Death Devil (9781101559666) Read Online Free Page A

two men glanced at one another, and obeyed. Dogood glowered. Harold McWhertle muttered and clenched and unclenched his hands.
    â€œThe marshal will put you behind bars for this. Just see if he doesn’t.”
    â€œHow many cows do you have?” Fargo asked.
    â€œTwenty-seven. Prime milk cows, every one. Why do you want to know?”
    â€œHow would you like to have twenty-six?”
    â€œYou’re threatenin’ my cows ?”
    â€œI could use a beefsteak,” Fargo said.
    â€œHe’s playing with us, Harold,” Dogood said. “He thinks we’re a couple of country hicks.”
    â€œHe does?”
    Dogood sniffed at Fargo and declared, “I’ll have you know, sir, that I am regarded far and wide as an excellent authority on ailments of all kinds. As my good friend Harold, here, mentioned, for more than twenty years, more than two whole decades, I’ve roamed the highways and byways of this wonderful county offering my humble services to those in need.”
    â€œThat he has,” Harold confirmed with a bob of his chin. “Charles T. Dogood is a saint.”
    â€œHow much do you charge?” Fargo asked.
    Dogood’s nose wrinkled in irritation. “I must make a living, the same as everyone else. That I charge for my nostrums is no different from your physician friend charging for her pokings and proddings.”
    â€œYou tell him, Dr. Dogood,” Harold said.
    â€œA dollar a bottle? Five dollars a bottle? Ten dollars a bottle?” Fargo said.
    â€œI am on to you, sir,” Dogood said. “You’re suggesting that I fleece my customers. Were I less compassionate, I’d take umbrage at your calumny.”
    â€œHe only charged us two dollars for the swamp root and celery,” Harold came to Dogood’s defense.
    â€œSwamp root and what?” Fargo said.
    Dogood smiled. “Remarkably efficacious for the cure of fever, and sweet young Abigail is burning up.”
    â€œAre there any swamps hereabouts?” Fargo asked.
    â€œYou don’t give up, do you?” Dogood said. “For your information, I have many of the ingredients for my nostrum remediums sent to me from far and exotic lands, the better to treat the afflicted.”
    â€œHe’s a marvelous man,” Harold said.
    â€œMy swamp root comes from the deep, dank swamps of Louisiana,” Dogood went on. “It is sent to me in powdered form by a local lad who scours the swamps near his home for the roots I require. Once every few months, without fail, Sir William—that’s what I affectionately call the young gentleman—sends me a new shipment. If you don’t believe me you can ask the Ketchum Falls postmaster.”
    â€œI recollect you tellin’ me about him,” Harold remarked.
    â€œYes, sir,” Dogood said. “Swamp root. Eel skin. The eyes of newts. The extract from hippopotami gall bladders. I could go on and on. The entire world is my pharmacopoeia. I spare no expense in the interests of healing.”
    â€œI told you he was wonderful,” Harold said.
    â€œYou don’t happen to have a bottle of whiskey lying around, do you?” Fargo asked.
    â€œNo. Why?”
    Fargo sighed.
    â€œI am on to you, sir,” Dogood said. “And I must say, you are uncommonly intelligent for one of the buckskin-clad brigade. Or is it that you are naturally cynical?”
    â€œNaturally what?” Harold said.
    â€œDon’t let his appearance deceive you, Harold,” Dogood said. “This man is as shrewd as they come.”
    â€œI thought he was uppity,” Harold said.
    â€œOf course you did. I’ve often said, and you can ask anyone, Harold, that you are a man of discernment. No one pulls the wool over your eyes.”
    â€œThat they don’t,” Harold agreed.
    â€œAre you sure you don’t have a bottle?” Fargo asked again.
    Hooves drummed on the lane and two riders came out of the