Chapter 8
Maggie gazed at the tall stranger named John sitting in the parlor chair, the man who said they used to be childhood friends, and she decided that she liked him. Not just because he was handsome, she thought to herself, but he was a kind and polite young man, too.
A question was nagging at her mind, however: why had he shown up at her door?
"So, what brings you here to see me after so many years, John?"
"I've got a proposition for you, Maggie," he said simply.
"Pardon me?"
"Well, you see, I'm a bounty hunter and—"
"Mm-hm." She felt skeptical about where this conversation was going.
"I've recently picked up a lead on the gang that I was telling you about."
"The gang that killed my parents?"
"That's right. Now, it might be totally out of line to ask you this, and I would understand if you said no. But, Maggie, would you be interested in helping me and my partner find those men and bring them to justice?"
She laughed in his face. "What? Is this a joke, Mr. Younger? Why would I want to do something like that?"
John looked confused. "I just thought that you—"
"I don't even remember my parents, sir, and only found out moments ago that they were murdered by a villainous gang. You show up here out of the blue, claiming to be the best friend of my childhood, dump this horrible information into my lap, and now you're asking me to help you track down the killers?"
"All I was trying—"
"How did you think I'd respond to such a crazy proposition? By saying, 'Wait a minute, I'll go get my coat'? Are you trying to take advantage of me, Mr. Younger?"
"The doctor said it might help you," John said tersely.
"The doctor?"
"In Denver City.I stopped there to find a… a psych…"
"Psychiatrist?" she asked angrily.
"Yeah, that's it. I found this psychiatrist there, talked to him about you, told him you'd lost your memory after your folks got murdered. I asked him if it might help if I went to see you and invited you to come along with us."
Maggie was livid. She could feel her self-control evaporating, like it often did when she got deeply upset by something. "How dare you?" she shouted. "What gives you the right to pry into my personal life like that? I don't even know you."
"I'm sorry, Maggie. He thought it might help if I saw you."
"I don't need your help! Get out of here, Mr. Bounty Hunter, or whoever the hell you really are." She stood up quickly. "Get out of here right now!" She pointed toward the door, glaring fiercely at him to make sure he understood her.
John picked up his hat and coat. "I'm sorry," he said again, and walked out.
Maggie went to the parlor window and watched as he went to his horse at the hitching rail. "The nerve of that man! I don't even know him, and he waltzes in here with a stupid, crazy idea like that."
As she watched John untie his horse and climb into the saddle, she started to calm down a bit.
But he did know what town I'm from… He knew my parents, their names, how they died—which is more information than the staff at the orphanage ever gave me.
Maybe there's something to his story, after all? Something that could help me to remember them better—to remember my childhood.
She turned from the window, went quickly out the door, and ran into the street.
The stranger was riding away.
"John?" she called.
He drew up and turned in the saddle. "Yes?"
"I'm sorry. It was such a shock to hear about those things you told me, and I need some time to think about it. Can you come back tomorrow?"
He nodded. "I'd be glad to, Maggie."
"Thank you."
He touched the brim of his Stetson and rode on.
***
After stabling his horse with the local hostler and booking a room at the Placerville Hotel, John went wearily to his room and lay down on the bed. He felt shook up by the encounter with Maggie, and disappointed that her amnesia was still playing havoc with her mind. A thread of guilt tugged at his heart, as well.
I never should have stopped writing. Maybe it would've helped her some if we'd kept in touch. It might've helped the girl hang onto some of the memories of when she was a kid.
Still, he thought, at least she wanted to see him again tomorrow. He feared he'd blown it when she kicked him out of the house.
John thought back to the events of the day before.
When he arrived in Denver City, he'd gone directly to the orphanage, and a kindly staff member had provided Maggie's current address. He'd then asked if she thought it would help if an old friend went to visit Maggie, and she had referred him to a man named Van Buren.
"He's the only psychiatrist in Colorado, he'd know if it would be good for you to see her," the woman had said. "And if anybody knows whether or not Maggie can get better, it's Dr. Van Buren."
"What's a psychiatrist?" John had asked. "What kind of doctor is he?"
"A doctor who treats diseases of the mind. He's more expensive than a regular doctor—a lot more expensive—but if you've got the money, Van Buren's your man."
"How about you, ma'am, what do you think? Should I go see Maggie or not? Would that be all right for her?"
The staff member had looked him straight in the eye. "I don't think it would hurt one bit."
After getting directions to the doctor's address, John had ridden into Denver City's business district and found the office. It was located on the third floor of a spanking new brick building. He trudged up the stairs to a door with painted glass that said "Dr. Henry Van Buren, Psychiatrist" in gold letters.
There was a fancy-dressed lady sitting behind a desk in the reception area. She had taken one look at his sweat-stained Stetson and buckskin coat and rolled her eyes. He'd walked right up to her desk, however, and told her the story of how Maggie had gotten sick after losing her folks to a murderous gang, and how he really needed to see the doctor so he could help his friend get better.
The lady had seemed to soften when she heard this, and she started looking at her appointment book, flipping through the pages. "We do have a cancellation this afternoon… Mr.?"
"Younger, ma'am. John Younger."
"Mr. Younger, the doctor has a two-thirty opening, if you don't mind coming back after lunch?"
"I surely don't mind, ma'am. Thank you."
"That will be thirty-five dollars in advance, please," she had said, calm as a cucumber, and John nearly dropped his hat.
"Ma'am, that's almost a month's wages for a cowhand in Colorado."
"I understand, Mr. Younger, but Dr. Van Buren is one of the most eminent psychiatrists in the country. Consider yourself lucky. If this office was in New York City, you'd be paying sixty dollars an hour."
"Why isn't the good doc in New York, then?" he'd asked, a bit sarcastically.
"Because he likes to hunt and fish, and Dr. Van Buren believes the clean air of Denver is good for his health."
"Ma'am, I don't have thirty-five dollars in my pocket right now. In fact, I can't remember the last time I had that much money in my pocket. But, if you'll oblige me, I'll bring the fee at two-thirty."
She had looked at him with a reluctant expression. "Well, we don't usually make exceptions, Mr. Younger, but I will for you today, seeing that you're from out of town and here for a friend."
"Thank you, ma'am."
John had gone back downstairs and asked the doorman where the nearest bank with telegraph service was located. It turned out to be several blocks away. The bounty hunter rode his horse through the busy streets to the bank. He received the wired money just in time to rush back to Van Buren's building, sprint up the stairs, and pay the fancy-dressed lady. He had only five minutes to spare before the appointment.
"Thank you, Mr. Younger. The doctor will see you now."
For thirty-five dollars, I sure hope so, John had thought as he walked across the room and knocked on the door of the great man.
"Come!" a voice called briskly from inside.
Henry Van Buren sat behind a huge, elegantly carved desk in front of a window, with the Rocky Mountains looming through the glass. They shook hands and the bounty hunter took a seat in front of the desk.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Younger," the doctor had said, glancing down at some notes. He was a bald man of late middle age. A pair of round wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his large nose, a neat gray goatee and moustache covering his face.
"I need to know how I can help a friend of mine, Doc."
He looked up at John with piercing blue eyes. "Yes, Alice wrote me some notes about your friend's case. Can you tell me about the trauma that she suffered, Mr. Younger, and how it has affected her?"
John had told him Maggie's whole story, everything he knew. It took over half an hour to tell, and the doctor asked lots of questions, scribbling notes along the way. Finally, he put down his pencil and leaned back in his chair.
"What do you think, Doc?"
"Your friend Maggie has something called traumatic amnesia, Mr. Younger."
"That's what my business partner figured, too," John had said, annoyed that the great man's diagnosis was the same as a bounty hunter's. Amos' diagnosis hadn't cost him a cent. "So, Doc, do you think bringing her along to find the bastard who killed her parents is a good idea? I know it sounds crazy, but could it help Maggie any? I sure don't wanna hurt her none after all she's been through."
Van Buren had leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desktop and pressing his long fingertips together. "I believe there's a very good chance it would help her, Mr. Younger, but you should know it won't be pretty."
"How do you mean?"
"Undertaking such a journey will not be easy for Maggie—or for you and your partner. It will almost certainly trigger memories that are very disturbing for her. At times, she will become agitated, terrified even, as she revisits those scenes in her mind."
"Why do it, then, if it's gonna shake her up like that?"
"Because if you want to help Maggie regain her other childhood memories—the good ones—that's the only way I know of for her to do it. She has to revisit the traumatic scenes first, Mr. Younger, allow herself to remember them when the triggers happen."
"How does that work, Doc?" John had asked, puzzled.
"The human mind is a very, very powerful thing. The trauma she experienced caused her mind to block those memories in order to protect her. And it worked. But the trauma was never dealt with after the danger passed. It has stayed in her psyche all these years and played havoc with her other memories, blocking them as well. This has gone on and on until Maggie has no recollection of the best friend of her childhood, even—that being yourself, of course."
"So, the only way to unblock her good memories is to unblock the bad memories first?" John had asked Van Buren.