Hope In Cripple Creek

by Sara R. Turnquist

  David, for his part, kept his mouth shut and ears open. Uneasiness crept into his being, but he attempted to push it down. There would be no use in working himself up. Several minutes later, he spotted their leader, whose name he still had not caught.

  The man walked toward one end of the gathering and waved his arms, trying to get the group’s attention. At length, the rumble of voices calmed and everyone turned toward him. Only then did he speak.

  “I know you are all eager to hear about our negotiations with the mine owners. I will not make you wait any longer. They have agreed to keep the workday at eight hours.”

  Excited utterances sounded all around David. How could they have accomplished this? Did they truly overpower these larger-than-life men? It couldn’t be that simple, could it?

  “But, but, but . . . ” The leader attempted to get everyone’s attention again. “They will reduce our pay to $2.50 a day.”

  Another murmur went through the crowd, this time it was not so pleasant. These men, who seconds ago believed they had out-done their overseers, were now finding out they had been out-done themselves. And it did not sit well with them.

  “Do not think this is the end, brothers. We have thought long and hard about this. Our power is great when we stand together, but we need the protection of greater numbers and assistance from those who know this path better. The Free Coinage Union proposes we join the Western Federation of Miners.”

  David did not know how this suggestion would help them. Their leader’s confidence and assurances appeared to sway many votes. Maybe they felt there was nothing to lose. David, not so much. His thoughts kept shifting back to his wife and two little ones. Would they truly receive some manner of help from this so-called Federation, or were they stuck in this awful situation? Shrugging his shoulders, he was too discouraged to object to this man’s plan.

  It wasn’t even that he had faith in the Western Federation of Miners. In the end, it seemed the Free Coinage Union had done all they could do. So why not ask for help from another larger, more experienced union? What could go wrong?

  * * *

  As the sun set, Wyatt dragged himself from the clinic and made his way over to the makeshift hospital. These long days and short nights had blurred together and he’d lost count. But he was confident in Katherine’s ability to hold things together. She had proven herself more than capable of caring for the patients there, and most of them were recovering well. He did wonder if he might be avoiding the hospital . . . or Katherine. The more time he spent in her company, the more confused he became. She was tender and caring toward the patients. And she seemed to have developed a level of trust in him, but there was something more there, bubbling just under the surface. Something she held back.

  She had not been the same since Charlotte’s death weeks ago. Just as diligent with her patients, something in her step was lacking. Something about her affect had diminished. Would it ever return? Even as they had made some sort of turnaround with the plague and began to see more recoveries than deaths, she did not brighten.

  Perhaps he made too much of it. She did have concerns about the patients under her care. Maybe that was all there was to it. Right now, Mr. Wilder’s health had been giving her reason for worry. He exhibited many of the same signs so many patients did in their last days.

  As Wyatt stepped through the door to the schoolhouse, he was not at all surprised when Katherine waved him over to Mr. Wilder’s bedside. Beginning with his vitals, Wyatt found him to be more lucid than he had been and stronger.

  “Have you been giving him the medicine?” Wyatt checked the man’s abdomen for swelling.

  “Yes.” Her voice was strained.

  Wyatt could understand. Even though Mr. Wilder showed improvement, so had Charlotte and many others before the end. After a thorough examination, Wyatt was rather pleased when he finally leaned back. He offered Katherine a smile.

  “He’s over the worst of it. He’ll make it.” Wyatt stood to his full height and placed a hand on Katherine’s arm. “Good work, Katherine.”

  Though it was wholly unnecessary, he allowed his hand to remain on her arm, unsure himself just why he did so. At least she did not push him away.

  Her face broke into a tired smile, and he thought he could see moisture touch her eyes. Each patient that pulled through was a miracle. She looked up at Wyatt and opened her mouth. His gaze was fixed on her every movement.

  Whatever she intended to say was cut off as the schoolhouse door opened. They both turned to see Timothy walk in.

  Wyatt dropped his hand from Katherine’s arm and stifled a groan. But he noted Timothy bore with him a picnic basket, and Wyatt was glad for it. He had become concerned that Katherine expended all of her energy caring for these patients and not enough considering her own needs. At least Timothy looked after her.

  Gathering his instruments and his bag, he prepared to leave as Timothy moved toward them. He would come later and check the remaining patients.

  “Mr. Wilder is going to pull through,” Katherine said, closing the distance between her and Timothy.

  Wyatt could not miss the smile on her face for Timothy, who set the basket down and took her hands.

  Wyatt felt as if he was intruding. Moving toward the door, he nodded at Timothy as he passed.

  The two continued to speak softly to each other as Wyatt stepped out of the schoolhouse. Why did it cause his heart to constrict so?

  No sooner had he shut the door than he heard Timothy’s frantic cry.

  “Wyatt! Wyatt!”

  Wyatt rushed back into the makeshift hospital to see Timothy lifting Katherine’s limp body. A trail of blood came from her nose, and he feared the worst.

  “She complained of a slight headache, said she hadn’t been feeling herself lately . . . ” Timothy babbled. “Then she just collapsed.”

  Not caring that Timothy was there, Wyatt ripped at the front of Katherine’s dress. He had to see the top of her chest. Sure enough, there were the telltale rose spots.

  “Let’s get her onto one of these beds,” he commanded. His heart thumped louder in his chest than he imagined possible.

  “Is it . . . ?” Timothy started.

  Wyatt nodded. “She has the typhoid.” He pulled out his stethoscope and listened for her heartbeat—steady, but slow.

  Wyatt’s breath quickened and his chest tightened. He needed a plan. “There is a room available at the clinic as soon as I can have it cleaned.” He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood streaking out of Katherine’s nose, trying to ignore the fact that his hands were shaking.

  Timothy’s eyes were on him as he worked. “Who will tend to the patients here?”

  “Most of the patients at the clinic and the hospital are well enough to return home. Enough that we can move those still sick here to the clinic. I’ll need some help getting rooms cleaned and prepared.” Now that her face was clean, Wyatt applied pressure to Katherine’s nasal passage. “Keep pressure on this until it stops bleeding. And stay with her until I return.”

  Timothy nodded, turning his attention back to Katherine.

  Wyatt moved to leave the schoolhouse, but turned at the door to look back at Katherine. Timothy stroked her hair and spoke to her. Of course, Wyatt could not hear what he was saying. Perhaps he prayed over her, maybe he spoke words of comfort. Either way, Wyatt felt a strange pang as he watched the scene.

  Dismissing it as concern for Katherine’s health, he became aware he was spying on an intimate moment once again. So he headed back toward the clinic to prepare a place for his newest patient.

  Katherine had worked tirelessly, tending to patients these last several days. He should have seen this coming, should have insisted she rest more. But it was done now, and he was determined this was one patient he would not lose.

  * * *

  The Matthews’ homestead was just as Lauren preferred it—full of fun and laughter. She bounced her grandson on her knee, listening as the small toddler squealed with joy.
Was there a more beautiful sound in the world?

  “Ride the horsey,” she exclaimed to the chubby, smiling face.

  She adored her grandchildren and couldn’t get enough of them. Every time Mary brought them over for the day to visit, Lauren was grateful. They always had the best time together. Mary was a gift to their family.

  But today, Lauren knew something weighed on Mary. Perhaps because David had a lot weighing on him. Tom told her some of what had been going on at the mine. Why wouldn’t her son see reason and come back to work at the ranch with his father? Despite her wishes, he had to make his own decisions. And pushing him would do none of them any good.

  “Grandma, look what I made!” Jessie’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She glanced across the room toward the dining table to see her granddaughter beaming as she held up a drawing of a horse. It was a pitiful, scraggly, scrawny thing, but to Lauren, it was a work of art.

  “That’s nice, Jessie. Can you make Grandma another one?”

  Jessie bobbed her pretty brown head and turned her attention to a fresh page. That should buy her and Mary another ten minutes of peace.

  Leaning back in the armchair, Lauren shifted her attention back to Mary, who appeared to be deep in thought. Clearing her throat to break into the younger woman’s thoughts, she tried to broach the subject they had been dancing around. “When does David start his longer shift?”

  “He started this week,” Mary said, eyebrows raised. She seemed surprised Lauren knew about it.

  “David told Tom, and Tom mentioned it to me,” Lauren explained. “I could see you were saddened and I figured . . . ” She let her sentence trail. One day soon Mary would learn that not many secrets were kept well in this family.

  Mary nodded, her whole body seeming to sigh in resignation. “It’s been hard on him. All of this union talk. And then it came to nothing.”

  Lauren offered her a sympathetic look. What could she say or do that would give her daughter-in-law some comfort? There were no words, so she reached over and squeezed Mary’s hand.

  Mary’s lips curled into a small smile. After a moment she opened her mouth to speak but stopped, tilting her head.

  Lauren was about to ask her what gave her pause when she heard it too—the sound of a horse galloping at full speed. And it drew closer to the homestead.

  “I wonder who that could be at this hour,” Lauren said, looking over at Mary. Neither woman expected her husband. And whoever it was came in a big hurry.

  Lauren passed Peter over to his mother and walked to the window to get a better view of their unexpected guest. She eyed the rifle Tom insisted she keep loaded in the house as she passed it. Once at the window, she was able to make out the form of the town’s reverend and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Absentmindedly, she ran her hands over her dress, smoothing it out. She watched as the reverend tied up his horse and approached the porch. But he stopped several steps shy of the door. That didn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t he come in? Lauren stepped out on the porch.

  “Reverend, please come in.” She waved at him.

  “No, ma’am, I dare not,” Timothy said, out of breath from his ride. “I do not wish to spread the typhoid.”

  “Do you have typhoid, Timothy?” Lauren asked, concerned. But that would be silly. He wouldn’t be riding about if he were sick.

  “No, but one cannot be too careful.”

  Mary, with Peter in her arms, came up behind Lauren at the door. The two women shared a look. Why would Timothy now think he might have the typhoid? Lauren turned her attention back to Timothy.

  “If you haven’t come to call on us, what brings you out here?” Fear pricked at the edge of her consciousness.

  “It’s Katherine,” Timothy said, starting to catch his breath.

  Lauren’s heart froze. “Katherine?”

  “She has the typhoid.”

  Dread and determination battled for domination in her heart. But her desire after her child won over in a heartbeat. “Then I must go to her at once!” Lauren said, stepping back into the house and grabbing for her shawl.

  “No!” He held up his hands as if to stop her. “You cannot risk yourself, Mrs. Matthews.”

  “I most certainly can!” What was he saying? No one would stop her from seeing her daughter. No one.

  “Dr. Sullivan would never allow it. He has quarantined the clinic where he has the few remaining patients. And he refuses to let anyone in,” Timothy explained.

  Lauren leaned against the doorframe, eyes closed, thoughts swirling. She felt desperate to get to Katherine, but that was not the best course of action. Her heart fought her better judgment and, in the end, her will gained the upper hand.

  Turning back to the reverend, she met his gaze. “You must tell me everything.”

  * * *

  Mr. & Mrs. Matthews,

  Greetings. I only wish our correspondence was under better circumstances. But I feel the burden is upon myself to keep you informed as to Katherine’s condition. Dr. Sullivan wishes he had the time to write to you himself. Nonetheless, I feel it is my duty to continue to visit the clinic and communicate with Dr. Sullivan about the condition of the townspeople within.

  There remain but a few patients in the clinic. I took my own case to Dr. Sullivan that I be allowed to assist in nursing these patients, including Katherine, back to health. He was unmoved by the force of my petition, however, and the quarantine holds. Dr. Sullivan sees to those in the clinic on his own. But he tells me all of the patients are in various stages of recovery. All, that is, except for Katherine.

  It seems by the time we discovered she had become ill, she was well along into the second stage of the typhoid. I am sorry to tell you she spends little time each day lucid. Please take some comfort in knowing that her delirium is not violent. She is not at risk of harming herself or others. I wish I had more to share with you and that the news I bear is not of such nature as it is. But I promise to you I will send these reports to you daily until Katherine is fully recovered.

  I write this with heavy hand, but I must admit I blame myself for not seeing the signs of her illness sooner. I was distracted. And I will have a hard time finding forgiveness for myself as she is in such a state. And so I leave you with this: not an hour goes by that I will not be in deep prayer for her return to full health.

  Regards,

  Reverend Timothy

  * * *

  Many days passed without many changes. Wyatt set a strict quarantine at the clinic. No one, not even the reverend, was permitted through the doors. Miss Abby would send food for Wyatt and fresh broth for the patients. It was left outside the door with a brisk knock before she scurried away. And Wyatt couldn’t be more thankful. If not for the constant reminder, he probably would have stopped eating. Even so, his meals were never consumed at warm temperatures.

  Wyatt prepared to take the bowls of broth to his patients. The stairs stretched before him, seemingly rising higher than they ever had. He had been relying on less and less sleep since Katherine had come to the clinic. Yes, even as his worn thoughts ran through the states of the patients within the rooms upstairs, he found his mind dwelling where it always did—on Katherine.

  He spent the majority of his day with her. Rightfully so, he told himself. She was on the brink, at the edge. And that made him all the more determined. Intent that he would pull her through . . . somehow.

  Now at the top of the stairs, he stepped into the first room. He forced himself to keep his mind on this patient, Mrs. Simmons. They all deserved his attention, but he also knew that once he entered Katherine’s room, there he would remain. The rest of the clinic tenants were all but recovered and demanded less of his time.

  “Dr. Sullivan,” Mrs. Simmons greeted him, sitting up in her bed.

  Wyatt balanced the tray of small bowls as he propped the door open and moved closer to the bed. He set the bowls on a stand near the door and brought one over to her. Instead of giving it to her, he placed it on the nightstand
. Checking her pulse, heartbeat, and abdomen, he went through his routine. Everything seemed well enough.

  “I know I keep asking this, Doc. But I’m rather anxious to get home,” Mrs. Simmons managed to say as he moved his hands over her neck.

  It wasn’t just that he heard this from Mrs. Simmons every time he saw her, he heard this from every patient in the clinic. Almost every patient. Katherine wasn’t in any condition to be asking such questions. Pushing her from his thoughts, he focused on Mrs. Simmons.

  “It will be tomorrow.” He leaned back and offered her a smile. “As long as you can manage to behave yourself.”

  The older woman grinned at his tease. “Good. I can’t imagine my Otis is fairing well without me.”

  Wyatt patted her hand. “You won’t have to worry about that much longer. Now, I’d like you to finish your broth.” He stood and started toward the door.

  The woman made an exasperated sound. “I’ll be happy to get some biscuits and gravy when I get home.”

  Turning, Wyatt raised an eyebrow and one side of his mouth turned up. “Make sure you send me some.” With that, he closed the door and left Mrs. Simmons in peace.

  Patient after patient, the rest were much the same. Some would be released the next day, some over a couple of days. He wanted to be certain everyone had recovered before unleashing them on the general populace.

  At last, he closed the door to the last patient’s room and found himself standing in front of Katherine’s door. Drawing in a breath, he felt a strange reluctance to enter. Why so, he could not discern. She was his patient, and he needed to care for her. He could not do that from the hallway. Neither could he deny he tired of fighting this unforgiving foe. And so he steeled himself against his warring emotions and opened the door.

  Katherine lay in the same condition she had been for the last several days—still, in sleep on the bed. No one would ever know from this distance that anything was wrong. They could mistake her visage as that of a dreaming form. But a few steps into the room would break that presumption. She was covered in sweat from high fever and, every few minutes, muttered nonsensical things.