As Dr. Hawk Youngblood watched, Randolph P. Holmes' normally pale complexion burned bright crimson and veins bulged menacingly from his aristocratic forehead. Dr. Holmes, Medical Chief of Staff for the Birch Valley Weight and Wellness Center, now unleashed his fury at Youngblood, the senior doctor's long-suffering assistant.

"Youngblood! You are hopeless, man! How often must I repeat my instructions before they find their way into that organ you so laughingly call your brain? Can you do nothing right?"

The object of the Medical Chief's abuse weighed his options, uncertain as to which of the questions posed he should essay an answer. Prudence and an introverted nature won out, and Youngblood settled upon contrition as the best response.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Holmes. I must have misread Mrs. Peabody's chart. It won't happen again, I promise," he finished weakly, meeting the Medical Chief's eyes for the first time.

Holmes stared at Youngblood as if he had discovered something unmentionably vile in his vichyssoise. As the Chief of Staff's gaze intensified, the younger doctor seemed to collapse within himself, his very bones shrinking from the heat of the senior physician's glare.

"You misread her chart? That's your excuse?"

"Yes, sir," he stammered.

"Dr. Youngblood, perhaps you will think this a rhetorical question, but I assure you that it is not. What is our mission at this facility?"

"To assist and monitor our clients through a course of weight reduction, Dr. Holmes," the miserable Youngblood responded.

"Very good, doctor. Excellent. And would you agree, Dr. Youngblood, that a dietary regimen most efficacious with the goal of weight reduction would be likely to exclude certain foods?"

Busy wishing himself dead, Youngblood did not immediately respond. Playing for time, he removed his glasses thoughtfully, holding them in his left hand. Perspiration dotted his brow as he sought an answer that might spare him additional humiliation.

"Well, Dr. Holmes, that is, if...

"Yes, or no?"

Trapped, but unable to speak, Youngblood nodded his head in agreement.

Holmes' eyes blazed and his outrage erupted anew: "Then, why, why, WHY would you place Mrs. Peabody on a HIGH STARCH INTAKE?"

The Medical Chief seized Youngblood's wrist and thrust a patient data sheet into the young doctor's empty right hand.

"Look at this, Youngblood! Take a close look! When this woman presented three weeks ago she weighed 314 pounds. Today she weighs 335! I take a vacation for the first time in four years and this is what I find upon my return!"

Dr. Youngblood regarded the sheet clutched loosely in his trembling hand as if it harbored a deadly virus. He started to speak, swallowed, tried again, but found that he could summon only a stuttering "I, I, I..."

Holmes watched him, hands upon his hips. Finally despairing of a coherent answer, he snatched the paper from Youngblood's hand. With heroic effort, he regained a strained composure.

"Youngblood," he said quietly, "you are irredeemably incompetent. Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock I expect a full report on this incident along with any reason you care to give as to why you should not be discharged from this facility. Now get out of my sight."

The younger man needed little encouragement to comply with Holmes' last instruction, and he scurried from the Medical Chief's presence as quickly as his legs could carry him. As the distance between Youngblood and his tormentor increased, he felt his strength returning, and anger replaced his recent fear. Looking back first to be sure that Holmes was out of earshot, Youngblood began to mutter, softly at first, then with increasing volume and vigor.

"Who does he think he is? Big-shot Boston phony! If he's so good what's he doing out here in the middle of the desert? Anyway, I'm Dr. Hawk Youngblood, fifty percent Native American and one-hundred percent healer! He can't talk to me like that and get away with it! I'VE HAD IT!"

Youngblood punctuated these last words by slamming his right fist into his left palm which, unfortunately, still held the eyeglasses he had recently removed. He heard the splinter of glass and gingerly opened his left hand. Miraculously, the hand was unscathed, but the glasses were now useless.

"Damn! Double damn!" He sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and tried to put the best face on this latest calamity: At least, he thought, I only use them for reading and driving. Looking up at the large clock in the hallway, he fuzzily determined that it was near enough to five o'clock for him to make a discreet exit. He looked down again at the shattered glasses, thinking that the light dancing off the shards reminded him of the colorful beads that had decorated his grandmother's home. Suddenly his face lit, and his eyes acquired a gleam of happiness. A growing smile creased his lean countenance, and he began to laugh.

"Yes! Yes! That's it! I'll show him! I'll show him what Dr. Hawk Youngblood is made of!" He laughed again, and headed for the exit. Hawk Youngblood was a man on a mission.

Youngblood's battered Volkswagen beetle lurched to a halt less than a foot from the rusted tin structure. Dust and sand stirred to life by the car's intrusion drifted in an orange haze, clouding his already blurry eyesight. Youngblood squinted at the lone sign that adorned the building's front. Finally, the haze cleared sufficiently for him to read the crudely printed notice:

THE DESERT EMPORIUM
GENUINE NATIVE AMERICAN ARTIFACTS!
ANTIQUE SCALPS! BEADS! POTTERY!
ELECTROLYSIS!
POWERFUL GOOD MEDICINE!

THEODORE RAMON RED PONY WILESKI, PROPRIETOR AND RESIDENT SHAMAN

The young doctor absorbed the sign's words with a bemused expression. His eyes swept the tiny, dilapidated structure. It had clearly known more prosperous times. He sighed and got out of the car, waving the dust from his face as he stepped from the vehicle.

"Well, I didn't drive thirty miles into the desert for nothing," he muttered as he walked toward the "Emporium." At the entrance, a flimsy- looking screen door, he hesitated, searching for a knob or handle, but found neither. With some trepidation he pushed upon the rickety wood, and the door swung open with a protesting creak. Youngblood entered the tin shack's murky interior cautiously.

He stood just inside the entrance briefly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. A small lamp glowed on a counter a few paces to his front, providing the only illumination within the shop. Shelves lined with glass bottles, beads, and various examples of what Youngblood assumed were "GENUINE NATIVE AMERICAN ARTIFACTS" filled the wall behind the counter. The remaining walls held similar displays. At one end of the counter stood an ancient cash register, and on the front of the register a boldly lettered placard read, "Your American Express card is welcome here."

As he squinted at the poorly-lit jumble of the interior, a curtain at the end of the counter opposite the cash register parted. A slightly built man that the doctor would later guess to be some seventy years old entered. Youngblood's faulty eyesight had overlooked the curtain upon his initial inspection, and the older man's sudden appearance provoked a startled exclamation: "Ai! Why did you slip up on me like that!"

The old man considered his visitor for a moment before answering. "Didn't mean to scare you. What I can do for you?" His voice conveyed an odd blending of accents, faintly Eastern European, tempered with the drawl of the American West.

Youngblood approached the counter where the man waited. "Are you Wileski?"

"Who wants to know?" the old man countered with more than a trace of suspicion.

"I'm Hawk Youngblood. Dr. Hawk Youngblood," he added with a touch of pride.

"Hawk Youngblood, eh? Native American?"

"Fifty percent!" the young doctor replied.

The old man studied his visitor's face for a moment more, then smiled as if satisfied. "Well, Dr. Hawk Youngblood, you must want Red Pony."

Youngblood regarded the proprietor with some confusion. "I-I guess so, that is, I'd like to see the shaman."

"Indeed, you do, young fellow! Indeed, you do," said the old man, sparks dancing in his black eyes. "One moment."

The old man stooped below the countertop. Youngblood could hear him rummaging through papers and boxes. After a minute or so of flinging assorted trash and colorful curses, he stood up, a magnificent war bonnet perched upon his graying head. His face assumed a solemn mien, and he folded his arms across his chest before announcing, "Red Pony at your service."

Nonplussed, Youngblood could only stare.

"Something wrong, mister?" Red Pony asked.

"No, no, it's just that I thought you were Wileski."

"I am."

"But, isn't Wileski a Polish name?"

"Indeed, and proud of it I am."

"But, Red Pony, that's Native American! Who are you trying to kid?"

"I kid no one, young Dr. Hawk Youngblood. I am as much Native American as you."

"I'm fifty percent!"

"And so am I. My mother was Navaho. She married a Polish immigrant who came to the desert seeking the Lost Frenchman silver mine."

"I thought that was the Lost Dutchman mine."

"He wasn't that ambitious."

"Well, did he find it?"

Red Pony sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and raised his hands, palms up. "Look around, doctor. What do you think?"

When Youngblood gave no answer, Red Pony continued, his lean visage animated. "But, my young friend, if my father did not leave me material riches, my mother, may she rest, blessed me with a treasure far greater!" He paused for effect, then added: "The powerful medicine of the shaman!"

The doctor considered him doubtfully. "You don't look like much of a shaman."

Red Pony nodded, and replied, "And if I may say so, young sir, you don't look like much of a doctor. But, let us not allow such petty matters to interfere with business. You have a problem for the shaman, yes? I have a solution. Now, what is your difficulty?"

In a halting tone, still unconvinced of "Red Pony's" capabilities, Youngblood related his problems with Dr. Holmes. The old man listened attentively, nodding sympathetically at times.

"So that's the way it is. I want something that will get him off my back. Permanently, if possible, but at least for a few months so that I can enjoy some peace."

"Permanently?"

"Yes, I mean, no, no, not like that! I don't want him hurt in any way. Just something that will take the pressure off of me."

"Ah, I see. Hmmm. One moment, please, Dr. Youngblood." Red Pony turned, and began to examine the labels of the dusty jars that sat upon the shelves. After dismissing the first eight jars, he found the one he wanted and turned to his client with a smile. "Here we are! Follow me doctor."

Youngblood trailed as Red Pony parted the curtain behind the counter and entered the proprietor's living quarters. The small room was sparse but clean, and as dimly lit as the shop area. Red Pony pointed to an ancient straw-bottomed chair and motioned for the doctor to sit. The shaman stood in the center of the small room, opened the glass jar that he held, and began a tuneless chant.

"Ai, ai, ai, otalay! Ai, ai, ai, otalay! Kaylateo, kaylateo! Ai, ai, ai, otalay!"

As the young doctor watched with a mixture of fascination and disbelief, Red Pony poured from the jar while turning 360 degrees. A reddish, foul-smelling dust soon enclosed the shaman in an irregular circle. The old man turned his face toward the low ceiling, closed his eyes, and began his strange chant anew.

"Ai, ai, ai, otalay! Ai, ai, ai, otalay! Kaylateo, kaylateo! Ai, ai, ai, otalay!"

The shaman stopped, placed the empty jar upon the floor, and fished a box of matches from his pocket. He lit one, then a second, and motioned for the doctor to join him within the circle. Shadows danced on the room's dingy walls as the shaman knelt and held the matches to the circle of reddish dust. With a bang that caused Youngblood to jump in fright, the powder ignited, and yellow and blue flames soon surrounded the men.

Red Pony turned to the doctor. "Now pee on it."

Youngblood looked at the old man in disbelief. "What?"

"Pee on it! Now!"

Fumbling at his zipper, the doctor complied with as much dignity as he could muster. The stench of sizzling urine soon filled the air.

As the last flame died, Red Pony nodded with satisfaction and stepped from within the circle. "Very good, doctor. And that completes the ceremony."

"That's it?" Youngblood asked doubtfully.

"That's it," replied the shaman, "except, of course, for the matter of compensation."

"Compensa-oh, of course. Uh, what do I owe you?"

"Shall we settle in the front?" Red Pony asked, parting the curtain that divided the shop.

Youngblood watched as the shaman scrawled figures in an old ledger book with a gnarled stub of a pencil. Red Pony frowned as he added then re-added his figures. Satisfied at last, he looked up at the doctor.

"That will be twenty-five dollars-

Youngblood smiled. "That's reasonable."

"Plus three-hundred for a new rug," Red Pony concluded.

"What! This is outrageous!"

"I don't think so, doctor. After all, it's quite ruined."

"But you, I mean you said, you can't-"

"Now, doctor," Red Pony interrupted firmly. "Do you bargain your fees with your patients?"

Defeated, Youngblood reached for his wallet as the old man added: "And if you're short of cash, we accept American Express, VISA, MasterCard, Carte Blanche, or Discover."

Red Pony watched carefully as Youngblood counted out the fee. As he laid the last bill on the counter, the doctor looked sharply at the old man. "And you guarantee results?"

"Always, Dr. Youngblood. Within twelve hours you should see a return on your investment."

The doctor glanced at his watch, but could not read the dial in the dim light. "What time is it now?" he asked the old man.

Red Pony retrieved an ancient pocket watch from his pants, opened the lid, and answered, "Eight o'clock, on the dot."

Youngblood's face brightened. "That should work out just about right. OK. Thanks, Mr. Wileski, er, uh, Red Pony."

"My pleasure. Oh, by the way, my electrolysis treatments are on special this week. I can rid you of those annoying ear hairs for a modest fee." He cast a critical eye at Youngblood's earlobes.

"Uh, no thanks. Well, I'll be going." Youngblood turned and walked to the door.

"May the spirits guide you!"

Outside, Youngblood cranked the Volkswagen, then sat savoring for a moment the delights to come with the morrow. All he had to do was wait.

At eight o'clock the next morning, Youngblood entered the office of the Chief of the Medical Staff. Holmes' secretary greeted Youngblood with a professional "Good morning," but her eyes revealed sympathy for the young doctor's coming ordeal.

"Good morning," he replied, with more confidence than he felt. After all, twelve hours had passed since the shaman's ritual, and nothing seemed to have changed. He was grateful, however, that the secretary had not commented upon the sunglasses he wore. The glasses were prescription, designed to lighten when indoors. Unfortunately, the lightening feature had never worked properly, and the mail order optical dispensary that prepared the glasses had moved without leaving a forwarding address. Still, his accident yesterday had left him with only this option.

"Is he in?"

"He's waiting for you."

Youngblood swallowed nervously, then stepped toward Holmes' closed door. He paused, straightened his shoulders, turned the doorknob, and entered the plush office of the Chief of the Medical Staff. Holmes sat in a massive, high-backed leather chair behind an imposing mahogany desk.

"Well, doctor. At least you are punctual. Sit down please." He indicated a chair in front of the desk. Youngblood sat, sinking into the low chair's cushioning so far that he found his face only a few inches above the desktop. He made an attempt to gain a better vantage, but his squirming set off alarmingly loud protests from the chair. Miserably, he settled back and waited for Holmes to proceed.

"Are you quite settled? Good. And remove those ridiculous dark glasses!"

Youngblood started to explain, thought better of it, and complied.

"Good. Now, let us finish up this unpleasantness as quickly as --"

Holmes never finished the sentence, for at that moment a shrill scream echoed through the hallways of the center, startling both men and rousing the older doctor from his chair.

"What in the name of heaven --," Holmes began, but was interrupted by his secretary rushing breathlessly through his office door.

"Dr. Holmes! Come quickly! It's Mrs. Peabody!"

"Peabody!" Holmes glared at Youngblood. "You had better come along with me, Dr. Youngblood, and you had better hope this isn't as serious as it sounds."

Youngblood gulped as he rose to follow Holmes out of the office. Jogging in Holmes' wake, he reached Mrs. Peabody's bedside just behind the Chief of the Medical Staff. Several nurses surrounded the patient, and Youngblood had to shoulder aside the onlookers before he could see the patient. He gasped. What he beheld was the face of Adolf Hitler, complete with mustache! Incongruously, the corpulent body of Mrs. Peabody remained beneath the unforgettable face which now began a loud and off-key rendition of Deutschland Uber Alles.

Dumbstruck, Holmes gaped at the grotesque spectacle in Mrs. Peabody's bed. He blinked once, twice, then shook his head in disbelief before turning to his assistant.

"Youngblood! What do you know about this? Is this some sort of perverse joke?"

"Joke? N-No, sir. That is, I'm as baffled as you are, sir," he concluded, just as the answer came to him: Red Pony!

Holmes reddened as he fought for control. "Get this patient sedated, and come to my office in fifteen minutes!"

"Yes, sir, right away." He watched as Holmes strode off. Youngblood gave a waiting nurse instructions for sedating Mrs. Peabody/Hitler, then sprinted to his small office. He locked the door and began to leaf frantically through the telephone directory on his desk. There! The Desert Emporium!

The phone rang nine times as Youngblood chewed his nails and prayed. Finally, a voice answered: "Hello."

"Red Pony!" Holmes yelled into the phone.

The voice in the receiver responded cautiously, "Who wants to know?"

"Red Pony, Wileski, whatever your name is, this is Dr. Hawk Youngblood!"

"Ah, Dr. Youngblood, and how are you today? Me, I've been shopping for a new rug," Red Pony said pleasantly.

"Listen, I don't have time to hear about your shopping trips. I've got a disaster out here." Youngblood then related the condition of Mrs. Peabody.

"Merde!"

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. I have a smattering of French blood on my great- grandfather's side. Anyway, that's the first time the medicine ever worked."

"What? But, I thought that you knew what would happen! You fraud!" Youngblood yelled into the phone.

"Now, now, doctor," Red Pony responded in his most soothing tone. "A man has to make a living, you know. Besides, maybe we can fix things," he added brightly.

Close to tears, Youngblood clutched eagerly at the straw. "You can? Do you really think you can?"

"Well, the medicine worked once didn't it? I'll just work up an antidote. In the meantime, don't panic, mon ami. Adios."

The phone clicked in his ear before the doctor could extract any details from Red Pony concerning the "antidote." Youngblood sighed and replaced the receiver. With the enthusiasm of a condemned man, he left his office to keep his appointment with Dr. Holmes.

One hour and twenty-three minutes later, a shaken Dr. Youngblood retreated from the office of the Chief of the Medical Staff. He stumbled towards the nurses' station where he numbly gathered his charts for the morning rounds. Holmes had derided his character, his training, his professionalism, and, in the end, had come close to accusing Youngblood of sinister and illegal actions which had brought Mrs. Peabody to her deplorable condition. Although he had refrained from discharging the young doctor, Youngblood was convinced that Holmes was merely awaiting the outcome of the Peabody case. Unless Red Pony came through, he was ruined.

The day wore on with no change in Mrs. Peabody's condition other than an occasional switch to guttural oratory in place of singing. Youngblood dodged Holmes for the remainder of the day and managed to slip undetected from the facility shortly past five o'clock.

From his untidy two-room apartment, he dialed The Desert Emporium's number for hours. No answer. At midnight, he drained the last of a fifth of Johnny Walker as he gazed through his dark glasses at Jay Leno. Minutes later, he slumped mercifully unconscious.

He woke with a start. God, what a dream! Hitler's face on Mrs. Peabody! Rubbing his eyes, he stood up and started toward the bathroom. His foot bumped something hard, and he looked down to see the empty scotch bottle. It wasn't a dream!

He saw for the first time that sunlight streamed through his windows, and he frantically grabbed for the alarm clock perched on his nightstand. Seven forty-five! He was going to be late!

Twenty-five minutes later, Youngblood's noisy Volkswagen rolled into the Center's parking lot. His head throbbed as he hurried from the car to the entrance, adjusting his tie as he ran. As the main doors opened, his ears detected shouting from the patient ward. Now what?

With as much dignity as he could summon, Youngblood entered the ward. Dr. Holmes stood at the nurses station, bellowing incoherently and gesturing at a handful of patient charts. Several nurses cowered wordlessly nearby. At the sound of Youngblood's approaching footsteps, Holmes turned.

"Dr. Youngblood, so good of you to join us. I do hope that you did not have to cancel prior engagements in order to attend to YOUR JOB!" His voice rose to a screech on the final words, and his hands trembled with anger as he shoved three patient charts into Youngblood's hands.

"Are you familiar with these patients, Youngblood?" he demanded.

The frightened, hung-over doctor squinted to read the names: Julius Meyer, Alice Fenwick, and Arthur Chase.

"I-I'm familiar with all of them, Dr. Holmes," he answered weakly. "Is there a problem?" Youngblood winced as a lightning bolt of pain surged through his skull.

"Problem? Come with me, Dr. Youngblood, and you may decide for yourself." With that, Holmes grabbed the tail of Youngblood's half- knotted tie and led him down the hall to the door of the Center's spacious conference room. As they halted, the Chief of the Medical Staff retrieved a key from his pocket and inserted it into the conference room door. From inside came an unintelligible gibberish, muffled by the door's thickness. Then Holmes turned the key and stepped aside, ushering his assistant through.

Hawk Youngblood walked into a nightmare. Four beds lined the far wall of the conference room where once two large tables had stood. Each bed contained a gesticulating, shouting, bloated caricature of Hitler, the demonic face planted atop the bodies of Mr. Meyer, Mr. Chase, Mrs. Fenwick, and Mrs. Peabody. Youngblood felt faint, and swayed with dizziness.

Holmes turned to a nurse standing meekly behind him. "I thought I told you to get these patients sedated!"

As the nurse rushed to comply, Dr. Holmes grabbed Youngblood's elbow, pulling him from the conference room just as Mrs. Fenwick broke into the Horst Wessel Song.

"Now, Youngblood, we'll deal with you. I don't know how you did this, I don't know why you did it, or who might have aided you. But I am going to get answers. It may interest you to know that agents from the state bureau of investigation are on their way to this facility as we speak. I would not be surprised if you are in custody before noon. One last thing: Do not attempt to leave the Center. I've summoned security to watch all the exits. Now, get out my sight until I summon you!" he roared.

As steadily and swiftly as his sick and shaken body could carry him, Youngblood made for his office. Inside, he locked the door and dialed The Desert Emporium's number with trembling fingers. Four Hitlers! This was Red Pony's way of fixing things?!

On the seventh ring, a voice answered. "Hello, Desert Emporium."

"Red Pony! You've got to help me!"

The voice responded carefully, "Who's calling?"

"This is Dr. Hawk Youngblood, you idiot!"

"Ah, my young doctor friend. How is everything?" Red Pony replied pleasantly.

In forceful terms, sprinkled with assorted references to the shaman's expertise and ancestry, Youngblood related the latest catastrophe. Red Pony listened in silence until the young doctor had sputtered his last expletive.

"Rzeczownik!"

"What?"

"Huh? Oh, never mind, my father was Polish, you know. Look, my young friend, I believe that I know what went wrong. I'll need a few hours to set some anti-medicine to work. Stay calm, everything will be OK. You have the word of Theodore Ramon Red Pony Wileski."

"Stay calm? Calm! I'm probably going to be in jail in a few hours thanks to your `medicine!' I need help and I need it now!" he yelled.

"OK, OK. But if I rush the job I can't guarantee the results. I'll do the best I can, but you had better give it at least an hour."

"Red Pony, you better get it right this time!" He slammed the receiver down before the old man could raise more objections.

Youngblood considered his options. He mulled but rejected pleading temporary insanity. Next, he pondered the idea of slipping into the laundry room, donning a nurse's uniform, and making his escape, but decided his shoes would give him away. He toyed with the notion of climbing through his office window, then remembered that his office had no windows. Looking at his watch, he realized with a start that nearly forty-five minutes had passed since his call to the shaman. He sighed. Finally, heart pounding and filled with dread, he concluded that he might as well meet his fate head on. He would go to Dr. Holmes' office, come clean, and wait there for the authorities. And maybe, just maybe, Red Pony's medicine might still work a miracle and save him from complete disgrace.

As he entered Holme's outer office, the secretary glanced up quizzically.

"Is he in?" he asked, hoping that the quiver he felt in his voice went unnoticed.

"No, Dr. Youngblood. He said he was going to find you. Are you sure that you didn't pass him in the hallway?"

"Oh, I'm very sure." He started to ask just when the Chief of Staff had departed, but stopped as a sound like a firecracker exploding interrupted him.

"Did you hear that?" he asked the secretary.

"Yes. What on earth was it?"

Before he could answer, three more muffled explosions occurred in quick succession. As the sound of the third report died away, Youngblood's eyes opened wide in chilled apprehension.

"No! Oh, no!" As the surprised secretary looked on, Youngblood sprinted from the office and down the long hallway leading to the conference room. A crowd of assorted staff milled outside the door, reluctant to enter. Youngblood shoved his way through the crowd and stopped abruptly just inside the conference room. He saw Dr. Holmes, his back to the door, a revolver smoking in his hand. In their beds lining the far wall lay the four Hitlerized patients, each bleeding profusely from a bullet fired squarely into the forehead.

"Dr. Holmes!" Youngblood cried. "Why?"

Holmes turned to the sound of the young doctor's voice, and as he faced Youngblood and the shocked crowd at the door a collective gasp arose. There, atop the familiarly rotund body of the Chief of the Medical Staff sat the head of Winston Churchill, complete to the enormous cigar!

"Well, now," Holmes/Churchill greeted the young doctor in his unforgettable growl. "Youngblood, isn't it?"