"Mr. Flint," she replied with a smile.
"That's Lucas," he corrected her.
"Yes, Lucas."
"Not a fit day to be riding."
"I have no choice. I must deliver some supplies to Dr. Gilmore at a farm several miles northwest of here."
"Maybe I could make the ride for you," he suggested.
"I appreciate the offer, but the Lillingston place is off the main road and hard to find. It's best if I go myself."
"Then at least let me ride along with you."
"I couldn't ask you to do that. Surely you have business of your own—"
"I already had breakfast and was just giving my horse a little exercise before the weather gets too bad. I don’t mind accompanying you."
"But you needn't go to so much trouble..."
"No trouble at all," he insisted. "It would give me a chance to see some of the area around Abilene. And when a storm is brewing, folks shouldn't be out riding alone."
"It seems there's no arguing with you, Lucas," she said with a shrug and a smile. She pulled a pair of gloves from her coat pocket and put them on. "Shall I lead the way?"
With a sweep of the arm, Flint signaled her to pass. She took off like a shot, and he had to kick his horse into a gallop to keep from being left in the dust—or in this case mud.
As the riders left town and turned northwest into the gathering darkness, the rain began to mix with small pellets of hail that danced on the ground all around them. Rose pulled down the brim of her hat to shield her face—she knew Mrs. Flannery would never approve, but just now she was happy to be wearing something with a brim wide enough to protect her from the pelting sleet. She was equally pleased she wasn’t wearing a fancy pair of Parisian narrow-heeled button shoes but had on her plain flat-heeled boots.
The black clouds rolled so quickly across the landscape that three miles outside of town it looked as if night had fallen. The sleet was lessening, but the wind howled all the more furiously, and it was all Rose could do to make out the small road on which they were riding, forcing her to keep their horses at no more than a brisk walk.
Flint's horse pulled alongside, and he shouted above the din, "Maybe we should turn back!"
"We're almost there!" she called back, and he nodded. Ahead they spied the silhouette of what appeared to be a stand of trees, and she shouted, "We're at the border of their property!"
"What's that?" he suddenly yelled, raising his arm and pointing into the near distance, where a huge black object seemed to traverse the road. "Looks like a tree!"
Slowing her horse, Rose shielded her eyes from the biting wind and cautiously approached. As she neared the scene, she could see the giant tree and was able to discern the forms of two men moving around it. Beyond them was what appeared to be a buckboard wagon. She called out as she rode closer, but the men either couldn’t hear her above the wind or were too intent on what they were doing to give her any notice.
Suddenly she realized why. A massive pine had snapped near its base and had fallen across the road, crushing a horse beneath it. The horse was motionless, and the two men didn’t seem to be paying it any attention. Their efforts were concentrated upon a much smaller figure—a man, whom they were pulling from the wreckage.
As Rose and Flint leaped from their horses, the men on the other side glanced up briefly, then continued extricating the victim. While Flint tied their horses to a branch of the fallen tree, Rose ran around the shattered stump toward where the men were working. One of the men quickly intercepted her, blocking her way.
"Nothin' you can do, ma'am!" the fellow shouted, grabbing her by the shoulders.
Though Rose couldn’t make out the young man's features beneath the hood of his rain slicker, she realized he was only in his teens. Leaning forward, she shouted into his ear, "I'm Dr. Keller, and Dr. Gilmore is nearby—at the Lillingstons'."
The boy hesitated, then glanced at his companion. Looking back at her, he shook his head and said, "Sorry, ma'am, but he never made it to our house."
Rose felt her whole body stiffen. She stared blankly at the boy in front of her, then shifted her gaze to the twisted mass of limbs and leaves. With a shock, she recognized the body of a gray mare underneath. She already knew but heard herself asking, "Is it...is it...?"
"I'm afraid so, ma'am. They never saw it coming."
Just then Rose made out the form of a second horse buried under the tree. A body lay on the ground nearby. "Wesley?" she whispered, motioning toward the body.
The boy nodded grimly. His voice broke as he replied, "When my brother didn't return with the doctor, Bill and I came looking. We pulled them out, but it was too late."
"You mean...?" She tried to pull away and approach the site, but he held her back.
"I'm sorry."
"Are y-you sure?" she stammered, and she felt her body go limp as he nodded.
"Are you all right?" a deeper voice asked from behind her. Rose felt Flint's hands on her shoulders.
Rose nodded, and he relaxed his grip. She slowly walked forward to where the other teenager was just pulling the body of Dr. Gilmore clear of the tree. As he laid it on its back, she stepped closer and grasped the boy's arm.
"I'm Rose Keller—Dr. Gilmore's associate," she said in a surprisingly steady voice. "I must examine him."
He nodded and backed away from the body.
Rose knelt and began to wipe mud from the doctor's face. Placing her ear by his mouth, she pulled the glove off her right hand and gently pressed his neck with two fingers.
"My God," she whispered, glancing up at Flint and then over at the two boys huddled nearby. "He's alive."
A quick examination revealed that the elderly man had suffered a bad concussion but didn’t seem to have any broken bones. She told the boys to wrap him in a blanket from the wagon. Then she hurried to where Wesley was lying a few feet away. The whole top of his head was covered with blood, and she had no doubt that his skull had been crushed.
Just as she was about to feel for a pulse, Wesley drew in an audible breath, and Rose jumped with surprise. Without looking up, she called, "Lucas, get the surgical bag from my saddle!" Then she tore a clean section from the hem of her soaking dress and began to wash the head wound.
A few moments later, Lucas placed the bag beside her. Fumbling with the clasp, Rose breathed a sigh of relief when it opened without its usual stubbornness. She reached inside and quickly found the surgical probe. Holding it in her right hand, she carefully felt the entire surface of the boy's skull until she isolated the damage to the top front of the forehead. With a silent prayer, she slipped the probe into one of the gashes near the edge of the torn mass of flesh and bone and started to pull.
Rose held her breath as the whole surface of the wound lifted away, like a flap of skin being peeled from an orange. As expected, she saw the gleam of white bone underneath but was horrified to discover a jagged gaping hole near the center. A section of skull nearly two inches in diameter was missing. It had been shattered by the impact of the tree, and the broken shards had come away with the skin. Beneath, the gray mass of the brain lay exposed. Rose gasped and turned away from the dreadful sight.
Flint knelt beside her and touched her arm. "What can I do?" he asked.
Rose stared up at him, then glanced at the buckboard wagon. All the while, her thoughts raced through the medical books and journals she had been reading in her spare time. Finally, she said, "If we try to move him, he'll surely die. I must operate at once—right here and now."
"But how?" he asked.
Looking over at one of the teenage boys, she called, "Do you have any more blankets?"
The boy thought for a moment. "There's a canvas tarp in the wagon."
"Perfect. Bring the wagon right up beside here and stretch the tarp between it and the tree, so I can work underneath. Do you have a lantern? And a hammer in the toolbox?" she asked, and the boy nodded. "Fetch them both and get that wagon over here. There's no time to waste."
While Flint and the boys readied the wagon and tarp, Rose reexamined Dr. Gilmore and verified that his injuries were not more extensive than she had first thought. He remained unconscious, and so she wrapped him snuggly in the blanket and made sure he was well protected under the tarp.
Fifteen minutes later, the makeshift operating theater was completed. The boys, one of them holding the lantern, huddled beneath the tarp near their brother's head, while Flint knelt beside Rose, ready to assist as needed. She began by handing him several of the surgical instruments. Then she took out a bottle and removed the rubber stopper.
"This is carbolic lotion," she explained as she poured some onto her hands and began to wipe them. "To prevent infection, we have to rinse everything with it." She gave Flint the bottle. "Just pour it over each instrument before you hand it to me, all right?" When he nodded, she continued, "Now give me the scalpel—that's the long-bladed knife." He started to hand it over, and she said, "Douse the blade first, and don't touch anything but the handle."
Taking hold of the disinfected scalpel, Rose deftly began to cut away the crushed pieces of bone and the most damaged sections of tissue, pausing every so often to blot up the seeping blood with some cotton. Wesley stirred once, but a moment later his body relaxed, and Rose continued her work. Soon all the bone fragments were removed, and she folded the skin over the skull to make sure enough remained to close the wound. Finally, she leaned over to make sure the unconscious boy was still breathing regularly.
The boy holding the lantern had been staring in wide-eyed amazement throughout the procedure. Now he cleared his throat and ventured to ask, "Is that all, Dr. Keller? Are you going to sew him up?"
As Rose turned to answer, she realized that her hands were shaking. Forcing a smile, she replied, "I'm afraid we can't leave that hole in his skull—it would never heal." Seeing their concerned expressions, she added, "We're going to put Dr. Gilmore's lucky twenty-dollar gold piece to work for us—and find out just how lucky it really is."
The brothers were too surprised by all they had seen to question her. Instead they watched in awed silence as she felt around inside the surgical bag and produced a bent gold coin, which she held aloft.
"Dr. Gilmore has had this since the Civil War. See this dent?" She pointed at a prominent bump near the center. "A rebel bullet made this at Gettysburg. It saved his life, and he's carried it in this surgical bag ever since. Now give me that hammer," she asked the boy holding the lantern.
The boy quickly pulled the hammer from behind his belt and handed it to Rose, who placed the coin on the surface of a flat rock and proceeded to bang away at it. Flint and the brothers watched, transfixed as she pounded the malleable metal into a two-inch-wide disk. Holding it out for them to see, she said, "I read an article in a medical journal about a new procedure they are using in England when the skull is damaged. They simply mold a thin metal plate to cover the area and then sew the skin right over it."
"How do they get it out?" Flint asked.
"They don't. It stays there forever."
Rose turned to her patient and carefully held the flattened coin over the gaping hole. Determining that it was a little too small on one side, she placed it on the rock and pounded it into the appropriate shape. In a few minutes she had a thin gold plate that was nearly a perfect fit, and she then doused it with carbolic lotion.
After laying the disk over the damaged area, Rose chose one of the surgical needles, placed it in the needle holder, and cleaned both with the lotion. She threaded it with a length of fine catgut ligature, then handed it to Flint to hold. Using forceps and several surgical clamps, she stretched the flap of skin over the plate and clamped the edges together. Finally, after again cleaning the needle, she began a series of delicate stitches to bind the skin together. Ten minutes later, the last of the clamps was removed. The operation was finished.
Rose leaned back and sighed. She started to gather the instruments and return them to the surgical bag, but her hands were so shaky that she dropped several on the ground.
"You'd make a damn fine surgeon," a thin, quavering voice intoned.
With a start, Rose spun around to see Dr. Gilmore raised up on one elbow. Her mouth dropped open in surprise.
"That is, if you learn to hang on to your instruments." He gave her a pained smile.
"How long have you—?"
"Since you started sewing my lucky gold piece inside his head. Where did you learn that little trick?" She was about to reply when he cut her off, saying, "Don't tell me. The Lancet, right?"
"But why didn't you say something?"
"There was no need. You were doing just fine without getting a case of the nerves from having a crusty old physician like me looking over your shoulder."
The doctor glanced at the boys kneeling nearby and said, "We won't be sure for some time, boys, but I think Dr. Keller has just saved your brother's life." He turned to Rose. "Now you leave me and these gentlemen to finish up here. You'd best ride on to the farmhouse. If I'm not mistaken, there's a woman in labor over there—and who better to attend her than a woman physician?"
Rose stared at Dr. Gilmore for a long moment, her eyes and smile communicating her gratitude. Then she turned to Flint and said, "The patients can be moved now, so you and the boys had best get started. I'll meet you at the house. You heard the doctor; there's a baby that needs delivering."
8
Joshua Markham was unbearably hot and sweating profusely as he tossed left and right, his fists clenched tight, his eyelids clamped shut. His clerical collar seemed to be choking him, and he reached up and pawed at it. He heard voices crying and laughing—his congregation mocking him—and with a sharp gasp he bolted upright on the bed. "My God!" he cried, his breath coming in ragged pants.
Joshua blinked his eyes and tried to focus in the dim light. He was in his bedroom, and the closed curtains gave enough of a glow to tell him it was well into the next day—making it Wednesday. He tried to recall the events of the night before. With a groan he remembered the loneliness and pain of his father's death, the somber funeral service at which he had officiated in a daze, the bottle of whiskey he had drunk in an attempt to drown it all. Somehow, he must have stumbled off to bed—even removed his shoes, he noted as he stared down at his stockinged feet. But he remembered nothing beyond the dull forgetfulness that the whiskey had afforded. That much he recalled all too clearly now, for it was being hammered into his brain like a runaway train colliding over and over against the inside of his skull.
Leaning forward and placing his head in his hands, Joshua tried to still the pounding and clear the fog that filled his ears and brain. Slowly the pain subsided until it was a dull, annoying throb. But the noise inside his head refused to lessen. Instead it grew louder and more distinct, until he was certain people were laughing at him, mocking him for his weaknesses.
He cocked his head and listened closely. Yes, there was laughter, but it wasn’t imaginary. This raucous babble was coming from somewhere in his own house, and it was neither a dream nor the whiskey mocking him. Furthermore, he detected the unmistakable odor of bacon being fried.
Joshua groped around on the nightstand until he found his black wire-rimmed glasses. Putting them on, he stood and shuffled to the window on unsteady legs. Opening the curtains, he looked out and saw rain falling steadily, with a stiff breeze throwing the droplets against the glass. The sky was a fairly bright gray, so either the storm was a gentle one or the worst of it had passed.
Awkwardly making his way to the bedroom door, he opened it a crack and placed his ear near the opening. The laughter that floated down the hall was clearly that of children, and it sounded as if they were gathered in the kitchen. He pulled the door open wide, took a deep breath, and headed down the hall.
Joshua thought it odd that the door to the kitchen was closed; he never shut it, and neither did Mrs. Eastman on the mornings she came to clean. And indeed, a babble of voices came from the other side as the rich aroma of bacon seeped under the
door. He reached for the doorknob but then pulled back and stood listening, suddenly feeling awkward, as if he were an intruder in his own home. When he heard the patter of feet racing up the back stairs, he decided to investigate more surreptitiously before barging into the kitchen—his own kitchen, no less.
Hurrying down the front hall as quickly as his unsteady legs would carry him, Joshua mounted the main staircase and emerged in the hallway that separated the four unused upstairs rooms. The doors were open, and he glanced in the nearest one. With a shock he saw that the beds were unmade and several bedrolls were on the floor. The second room had been used, as well, and he turned to check the third, wondering what army had invaded his private sanctuary.
Just then a small child came dashing from the room, barreling into the minister and nearly knocking him off his feet. The little girl, who could have been no older than four or five, gasped with surprise and jumped back, clutching her rag doll to her chest.
"Who are you, child?" Joshua asked in as calm a tone as he could muster. When the girl didn’t reply, he knelt in front of her. "What are you doing here?"
The girl's eyes widened, and she lifted a thin hand and pointed at Joshua's clerical collar, which was crumpled and a bit crooked. "Are you my father?" she asked.
Joshua found himself smiling. "Not exactly. But where is your father?"
"He art in heaven."
Joshua looked at her curiously. Then he nodded and said, "Ahh...you mean he is in heaven."
"No, our father who art in heaven," she corrected him.
"I see." He tried not to chuckle. "And where is your mother?" he asked gently, but the girl merely shrugged. "Surely you must be with someone. Who brought you here?"
"We came with a sister."
"Good," he proclaimed. "Can you take me to her?"
The girl gave a slight nod. "She's downstairs. I came up to get Henrietta." She turned the rag doll so that Joshua could see its face. "She's awfully hungry."
"Then let's get her something to eat," Joshua said, standing. "And you can introduce me to your sister."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 9