Chapter Two
Rookwood
The old wagon smelled of sweat, leather, cheap liquor, and a miasma of spices, herbs, and chemicals that would have driven a bloodhound crazy. Donovan leaned back into a pile of old rags and tried to peer out through the crack between two of the wagon's warped boards at the passing countryside. He knew they were getting close. Whenever they neared a town, or a settlement, Rathman picked up the pace. The two old ponies scented fresh apples and hay, and the old man scented whiskey and women. Donovan knew he would work long into the night, but hoped, in the end, it would mean a hot meal. Sometimes, if he could keep his distance from Rathman and find an hour's work sweeping, or scrubbing, or shoveling out a stable, he could earn a decent meal before the old man's screeching, bullying voice dragged him back to the wagon. At least it was something to hope for.
The town they expected to run up on next was called Rookwood. Donovan had never seen the place, but Rathman remembered it from many years back. Donovan hoped it was a lot of years, because the old fraud was seldom welcomed back to a place a second time if anyone remembered his previous visit, and it wasn't easy to forget. For one thing, the decrepit old wagon was painted over with brilliant, garish designs.
"Dr. Hugo Rathman, Healer, Mystic, and Clairvoyant" was painted dead center in paint so bright and so red that circling buzzards had mistaken it for blood and spiraled down to have a closer look. More than once Donovan had peered out into the driver's seat of the wagon to be certain the carrion feeders weren't after Rathman himself. The old man could drink himself into a stupor so deep that he seemed dead.
Finally they passed by the first small grouping of board and tar shacks. Donovan caught sight of a thin boy with wild hair and no shirt. For just a second he'd have sworn the kid met his gaze, right through the boards. A second later, the boy was off, flying barefoot across the desert toward town. Apparently visitors weren't common in Rookwood. Donovan frowned. The rarer they were, the more likely someone would remember Rathman. It was possible that the old man hadn't cheated anyone on his last visit, but that would make this a rare visit indeed. At least three lawmen were watching out for the wagon because ill townsfolk had taken one or more of Rathman's potions and either fallen deeper into their illness, or died outright – poisoned.
Whatever the situation, Rathman didn't hesitate. He aimed the wagon dead-center down the main road of the town, bumping through potholes and jarring Donovan's teeth with each jouncing yard they progressed. The wagon creaked and moaned, but it held together. It always managed to hold together. Like Rathman, it seemed there was no force on the road or in the desert that could put the final nail in its coffin.
"You ready, boy?" Rathman grated, turning so that his unshaven face, wild dark hair and red-veined eyes glared back into the shadows. There was no way he could see into the interior, but he still managed to stare directly into the particular shadows where Donovan rested.
"Yes sir," Donovan said.
Rathman stared a moment longer, then nodded. He turned back to the reins, steered around a corner a bit too quickly, nearly tilting the wagon up on two wheels, and a moment later they came to a halt. Donovan rose, stepped up to the front of the wagon and peered out around the edge.
It was an alley between what looked to be a stable, and a taller wooden building that might have been a saloon or hotel. Rathman dropped the reins, stood, and stretched, pressing his knuckles tightly into the lower half of his back. He'd been sitting in the same position for nearly thirty miles, and Donovan knew it would take more than an hour for the stoop to leave him.
"I'm goin' to see about getting the horses taken in," he said. "You get this wagon ready – hear? We'll be settin' up in the morning, and there's no time for delays."
