by Lyn Cote
Suddenly, Mercy missed Lon Mackey. Had the whole town come out to work together—even ill-natured, stingy Ma Bailey—while he had stayed behind? Could it be that he was truly gone already? Lon Mackey, if thee is still here, thee must come. Thee will never forgive thyself if men die and thee did nothing. Thee may deny that, but I know thee better.
The long evening stretched into a long night, and the rushing wind brought the scent of rain. Mercy wrapped her shawl more tightly around herself. Men kept working, digging through the blocked mine shaft. The sound of their picks and shovels could be heard even above the surging wind. The men took turns coming out periodically to warm their hands by the fire, drink strong coffee and swallow any food handed to them.
The mothers had returned with their children. They had tucked them, wrapped in blankets and quilts, into mining wagons to sleep together, to comfort one another. It was touching to see little children patting each other and talking softly.
In light of the coming storm, large canvas sheets had been set up and lashed over the wagons, making snug tents. Mercy and the mothers clutched shawls around themselves and paced around the fire, shivering and praying.
Distant thunder sounded against the stiff wind, stirring the night. She found herself glancing at the mining shack where the rescuers would take anyone they carried out. And then her gaze would return to the fire at the mine entrance. There lantern lights flickered as men went in and out.
The impetuous, worrisome storm rushed toward them—closer, closer. Over the western mountains, lightning flickered ominously. Which would come first—survivors from the mine or the big storm bearing down on them? Finally worn out, she leaned back against one of the wagons filled with sleeping children.
“Mercy.”
She jerked upright. Lon was standing beside her. He had come. Golden joy surged within her spirit. She threw her arms around him, so solid, stalwart—so welcome.
Bright lightning splintered overhead.
Sudden thunder hammered like a blacksmith working iron.
By the crackling lightning, she glimpsed two men carrying a miner from the cavelike entrance. She ran toward them, Lon’s hand in hers. Lon jogged beside her, trying to make himself heard. Mercy couldn’t understand what Lon was shouting in her ear, but there was no time to stop. The brunt of the violent storm had reached them.
Lightning flashed quick and steady like the tapping of a telegraph key. Cold rain poured down on them, snatching Mercy’s breath. Thunder pounded, battered them. Jagged lightning streaked, struck and ignited.
The cold rain had soaked Lon in a moment.
Struck by lightning, a nearby tall pine exploded, flinging branches, pine needles and flaming sparks over them. Mercy ducked as Lon threw his arm around her shoulders to protect her.
When they reached the men with the stretcher, one of them shouted into Lon’s ear, but Lon couldn’t hear the words over the thunder. Then another two men came out carrying a man by the shoulders and feet. Mercy waved the men toward the mining shack. Lon continued into the mine. Maybe he hadn’t delayed too long, maybe he had come at the right time to help support the injured as they staggered out.
Thunder continued, blasting overhead like an artillery barrage. The sound battered him physically, shook him until his teeth rattled. Then an explosion like a cannon shell threw him to the mud.
Panic. He yelled, his voice vanishing into the maelstrom. Rocks cascaded down the slopes around them. Some bounced high, barreling into the valley where he lay facedown. He covered his head with his arms. Squeezed his eyes shut. And prayed.
At last the earth ceased vibrating. He opened his eyes and sucked in air. He was alive. He hadn’t been snatched up in the whirlwind. Pushing up with both hands, he got to his feet. He staggered and caught himself.
The storm was already past them, moving east. Yet the flashing lightning still illuminated the surroundings. And thunder boomed so close, too close.
When he looked to the mine, he gasped, shock rippling through him. An avalanche of rocks had fallen, blocking the entrance. Dear God, help.
He glanced around for Mercy. Was she out of harm’s way? He saw an oil lamp shining dimly through the mine shack window, illuminating her silhouette. She was safe.
Soon he was surrounded by the few men left and several women. He couldn’t tell if it was rain or tears streaming down their faces. They all looked to him, beseeching him to tell them what to do.
The urge to turn tail and run hit him like a blast of buckshot. But one glance at their faces and he was powerless to desert them. “Form lines!” he shouted against the receding yet still roaring thunder. “Like bucket brigades! Start moving out rock! If it’s too big to lift, roll it!”
He ran forward and they followed. He hefted a large rock and then started it down the line. Two more lines formed. The horror of what had just happened twisted inside him like the tightening of a screw. The rescuers had been swallowed up by the avalanche, along with Digger, the mine manager.
Even as the work began, he despaired. There weren’t enough rescuers. Too many had been swallowed by the mine. How many would they find still alive?
The rocks cut his soft gambler palms, gouged his knuckles. If only there were more hands. Then he saw movement by the light of the retreating storm. Suddenly, another line formed beside his. Who was it?
Then he saw—the Chinese had come to help. The men formed another line and began moving rock away from the blocked entrance. He didn’t know why they’d come to help. But he was humbly grateful. Choked up, he couldn’t utter even a word of welcome.
The rock brigades worked steady and determined for hours. The storm finally moved beyond their valley, no doubt still spreading destruction eastward. Lon’s arms and back ached. The black night wrapped around them. Drenched, Lon shivered in the cold. He gasped for air.
Occasionally a man would grunt; a woman would moan. Someone was praying aloud—the Twenty-third Psalm. The phrase “the valley of the shadow of death” repeated in his mind. Lord, bring the sunrise. Let some live.
Mercy had never passed a more terrifying night. First the cave-in, then the storm, terrifying in its destruction. Rampaging thunder. Lightning exploding and flaming about. Then rocks pouring down, shattering, crashing, smothering.
In the mining shack, she stood, looking out the one small window into the murky gray of predawn and an early mist. Her arms were folded as if holding back a well of shock and distress. Was Lon still out there working? She didn’t know and couldn’t leave her patients to find out.
A moan sounded behind her. She turned to one of her two patients lying on the earthen floor and took his pulse. She hadn’t been able to do much for either of them. She had managed to clean the area around their gashes and stop the bleeding. But if they had sustained internal injuries, there was nothing she could do.
A knock sounded on the door. Indigo rose from the floor and opened it. The pastor of the church where Mercy had been speaking just hours before peered in.
“We haven’t spoken directly, but I’m Pastor Stephen Willis. My wife and I have prepared the church for the injured.”
“Thank You, Jesus,” Indigo murmured. Mercy repeated the words silently.
“The wagon is all ready to take the injured there,” he said.
Mercy looked at her two patients, who took up almost all the floor space. Only these two had been brought out of the mine before the storm and avalanche. How many remained trapped? How many remained alive? Tears clogged her throat.
Indigo must have sensed this. She responded for Mercy, “We just have these two so far, Pastor. I’ll help you carry them to the wagon.”
Mercy wished she could give in to the tears that crouched just behind her eyes. However, she knew intuitively that any show of emotion on her part would weaken her reputation as a physician. Male doctors showed little emotion—she must do the same or be dismissed as just an emotional female.
She sighed and put her bonnet on again. She prayed for the men sti
ll trapped in the mine as she went out into the chill, damp fog that misted her face. She glanced at the lines of people ferrying rock away from the mine entrance. Ma Bailey had somehow got a fire started in spite of the heavy soaking they’d received. She was giving mugs of steaming coffee to tired workers.
Then the fog lifted; Mercy halted. She looked more closely toward one line passing rock away from the avalanche. The Chinese men were working along with the Americans. Praise for God flowed through her. How touching that these unwanted strangers in this land were willing to help in this time of disaster. And she hadn’t imagined Lon arriving, or the feel of his arm protecting her. A few times last night she’d doubted her memory. Lon was still there, directing the rescue. He had come late, but he had come.
Mercy hurried to Lon. He broke away from the brigade and took her hands in his. “Mercy, where are you taking the injured?”
She felt the roughness of his hands. “Pastor Willis has opened his church as a hospital.” She wished she had time to treat his lacerated hands.
“The progress is slow.” He wiped his grimy, damp forehead with his sleeve. Once again, Lon’s flashy gambler clothing clashed with the man and his actions in a crisis. Thee may try to make thyself and everyone else believe thee wants to live as a gambler, Lon Mackey. Thee will never make me believe it.
“How are thee faring?” she asked, leaning close to catch his low voice.
He squeezed her hands in reply. Someone called to him. “Take care,” he said as he rushed off.
“And thee!” she called after him, missing his touch immediately. A spark of warmth flared within—hope.
Lon glanced over his shoulder, watching Mercy and Indigo mounting a buckboard. A man with a clerical collar was helping them up. He wished he could call her back. Her presence always lent strength. But another woman already sat in the wagon bed, obviously to help Mercy. Two pairs of feet protruded from the end of the wagon bed. They must be taking the two victims of the cave-in to town. Were they being taken for treatment or burial?
Death. Death was their real enemy, their constant adversary, always ready to suck out their breath and put them in the ground.
A shout sounded. Lon turned.
“We’re through!” one of the miners yelled.
Lon hurried to the hole they had finally cleared through the rock barrier. “Let’s be careful. We need to widen this opening and get a rescuer who will fit through it.”
One of the Chinese waved and bowed. “I can go through.” Lon blinked away deep emotion that was trying to surface. These immigrants were barely deemed human by many of the miners they were offering to save. Their willingness to help was humbling.
“Thanks,” Lon said, returning the bow.
The Chinese man said, “I Chen Park. Woman doctor bring my baby.”
Lon nodded. “Dr. Mercy Gabriel is a good doctor.” A good woman. Too good for this bunch.
“Yes.” Chen Park said. “Dr. Mercy. Good.”
Lon noticed that everyone else had fallen silent, watching this exchange.
“Thank God Dr. Gabriel came to town when she did,” said Ellen Dunfield. “If she hadn’t, many of us would already be in the grave.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the wagons where the children were still sleeping. Then she sank to the ground, exhausted from hours of nonstop labor.
“Is this hole big enough?” the miner closest to the opening asked.
“Big enough for me.” Chen Park hurried forward and accepted a lantern. “I go in.”
The other miners called out encouragement, “Good man! God bless!”
The man ducked low and entered the hole.
Lon could only hope that this brave man would be able to reach someone alive—and stay alive himself.
Chapter Eight
The watery morning sun had finally burned away the fog. Lon passed another rock down the line. His back felt broken; his arm muscles trembled. He was so exhausted he could have sunk to the ground and fallen instantly into a deep sleep. But each labored breath reminded him that men trapped inside might have little chance to go on breathing if the rescuers didn’t work faster—if they didn’t reach them in time. The old feelings that had plagued him before each battle—the cramping in his stomach, the tautness in his neck—flared to life. He would have no ease until all were accounted for—living and dead.
The Chinese men were taking turns going into the hole, carrying or rolling out large rocks to make room for the injured to pass through. But the progress only inched forward. Lon fought his impatience.
Then Chen Park returned, grinning. “I see men. Touch men.”
“It must be the rescue party,” Lon said, gasping, his breathing shallow and his pulse suddenly racing. “They rushed in and were caught by the avalanche.”
“Three—” he held up three fingers “—under rocks.” He shook his head. “Not breathe. Four still breathe but sleep.” The news horrified but invigorated the men and women still moving rock. Close, so close. Lon and the rest who were still able to work began frantically widening the hole.
Lon passed rock after rock, straining with their weight. His whole body ached and he often found his eyes shutting. But he was used to pushing himself beyond the limits of his strength. The women who had worked all night staggered away to care for their waking children.
Panting and wheezing, some of the older men fell where they stood in line. Younger men carried them near the fire and covered them with blankets. Everyone’s willingness to work until they dropped stoked a flame in Lon’s heart. We’ll save some. God help us.
Chen Park came out backward, gasping, obviously laboring hard. He was pulling a man. Lon hurried forward to help along with the other workers. He could see Digger Hobson’s red hair. Hands grabbed Digger and helped carry him out. An incredible rush of energy charged Lon. He saw it reflected in the grinning faces around him. They had broken through. Finally.
“Chen Park,” Lon said, “well done. Thanks.”
The man bowed low. “Hole big enough for bigger men to go in.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Hole bigger inside.”
Then Lon noticed Digger’s right foot. His boot looked crushed. Chen Park nodded. “Foot under rock. Bad.”
Lon squeezed Chen’s shoulder. “You did your best. You need to rest. You men have been carrying the brunt since early morning. Rest.”
Chen nodded and motioned toward his fellows. “We go home. Eat. Come back.”
“Thanks,” Lon said again, his voice low and gravelly. He didn’t want them to stop, yet they were only flesh and blood.
The Chinese men walked away, stretching their backs and rotating their tired shoulders. The women and children waved and called out their thanks.
Pastor Willis, who had been waiting for survivors, drove the wagon close to the mine. Lon turned his attention to another survivor who had just been brought out. It was that young Métis he’d played poker with and later met at Mercy’s, the one who was sweet on Indigo. He was still unconscious.
Men helped Pastor Willis load both injured miners into the wagon, and he drove away. Then more men were carried out, but they were dead. The rescuers covered them with wool blankets as women knelt beside them and mourned.
Let down after the brief elation, Lon turned away. The cries of the women shredded his heart. At least during the war, I didn’t have to hear the widows mourning. But he’d had to write letters to them, telling them of their husbands’ last days and how they had died. He rubbed his chest over his heart, trying to banish the physical pain these memories always caused him. Here and now, however, he had not given the order sending these men into the mine. This had not happened under his command.
He stood very still, drawing up, hauling up all his reserves of strength. They had one more barrier to break through to reach the men who’d been trapped in the original cave-in. Once again, every eye had turned toward him, asking for direction, encouragement. Why was everyone here depending on him? He had no answer. But then he was depending on D
r. Mercy to save as many survivors as she could. Yet he knew that even she couldn’t save everyone, either.
At the church hospital, Mercy looked with dismay at Digger Hobson. He had just regained consciousness and was writhing with what must be unbearable pain.
A long, rectangular table had been brought from the saloon and set up where the pulpit usually stood. Mercy directed the men to carry Digger and lay him on it. She must perform surgery on him as soon as possible. His foot was crushed and might soon become gangrenous, which could kill this good man.
Mercy looked around and saw that they had carried in another patient. As soon as she heard Indigo’s outcry, she knew it must be Pierre. She hurried to Indigo and lifted Pierre’s wrist. “His pulse is slow but steady,” she said. But she didn’t like the look of his bruised and bloodied head. Mercy ran her hands over him, checking for other injuries. His right arm was broken.
She looked to Indigo, feeling the sting of her daughter’s pain as her own. “He is not in immediate danger. We must treat Digger Hobson first.”
Her lips trembling, Indigo looked into Mercy’s eyes and said quietly, bravely, “I’ll prepare for surgery.”
Mercy squeezed Indigo’s shoulder and then went to prepare herself for this ordeal. Dread opened inside her, sucking away her composure. She hated what she must do. She had assisted in so many amputations during the war that she’d already known how to perform one before she started medical school. But that didn’t lessen her loathing of them.
Soon, she stood wearing a clean, white apron. She looked down at her gleaming surgical instruments, which Indigo had laid out for her on spotless cotton. Mercy took up the scalpel. Indigo was administering ether from a sponge and Digger had just become unconscious. The familiar rush of energy and clarity sharpened her mind and bolstered her will to do this thing.
About halfway through the operation, someone came into the church and demanded, “What’s going on here?” Heavy footsteps hurried up behind Mercy. The same voice challenged her, “Good grief, woman, what are you thinking? You can’t do an amputation!”