Free Foxfire by Anya Seton

cactus, morosely watching the vicious little spined segments break off and roll over the road.
    â€œYou shouldn’t do that, Doctor—” cried a wheezy and reproachful voice. “Susan gets them in her paws.”
    Hugh turned to see Old Larky dismounting from his burro and shooing his dog, an obese spaniel, away from the scattered cholla. “Sorry,” said Hugh. “How come you’re down from the mountains so soon? You found your lost mine or something?” He surveyed the old prospector with amusement. Like many another of his kind throughout the West, Old Larky lived alone some place in the mountains near a spring; he appeared once a month for supplies in Lodestone, and departed again with his two burros and his dog after a visit to the post office where he invariably received a letter from England. Old Larky was a British remittance man and only Hugh, who had saved his eyesight after a virulent dose of wood alcohol, knew that the usual romantic speculations in this case were true. Larky was the younger son of an earl.
    He had shown Hugh a picture of the magnificent Warwickshire castle where he had been born, but his true name or the particular misbehavior which had caused his exile forty years ago Hugh did not know.
    Old Larky had blue eyes rimmed with white around the irises which appeared to swim in a viscous red fluid, but through them he surveyed Hugh with dignity. “No, I have not found my lost mine yet, but I have no doubt I shall eventually. I came down early because Susan there will soon be whelping.”
    â€œYou don’t say so,” said Hugh eyeing the dog with distaste. “She find a lustful coyote up there?”
    â€œIndian hound,” said Old Larky sadly. “There’s some Mescaleros camping not far from my cabin. I think some of the bucks are working in the mine. Those damned Apaches—I tried to shoot that hound dog but he was too quick for me.”
    â€œToo bad—” said Hugh and turned to go.
    â€œNo, Doctor, wait—” Old Larky seized Hugh by the arm, exhibiting a row of white china teeth in a smile as anxious as the swimming eyes. “Susan, she’s a bit old for a first litter, I’ve always been so careful of her, I thought perhaps you’d just...”
    â€œOh, my God. No!” shouted Hugh. “At dog obstetrics I draw the line.”
    Old Larky’s lips trembled. “Doctor, I beg of you—look, I’ll pay you well. Look—look at this.” He fumbled in his saddle bag and held out on his shaking palm a round gold coin.
    â€œGold—?” murmured Hugh startled. For a second it seemed as though there were a spot of seductive, infinitely beckoning light floating on the seamed old hand. “Where’d you get this?” he said angrily. “You didn’t offer to pay me when I pulled you through that bout with the melted Sternos.”
    â€œIt’s a gold sovereign,” said Old Larky. “The only one I have. I brought it from England. You pull Susan through and you shall have it.”
    â€œI don’t want it.” Hugh thrust his jaw out, he turned his back on Old Larky.
    â€œIt’ll buy a lot of Payson Dew, Doctor Slater—” said Old Larky softly. “You like Payson Dew.”
    Hugh turned back, he looked at the pleading bleary old face, he looked at the pregnant bitch with her mournful swimming eyes like her master’s—and he burst into a sharp laugh. “Okay, I like to deliver dogs so I can get money to get drunk so I like to deliver dogs.”
    The old man nodded and climbed on his burro with Susan in his arms. “We’ll go to the hospital when the time comes. Thank you, Doctor Slater.” He lifted his lumpy old Stetson, clucked to the burro, and they ambled down the road toward town.
    Private room for Susan, said Hugh to himself as he walked on, and it’s not, Mrs. Dartland, that I have a heart of gold melting over the