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by Wyatt’s laconic encomium. To begin with, the place was fairly clean, because, after all, it hadn’t been used yet. On the table in the waiting-room was a fairly recent selection of ‘Wanted’
    notices for him to browse through; and also a few back numbers of ‘Headstone Highlights’, Tombstone’s crusading weekly news-sheet.
    ‘Mad Dog Killer To Stand For Mayor’ announced a surprisingly bold headline. Ah well, most mushroom towns have a little trouble getting off the ground – and apparently its previous mayor had experienced the same difficulty.
    ‘Popular incumbent to be planted on Boot Hill’, began the article; ‘where he can be confidently expected,’ it continued, ‘to fertilise the cactus with as much dedication as he has previously shown in Ma Golightly’s establishment of a Saturday night, where he was a valued client.
    ‘He departed this life, mourned by some, in Crum’s Alley on Thursday last, Pa Clanton officiating. Interviewed by our Social Correspondent, Pa later said that although he did not seek high office, he would be glad to accept it on the usual terms – thought to be drinks on the house in perpetuity at the Last Chance Saloon.’
    The Doctor read this titillatory ‘chat-piece’ with some misgiving; and having skipped lightly through the kangaroo-court circular, and the annoucements of forthcoming shotgun weddings, he flung the periodical aside with a muttered ‘Tut!’, and proceeded to explore further.
    The surgery in which he presently found himself did little to calm his qualms; but he fancied it would serve, in his present predicament. After all, you don’t expect to find a Temple of Hygiene in a cow-town; and you are right not to.
    But there was at least a comfortable looking chair –
    which he was not to know had previously seen service in the Death House at San Quentin – and adjacent to it, on a splintered saw-bench, lay a selection of curious instruments, gleaming, it seemed to him, with anticipation.
    In fact, there was everything a festered tooth could wish for
    – except a dentist to manipulate these macabre devices, prominent amongst which, he now noticed, was a brace and bit.
    Groaning, he crossed the room and opened yet another door, which he presumed led to the living-quarters. They proved, however, to be the sleeping-quarters – and they were currently being used as such by the surgeon; and a lady who could only be, or so the Doctor supposed, the receptionist; who resented his intrusion, and. said so.
    In fact, Doc Holliday went so far as to produce a six-gun from beneath the pillow, and ask if the Doctor thought he was some kind of dad-blasted purity enforcement officer from the Band of Hope – because, if so, they could settle the matter right now.
    But the Doctor explained his business; and, in practically no time at all, the misunderstanding was resolved to general satisfaction. Because, as Kate pointed out, he was their very first customer – and she further urged both Doctors not to be in the least bit nervous on that account, because she would be watching the whole thing, ready to lend a hand if need be.
    As one Doctor, they discouraged this idea.
    ‘Now Kate,’ said Holliday, ‘you know you cain’t stand violence an’ such; as you never leave off telling me. So kindly get right back in bed where you belong,and don’t emerge till the ruckus is over. Won’t take no more than a moment, once I’ve put the gentleman at his ease.’
    ‘And how do you propose to do that?’ quavered the Doctor.
    ‘Well now, I’ll tell you; you can either have a slug of rot-gut...’
    The patient proclaimed his temperance principles. ‘Or I can give you a little tap on the parietal with my equaliser.
    The choice is entirely yours.’
    Although reassured to some extent by the use of the word ‘parietal’, which argued at least the rudiments of a medical background, the Doctor nevertheless discarded for the nonce his aforementioned prohibitionist views, and