The Santa Fe Matter
© 2025 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  rockbaker


“Quinn?”

The border collie was working on a report at his desk in Houston when his ears perked at the sound of his name. He looked up and sent his pen aside before saying, “Over here, Doctor.”

His supervisor at the United States Public Health Service office beckoned to him. “Step into my office, please,” Dr. Goodenough said, and the bull took a seat behind his desk as the border collie stepped inside. “Close the door and have a seat,” and when Quinn had complied Goodenough asked, “Do you know the way to Santa Fe?”

The border collie smiled. “I've not been away so long that I may go wrong and lose my way, Sir. It’s in New Mexico Territory, of course. Isn’t Phil working that area?”

“Dr. McCafferty is in the hospital.”

The border collie’s ears perked. “Here? In Houston?” Goodenough nodded and Quinn asked, “What happened?”

The bull opened a folder and glanced down at the paperwork within. “Phil McCafferty was on assignment, looking for a certain woman we believe has been very deliberately spreading venereal diseases to men from El Paso to Las Cruces.” Goodenough removed a piece of paper and offered it across the desk to the border collie, who took it.

It was a drawing, and a fairly good one, of a female goat attired simply. She was seated, her paws in her lap, but if the artist wasn’t taking liberties there was a certain hardness about her eyes and the set of her jaw, a look of determination. “Hm,” Quinn said as he studied the drawing, “she appears to be just another frontier rose.”

“’Appears’ is the right word,” his supervisor said, “and this rose has thorns. Hannah Mae Lashley, born in St. Louis maybe twenty-nine years ago – “

“She might not see thirty,” Quinn remarked.

“Quite agree, and your job is to get her back here for treatment before she infects every man in the territory. Now, something you need to be aware of.”

“Yes, Sir?”

“She shot Phil, so you’re going to have to be very careful.”

“Shot him? Good Lord.”

Goodenough nodded. “Flesh wound to the right arm. He’s recovering.”

Quinn sat there, ears swiveling as he looked over the rest of the file before picking up the bounty warrant. “One hundred dollars?” he asked.

“An indication,” the bull said, looking over his glasses at Quinn, “of how badly we want her off the streets.”

“Well, all right,” and the border collie stood. “I’ll drop by the hospital and visit Phil before I get to the train station. He was a classmate of mine in medical school,” and Dr. Quinn Furbelow left the office.


***


The hospital room was private and quite Spartan, the walls and furniture painted the same stark white that fairly glowed in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the single window. A framed copy of a Farrier & Hives lithograph hung on one wall.

Quinn paused in the open doorway and said, “Hello, Phillip.” He grinned. “Lazing about, I see?”

Phillip McCafferty looked up from the copy of the Arkansas Thomas Cat magazine in his lap and grinned. “Quinn!” the bobcat said happily. “Come on in. I’d shake your paw, but,” and he nodded at the bandaged limb in its sling.

“Yes, I’d heard that your last assignment ended with a bang,” the border collie said, and the two doctors shared a laugh at the sally. “Goodenough’s given tracking her down to me,” Quinn said. “What can you tell me about her?”

Phil sat back against the pile of pillows between him and the headboard. “Well, our Miss Lashley’s a spitfire, and no mistake. Sharp tongue, and sharper wits.” He nodded again at his wounded arm. “And a much better shot than this might tell you.”

“Oh?”

“She had me dead to rights, and deliberately wounded my arm,” the bobcat said. “Got the drop on me as I was headed up to the room she was in.”

“Where was this?”

“Albuquerque,” Phil replied. “She was headed up to Santa Fe, I’d heard.”

Quinn nodded. “That’s where I’m headed. She’s got more than a few days’ head start, though. Could be anywhere by now.”

Phil nodded and offered his left paw to his fellow medical school student. “Take care of yourself, Quinn, and Godspeed.”


***


Setting out after the goat femme required a brief trip southwest from Houston to Columbia, where Quinn boarded a Gulf Colorado & Sante Fe train. As he usually did when on assignment, he traveled light, taking only one suitcase and his medical bag. He wore a dark suit with a cream waistcoat, topped off with a battered Stetson hat.

His pistol and gun belt were in the bottom of his medical bag.

The train had a dining car, but his per diem didn’t allow for a private berth on the train. No matter; he’d traveled like that before.

The sway of the train and the clack-clack as the trucks went over the tracks were lulling, and after a while he lowered his hat over his eyes, slouched back in his seat and fell asleep.

He’d need his energy when he reached Santa Fe.

The train stopped at a crossroads west of Dallas to take on water and coal. Quinn sat up and stretched, looking out the window and seeing two new passengers coming aboard.

The sight of the pair made the border collie’s ears twitch. One was a slim and tall rabbit, the other a slim and short feline; both were dressed shabbily, wearing long drover’s coats that could cover a multitude of sins. The rabbit was wearing a derby and the feline was wearing what appeared to be an old cavalry hat.

Quinn sighed and settled back, a paw on his medical bag, and watched the pair as they took seats in the car just ahead of his. As the train whistled and started forward again, Quinn chided himself for thinking the worst of people based on their appearance, and he lapsed back into his doze.

Both ears twitched and he looked up as a woman screamed and a harsh male voice shouted, “Shut up!” over the sounds of the train. Peering up under the brim of his hat, Quinn saw the slim and tall one.

He sighed, took note that the rabbit was standing with his back to the border collie, and opened his medical bag.

The rabbit sneered at the passengers as his feline accomplice started working his way through the car, snatching away money and small valuables. One ear twitched at a sound behind him, but before he could turn a paw grabbed his right wrist in an iron grip, pulling his gun down and to the right as another paw bearing a cloth soaked in a pungent liquid slapped itself over his mouth and nose.

He struggled against the man who’d snuck up on him, but he found his eyelids growing heavy. Before he lapsed into unconsciousness he heard a voice whisper in his ear, “You look like you could use a nap . . . “

Quinn eased the sleeping rabbit to the floor of the car, taking his pistol and straightening up to face the cat, who had pulled a knife and was holding it at arm’s-length in what he obviously thought was a menacing pose. “B-Back off, M-Mister!” the feline said.

Quinn smiled. “Young man, you’d best drop that.” He came up the aisle to within striking distance of the feline, who made a halfhearted jab toward the border collie. The canine dodged to his right and back to the left, pinning the cat’s knife arm against the back of the bench seat.

“I tried to warn you,” and Quinn punched the feline hard in the nose.

Blood spurted and the knife hit the floor with a clang as the feline wailed, “Ya broke muh damn nose!”

“Yes,” Quinn said judiciously, “I believe I have broken your nose.” He half-turned at the sound of shoes coming down the aisle and saw the conductor and two other train employees, all carrying firearms, enter the car. “Hello, fellows.”

“We heard someone was trying to rob the train,” the conductor said as one of his attendants checked the unconscious rabbit.

“He broke my nose!” the feline said.

“I broke his nose,” Quinn said.

“This guy’s out cold,” the man checking the rabbit said.

The conductor gave Quinn a questioning look, and the border collie said, “I used ether on him.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m a doctor.”

The conductor nodded. “Well, thanks, Doc. We’ll look after this kitten – “

“I ain’t no kitten!” the feline protested.

“ – And the Ether Bunny,” the conductor said. “Boys, let’s truss ‘em up and put ‘em in the mail car for the Sheriff when we get into Santa Fe.”


***


A day later, Quinn sat in a chair facing a lean wolf wearing a Sheriff’s star as the lawman read through the paperwork on the two erstwhile train robbers. Finally he snorted a chuckle and leaned back in his chair. “Clem ‘Slim’ Hazzard – that’s the rabbit,” the Sheriff said. “Kinda dropped outta sight after he got out of prison in ’94. I thought he’d gone back to Milwaukee.” The wolf chuckled again. “Most inept train robber west of the Mississippi.”

Quinn smiled. “I’m just glad to help, Sheriff.”

“Yeah, you done really good.” The wolf glanced up from the paperwork. “Now, what’s your story?”

The border collie opened his case and produced several documents. “My credentials and my warrant,” he said, giving them to the wolf.

“’Quinn Furbelow, M.D., U.S. Public Health Service?” the wolf asked. His ears swiveled as he said, “Oh, yeah, heard of you. Previous Sheriff told me before he retired. What brings you out here?”

“My warrant empowers me to arrest and bring into custody a femme named Hannah Mae Lashley, a goat by species – “

“Ah, yeah, that’s on the warrant. Wanted for spreading disease, eh?”

“Yes, Sir. We definitely want to get her into a hospital and treated.” Quinn added, “She shot the last doctor sent out to get her.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, down in Albuquerque,” the border collie said. “Last information I have said she was headed up to Santa Fe.”

The wolf gave him back his credentials and sat back, a paw to his chin as he thought. “Can’t say I rightly heard of this . . .” His voice trailed off and he snapped his fingers. “Now I remember. Had one of the madams come up to me a couple days ago, griping that some goat femme was trying to entice men up to her hotel room.” He gave Quinn a mirthless smile. “Even bawdy houses try to cut down on the competition.”

Quinn chuckled softly. “That sounds like my quarry. May I have the name of the madam?”

“Sure. Harriet Rose, runs Rose’s Garden over on Twelfth Street,” the Sheriff said. He stood and offered a paw. “Let me know if I can be of any assistance, Doctor.”

The border collie stood and shook paws with the wolf. “Thank you, Sheriff.”


***


The border collie checked into a hotel first and took his time getting a hot bath and a short rest before brushing down his suit and heading downstairs to dinner. It was a deeply-ingrained habit with him, guaranteeing that he’d be well-rested before having to talk to furs or confront a target.

The next morning, he set off to find the brothel the Sheriff had described.

Compared to many houses of ill repute Quinn had encountered, Rose’s Garden looked rather genteel from the street. The sign was unobtrusive and there were no scantily clad femmes perched on the windowsills.

The door was locked, and the border collie knocked until a burly fox answered the door. “Can’t ya read? We don’t open till after lunch.”

“I need to speak with Harriet Rose,” Quinn said. “Please.”

“Oh yeah? Who wants to talk to her?”

“I do,” and the border collie proffered a calling card.

The fox peered at the writing, looked up at Quinn, and said, “Wait here,” and slammed the door closed. Quinn took out his pocket watch and began to wait.

Almost exactly five minutes later by his watch, the fox returned. “She says you can come back tonight when we’re open. She needs her beauty sleep.”

Quinn doubted that. “Fine. Tell her I’ll be back at five o’clock.”

“Uh huh,” and the door slammed shut again. The border collie swished his tail but showed no other reaction as he went back to his hotel.

One church was chiming the hour, and it struck five as Quinn walked up the three steps to the door and knocked again. The fox answered the door and said, “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes,” the border collie said. “Is she in?”

The fox’s ears laid back. “Yeah, she’ll see ya. Come with me,” and he led Quinn into the bawdy house, the border collie taking his hat off from habit.

The foyer was fairly well-furnished and decorated, and the fox led him past two decorous young femmes, a ewe and a wolfess, to a door partly hidden behind a curtain. The fox knocked, and a slightly raspy voice said, “Yeah?”

The fox opened the door and said, “He’s here,” and he opened the door for Quinn, closing it as the border collie walked in.

Sitting behind a desk was a rather robustly built mare with a roan coat and a graying mane in a bun. She was wearing a dress in bright red velvet. “So, you’re a doctor?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Rose struck a match and lit a cigarette. “And what do you want to talk to me about?”

“The Sheriff tells me that you complained to him about a certain young femme, a goat, who was –“ He paused as the mare uttered a few epithets that reflected poorly on her upbringing. “Yes, Ma’am. I guess you’ve seen her?”

“Damn right I have,” and the mare took the cigarette out of her mouth to turn her head, spit, and replace the cigarette before saying, “stupid girl flaunting herself and trying to attract men up to her room. Trying to take away my business.”

“Do you know if she’s still in town?” The question brought the madam up short, and Quinn added, “Do you know what hotel she’s in?”

“Yeah, I know where she is,” and the mare spat again. “El Pasado. You gonna take her in?”

Quinn smiled. “That’s my intention, Ma’am. She’s a threat to the public health – “

“I don’t care ‘bout that.”

“ – And she shot one of my coworkers when he caught up to her in Allbuquerque.”

The mare’s ears swiveled. “No kidding. Huh. So you got more reasons for bringing her in. Like I said, she’s at the El Pasado, and you’re welcome to her.” She spat once more, this time succeeding in striking the cuspidor. “Now, you can leave if you ain’t gonna spend any money.”

“Ma’am.” Quinn let himself out and headed back to his hotel, making a mental note to confer with the Sheriff in the morning.


***


The Sheriff looked up as Quinn was shown into his office, and the wolf’s ears laid back. The border collie was wearing a battered drover’s coat, and there was a pistol riding low on his hip. “You found her?” the Sheriff asked.

Quinn nodded. “Miss Rose’s information was useful. Our Miss Lashley’s staying at the El Pasado. I’ve already got her room number from the manager there.”

“Fast work.”

“I want to try to take her unaware,” the border collie said. “I want to avoid any gunplay.”

“So why’re you rigged for it?” the wolf asked.

“Because I want to defend myself, and that’s part of why I’m here. I’m asking you for help, Sheriff.”

The wolf considered the request before nodding. “Me and two of my deputies will tag along, Doc, just to make sure you’re not too rough on her.”

A corner of the border collie’s mouth quirked upward. “I’m much obliged, Sheriff.”

The lapine manager and lutrine desk clerk of the hotel glanced at the front door as Quinn and the three lawmen walked into the hotel. “She’s on the second floor, Room Five,” the hare said.

“Any back entrance?” Quinn asked. The manager shook his head.

The Sheriff gestured to his two deputies. “Go on outside and camp out under her window, in case she tries to leave that way.” The two nodded and left. “Let’s go upstairs,” the wolf said to the border collie.

As they approached Room Five, Quinn gestured for quiet and eased up to the door, paused, and stood to one side before reaching out and knocking.

“Who’s there?” asked a woman’s voice in a querulous tone.

“United States Public Health –“ Quinn spun away as a gun fired and a bullet pierced the door. The Sheriff flinched backward and drew his own weapon. “Give yourself up, Miss Lashley.”

“Come in and make me,” the goat femme said. There was the ominous sound of a pistol cocking.

The border collie held up a paw and gestured for the Sheriff to be quiet. The wolf gave him a questioning look, and Quinn said, “It’s just me here, Miss Lashley.”

“Too bad,” and Quinn stepped back as another bullet hole appeared in the door.

“You didn’t kill Doctor McCafferty,” Quinn said. “I doubt you’ll kill me.” Two more shots came through the door, and with a sly smile the border collie held up four fingers.

The Sheriff nodded.

“We want to help you – “

“Men.” The tone was low and venomous, almost a snarl, and was followed by two more shots.

Quinn caught the Sheriff’s eye, and the wolf nodded.

The wolf and the border collie ran for the weakened door, battering it down and charging into the room as a goat femme in a gingham dress was struggling to load a Colt revolver. The weapon still not loaded, she swung it up as she faced Quinn, only for her head to snap up as the border collie gave her a solid right uppercut to her chin. The goat staggered and went down, the gun slipping from her nerveless paw.

Quinn was on her in a second, pulling a set of pawcuffs from a pocket in his drover’s coat and securing her wrists behind her back while the Sheriff went to the window and called out to his deputies.

“Hannah Mae Lashley,” Quinn said somewhat breathlessly, “you’re under arrest.”

The goat recovered her senses and started screaming epithets as the two deputies entered the room. “Real spitfire, ain’t she?” one observed.

“Ayup, seems like,” the other agreed.

The Sheriff gave Quinn a look. “I was taught never to hit a lady.”

“So was I,” the border collie assured him, “but this is definitely not a lady.”


***


Miss Lashley had made such a racket that Quinn had been forced to use his leather flask of ether and anesthetize her so that he and the deputies could hustle the goat out of the hotel and to the jail. She was still asleep as the wolf looked over the arrest paperwork once again.

“Well, Doc, looks like you’ll have your paws full getting the likes of her back to Houston,” the wolf finally said.

The border collie smoothed his ears back. “Yes, I’ve been thinking of that. I’ll wire the office and see if they have any ideas. Right now, the fastest method’s by train.”

The Sheriff nodded. “Probably have to keep her away from the other passengers. Either way, you took someone dangerous off the streets.”

The border collie nodded.

It was just another day’s work for Dr. Quinn Furbelow, Frontier Gynecologist.




end