2
San Francisco, California, 1854
“Come on, now, Willie, I’m not cutting your arm off, for God’s sake! Stop your bellowing!”
“It hurts, Saint, bloody bad.”
Saint stared down at the newly stitched gash on Limpin’ Willie’s arm. Good job, he congratulated himself. He picked up a bottle, saw Willie pale with fear, and began to talk. “Did I ever tell you about this stuff, Willie? No? Well, it’s called iodine, and it’s better than whiskey for what ails you. And cheaper. Yes, indeed, it was discovered way back in 1811 by a chap named Courtois, but there’s controversy even about that, of course.” Saint held Willie’s arm over a basin and poured the iodine on the wound. Willie yelped and struggled, but Saint had three times his strength and wasn’t about to ease his hold.
Saint continued calmly holding Willie’s arm in an iron grip while he patted off the excess liquid. “Do you know what ‘iodine’ means, Willie? No? Well, part of it comes from the Greek word ion and it means ‘violet.’ Just look at your arm, as violet as can be. Now, you’ve come out of this not only patched up but educated as well.”
Limpin’ Willie had got his breath and bearings back. He stared down at his purple arm. “Violet, huh, Saint?”
“The ladies will think you look like a bloomin’ flower, Willie.”
Limpin’ Willie gave him a crooked grin, showing the inside of a mouth that contained only half its complement of teeth. “It still hurts like hell, Saint, but I’ll live. Thanks, I owe you one.”
“Actually, you owe me five. Dollars, that is. The rest, I’ll take in a favor down the road.”
“Anything, anytime, Saint.” Willie paid his money and prepared to leave.
“Keep that bandage clean, Willie. And no picking pockets or bashing folk around for a while. And don’t let the wound get dirty. Come back to see me in three days.”
Willie took his leave and Saint stood silently for a moment in the doorway, shaking his head ruefully. Limpin’ Willie was a Sydney Duck—one of that group of men from Australia who were criminals to their toes. But he was harmless as a puppy around Saint. At least Willie had had brains enough to come to him immediately. He shuddered to think what would have happened to that wound had Willie waited even a couple of days. He briefly imagined a one-armed pickpocket, and chuckled grimly.
He left his small house on Clay Street and made his way to Montgomery Street to the Saxton, Brewer and Company bank. Delaney Saxton was in conversation with one of his clerks, and broke off when he saw Saint.
“You’ve saved me, Saint,” he called out. “Old Jarvis here is trying to talk me into something mighty suspicious.”
“Send Jarvis to see Limpin’ Willie. The poor fellow’s out of commission for a while, a gash in his arm probably gained while he was trying to rob somebody. It’ll do him good to use his brain for a change.”
“Patched him up, did you?” Del asked. “I think the Sydney Ducks would elect you mayor if you wanted it. Lord knows there’s enough of them, and all of them in your debt, right?”
“Banking and doctoring, we both collect debts, don’t we, Del? How’s Chauncey?”
“No longer just a mother, thank God,” Delaney said, a satisfied grin on his lips.
“You take it easy, Del, you hear? Little Alexandra is only three months old. You give Chauncey all the rest she needs.”
Delaney Saxton raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I? You know very well that my wife’s insatiable, Saint. I have nothing to say in the matter.” He bumped his fist against his forehead and shook his head. “Good Lord, what a man will tell his doctor! You’re worse than a damned priest!”
Saint laughed, a rumbling sound deep in his massive chest. “Come on, boy, let’s have some lunch. You’re looking peaked.”
“Boy? I’m the same age as you, old man.” Del spoke briefly to his partner, Dan Brewer, then the two men strolled onto Montgomery Street. There was a light blanket of fog, typical for June in San Francisco, and it was chilly enough to appreciate vests under coats. They wove their way through the masses of humanity to Saint’s favorite restaurant, Pierre’s Culinary Establishment.
They both drank beers while waiting for Pierre’s bouillabaisse. “I wonder how Byrony and Brent are doing,” Saint said after a moment.
“Knowing Brent, he won’t write. He’ll just show up in a couple of months, richer than he was when he left. Fact is, he should, of course, what with his father’s plantation to deal with. In Natchez, isn’t it?”
“That’s what Byrony told me. Named Wakehurst. I wonder how the two of them will deal with all the slaves. I can’t imagine Byrony liking the fact that people are actually owned. And Brent’s been away from that kind of life for a long time.”
“Well, I just hope he and Byrony mend their fences while they’re gone. I’d sure like to see them united when they get back.” Del paused a moment, shaking his head. “Ira and his dear half-sister, Irene, are still behaving with a bit of nastiness.”
“You believe in divine justice, Del?” Saint asked.
“Not particularly. Why?”
Saint shrugged. “I think the Butlers are a bit overdue for it. It still upsets me to think of Byrony married to Ira and considered the mother of his half-sister’s child.”