Cole of Spyglass Mountain

by Arthur Preston Hankins

JOSHUA COLE recovered consciousness in the railroad hospital at Ragtown, and stared blankly at a streak of light that came in between the new pine boards of the walls and pointed out a resinous knothole in the floor. The shack which bore the dignified name of hospital was on the outskirts of the settlement, a two-room affair that, if it had been a little more expensively constructed, would have served well as a stable for mountain horses, who do not need shelter except when rare blizzards rage. Each workman on the entire job contracted for by Demarest, Spruce and Tillou had a dollar of his pay subtracted each month whether he approved or not, and this was his hospital fee. It assured him of medical attention without other charges if he became ill. There were perhaps fifteen hundred men working directly or indirectly under Demarest, Spruce and Tillou. That made fifteen hundred dollars to be divided between the doctor and the main contractors, the latter, of course, being entitled to something for permitting the doctor to conduct the hospital. And Joshua Cole was the fifth man to be sent to the hospital since it had been established. No wonder that Dr. J. Miles Stanhope had much leisure and much money to spend in the Silver Dollar, where his preferences were roulette, and whisky with a dash of angostura bitters, and a blonde Jezebel named Gladys, who waltzed rather well.

He was at his favorite haunt, it appeared, when his patient awoke, for Joshua not knowing where he was, called feebly again and again, but received no answer. He strove to get out of the single white-enamel iron bed in which he found himself, but discovered that he was sore all over and rather weak. His efforts had made him sleepy, and he sank back on the pillow and floated into coma again.

When he awoke the second time night had fallen, for no sunlight streamed in at the crack where the loose batten hung. Lamplight, however, came in through the quarter-way-open door between his “ward” and the dispensary, or whatever the other room was called. He lifted his voice again, and was answered by a shuffle of feet.

In came Dr. J. Miles Stanhope, and one of the frames of the door showed an inclination to come with him. The doc righted himself, however, and swayed toward his patient, his face beaming with solicitude.

Dr. J. Miles Stanhope was a young man inclined to corpulency. He affected a Van Dyke beard, as all medical men should. His gray eyes were kindly and he could not have injured a mouse—nor could he have cured one. But he was a jolly good fellow and wished nobody ill. Who couldn’t be like that, with a monthly income of over a thousand dollars from a two-hundred-dollar investment?—and the doc had kicked like a bay steer when the carpenters presented their bill for the erection of the hospital. It might be pointed out that the time and money spent by the doctor in acquiring his medical education would bring his investment to a higher figure, but as he displayed no diploma from a medical college on the wall, it may be assumed that he considered the price of a diploma too insignificant to be taken into consideration.

At any rate, here he was at Joshua’s bedside, good-natured, democratic, breezily cheerful, and a trifle shaky on his feet.

“Well, well, well! So you’re conscious, eh? Thash th’ stuff, ol’-timer! How d’ye feel by now?”

“I’m sore as hell,” growled Joshua. “Where am I? Who are you?”

The last question seemed to grieve Dr. J. Miles Stanhope, and he reprovingly explained that he was the medical adviser of the community, something that Joshua should have known merely by glancing at his Van Dyke beard. As to where Joshua was, he was in the hospital conducted by the medical adviser of the community. And if he was sore, there was good reason for it, since he had been shot to hell with a thirty-thirty rifle. But he—the medical adviser of the community—had found the bullet and extracted it, and he was of the opinion that his patient was on the mend. Did he want some chow? The Silver Dollar’s cook was out of fresh meat, and the doctor supposed the rest of the joints were in the same fix, since no freighters had arrived for three days. But there was salt meat in plenty to be had, storage eggs, bread, and oleomargarine. Concerning the question of where Joshua had been shot, it was in the left shoulder, very low, and well in toward the heart. The doc had no idea who had shot him or why, and it seemed that it had not occurred to anybody to investigate this phase of the matter. Two stiffs walking up the grade from Camp Two to Camp One had found him lying in the trail, and, after appropriating two dollars found in his pockets and his flannel shirt and belt—these facts were discovered later—they had dutifully carried him to the hospital, had called Dr. J. Miles Stanhope from the fondling arms of Gladys, and had gone their way rejoicing. Now what about the bacon and eggs?

Despite the bungling services of Dr. Stanhope, Joshua Cole’s wound healed quickly, for he was in the pink of health and a stranger to dissipation. While he was confined to the little bed in the hospital, left alone for hours on hours at a time, he was allowed to read and study, for the doctor could not see that it would do him any harm. “Just go ahead and amuse yourself any way you feel like, ol’-timer,” was the medical man’s kind invitation; so Joshua had sent for his books and notes, and with these and his new periodicals to aid him, progressed rapidly at bringing his astronomical information up to date.