Miasma

By RedZipBoots

Hannibal Heyes sneezed.  He sneezed again.  And again.  And again!

Loudly blowing his sore red nose into an already sodden bandana he flopped back against his upturned saddle.

Kid Curry looked up from the pot he was stirring over the campfire.  

“That is one bad cold,” he observed.

“Ya think?” snapped the invalid.

Curry ducked his head to conceal a smile.  In a way, it was good that he was the one who was susceptible to winter ailments rather than his partner, because ill or injured, Heyes was a dreadful patient.  The fact that it was actually mid-July and not the middle of winter probably added to his sour attitude.

“My head feels like it’s been kicked by a herd of buffalo," Heyes moaned.  "Where's that whiskey bottle?”

“Sorry," replied Curry.  "You finished it last night.  We’ll buy another when we get to the next town.”

"I could be dead by then,” croaked Heyes melodramatically. 

"Tell you what.  If you still feel this bad in a couple of days, I'll do you a favour and shoot ya myself, how's that?"

"Fine."

Unable to keep his amusement hidden any longer the gunman laughed out loud.  

“Geez, Heyes, you’ve got a cold is all.   I get plenty, but you don’t hear me complainin' this much.”  Picking up the coffee pot he poured a little of the hot brew into a tin cup.  “Here, drink this.”

“I'm not drinking that dishwater you call coffee.”

Kid Curry grunted at his partner's assessment.

"Just 'cause you make it strong enough to float a horseshoe in, don't make mine bad," he stated.  "C'mon, drink."

Reluctantly Heyes accepted the cup, took a tentative sip, and shuddered unappreciatively.  He then put his cup down and settled onto his side, pulling a blanket over himself.  It was purely a belligerent gesture — the evening air was warm and he didn't have a fever.

A little later, Curry tapped a spoon on the rim of the pot.

"Supper's ready,"  he announced, knowing full well that Heyes was not sleeping.

“I'm not hungry.”

"Well, I think you should try and eat somethin'.  Keep your strength up an' all."

Heyes opened one eye and peered over his shoulder at the stew his friend was currently piling onto a tin plate.  Whenever they made camp it was usually his job to cook supper, and as the Kid would eat pretty much anything, whatever Heyes served up was always a resounding success.  He had to admit though; the stew did look rather appetising.

"What's in that hog swill anyhow?" he asked grumpily.

Ignoring the derogatory term for his carefully prepared meal Curry attempted to get the words out around a scalding mouthful of food without burning his tongue.  "Rabbit mostly... some beans... a few wild onions."  He swallowed then indicated vaguely behind him.  "Found me a patch of sage over yonder.  Grandpa Curry used to say that the Cheyenne took it to get rid of stuffy noses.  Figured it couldn't hurt, so I put some in."  Refilling his fork he gestured toward Heyes saying optimistically, "Might even help you feel better."

Somewhere in the depths of his memory Heyes also recalled their grandpa saying something to that effect, so he eased himself into a sitting position and sighed, "Okay.  I'll try a little."

Before his obstinate partner could change his mind, Kid Curry grabbed a second plate and tipped a heaped ladleful onto it.  Then, having watched him chew through his first mouthful, he asked eagerly, "So?  Whatcha think?"

The reply was a half-hearted shrug. 

"It ain't like you to be lost for words, Heyes.  You must be sicker than I thought."

"You do know I can't smell or taste anything?"

"It's good stew," Curry stressed.  "Heck, I'm eatin' it, ain't I?"

"Hmmph.  Don't think that's a recommendation."

ooooo-OOO-ooooo

Hannibal Heyes blinked groggily at the early morning sunlight flickering through the broad leaves on the branches high above his head.  He'd had yet another disturbed night, alternating between not being able to breathe and his nose dripping like a leaky yard pump, so he needed coffee — good coffee. 

Aware that the campfire had long since burned out he knew that a drink of cold water would have to suffice, for now.  Reaching behind his saddle he pulled out his canteen.  It felt a little light so he shook it.   Empty.

With a groan he shoved a few long strands of hair out of his eyes, threw back his blanket and sat up.  Owww!  His head felt like it was going to explode.  

Struggling to his feet, he grabbed up the cold coffee pot as well as his canteen and set off in search of water.

After what seemed like an age of stumbling through the brush Heyes arrived at the edge of a large, boulder-strewn pool, over which hung what appeared to be an early morning mist.  Thirsty, he crouched down, scooped up a handful of water and took a mouthful, only to immediately spit it out.  It tasted odd.  Not poisoned — just odd.  It was also surprisingly warm. 

Glancing up at the slowly brightening sky he wondered how the sun could warm a body of water that much.  Then the answer came to him:  it wasn't anything to do with the sun; this was a natural hot spring. 

He had heard stories about an area in Wyoming, up near the Bighorn Mountains, where pools of water steamed day and night, but a distinct lack of railroad tracks and sizable bank vaults, plus the presence of a hostile Shoshone tribe, meant he had never ventured there.  Colorado had similar places, but he had not encountered one, until today.

The longer he stared at the pool glistening in the morning sunlight, the more inviting it became.  It wouldn't hurt to have a quick swim, would it?  Heyes thought.  After all, I do need a wash.  Why only the other day the Kid was saying how long it had been since we'd soaked in a tub.

Without further delay, Heyes stripped off all his clothes.  As he waded out into the steaming water he fancied he could smell something odd in the air, but since his nose was still blocked he had to assume that his senses were playing tricks on him. 

Meanwhile, back at the camp, Kid Curry was stirring. 

Upon opening his eyes, the first thing he did was roll over to check on his friend.  Unfortunately, all there was to see was a black hat and well-worn rig laying next to an empty bedroll.

Jumping to his feet he called out, "Joshua?"

Curry used the alias purely as a precaution.  If a lawman or bounty hunter happened to be holding his partner nearby at gunpoint, the last thing he wanted was to confirm his true identity.

"Joshua, where are you?"

When the twitter of birds was the only response Curry snatched up his gun belt and strapped it on.  Scouring the camp for a clue as to his partner's whereabouts he spied a line of fresh tracks leading off into the undergrowth.   With a slow shake of his head, he followed them.

ooooo-OOO-ooooo

 

Hannibal Heyes smiled blissfully to himself.  He was floating in the still, warm water, his eyes closed and his head resting neatly in a crevice of one of the boulders so he wouldn't drift.   Finding the ideal location in the pool had not been easy; in fact, he had come very close to scalding himself after accidentally discovering the precise spot where the water bubbled up from the earth.  But now, with his headache having completely melted away, this was the best he had felt in days.  So content was he that he didn't hear the sound of footsteps approaching.

"There you are!"

Startled out of his rapture Heyes' toes struggled to locate the bottom of the pool, causing him to inadvertently take in a large mouthful of the odd-tasting water.  Coughing and spluttering, he wiped his eyes to see his partner standing on the bank holding the discarded coffee pot with one hand and a bandana across his nose with the other. 

"What is that awful smell?" he asked.

Heyes was about to declare he had no idea what his partner was talking about when all of a sudden his stuffy nostrils cleared. 

"How 'bout that!  I can breathe!  Eeww..."  Heyes grimaced as he picked up the stench of rotten eggs. 

"That's great, Heyes, I'm real happy for ya, but can you get out now?" 

"You should take a dip in here, Kid," said Heyes as he reluctantly made his way to the shore.  "It's made me feel a whole lot better."

Curry grimaced.  "I'll pass, if it's all the same to you.  I don't want to take a bath in water that makes me smell worse coming out than I did going in."

ooooo-OOO-ooooo

Three days later a couple of trail-weary riders secured their horses to a hitching rail on the main street of Ambrosia, Colorado.

"You smell that?" Heyes asked, his cold having pretty much disappeared.

Curry stuck his nose in the air and sniffed.

"Aww, no," he said, his voice sounding a little hoarse.  "Must be one of them foul pools."

Flexing their stiff shoulders, they slowly ambled across the street toward a hotel which appeared disproportionately large for a town in this part of the country.

"Welcome, gentlemen.  How may I be of service?"

Although he made an effort to sound polite, the clerk in the plush lobby regarded the two dusty men approaching the front desk with a look of distain.  Short and balding, he had a bushy handlebar moustache which more than made up for the lack of hair on his head.  Secretly, Heyes found himself speculating as to whether the man had grown such a large moustache in some vain attempt to filter out the unpleasant aroma.

"We'd like a room, please."

"Of course.  That'll be four dollars."

"We're only staying one night — not the whole week," clarified Heyes.

"Four dollars is the nightly rate," the clerk explained.  "The room's a dollar and bathing is three dollars."

The West's two most wanted men exchanged a long look of disbelief before Curry's eyes fixed the clerk with a stony glare.

"Three dollars for a bath?  This ain't the Taj Mahal, y' know."

Elbowing the gunman sharply in the ribs Heyes pointed a gloved finger at the cover of a large leather-bound register facing them on the desk.  Embossed with fancy gold lettering it read Hotel Taj Mahal. 

He feigned a smile as he asked, "Why so expensive?"

"Ambrosia has the best mineral springs in the whole of Copper County," announced the clerk grandly.  "Our guests come from all around — even from back east — to bathe in the water here.  It has very special qualities." 

"It's special alright.  It stinks," stated Curry sourly.

Ever since first light he had been feeling a little under the weather, and after yet another long, hot day in the saddle all he wanted was a bath, a meal, several whiskeys, and a good night's sleep in a comfy bed.  He was in no mood to hear about the local tourist trade. 

Noticing the gunman's eyes beginning to narrow and his jaw tighten, Heyes quickly intervened.  "We'll just take the room — forget about the bath." 

"All our rooms come with bathing," the clerk enunciated slowly as if speaking to a halfwit. 

Curry fixed the man with a hostile stare.  "C'mon Joshua, let's go find someplace else."

"This is the only hotel in town," said the clerk, but Curry was not listening.  He was already halfway out the door.

Heyes caught up with him in time to prevent him placing his foot in a stirrup.

"Where are you going?" he asked.  "You've done nothing but talk about a bath for about a week now, and you can have one right here."

"For three whole dollars!  Uh-uh.  I don't need one that bad."

"You kinda do."  Heyes' nose wrinkled as the pungent aroma of stale sweat combined with the sulphur of the hot spring.

Before the Kid had a chance to protest further Heyes took a firm grip of his arm and rapidly marched him back into the hotel lobby. 

"We'll take it," he said, pulling a few crumpled banknotes from his dusty shirt pocket with his free hand and tossing them on the desk. 

Curry was about to voice his objection once more when a loud sneeze got in the way. 

He sneezed again, and again, and again! 

By the time he was able to speak Heyes had already signed the register, snatched up the room key, and was leading him and his now runny nose up the deeply carpeted staircase. 

"What's the matter with you?" Curry hissed.  "We can't afford this."

"Yes, we can."   Pausing to unlock the door to their room Heyes murmured, "With prices like these I figure there's gotta be a lot of people in this town with money to burn."  He grinned slyly.  "Now, if I can get a few of them into a friendly poker game..."

Closing the door securely behind them he regarded his friend with a concerned frown, "Besides, Kid, you look like you might be sickening for something.  If I didn't know better I'd say you've gone and gotten yourself a cold."

ooooo-OOO-ooooo

Less than an hour later the two former outlaws found themselves languishing in a natural pool, one of several situated at the rear of the hotel.  Clearly segregated into men's and women's, the pools were housed within specially constructed wooden pavilions complete with changing rooms, shuttered windows and steam vents high in the roof.

"Feeling any better?"

Kid Curry regarded his pruney fingertips. 

"A little, I guess." 

As much as he hated to admit it, the hot mineral water and its resulting steam was easing his stuffy nose.  

Heyes smirked triumphantly.  "I knew you'd love it." 

"Well now, I wouldn't go so far as to say I love it." 

"Well, I do."

Curry cast a mystified glance at his partner.  "I've said it before and I'll say it again, Heyes — you are a little weird sometimes."

"Is it weird to love the idea of making a fortune from something that comes naturally out of the ground?"

"When did we start talkin' about gold?"

Brown eyes rolled at his partner's lack of business sense. 

"I'm not talking about gold," Heyes informed him.  "I'm talking about water.  Hot water.  I've been thinking... when the amnesty comes through we should buy some land with one of these springs on it and build ourselves a hotel — maybe even two.  That way, every time somebody wants to sit around in a pool like this we could charge them three whole dollars!"

Curry considered this idea for a moment.  "Maybe even five?" he suggested.

Hannibal Heyes' face slowly split into an appreciative grin.

"That's the spirit, Kid!" he said.  "You're finally starting to think like me."