The Iron Wagon

by Al Lacy

  Dr. Carroll could read the touch of sadness in Breanna’s blue eyes. “Tell you what. Even though you will be my secretary, I’ll still use you at times as a nurse, even to help with brief, simple surgeries and emergencies.”

  This brought a genuine smile to Breanna’s lips. “Oh yes! Thank you, Matt! Thank you!”

  Dr. Carroll rubbed his chin with a forefinger. “Because at times you will be doing nurse’s work, I want you to wear your white nurse’s uniform to work every day and keep a white cap here in the office too.”

  Breanna’s face lit up. “Yes sir!”

  Late that afternoon, Annabeth went by Dr. Carroll’s office to tell Breanna she was ready to take her home. They walked outside to the parking lot. “How was your first day back?” Annabeth asked.

  When Annabeth heard what had happened to Breanna while she was working with Dr. Gifford on the two surgeries, she told her friend how sorry she was. Then Breanna told her of the chief administrator’s job offer to her as his secretary, yet with the promise to also allow her to do some occasional nursing work. Annabeth expressed the joy she felt for Breanna.

  The same joy was shared later at suppertime when John and the children heard the story. As the Brockman family was eating, Breanna smiled bravely at her husband and children. “I can’t say that I’m not disappointed with the secretary job, because surgical work is my first love. But in His wisdom, the Lord does not want me in heavy surgical duty right now, and He has given me peace that one day He will allow me to return to it. But for now, He has another place in the medical field for me. As it says in Hebrews 13:5, I must be content with such things as I have.”

  A proud smile flitted across John’s handsome face as he looked at his wife. “I know you can handle it, sweetheart. You’ll do great as Matt’s secretary and part-time nurse.”

  “You sure will, Mama!” said Meggie.

  Paul and Ginny quickly spoke their happy agreement.

  On Wednesday morning, November 14, the Bank of the Rockies was robbed by four men. As they left the bank carrying bags of cash, they were suddenly faced with chief U.S. marshal John Brockman and five of his deputies, including deputy U.S. marshal Whip Langford.

  One of Denver’s male citizens had seen the robbers enter the bank and whip out their guns, and he had run to the federal building a block away to alert Chief Brockman.

  Stunned to be facing six stern-faced lawmen whose guns were drawn, the four robbers dropped their weapons and the moneybags as commanded by Chief Brockman and put their hands above their heads.

  Chief Brockman knew that the robbers were on the Wanted list in other parts of the West, and three days later they were sentenced in court by Judge Ralph Dexter to forty years at the Colorado State Penitentiary in Cañon City.

  The next week, on Tuesday afternoon, a Wells Fargo stagecoach was held up by two men on its way to Denver from Cheyenne, Wyoming. The holdup took place just ten miles from Denver. The stage driver and his assistant found a telegraph office in a small town nearby and telegraphed the chief U.S. marshal’s office to report the robbery, giving a description of the robbers and their horses and saying that they were headed south at an angle toward the mountains.

  By this time, it was snowing in the area, but Chief Brockman and Deputy Langford went after the robbers, taking Whip’s pet wolf, Timber, with them. They caught up to the robbers in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, northwest of Denver, and as had happened many times in the past, Timber was a great help in capturing the outlaws the chief and his deputy were chasing.

  The outlaws were taken to Denver and stood trial, with the Wells Fargo stage driver and his assistant in attendance. Presiding over the trial was Judge Dexter, who sentenced the robbers to fifty years at Cañon City’s prison, keeping in mind their six-year record of bank and stagecoach robberies in the West.

  Denver’s newspaper, the Rocky Mountain News, wrote up the story, and Whip Langford’s big gray timber wolf was named as a hero, as had been done many times before.

  As the days and weeks continued to pass, Chief Brockman and his deputies, including Whip Langford, were kept busy dealing with outlaws, as were Sheriff Carter and his deputies. As the population of the West grew, there was more crime to deal with.

  January 1889 soon came, and Paul Brockman enjoyed being on the boxing team at school, even more than he had enjoyed being on the rugby team. Already six feet one inch in height and weighing a muscular one-hundred-and-eighty-five pounds, he was one of the team’s heavyweights.

  Because Paul had been expertly taught by his father how to box, he quickly showed Denver High School’s boxing coach, Shad Yarbrough, his strength, speed, and accuracy with his fists and his ability to punch very hard. Within two weeks of boxing practice with the other heavyweights on the school team, Paul had won every three-round boxing match with the other sophomores, as well as the juniors and seniors.

  On Friday night, January 18, the first set of boxing matches took place at Denver High School against Fletcher High School, which was from an eastern suburb of Denver.

  Paul’s parents and sisters, Uncle Matthew and Aunt Dottie, as well as friends Whip and Annabeth Langford, were in attendance in the gymnasium. All eight of them were sitting in a row close to the ring. Paul had gone ahead of them about half an hour earlier in order to meet with Coach Yarbrough, along with the other boxers from his school.

  When the Denver High School boxers came into the gymnasium through a side door and headed in the direction of the ring, Meggie pointed at her brother. “Papa! Mama! Ginny! There’s Paul!”

  All eight of them rose to their feet, waving at Paul and calling out his name. He smiled and waved back. Then he and the other Denver High School boxers along with their coach sat on benches on one side of the ring.

  All of the matches in the high school league were three rounds each. The first two fights scheduled that night were lightweights, the next two were welterweights, the next two were middleweights, and the last two were heavyweights.

  Everyone in the crowd enjoyed the fights, and boys from both schools were winning the matches. Paul’s fight was the very last one, as he took on a heavyweight who was a senior and outweighed him by over thirty pounds. He was introduced to the audience by the ring announcer as Fletcher High School’s heavyweight champion from last year, Woodruff Olson.

  Paul’s family and friends cheered him when the bell rang for the first round. Both boys immediately slugged each other with powerful blows, and as the round progressed, it looked like Woody Olson would put Paul down because of his greater weight. However, in the second round, Paul caught on to his opponent’s style.

  The crowd was entranced with Paul’s change in round two as he suddenly began to dodge both fists in a surprising way, causing Olson to get off balance. Paul quickly jabbed a left to Olson’s right cheek, making him stagger, then launched a terrific right cross to his left jaw. The blow exploded on Olson’s jaw like a cannonball, and the big heavyweight crashed to the canvas. The bell rang in time to keep the referee from counting Olson out.

  By the time the bell rang for the third round, Olson’s mind was clear, and he left his stool, fists clenched in his leather boxing gloves, and began doing his best to take his opponent out.

  He tried to use his weight to crowd Paul into a corner of the ring, where he could hit him repeatedly and put him down and out. However, John Brockman’s son was not about to let him have his way. Each time Olson attempted to crowd him into a corner, Paul sidestepped him, drove a potent punch into his midsection, and moved to the center of the ring. The Denver High School fans cheered Paul on, especially his family and friends.

  Seconds later, Olson tried again to back Paul into a corner, and Paul surprised him by sending a powerful left hook into his midsection, making him double over, then crossed a mighty right blow to his left jaw. Olson hit the canvas flat on his face.

  As the referee began his count, Paul went to a neutral corner and waited.

  Woody Olson staggered to his fee
t in time, looking at Paul Brockman with fire-filled eyes, and rushed toward him, pumping both fists. Paul dodged the fists and smashed him with a right cross that knocked him back on his heels. Before Olson could get set, Paul was on him with two powerful blows to the jaw, and Olson hit the canvas flat on his back.

  The referee began his count again. This time, he made the count to ten, then stepped to Paul, took hold of his right wrist, and raised his hand in the air, pronouncing him the winner by a knockout.

  Paul’s family and friends, along with all the Denver High School fans, were elated. Paul’s sisters hugged and congratulated him when he left the ring. Close behind them were his parents, his aunt and uncle, and the Langfords.

  Week after week, Paul’s family and friends enjoyed watching him box and be declared the winner each time—especially his muscular six-feet-five-inch, two-hundred-and-fifteen-pound father.

  SEVEN

  One morning in late February, Breanna was working on some official papers at her desk in the small office next to Dr. Carroll’s office when the doctor stepped through the open door. “Good news, my dear sister-in-law.”

  Breanna looked up at him, an inquisitive look in her eyes. “I’m all ears.”

  Matthew smiled. “I know you like to work with our proficient surgeon Dr. Edgar Bates.”

  “I sure do!”

  “Well, I need you to assist him this morning as he is working on a male patient in his seventies with cardiovascular disease.”

  “Do you know what caused the disease in this patient?” Breanna asked.

  “Yes. A thorough examination showed us that rheumatic fever the patient had some seven years ago caused it.”

  She rose from her desk and put the official papers in one of the desk drawers. “I’ll head for the surgical ward right now. This problem is extremely dangerous. We wouldn’t want it to lead to congestive heart failure.”

  Dr. Carroll nodded. “This was the main reason I wanted to have you work with Dr. Bates on this case. I’m aware that you know much about cardiovascular disease and congestive heart failure. I hope it won’t be too much for you.”

  “I’m sure the Lord will see me through it.”

  Less than ten minutes later, Breanna arrived at the room in the surgical ward where Dr. Bates was preparing to perform surgery on the man’s heart. When the doctor saw her enter the room, he smiled. “Wonderful! Dr. Carroll said he was going to have you assist me with this surgery if you felt up to it.”

  “Well, Doctor, here I am!” she said with a giggle.

  After over four hours of assisting Dr. Bates, Breanna entered her brother-in-law’s office. He was at his desk and looked up as she moved toward him.

  “Well, Matt, the cardiovascular surgery was a total success. Dr. Bates says the patient came through it exceptionally well, and he is going to live!”

  “Wonderful! And I know part of the success was due to your being there to assist him.”

  Breanna blushed. “Thank you, Matt.”

  He shook his head. “No. Thank you!” Then he glanced at his pocket watch. “I see that this was a long surgery. How is your back feeling? Any pain?”

  Breanna shook her head. “I’m a little stiff, and I feel in need of a rest at the moment. But I was very pleased to not be distracted during the surgery by back pain. God is clearly answering our prayers!”

  “Amen to that,” said Matt heartily, and gave his sister-in-law a hug.

  Paul Brockman was doing well in his high school boxing, and as March came, he was undefeated with heavyweights in other schools within fifty miles of Denver. His parents and his sisters had attended all of Paul’s boxing matches at Denver High School. Ginny and Meggie let it be known to Paul and their parents that they had bragged on their brother’s boxing skills and victories all over the school. Paul was touched by his sisters’ loyalty and adoration, though he did gently ask them not to brag about him but rather to thank the Lord for the joy they have in appreciating each other’s talents.

  One day in mid-March, Chief Brockman was walking along the boardwalk of one of Denver’s downtown streets and came upon two husky men in their late twenties who were verbally giving a man in his sixties a hard time. John knew the silver-haired man. Truman Richardson was a carpenter who worked for one of Denver’s construction companies.

  As John was drawing near, one of the husky men punched Truman on the jaw, knocking him down. The man then began kicking him, and his friend encouraged him to kick even harder.

  Anger flared inside John, and he dashed to the spot. People on the street gathered around as John skidded to a halt. “Hey! Stop that right now!”

  The kicker’s partner had not noticed the badge on John’s chest. Speaking in a British accent, he growled at John, “Mind your own business, mate!” He swung a punch at John, who dodged the fist and countered with a cracking left-handed punch, followed swiftly with a powerful right-handed blow, knocking him down and out.

  With fury written on his face, the man who had been kicking Truman stomped up to John and noticed the badge on his chest. Snarling wickedly, he bellowed in his British accent, “Since you’re a lawman, you had no business pounding on my friend with your fists!”

  The chief U.S. marshal snapped, “I was given no choice!”

  The kicker looked at John with blazing eyes. “My name is George Clive, mister lawman! Do you know who I am?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  The Briton moved a half step closer to John. “At the moment I am one of the contenders in England for the heavyweight boxing championship!”

  Some of the people in the crowd gasped and began whispering to each other.

  “If you weren’t so old,” George said, “I’d take you on barefisted right now!”

  John squared his jaw. “I’m forty-three. That may be old for a boxer, but I’m telling you right now, Clive, to shut your mouth. Pick up your unconscious pal. You’re both under arrest for beating up Truman Richardson. You can carry your pal to the county jail, which is only a few blocks away. You’re both going to be locked up.”

  The eyes of the people in the crowd bulged as George Clive made a swift move toward the chief U.S. marshal. “I’m gonna put you down, bloke!” He swung a big fist at the marshal.

  John adeptly dodged the fist and countered with a jarring punch, catching the big professional boxer with his mouth open. His teeth clicked like a steel trap. He cried out in pain, blood spurting from his mouth. Staggering toward the chief, he swung both fists.

  John ducked them and swiftly caught him with a sledgehammer blow that whipped his head back and dropped him to the ground, out cold.

  Both Brits lay unconscious on the ground.

  John looked around at a couple of burly men standing together close by in the crowd. “Hector … Eldon … would you fellas mind helping me carry these two guys to the jail?”

  “Be glad to,” said Eldon.

  “Sure will.” Hector nodded.

  Eldon noted that the first man John had put down was beginning to regain consciousness and pointed to him. “Guess he can walk to the jail, Chief.”

  John nodded.

  Suddenly, people in the crowd began calling out, commending the chief U.S. marshal for taking out the two bullies—especially the one who was a professional boxer.

  One man said, “Chief Brockman, the way you handled these guys, especially the professional boxer, I figure your son, Paul, must have taught you how to fight!”

  John chuckled. “Paul indeed has taught me well.”

  The crowd laughed.

  By this time, Truman Richardson was on his feet, rubbing his ribs that had been kicked by George Clive. He stepped up to John. “Chief Brockman, thank you for coming to my aid.”

  As John was telling him he was glad to do it, two other husky men stepped up, and one of them said, “Chief, the two of us will help Eldon and Hector get these two British bullies to the jail.”

  John nodded. “I appreciate that.” He then looked back at Truman and fro
wned. “Are you hurt bad?”

  Truman shook his head. “No sir. A bit bruised, but I’m okay.”

  John saw the reporter from the Rocky Mountain News as he was stepping up to him from the crowd and said, “Hello, Bart.”

  “Howdy, Chief,” Bart Gilmore said. “I happened to be coming along the street when this trouble started. I saw the whole thing. There will be an article about it on the front page in tomorrow’s edition of the News telling exactly what happened here.”

  Two county deputy sheriffs arrived to help get the two British men to the jail. George Clive, now conscious, struggled to stand. The crowd watched as the two Britons were taken toward the county jail at gunpoint by the two deputy sheriffs and the four husky volunteers.

  March in Colorado could be one of its snowiest months, and that was proving true in 1889. That next evening the Brockman family gathered around the supper table as the wind howled outside and fiercely blowing snow fell from the sky.

  After John led the family in prayer, they passed the food around the table. A powerful gust of wind slapped the side of the house and set the kitchen windows to rattling.

  Paul glanced at the snow beating against the kitchen window. “Boy, this is one bad storm.” Before taking his first bite of food, he continued. “Mama … Ginny … Meggie … I guess none of you have looked at today’s edition of the Rocky Mountain News.”

  “Guess we haven’t, son,” Breanna replied. “None of us have had time. Why? Something special in the paper?”

  Paul nodded, glanced at his father, then looked back at his mother. He could feel his sisters’ eyes on him as he said, “Before my teacher started math class this morning, he said to me in front of the whole class, ‘Paul, you must be very proud of your father for what he did yesterday.’ I didn’t know what he meant, but he was holding today’s issue of the Rocky Mountain News in his hand.”

  Everyone at the table noticed that John was blushing.