“Chuck’s hit!” Eddie hollered. J.R. reached across his body with his good left hand to pull his six-gun from its holster, peering back down canyon as he did. Smoky pulled Midnight around and lifted his Winchester from the saddle boot. He pointed the rifle down the canyon, as he and J.R. scanned the rocks and cliffs for any sign of the hidden drygulcher. Charlie and Ty also pulled out their rifles, waiting in anticipation for the next shot.
Eddie had jumped from his saddle and was kneeling alongside his stricken brother. Jim dismounted and also hunkered alongside the wounded man.
“How bad is it, Chuck?” he asked.
“It’s… pretty bad,” Chuck answered, his breathing labored. “I’m gut-shot. Took that… bullet… right in… my… belly.”
“Lemme take a look at it, son,” Jim said. “Eddie, you hold him down if you have to, while I examine that wound.”
“Sure. Sure, Jim,” Eddie stammered, clearly shaken at the sudden shot which had downed his brother, without any warning.
Jim rolled Chuck onto his back. The bullet had struck in the left side of his belly, down low.
“It’s… it’s real bad, ain’t it, Jim?” Chuck said.
“I’m not gonna try’n sugarcoat it, Chuck,” Jim answered. “Yeah, it’s bad.”
“My brother’s gonna die, ain’t he?” Eddie cried. “He’s gut-shot. A man can’t live with a bullet in his guts.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” Jim said. “I’ve known men who’ve survived bein’ gut-shot. In fact, I’m one of ’em. And Chuck’s caught a bit of luck. The slug hit him down low, so it just might’ve missed all the vital organs. But we’ve got to get your brother to a doctor real fast, if he’s gonna have any chance at all.”
“I’ll do anythin’ I have to, if it means savin’ Chuck’s life,” Eddie answered.
“Good,” Jim said. “Go over to my horse. There’s some clean scraps of cloth I keep in there for bandages. There’s also a spare neckerchief. Get that too. And a flask of whiskey.”
“All right.” Eddie hurried for Jim’s horse.
“Chuck, I can’t promise you that you’re gonna be all right,” Jim said, “But if Eddie can get you to a doc, you might have a fightin’ chance.”
“How’s Chuck doin’?” Smoky called.
“He’s hit bad,” Jim answered. “The bullet’s still in him. I’m gonna patch him up best I can, then Chuck’s gonna try’n get him to a doctor.”
Eddie came back, with the bandages, neckerchief, and whiskey.
“Here you go, Jim.”
“Thanks, Eddie. Now, help me sit your brother up. I’ve gotta get his shirt off so I can bandage that hole, to slow the bleedin’ as much as possible.”
“Okay.”
Eddie slid his hands under Chuck’s shoulders and lifted him to a sitting position. Jim unbuttoned the wounded man’s shirt and slid it off.
“Chuck, this is gonna hurt somethin’ awful, but it can’t be helped,” Jim said, as he uncorked the flask. “I’ve gotta pour some of this whiskey into that bullet hole, to keep it from festerin’.”
Chuck nodded.
“I understand, Jim.”
“Good.” Jim poured some of the raw whiskey into the wound. Chuck screamed, jerking in pain.
“That was the worst of it,” Jim assured him. “Now, I’m gonna pad that wound with these bandages, then tie ’em in place. After that, we’ll try’n get you back on your horse. You think you’ll be able to ride?”
“I’ll give it a shot,” Chuck said, then winced. “Ouch. That’s not what I meant.”
“Don’t fret about it. I’m always makin’ bad jokes. Of course, I don’t usually have a bullet in my belly when I do… although plenty of men have threatened to do just that, if I told one more joke,” Jim said. He folded the cloths into a thick pad, then placed them over the blood-oozing hole in Chuck’s belly. He tied the neckerchief around the young Ranger’s middle to hold the bandages in place. That done, he put Chuck’s shirt back on, buttoning it tight.
“Chuck, keep your hand pressed against those bandages, as hard as you can,” Jim ordered. “The pressure’ll help slow the bleedin’.”
“Sure. Sure, Jim.”
“Eddie, I think it’d be better if Chuck rode with you, rather’n try’n to stick to a horse by himself,” Jim said. “Will your bronc carry double?”
“Yeah, he will,” Eddie answered. “Scotty’s carried the two of us, lots of times.”
“Good,” Jim said. “Help me get your brother on his feet. We’ll get him over to your horse. Once we do, you mount up, and I’ll help get him up behind you.”
“Okay, Jim.” Chuck was helped to his feet, then walked over to where Eddie’s gray stood waiting.
“Okay, Eddie,” Jim said. “Get on your horse, and I’ll get Chuck on soon as you’re settled.”
“Sure.”
Eddie climbed into his saddle. Once he was mounted, Jim helped boost Chuck onto Scotty’s rump. Chuck grabbed his brother’s right shoulder for support. While Jim pushed Chuck onto the horse’s rump, Eddie placed his left hand against Chuck’s left side, to shove him onto the middle of Scotty’s back.
“You both all set?” Jim asked.
“I reckon,” Chuck said. “My belly… hurts like the… blazes, though.”
“I’d imagine it does,” Jim answered. “You hang on tight to your brother, you hear? And keep pressin’ against that bullet hole. We don’t want the ride joltin’ any of your guts through that hole. It’s not as likely to happen as, say, from a knife wound, but it’s still a possibility.”
“Okay, Jim.”
“Eddie, Quitaque’s the nearest town. It’s about an hour south of here,” Jim said. “You just follow the trail we rode in on, and turn south at the junction. You recollect that turn, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Good. There’s gotta be a doctor in Quitaque. We’ve just gotta hope he’s in, and not out tendin’ to a patient on a ranch somewhere. Right now, time is Chuck’s biggest enemy. You’ve got to get him to that doc as quick as possible. In fact, you’d better take Cooper, too. That way if your bronc gives out you’ll have a spare.”
“As long as Chuck can manage to get on another horse,” Eddie said.
“Don’t worry about that, unless it has to be done,” Jim said. He took Cooper’s lead rope, snapped it to his bridle, and handed the other end to Eddie.
“Jim, make sure you get the men who done this to my brother,” Eddie pleaded.
“You can bet your hat on it. Now ride, son. And may God ride with you,” Jim said.
Eddie jabbed his spurs into Scotty’s side, putting the gray into a gallop. Jim stared after the brothers, until they were out of sight. Smoky and J.R. rode up to him.
“You think the kid’s gonna make it, Jim?” Smoky asked.
“Quien sabe?” Jim shrugged his shoulders. “I sure hope so. Any sign of that drygulcher?”
“Not a one,” Smoky answered. “There was that one shot, and that was it.”
“Well, now we know for certain the Ghost Riders are here,” J.R. said. “And we also know what their plans for us are. They’re gonna try’n hide up in the rocks, and pick us off one at a time.”
“They might try it, but they’ll have a heckuva fight on their hands,” Jim said. “C’mon, let’s see if we can find any sign of where that bushwhacker was perched. Mebbe we can run him down before he gets far. If not, we’ll find him with the rest of his outfit. And when we do, he’ll be sorry he ever shot that kid. Bet your hats on it.”
Smoky looked at the smudge of dust which marked where Eddie and his brother rode deeper into the canyons. He gave a grim chuckle.
“What is it, Smoke?” Jim asked. “Somethin’ funny?”
“Not really,” Smoky answered. “It just occurred to me, after all the ribbin’ we gave you and Eddie about your bright shirts, it wasn’t either of you who took that bullet. It was Chuck, who was wearin’ a dull blue shirt.”
“Don’t matt
er none,” Jim said. “Shootin’ Chuck is just one more thing the Ghost Riders have gotta pay for.”
14
It was slightly less than an hour later when Eddie raced into Quitaque. Chuck was still seated behind him, leaning against him, his arms wrapped around his brother’s waist. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, his head lolling. Chuck slowed his horse and yelled at the first person he saw, a plump, gray-haired woman of about fifty.
“Where’s the doc’s office? I’ve got a badly wounded man here!”
The woman’s eyes widened.
“It’s at the other end of town, a white house with black shutters, and a picket fence around it. There’s a sign out front. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks, ma’am,” Chuck answered, putting Scotty into a gallop once again. A moment later, he was sliding the exhausted gray to a stop in front of the doctor’s house. “Dr. Keith Souter, Physician,” was painted on a sign, which hung on chains attached to the front porch roof.
“You’re gonna be all right now, Chuck,” Eddie said. “We’re at the doc’s.” He dismounted, then grabbed Chuck as he slid from Scotty’s rump. He carried him onto the porch and kicked open the front door, entering what was apparently the doctor’s waiting room. Several chairs, none occupied, were arranged along one wall.
“Doc! Where are you?” Eddie shouted. “I’ve got my brother here. He’s hurt, real bad.”
A gray haired man in his early sixties parted the curtains which covered the doorway at the opposite side of the room. He was slightly less than six feet tall, with silver-gray hair, receding in the front, and a goatee of the same hue. He was wiping his hands on a towel.
‘Take it easy, son. I’m right here,” he said, his voice quiet and calming. “Bring your brother right in.” He held the curtains open. “Right this way. We’ll go into that room, straight ahead. Lay him on the table there. You say he’s badly hurt. What happened to him?”
“He got shot, shot in his belly, Doc. You’ve gotta help him,” Eddie pleaded.
“Of course. Let me take a look at him, and I’ll see what I can do,” Souter said. “Lie him down, and help me get him undressed.”
“Sure, Doc.”
Chuck was placed on the indicated table. He moaned, and his eyes flickered open.
“Son, can you hear me? I’m Doctor Souter, and I’m going to try and help you get well. What’s your name?”
Chuck’s only response was an unintelligible mumble.
“His name’s Chuck, Doc,” Eddie said. “Chuck McIlroy. He’s my older brother. My name’s Eddie.”
“Very well. Let’s get his clothes off, so I can see exactly how serious his wound is,” Souter answered.
Chuck’s clothes were removed. Souter tsked softly when he saw the bandages tied around his middle. They were soaked through with blood.
“Your brother’s lost an awful lot of blood,” Souter noted, as he began to remove the bandages. “You said he got shot. About how long ago did that happen?”
“I dunno for certain,” Eddie answered. “About an hour ago, I guess. Back in the Caprock canyons. Me’n Chuck are Texas Rangers. We were ridin’ with some other Rangers, lookin’ for the Ghost Riders, when we got ambushed, and Chuck got hit.”
“You can tell me all that later, son,” Souter said. “Right now, the important thing is to start operating on your brother, and that has to be done immediately. If more than an hour goes past without treatment starting for a man shot in the abdomen, it’s virtually impossible to save him. And I’ll need your help, if you’re willing.”
“Eddie always did talk… too much,” Chuck murmured.
“You’re awake again. That’s good, son,” Souter said. “You just try’n rest. I know you’re in great pain. I need to get the bullet out of you, as quickly as possible. I hope your brother will help me with that.”
“Of course I’m willin’ to help, Doc. I’ll do anythin’ to save Chuck. He’s the only kin I’ve got left. The Ghost Riders killed our ma and pa.”
“I see,” Souter said. “Well, let me look at what we have here. The bullet hit your brother low, and on the left side of his abdomen. That’s one thing in our favor. It clearly missed the abdominal aorta, or he would have bled to death within minutes. It won’t have hit the liver, spleen, or any other vital organs, although it will have penetrated the intestines. That means there’s a high risk of infection. Do you know if he was hit with a rifle bullet, or one from a pistol?”
“It was a rifle,” Eddie answered.
“Then your brother was fortunate again. Since the bullet is still inside him, that means it must have been fired from some distance off, or it ricocheted before it hit him. He’ll have less internal damage than from a shot fired from closer range. Let me get my instruments down, then I’ll get to work.”
Souter took several jars from a shelf, as well as scalpels, forceps, probes, and the rest of his instruments. He opened two wooden boxes, and removed a strange looking apparatus from each. He placed the instruments in a basin, opened one of the jars, and poured its contents over the instruments.
“Eddie, this is carbolic solution,” he explained. “It sterilizes everything I use it on, to help prevent infection. You’ll need to wash your hands in it, if you are indeed going to assist me.”
“Of course, Doc.” He and Souter washed their hands, then wiped them on a carbolic soaked towel.
“Eddie, I’m going to explain to your brother what I’m about to do,” Souter said. “Chuck, can you hear me?”
Chuck mumbled what could be taken for a “yes”.
“Good,” Souter said. “Son, now that I know you can hear me, I want to explain what I need to do. You appear to have been lucky, in that the bullet was fired from far off and had mostly spent its flight up, or there wasn’t too much powder behind it. But your brother says it’s been close to an hour that he’s been riding with you, and, despite all of that improvised bandaging, the bullet is still inside you. In addition, you’ve lost a lot of blood. I have to open your belly to see what damage has been done, and I need to get that bullet out. If I don’t, then you’ll die.”
“I’m… gonna… die?” Chuck mumbled.
“No. Not if I can help it.” Souter held up one of the apparatuses. “However, I can’t have you awake while I operate. I’m going to put you to sleep with some chloroform I’m going to give you from this little box. It’s called a Chisholm inhaler. I’m going to put these tubes up your nose and drop the chloroform in. You’ll be asleep through it all. Are you ready?”
“I reckon… Doc.”
“Good. Then I’ll get started.”
Souter inserted the inhaler’s tubes into Chuck’s nostrils, then added the chloroform. The solution soon took effect, and Chuck was deeply sleeping.
“Eddie, I’m about to start operating,” Souter said. He handed the youngster the other apparatus, which consisted of a cylinder, attached jar, nozzle, and a hand crank.
“This is a Lister spray,” he explained. “It’s filled with the same carbolic solution you and I just washed with. Your job will be to spray the carbolic over the operation site as I work. That will hopefully help prevent your brother from getting an infection, which in a belly wound is almost always fatal. I’ll tell you when to spray, and when to stop. Do you understand?”
Eddie nodded.
“Good. Now, I’m about to make my incision. Aim the nozzle over the wound, then crank the handle to spray the solution.”
“All right, Doc.”
Eddie began to turn the Lister spray’s crank. Once the wound and the skin around it were soaked, Souter made his incision, slicing through flesh and muscle, then into the intestines.
“Just keep spraying as I work,” he told Eddie. “We need to make certain to sterilize as much of the intestines as we possibly can. Once I find the bullet and remove it, you’ll be able to stop. I’ll be swabbing out blood as I work.”
“Do you think he’s got a chance?” Eddie asked.
“I b
elieve so. The bullet penetrated the gut, of course, but I’ve seen men survive with worse damage. Ah, I think I’ve found where the bullet stopped. It’s in the muscles at the back of his abdominal wall.”
Souter picked up a pair of long forceps and inserted them into the incision in Chuck’s belly.
“Got it.” He pulled the forceps from inside the wounded man, then held them up for Eddie to inspect the slug.
“There it is. I’ll save it, in case he wants to have it for a souvenir. Now to make certain there’s no further damage, other than to the intestines. Then I can close your brother’s belly back up.”
Souter began cleansing Chuck’s intestines with more carbolic solution.
“Here’s more good news, Eddie,” he said. “There’s no damage to the ureters, those are the tubes that run from the kidneys to the bladder. I’m certain I don’t need to tell you, if they had been damaged, that your brother would be in serious trouble.”
“You mean he wouldn’t need a pot to pee in, Doc,” Eddie said. Souter groaned.
“Son, I’ll chalk up what you just said to your bein’ worried about your brother. Now, you see these loops of gut. The bullet put several holes through them. I’m going to repair those, using catgut and what’s called a continuous Glover’s suture. You just keep working that Lister spray. And no catgut jokes, please.”
“All right, Doc.”
Souter finished his work, cleaning the intestines with carbolic, suturing them where necessary. Finally, he closed up the incision in Chuck’s abdomen with silk sutures.
“I’m all finished, Eddie,” he said. “All I need to do now is take those bandages I have soaking in carbolic and cover the wound. Then, we’ll transfer your brother to a bed. He should be awake shortly, but he’ll be groggy. He’ll need lots of bed rest, of course. He’ll also only be allowed fluids for the next two days. After that he can have some soup, then a bland diet. He’ll need at least a week to recoup. After that, if everything goes well, he’ll be able to get out of bed, for short periods of time. I’m certain I don’t need to tell you that’s a very serious wound your brother has suffered. And if you hadn’t gotten him here when you did, he would not have survived.”
The Ghost Riders Page 25