to hit a sorrier one.”
Doc folded his arms. “I’d say you’re right, Winthrop. Fortunately, though, an individual like us will find circumstances fully accommodating to his nature. By that, I mean a fellow can be at no more than half a dozen places at once, but he can stay away from unnumbered thousands of ’em. Think of that blessing and smile, Winthrop.”
“I never smile.”
Bogie got up. “More wine?”
“No.”
Doc washed and dried their glasses. He was taking a peek at his watch when his batwings swung in, and a lean, middle-aged newcomer tramped in.
“Winters!”
Winters strode forward. “Wine, Doc.”
Bogie filled a glass. He also reached under his bar for a vinegar dish and clean face cloth. “Hadn’t seen you in a couple of days, Winters. You’ve come across Alkali Flat, too; your face is wet with sweat, and stinging red from alkali dust. Here, wash up”
Winters downed his drink and swabbed his face with vinegar. “Doc, sometimes I vow that I’ll never again cross Alkali Flat at night. I ought to pay my vows, or quit makin’ ’em.”
“Seen another ghost, eh?”
“You don’t believe in ghosts, and I do,” said Winters. “So we won’t argue.” He took a quick glance around. His mirthless eyes rested upon misery incarnate. “Who’s he, Doc?”
“A new friend of mine. Winthrop, by name—Thackery Baine Winthrop.”
Winters regarded Winthrop uncharitably. “Looks right downhearted.”
“Yes,” said Bogie. “Winthrop is what you might call a man with a gloomy outlook.”
“Fitting description,” Winters said with distaste. He regarded himself as potentially every man’s enemy, was slow to admit otherwise. “When I was a button down on Trinity River, Doc, our neighbor ten miles across Trinity bottoms had such an outlook. Gloomy people were not common in Texas, but this feller was an exception. He’d sit droopily on a log for hours and study how everything was going to dogs and snakes. Face got flabby and long. At forty his dewlaps were so long you could tie ’em in a double-bow knot under his chin. Finally somebody found out what his trouble was; he had a hurtin’.”
Thack Winthrop rose indignantly, came forward and stared at Winters. “Maybe you think you’re humorous; well, you’re not. Truth is I, too, have a hurting. It’s here in my chest. But that isn’t why I’m not jumping up and cracking heels, pretending happiness. There’s nothing to be happy about. As for your cheap wit, I could spit on it.”
Winters laid down an extra coin. “Doc, set ’em up for a brave man. You can tell him, too, that except for a stray bright spot or two, I agree with him. Everything’s hopeless, nothing to live for; we ought to all go off and die. Goodnight, Doc.”
* * * *
Doc’s manner, after Winters’ departure, was one of gentle reproof. “Winthrop, you’ve hurt my friend’s feelings. Deputy Winters was not trying to be funny. But, here. Winters would be hurt still more if you refused his generosity.” Doc filled a glass with wine. He passed it to Winthrop, who stared at it, finally picked it up and returned to his table and melancholy meditations.
A chair scraped and Doc saw Spurlock Mosely rise and move with impressive dignity to Winthrop’s table. He continued his work, but observed them casually.
Mosely, a wary eye on Bogannon, introduced himself to Winthrop, leaned close and spoke secretively. “I overheard your remarks to that impudent deputy marshal. That took nerve, Winthrop; you know, I like you.” He looked at Thack Winthrop’s gloomy face, particularly his nose, one part of his anatomy which he found attractive. “In confidence, I have something to tell you.”
Winthrop sipped wine, regarded Mosely with suspicion. “I don’t trust you; why should you trust me?”
“Because,” said Mosely, “deep within you, there’s nobility. Your face— especially your nose—proclaims it. I noticed that at once; being an authority in human anatomy, I admired it.”
“You a doctor?”
Mosely glanced cautiously at Bogannon. “I am more than a doctor, Winthrop. I am a great surgeon, unexcelled anywhere.” From a coat pocket he removed a bottle, uncorked it. Onto a pad of cotton he sprinkled a liquid. He pretended to smell, then