The rain began to fall so hard it beat down on them like icy needles.
“One good thing to be said about the rain,” he shouted in her ear. “We don’t have to worry about being attacked by Indians or wild animals.”
“What a blessing,” she yelled back. As if an Indian or wild animal would be crazy enough to cross a flume.”
The flume began to slope downward, slowing their progress considerably. Logan kept a firm arm around her as she reached for one of the flimsy wooden posts that were spaced at three-foot intervals. She clung to the splintered stake until he joined her.
“That was perfect,” he said, taking her trembling body in his arms. “Now grab the next one.”
“I can’t!” she sobbed.
“You must. For the baby’s sake!”
It took some prodding, but he finally managed to get her to reach for the next stake, and the next. “Come on. You can do it. That’s a girl.”
When at last they reached the end of the flume, they were both soaked to the skin from rain and perspiration.
He helped her climb down the wooden frame of the flutter wheel. “Let’s get you back to the cabin,” he said, alarmed by how she trembled in his arms.
It was only a short distance to his cabin, but it was obvious to him that she was in no condition to walk. He picked her up and held her close to his chest. His foot slipped in the mud, but he managed to regain his balance.
With a pronounced limp, he carried her to his cabin, and set her down in front of the fire.
Handing her a dry blanket and shirt, he looked away while she stripped off her wet garments.
After donning dry clothes himself he helped her onto the pallet, arranging the pelts and blankets on top of her.
He then added kindling to the hot ashes in the fireplace, and when the pieces of dry wood caught fire, he tossed in a large log. He waited for the flames to take hold before returning to her side.
“Stay here.” He squeezed her icy cold hand and tucked it beneath the blankets. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded.
“I’ll find someone who knows about delivering babies,” he explained. He ran a knuckle across her pale cheek. “I won’t be long. Trust me.”
Her large liquid eyes searched his face. “I do trust you, Mr. St. John.”
He took in a deep breath. Her trust in him humbled him like nothing else ever could. He vowed to do everything in his power to validate her belief in him.
It was still raining hard when he left the cabin, and already the dirt street was under a foot of muddy water. He waded through the stream and into the Golden Hind Saloon.
It was crowded inside, and noisy. At the first sign of rain, the men had abandoned their claims and headed for town, intent upon spending the rest of the day gambling and drinking.
Logan threaded his way through the crowd toward the bar where a man named Slick McGuire played a tune on his mouth organ.
“Need to talk to you,” Logan said.
McGuire looked at him curiously, wiped his mouth organ on his red flannel shirt, and slipped it into the pocket of his canvas pants. He was in his late twenties, but his Irish good looks and shaggy hair made him appear younger.
“You married, right?”
“That’s right.”
“And you have a child, right?”
“Two. A boy and girl.”
“Two, uh? Then you’re the man I’m looking for. What do you know about birthing?”
McGuire scratched his temple. “Birthin’?”
“You know, what happened when your wife—you know—was ready to have the babies?’
“Ah don’t know.”
Logan considered this for a moment. “Why do you suppose that is?”
“That’s the way women like it.”
“Is that so?”
“Ah have it on good authority. Women don’t want nothin’ ta do with men when their time comes.” McGuire reached for his glass, gulped his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why do ya want ta know? Ya worried about your woman?”
“She’s not my woman. But yeah, I’m worried about her. It’s her time. Anyone else here married?’
“Keefer is. Has eleven children.” McGuire raised his hand and motioned to a short, red-faced man with mutton chop side whiskers. “Keefer, come over here a minute.” He waited for Keefer to join them. “Logan here says it’s his woman’s time. Do ya know anything ‘bout birthin’?”
Keefer slapped Logan on the shoulder. “Congratulations, boy. How far ‘long is she?”
“A couple of hours is all.”
“Well, don’t expect much to happen before morning.”
“Anything I can do to help her along.”
“Boil water. Lots and lots of water.”
That made sense to Logan. Come to think of it, he’d heard something about babies and boiling water. “And….”
Keefer frowned. “And what?’
“What do I do with the water?’
“How in blazes would I know?”
Logan grabbed Keefer by the collar. “Drat, Keefer, think! This is an emergency. What do they do with the water?”
Keefer’s eyes grew wide. “They ain’t a whole lot you can do with boiling water, ‘cept drink it.”
Logan released him. “Drink it? You mean like tea?”
Keefer shrugged. “Why not? I’ve heard tell that tea has magical healing powers.”
“You could be right,” Logan said.
Keefer brightened. “Maybe the hot water softens the bones. You know, so the baby has room to move around more.”
Logan had never heard of anything so ridiculous, but McGuire, who had been listening to this exchange, nodded in agreement. “Makes sense to me.” He pulled out his harmonica and mouthed a scale. “Makes perfect sense.”
Logan put aside his misgivings. If these two experienced men believed it was possible to soften bones then who was he to argue?
Chapter 12
Logan raced out of the Golden Hind as fast as his leg would allow.
Back at his cabin, he pulled off his dripping wet clothes. Rivulets of water streamed from the fringes of his shirt.
Mrs. Summerfield watched him from the pallet, her eyes filled with hope. “You found someone?”
He forced a smile for the purpose of offering encouragement. It made no sense to alarm her. “Found myself two experts,” he said cheerfully. “Now I know exactly what to do.”
She looked unconvinced, but before she could question him further, he explained. “Hot water, that’s the secret.”
He hauled a bucket of water to the fireplace and filled the large black iron kettle with water. He then hung the kettle on the hinged bar that ran the length of the fireplace, and added another log. While the water heated, he did what he could to make Libby comfortable. Mainly, he talked her through the pains. “Come on, now. You can do it,” he’d say, or “Breathe through your mouth,”
It seemed to take forever for the water to heat, but finally steam shot out of the spout, and the fire sizzled when water bubbled over the sides of the kettle. He filled a cup and carried it to her.
“I have it on good authority that this will help,” he explained. “Drink up.”
For once in her life, she did as he commanded without argument or undue discussion. She stopped drinking only when another pain gripped her, but resumed once it had subsided. No sooner would she finish one cup than he promptly refilled it.
“No more,” she whispered after the fifth or sixth cup.
“Come on, now,” he coaxed, “This will help soften the bones.”
Rather than comfort her, this only made the lines of worry on her face more pronounced. “I don’t want soft bones.”
“Trust me on this, Mrs. Summerfield. You want soft bones. Come on, now, drink up.”
Between forcing water down her, escorting her back and forth to the outhouse and helping her through contractions Logan was plain tuckere
d out. He had no idea giving birth was so much work.
Around midnight, a knock came at the door. It was McGuire. “Just wanted to know how ya woman is doing?”
Logan hushed him and stepped onto the porch, closing the door softly behind him. During the last hour or so, the rain had turned to snow and patches of white had drifted onto his porch. “She seems to be having a hard time.” Logan explained. It was cold outside and he hugged himself to keep warm as they talked. “A real hard time.”
McGuire nodded, his breath a white mist in the darkness. “All woman have a hard time.”
. “Is that right?” If true that was encouraging news.
“Yep. Like Ah said, Ah’ve gone through this twice already. Ya giving her
‘nough boiling water?”
“Every twenty minutes or so.”
“That should do the trick.”
Upon hearing her call his name, Logan said a hasty good night and
hurried inside. “What is it, Mrs. Summerfield?” he asked anxiously. He rushed to her bedside and dropped to his knees, ignoring the pain that shot through the one. He couldn’t think about his bad leg. Not tonight.
“I didn’t know where you were.” She whispered so softly he had to lean over her to make out the words.
“I’m right here,” he whispered back. He brushed a lock of damp hair
from her forehead. In the soft glow of the oil light, she looked exhausted and pale. Her eyes were bright, almost feverish in appearance.
“I’m afraid for the baby,” she said through parched lips. “It’s taking so
long.”
“It’s supposed to take this long,” he said. “I have it on good authority. What you need is more bone softener.”
Her pains came at five-minute intervals for the rest of the night. At first Logan thought he’d imagined the regularity by which the pains struck. But when he started timing them, counting off the minutes in his head, he discovered he’d been right; the pains were exactly five minutes apart. It was absolutely amazing.
Toward dawn, the pains grew worse and were coming at three-minute intervals. Her disposition had changed considerably in the last hour or so. She was downright ornery. Not only did she refuse to drink the hot water; she kept kicking off the covers.
He did his best to keep her calm, but her strength amazed him. Both of his arms were black and blue from where she’d pressed her fingers into his flesh during the night.
No wonder men stayed away during birthing. It was down-right dangerous. After one particular painful onslaught, he handed her a rawhide strap and told her to bite down on it.
He used the increasingly short time between each contraction to best advantage. He sponged her damp forehead with cool water and straightened the pelts around her. He added more wood to the fire and checked the wall for drafts, plugging up even the tiniest crack with pieces of fur or rawhide.
Now that the rain had turned to snow, the ceiling was no longer dripping. But puddles of water still dotted the floor, making it difficult to walk.
She dozed between contractions, but as soon as her body began to writhe, he rushed to her side and took her in his arms. Holding her, he rocked her until the pain subsided.
“Make it go away,” she cried out after one particular painful contraction.
“I wish I could,” he said, feeling inadequate and as useless, as Jim Bridger would say, a four-card flush. It had been a long time since he wanted anything as much as he wanted to make her pains go away.
By midmorning, snow covered the streets of Deadman’s Gulch. He made his way to the creek behind his cabin, stepping over the patches of ice that had formed along the banks. Filling his bucket with freezing cold water, he carried it back to the cabin, his moccasins sinking into the new-fallen snow.
For the last two hours, Mrs. Summerfield’s pains had been only a minute or two apart, giving her little chance to rest in-between times. It didn’t seem possible that a human body could endure such torture. He stood by her bed and feared for her life.
It suddenly occurred to him how very little he knew about her. She could die in his cabin and he wouldn’t even know who to write to, or where to send her pitiful few belongings. It had not occurred to him to ask her about her family, or what to do should something unforeseen happen. She seemed so vital, so alive. So unlike Catherine who had seemed fragile from the start. It didn’t seem fair that something as natural as birthing could put a young woman at such risk. Why didn’t God prepare women better?
She moaned and called his name. “Mr. St. John….”
“Call me Logan,” he said softly, kneeling by her side and taking her hand. “Do you want more water?”
“Mercy, no!”
He couldn’t help but smile at the stubborn and determined look she gave him. She still had some fight left and that was encouraging. His spirits lifted, and he squeezed her hand.
“Mrs. Summerfield…”
“Call me Libby.
“Libby.” Her name felt good in his mouth, good to his ears. “Where you’d get a name like that?”
She smiled. “My name is Elizabeth, but my sister couldn’t pronounce it so she called me Libby. I’m afraid it stuck.”
“It’s a nice name,” he hastened to assure her. “I never knew a Libby before.”
“I never knew a Logan.”
“I was named Kwatoko by my Indian mother. It means eagle.”
“How did you get Logan out of Kwatoko?’
“My father was a terrible speller.” He grinned. “He also had a hearing problem. He swore to his dying day that my mother called me Logan.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” she pleaded.
“I’m sorry.”
“Logan.” She tugged at his shirt, drawing him closer. “If anything happens
to me—” She stiffened and shut her eyes.
Watching the shadow of pain darken her face, he wrapped his arms around her. She gripped his hands until he thought the bones in his fingers would break. Her earlier moans had long since been replaced with loud cries. But this last pain brought a gut-wrenching scream. Finally, her body stilled and she loosened her grip on him. “Should anything happens—”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“Please…the baby?”
He searched her face, hoping he’d misunderstood. He hadn’t considered the possibility that the baby might survive all this, even if Libby did not. That he might be left with an orphan to care for.
What did he know about a baby? What did he know about anything? He’d lived thirty-six years and suddenly he realized how little he knew about life.
“Would you take care of…of my baby?”
He stared at her. It was as if she were holding back the pain until she had his answer. What could he say to her? Yes, he would take care of her child? Him? A mountain man? A mountain man with a bad leg and no future?
Another pain gripped her and he sensed that this one was different from the others. Why he thought this, he couldn’t say. But he did, and as her body lashed back and forth and the cries seemed to claw at the walls like frantic talons, he leaned toward her and whispered in her ear.
“I’ll take care of your baby.”
No sooner had he spoken the words than something quieted inside her. A smile touched her pale lips, fading slowly as she escaped into sleep.
Knowing that he had only a minute or two until the next pain, he quickly wrung out a cloth in tepid water and wiped the beads of perspiration off her forehead. Her hair was soaked; her dress clung to her body.
He rubbed his hand against the two-day growth on his chin. It seemed like he should be doing something more for her.
He felt the same frustration now as he had years earlier when he was fifteen and his father lay dying from the wounds suffered from a grizzly attack. With the invincibility of youth, he’d been convinced he could save his father. What a jarring experience it had been to face the truth.
He’d felt utterly alone that long-ago night wa
tching his father die in his arms. Alone and helpless. He felt just as alone and just as helpless several years later watching his young English bride fade away before his very eyes.
The daughter of a British businessman who purchased pelts from Logan, she’d been captured by Paiute. Catherine’s father was an honest, hardworking man who preferred Logan’s prime pelts to the less expensive lower grade ones peddled by some free trappers. When he asked for Logan’s help in rescuing his daughter, Logan didn’t hesitate a moment. He knew the chief and his Indian blood from his mother’s side made him close enough to the tribe to give him bargaining power. It cost him an entire season’s worth of prime beaver pelts, but he’d made the trade. Unfortunately, Catherine had already been ravished by several braves. Knowing that she would be marked a fallen woman, she refused to return home.
At the time Logan felt he had no choice but to marry her. Indeed, wanted to. He never thought of her as anything but a perfect lady. She was not responsible for what had happened, and he never understood how anyone could think otherwise. But even she blamed herself. She’d been accosted by a band of braves in their prime, and she berated herself for not putting up more of a fight!
He knew from the start that she married him out of gratitude and desperation. He also suspected that she thought she deserved no better than a wild, uncivilized mountain man. He never had a chance to prove himself more. Truth to tell, there never was more, and, in her eyes, considerably less.
She’d hated the wilderness, hated the home he built for her, hated the isolation. Out of desperation, he agreed to move to St. Louis but, strangely enough, they were as isolated in the city as they were in the wilderness. No respectable citizen would think of socializing with a woman married to a mountain man, and ravished by savages.
Much to his horror, she grew thinner and more listless each day, until even her eyes lost their luster.
Alarmed, he booked passage on an ocean liner, thinking to take her back to London. She’d rallied during the preparations for their trip, and he thought the worst was over. He thought wrong. She died en route, and some said it was from a broken heart. He was convinced she willed herself to die.
A knock at the door brought him out of his reverie. He brushed his hand across Libby’s forehead before leaving her side. It was McGuire again.
Margaret Brownley Page 10