What Goes Around
By the time the Doctor Dowd finished sewing up Paul Scott's arm, the late summer sun peered over the Sierra Nevada. The sounds of
picks, shovels and wagons rolling outside the shack reminded him that although it was twenty years since the strike at Sutter's Mill, the folks in Deely's Creek still managed to scrape out a living from the spent pits dotting the landscape.
"That should do it, Paul. Just keep it clean, and get some rest."
"I'm really grateful, doc, but I'm a little short this week."
George Dowd smiled as he packed his satchel. "Just pay me when you can."
Paul walked over to a corner, brought up a small sack and undid the ties.
"I did a favor for this fellow back in town, and he paid me with this. Turns out he was a medicine man. Said it was guaranteed to bring me good luck. You coming by when you did … that was more than coincidence. This is for you.
It was a miniature stage coach, hand-carved out of wood and painted in white.
"I can't take that."
"It's yours. Your son will love it."
The coach was intricately decorated. Gold trim ran along the windows and wheel rims. To his five year old son, Archie, bedridden for most of his short life, playthings were a blessed diversion.
"All right, Paul. You just take care of that arm."
*
At midnight a lone wagon wheel rolled into town. The white rim, embraced by a painted gold metal strip, tapped out a mournful soliloquy on the rocky surface of Main Street. It paused at a corner as if to check the street name. Impossibly balanced, it rotated in place a full quarter turn, and resumed its travel, heading directly toward Johnson's Livery.
picks, shovels and wagons rolling outside the shack reminded him that although it was twenty years since the strike at Sutter's Mill, the folks in Deely's Creek still managed to scrape out a living from the spent pits dotting the landscape.
"That should do it, Paul. Just keep it clean, and get some rest."
"I'm really grateful, doc, but I'm a little short this week."
George Dowd smiled as he packed his satchel. "Just pay me when you can."
Paul walked over to a corner, brought up a small sack and undid the ties.
"I did a favor for this fellow back in town, and he paid me with this. Turns out he was a medicine man. Said it was guaranteed to bring me good luck. You coming by when you did … that was more than coincidence. This is for you.
It was a miniature stage coach, hand-carved out of wood and painted in white.
"I can't take that."
"It's yours. Your son will love it."
The coach was intricately decorated. Gold trim ran along the windows and wheel rims. To his five year old son, Archie, bedridden for most of his short life, playthings were a blessed diversion.
"All right, Paul. You just take care of that arm."
*
At midnight a lone wagon wheel rolled into town. The white rim, embraced by a painted gold metal strip, tapped out a mournful soliloquy on the rocky surface of Main Street. It paused at a corner as if to check the street name. Impossibly balanced, it rotated in place a full quarter turn, and resumed its travel, heading directly toward Johnson's Livery.