Christopher had counted to forty-three when a harsh voice called out, "I'll take those."
Spinning to his right, Christopher saw one of the young men from the saloon standing in the shadows a few feet away.
"Hand them over," a second voice demanded, this time from behind him.
Christopher looked around quickly, knowing he was surrounded but frantically seeking some means of escape. He was only a little more than a block from the church. Perhaps he could outrun them if he caught them off guard.
"Uh, sure, here they are," he said meekly, holding out the deck as he approached the first one who had spoken. He saw the young man take a step forward and reach for the cards, but when Christopher drew within range, he lashed out with his foot and caught the fellow squarely on the knee. As the young man howled and dropped to one knee, Christopher heard the other one curse and then come rushing from behind. Christopher quickly turned and took off up the road, stuffing the deck of cards in his pocket as he ran.
The teenager could hear the pounding of footsteps close behind him, and he only made it about fifty feet before a firm hand gripped his shirt and nearly yanked him off his feet. Another hand collided solidly with the side of his head, stunning him and dropping him to his knees. Christopher felt steely fingers grab hold of his hair and start to pull his head back, but the youth twisted around and drove his head forward, right into his attacker's belly, knocking the air out of him and causing him to release his grip. Christopher started to scramble to his feet, but the other fellow had come limping up by now, and he drove a solid fist into Christopher's lower back, doubling him over in pain. The punch was followed with a sharp blow to the head, knocking him face-down on the ground.
The two young men were both on their feet now, one on either side of Christopher, and they relentlessly kicked him in the sides as they cursed at him. All he could do was cover his head and pray they wouldn’t kill him.
"Enough!" one of them shouted, and then a pair of hands grabbed his shirt and rolled him onto his back. The fight was completely out of him, and he made no effort to resist as they reached into his pocket and pulled out the deck of cards. With what little strength remained, he struggled not to give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry.
"We're borrowing these," one of them said facetiously as he smirked at the youth sprawled in the dust of the empty street. "If you want 'em back, just look us up...if you've got the guts."
"Let's get back to the shack," the second young man told his partner, and the two of them started to walk away from the moaning teenager.
Just then there was the sound of quick footsteps approaching from farther up the street, and a voice called, "Hey, you! What's going on?"
"Let's get outta here!" one of the young men said, and in a flash, they took off at a run down the street and disappeared into the darkness.
Christopher rolled on his side and looked up just as someone knelt beside him. "P-Patrick?" he moaned as he recognized the bandage on the boy's forehead.
"What happened?" the younger boy asked, placing a hand under Christopher's head and helping him to a sitting position.
Christopher sat for a moment with his eyes closed, holding his stomach and sides and trying to catch his breath. "Help me up," he finally muttered, and Patrick wrapped an arm around him and helped him to his feet. "I'm all right," he declared, pushing himself away and standing on his own.
"Who were they?" Patrick asked.
"A couple of toughs who thought I had money."
"Did they steal anything?"
Christopher paused a moment. Shaking his head slightly, he said, "No. I think you scared them off."
"What were you doing out here, anyway?"
"Just taking a walk. Enough questions, okay?"
"Sure," Patrick replied.
Christopher stood up straighter and took a deep breath. Letting go of his sides, he turned to the younger boy and asked, "And what're you doing out here?"
"I had to go to the outhouse," Patrick lied, not wanting to admit that he was hanging around outside to make sure Christopher returned from the saloon. "I thought I heard something, so I came to check it out."
Christopher forced a smile. "Well, thanks."
"It's okay. But we better get back before somebody else comes looking."
Nodding, Christopher took a step forward.
"Need a hand?"
Christopher waved him away. "Let me do it myself," he said and started to walk toward the church.
Patrick glanced down the street in the direction the assailants had fled, but all seemed quiet. As he turned toward the church, something on the ground glinted in the moonlight. He reached down, expecting to see a coin dropped by Christopher during the scuffle. Instead his fingers touched the smooth surface of a stiff card, which he lifted and held in front of his face. He couldn’t make it out clearly in the thin light, but it looked like a playing card from a deck. He thought he saw the image of a woman and assumed it was a queen. With a shrug, he stuffed it in his pocket and started up the street after Christopher.
7
Rose Keller poured the strong, black coffee and sat holding the warm cup in her hands. She flexed the fingers of her right hand, still chilled a half hour after arriving at the office from her boardinghouse room several blocks away. It had turned unusually cold and windy for this time of year during the night, and with the sun just beginning to rise, the chill hadn’t yet left the air. With stiff fingers, she awkwardly flipped the page of the magazine she was reading. Raising the cup to her lips, she shivered slightly, as if the blast of predawn wind were still chasing her down the streets of Abilene.
Rose drained the cup and placed it on the tray that Dr. Lewis Gilmore's housekeeper, Mrs. Flannery, had prepared. Then she glanced at the clock above the apothecary cabinet. It was nearly seven; Dr. Gilmore soon would be returning from the house call that had taken him away in the middle of the night. A note from the elderly doctor had been left for her on the tray: "It's five o'clock Wednesday morning, and old Tom Parish let one of his milking cows knock some sense into him. His son thinks it's a broken leg, so I've gone to set it. Think you can handle opening the office without me?"
Rose gave an inward groan at his final comment. Ever since her arrival in Abilene two years before, Dr. Gilmore had poked fun at the idea of a woman being a physician. He had continually denigrated the abilities of women to handle even the simplest tasks—such as opening the office. His most acerbic comments were directed at the notion of a woman surgeon. It might be all right for her to assist in the office—change bandages, prescribe fever powders, and the like—but the idea of a woman performing surgery was inconceivable to him. Therefore, he had scrupulously kept Rose from handling any of the more challenging assignments that came to the office. It was his practice and his prerogative, Rose realized, but she hoped that one day she would earn his trust and be able to serve more fully.
Looking at the note again, Rose smiled. Perhaps she was being too hard on the doctor. She knew that despite his crusty exterior, he was really quite kindhearted. After all, he had hired her in the first place, and that alone was more than almost any other man in his position would have done. Of course, he had said it was because there was a shortage of trained physicians, but in the time she had been there, he had had several opportunities to replace her with a man and hadn’t.
"Takes too long to train another young upstart," Gilmore had grumbled each time, but Rose didn’t believe it for a moment. Despite all that he said, she was certain that he had faith in her abilities. He had even stopped complaining when she found an opportunity to remove a stray bullet or two from someone's arm, such as the night before. And wasn't that surgery? "In Abilene, it's like taking someone's temperature," he would have argued.
Rose put down the note, took another sip of coffee, and picked up the magazine. Before closing the office and leaving the night before, she had cleaned and laid out the instruments and had readied the examination rooms on either side of the dispensa
ry for the morning patients, so she was taking a few minutes to read an article in the Lancet on Dr. Joseph Lister's controversial theory about the use of antiseptics to prevent infection. Fascinated by the account of one of his recent lectures, she didn’t hear any approaching footsteps before a doorknob turned and the back door leading to the kitchen creaked open. Startled, she dropped the magazine into her lap and spun around.
"Got your nose in Godey's Lady's Book again?" a deep, gruff voice called. The physician, a tall and imposing man of sixty-eight with gray hair and a trim beard, shook his head disparagingly as he walked to the dispensary counter, where he deposited his black surgical bag and began thumbing through the appointment book.
"No, Dr. Gilmore," Rose replied, slipping the magazine onto the table. "It's the Lancet—a fascinating article on Lord Lister's work with carbolic—"
"Antiseptics," the doctor muttered with a slight note of disdain. "You'd think they'd discovered the Fountain of Youth. Well, thirty years ago an old frontier sawbones like me could've told those fancy English physicians that it's plain common sense to clean your hands and instruments before cutting into somebody."
"Yes," Rose whispered as she stood and approached the counter. She opened the older doctor's surgical bag and checked that it was properly supplied. As she restocked some of the items, she cautiously continued, "But Dr. Gilmore, if his germ theory is correct, then the use of antiseptics could be the key to eliminating infection."
The doctor shook his head and turned to face the young woman. "Miss Keller...you're almost thirty now?"
Rose looked at him curiously. "I just turned twenty-nine. But I don't see—"
"And you're certainly attractive enough—though Mrs. Flannery says you'd do better at getting a husband if you piled those brunette locks up in a sweep and used a little more rouge. She's not keen on your long skirts, by the way—--says the Paris style is well above the ankles these days. She's nearly forty, but she still keeps a sharp eye on what the fashion magazines have in mind for the women of America. Only way she'll get another husband, she insists."
"I still don't see what—"
"What I'm getting at?" he cut in. "Just this. If you spent a bit more time reading her magazines than mine, you'd have a better chance to secure a comfortable future." He chuckled. "And if Mrs. Flannery would spend a bit more time doing her job and a bit less poring over Godey's, her future as my housekeeper might be more secure."
Rose checked her temper as she put the last of the items in the surgical bag and began to close it. The clasp was as stiff as her fingers, and she had difficulty snapping it. As she struggled, she said in a firm but calm voice, "That's just what I'm trying to do, Dr. Gilmore—my job." She gave the clasp a final jab, but it wouldn’t shut.
"And you do it exceedingly well." He reached over and took the bag from her. "Except when it comes to delicate operations like this." In one precise motion, he pushed the clasp into place, then gave a satisfied smile. "It takes the hands of a surgeon," he said smugly, only to see the clasp pop open again. "Damned contraptions," he mumbled, throwing his hands up and turning away. He pretended not to notice when Rose finally succeeded in securing the clasp.
Rose placed the bag at the edge of the counter near the back door so that it would be at hand should Dr. Gilmore be called out unexpectedly. Turning to him, she asked, "How was Mr. Parish's leg?"
"It was his foot. The old fool let a damn cow step on it and break a few toes. He won't be walking for a few weeks, but I told him he's not hurt so bad that he can't hobble in here and pay his bill for the past ten years."
Rose suppressed a smile. "What about Mrs. Lillingston? Did you see her last night?"
He nodded brusquely. "And a damn waste of time. It's as if she's simply refused to have that baby. You'd think after six sons she'd be a bit more punctual about dropping the seventh. Instead she keeps me riding all the way out there near every day for three weeks past her due date."
"I hope you don't have to go there again this morning. The way the wind's picking up, I'd say we're in for a storm. Not at all a pleasant day to be out visiting patients."
Dr. Gilmore gave an exaggerated sigh. "Ah, well, such is the life of a country surgeon. Be glad I leave you the office duties and spare you such discomforts. You can sit in the cozy warmth of the office and—" he paused, waving a hand toward the tray on the table "—and sip hot coffee and such. That's why doctoring is really for men. Women just aren't cut out for the realities of the profession."
Again, Rose restrained her temper. Forcing herself to speak calmly, she replied, "There have been women physicians for nearly thirty years—"
"This is 1876, not 1849, and nothing's happened in all those years to change my opinion. It may have been a noble experiment when they allowed that Blackwell woman to attend medical college, but it hasn't changed the fact that folks just don't feel confident with a woman when it comes to matters of life and death. They want somebody with a clear mind and steady hand. Women are far too...emotional." He waved at the air, as if brushing off any dissent. "But enough of this talk, Miss Keller. I realize how much you admire Elizabeth Blackwell and her cohorts, but remember I hired you because a suitable man wasn't available—not because I wanted an authority on medical ethics. So let's keep our mind on the task at hand, all right?"
Setting her jaw, Rose coolly replied, "Yes, Doctor."
"Fine. Now, if I'm not mistaken, it's time to see if we have any patients out there." He nodded toward the door across the room that led to the waiting area. "That is, if you're all through with that magazine." Without waiting for an answer, he strode to the door, threw it open, and found himself staring at a tall, gangly youth of about thirteen. The boy wore overalls and held a knit cap in his hands.
"Wesley?" the doctor asked. "I just left your mother last night."
"Ma's real sorry," the boy muttered, staring with some embarrassment at his muddy farm boots, "but she said to tell you it's finally time."
"Have you been standing out here long?"
"She said not to disturb you during breakfast, and—"
"Hell, boy, doctors don't have time to eat. Do we, Miss Keller?"
"Of course not," she agreed with a slight smile. "We don't even have time to read a magazine."
Looking at her askance, Dr. Gilmore said mischievously, "Or saddle our own horse, so why don't you take care of that for me, Miss Keller? The gelding got a good workout this morning, so I'll take the mare. I'll wash up and meet you out front." Spinning around, he proclaimed, "Let's go, son. It's time to greet the seventh little Lillingston boy."
As Dr. Gilmore and Wesley headed through the waiting room to the front hall, Rose grabbed her coat and made her way out back to the small horse barn. She quickly saddled the doctor's gray mare and led it to the front of the house, where Wesley's chestnut mare was tethered. As she waited for the doctor to emerge from the house, she glanced up the street to the west. The wind was strengthening, the sky dark with clouds. The air was still quite cold, and it carried the first traces of rain.
Soon the front door opened, and Dr. Gilmore appeared, bundled in a black rain slicker and hat. "Be back as soon as I can," he called as he climbed into the saddle and took the reins from Rose, while Wesley raced down the stairs and mounted his own mare. "If there are too many patients for you to handle, tell some to return tomorrow," he added as he pulled on the reins and turned the horse. "You can close at five if I'm not back." He kicked the horse into a trot and started west down the street, Wesley riding close behind.
As soon as the horses disappeared from sight, Rose hurried up the walkway and into the house. No patients had arrived yet, and so she hung her coat in the dispensary and began to gather the supplies needed to prepare a fresh supply of belladonna cough syrup, which was in demand whenever the weather turned foul for any length of time.
Fifteen minutes later, she had just finished mixing the first batch when she happened to glance at the other end of the counter. She almost took no notice of th
e object sitting near the door, and then suddenly she realized that Dr. Gilmore had forgotten his surgical bag. Rose decided at once to bring it out to the Lillingston homestead. Though she realized that the birth would likely be routine, and no special supplies would be needed, there was always the possibility of complications.
Rose wrote a hasty note informing prospective patients that the office would be closed until later that morning and hung it outside the front door. Then she donned her gray coat and one of Dr. Gilmore's wide-brimmed hats, grabbed the leather bag, and headed to the horse barn, where she saddled the doctor's spirited brown gelding and strapped the bag to the back of the saddle.
The rain was still light but coming down steadily as Rose led the horse to the front yard. She wished she were wearing riding clothes, but there wasn’t enough time to go home and change. Nor would she attempt an awkward sidesaddle position, so she hiked up her long skirt, put one foot into the stirrup, and lifted herself into the saddle, straddling the animal. She knew some might disapprove of her style, but at least her dress had enough material that only her lower calves were visible.
Rose was about to ride out of the yard when a man on a large brown horse pulled to a halt in the street in front of her. Rain ran off the brim as he nodded to her. "Morning, Rose," he said, and she recognized him as the gentleman from the night before.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 8