It wasn't long before the remaining supply of Doc Yale's famous Tartary Honeysuckle Miracle Remedy Syrup was gone. Coincidentally, there were just enough bottles available that everyone in line was able to purchase at least one bottle, although there had almost been a brawl when one of the last purchasers insisted on buying all the rmaining inventory that was on the table - with a half dozen other people in line behind him. Doc himself had intervened, and sent someone to check inventory, who came back with a half dozen bottles. There were dusty and a different type of bottle, but the syrup looked and tasted the same. Doc assured the purchasers that these had been unnoticed in inventory for years - but the syrup only became stronger as it aged, so they were getting an even better deal than the earlier purchasers.
By then a large number of purchasers had opened their bottles and taken a sip - some following the recommended procedure and others just taking a mouthful. Most people found the syrup bitter and tasting medicinal, so the sipping wasn't excessive - but a number of people were feeling VERY spry and some were pain free after years of suffering, and the caravan's band came out and played, and there was a dance party that lasted for another couple of hours, until finally people began heading home, with many of those who had sampled one or the other of Doc Yale's miracle potions or pills being assisted by their friends.
After the last of the townfolk had left, an amazing transformation came over the encampment. The troupe almost magically changed from a group of carefree traveling entertainers to a highly disciplined work team. And the transformation of Doc Yale was the most amazing of all, as he transformed from a jovial, larger than life pitchman to a drill sergeant, crisply barking instantly-obeyed instructions to his well trained team. One of the trailers opened, a ramp was placed, and out rolled a 1934 Stutz Monte Carlo, in mint condition, the epitome of luxury and style, opulence seen only rarely in this neck of the woods.
The transformed troupe quickly and efficiently broke down the encampment and packed everything into the trailers. Within an hour, the caravan was on the road, headed away from town. All the panels advertising the show had been removed from the sides of the trailers, and they now looked like any 2 anonymous long haul trucks. The caravan split up once they reached a larger highway. They'd meet up again day after tomorrow, a hundred miles away, redecorate the trucks, and set up camp near another small town.
Doc Yale was in the rear compartment of the Monte Carlo, occasionally giving orders to the driver through the fancy car's speaking tube, but more often dividing his attention between the two beautiful women sharing the compartment.
"Tonight's oration was inspired, Harv, honey!" cooed lovely Holly Barnard, to his left, her head on his shoulder, both arms wrapped possessively around his own left arm. Or, wait! Was that her sister Bryn? Sometimes after a long day he got them confused... Well, as long as they were equally attentive, it didn't really matter. "You've never used that story about running out of berries before. Where'd that come from?"
"Sales have been going down for months, now," he replied seriously. "With the troubles in Europe and the Great Depression here at home, our crowds have been getting thinner and sparser, and money's tighter and tighter. Yesterday it dawned on me that I could use the travel troubles caused by the war as part of the pitch."
"We're not REALLY outta the stuff, are we?" Bryn (or was it Holly) frowned prettily. "We ain't gonna be out of business, are we?" Holly and Bryn had only been with the show for a month and were still learning all the angles.
"Pay attention to your grammar! You're not some gangster's moll any more!" he scolded her with a frown, then shook his head in amusement. "No, my dear, I haven't used Tartarian honeysuckle for years in any of my miracle medicines, and they all work as well without it. We use the berries of native honeysuckle to provide the distinctive taste, but the medicinal effects are produced by my own secret blend of amphetamine and opium, a blend I discovered during my stint as a medic in the trenches during the Big One, and exquisitely refined over the many years since then."
The car was going around a curve, and he was being pressed nicely against Holly's pneumatic body, when he was interrupted by a loud whistle from the driver compartment and suddenly the three passengers crashed against the front of the compartment as the driver jammed on the breaks. The tires squealed and the car skidded from side to side as the driver fought to maintain control. They were almost stopped when they crashed into something with a loud smashing noise and the squeal of crumpling metal, but this damage didn't reach back into their compartment.
"What the bloody hell was THAT?!" Yale screamed as he climbed back onto his seat and opened the door.
"Avalanche blocked the road, boss," the driver replied through the speaking tube. But nobody was listening by then; they were all scrambling out of both sides of the car.
The road ahead of them was blocked with a jumble of mud and boulders; they'd smashed into one of them. The front right fender was damaged, otherwise the test of the car appeared to be untouched. Prominent among the boulders, Yale could see the ruins of what must have once been a log cabin, swept down the mountainside by the avalanche. For the moment, there was silence - which was instantly broken by the piercing screams of a man in agony. Yale quickly moved to the source of the screams, a man partially crushed by a boulder. One arm was wrapped tightly to his chest, obscuring something bulky, the other bent at an impossible angle inches below the elbow. Instantly, the battlefield medic he had been years before took command. He realized that this man was fatally injured and wouldn't survive much longer - but he wouldn't let a man die in agony if he could help it - and he could! He took a quick look around; Bryn was kneeling on the ground, retching at the sight of the terrible injuries this man had suffered, and Holly was screaming in terror, but he needed instant assistance.
"Holly! Get my bag from the car - NOW!" His stern, commanding tone got through to her; she ran back to the car and pulled out his medical bag, than ran back. "I'm going to need you to hold his head steady," he ordered her sternly as he pulled out a bottle Miracle Syrup (t) and twisted off the cap. "NOW!"
She gently held his head in both hands as he poured a dollop of brown syrup into his mouth. He gasped for a minute and then returned to screaming. Meanwhile, Yale poured liberal amounts of syrup onto the wound around the broken bone sticking out of the man's forearm, a gash on his forehead, and a gaping wound in his chest. It didn't take long before the numbing affects of the opium lessened the man's pain; the screaming stopped. He tried to speak, but his abused throat could produce only a whisper. Doc Yale bent closer to hear.
"I reckon... I know... when I'm done for.... sonny... but thanks for letting an old man... die in peace," he gasped out, gulping and panting after every word. "Figger I owe ya one. And Hubert... the Hermit... is one what always... pays his debts... the Book of Answers... it's yours..." His good arm move jerkily to his side, revealing he'd been holding a book, then his eyes closed and his breathing stopped. For the rest of his life, Doc Yale swore that the old man, Herman, had briefly touched Doc's soul as his own departed on his short journey to the afterlife.
Doc Yale was as stunned and dazed by the old man's death as he had ever been on the battlefield. Some things never changed; the emotional distress and turmoil of death close up was one of those things. He reverently picked up the book that old man had been clasping close, and glanced at the cover - and was more stunned when the book's title writhed as if alive, and changed while he was watching it... from Hubert's Book of Answers to Doc Yale's Book of Answers!
