Medicine Wheel

by Ron Schwab

  Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Spring 1885

  1

  2

  3

  Summer 1874

  4

  5

  Spring 1885

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  Summer 1874

  13

  Spring 1885

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Summer 1874

  21

  22

  23

  Spring 1885

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Summer 1874

  33

  34

  Spring 1885

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  Fall 1885

  60

  61

  Spring 1886

  62

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Ron Schwab

  Sioux Sunrise

  Night of the Coyote

  Paint the Hills Red

  Last Will

  Ghosts Around the Campfire

  MEDICINE WHEEL

  Ron Schwab

  Medicine Wheel

  by Ron Schwab

  Poor Coyote Press

  PO Box 6105

  Omaha, NE 68106

  www.PoorCoyotePress.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Ron Schwab

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews—without written permission from its publisher.

  ISBN: 1-943421-13-7

  ISBN-13: 978-1-943421-13-8

  In memory of my father, Doc Schwab,

  a dedicated country vet, an avid reader and,

  in my eyes, a five and a half foot giant

  Spring 1885

  1

  THAD’S KNIFE BLADE split the soft flesh of Harold's scrotum, and he squealed like a pig, struggling to escape the inevitability of his fate. Quincy Belmont tightened his grip on Harold's legs as the one hundred pound patient fought frantically. Thad’s fingers grasped one testicle, and he tugged and sliced it free of the connective tissue, and then grab, tug, and slice again, and Harold could no longer declare himself male in the true sense of the word. It took less than a minute to complete the surgery.

  Quincy released the husky, black and white spotted porker from the vise of his clamped knees, and Harold staggered stiffly away to join his wounded comrades, the bright scarlet of fresh blood dripping from between his hind quarters.

  “You shouldn't let them get so big, Reverend," Thad chided. "It wouldn't be so hard on them, and we wouldn't have to wrestle with them like this.”

  Thad had been castrating Quincy's hogs for five or six years now, and he knew his scolding was a waste of time. Every three or four months he would have fifteen to twenty boars to cut, and they'd always be overweight—one hundred pounds or more. Half the size, or even smaller, would have been better, easier on both the handler and the surgeon and, certainly, less stressful for the animal.

  “I do the heavy work, Dr. Locke. You shouldn’t complain,” he replied.

  He was right, of course. And Quincy thrived on hard work, seemingly impervious to the muggy heat that turned the Flint Hills into a steaming cauldron this mid-July day. J. Quincy Belmont looked like a giant, leaning back against the thick, cedar planks of the hog pen. A barrel-chested man with shoulders like a heavily muscled bull, he was probably several inches shorter than Thad’s own six feet, but he seemed taller somehow. If there were fifty men in a room, Quincy would stand out—and it would not be because he was a colored man. He imposed an undeniable presence that drew loyalty from his friends and followers and a serious uneasiness from those who were hostile to his race. He spoke with a deep, baritone voice in words precisely enunciated with a slight Bostonian accent. He never failed to say what he meant or to mean what he said.

  As Thad cleaned and gathered up his instruments, Quincy picked up the bucket which had been the receptacle for the harvested testicles. The big mongrel dog that waited outside the pen began to dance and bark eagerly. Quincy plucked a bloody nut from the bucket and tossed it over the fence. The dog leaped and caught the morsel in his jaws before it hit the ground.

  “I guess we won’t miss one,” Quincy said. “Rachael will make a feast from these. One reason I like to get a little growth on the boars before we call you over.”

  As Thad climbed over the fence, Quincy announced, “Rachael says you are staying for dinner.” It was a command not an invitation.

  Thad pulled his watch from a front trouser pocket. It was a bit past noon, which was confirmed by the sun’s rays shining from midway across the southern sky. One of Rachael’s spreads was worth tolerating the uneasiness that poisoned any comfortable conversation with Quincy.

  Before Thad joined the Belmont family for dinner, he watered his Appaloosa gelding, Cato, and tossed him a bit of prairie hay offered by Quincy. He even gave Thad a small can of grain as a treat for the horse and suggested a spot in the shade where Thad might hitch his old friend. Quincy was not an unkind or selfish man, Thad thought, but it just seemed the preacher could not help being wary of him and that the jury was still out on where he placed Thad on his ranking of men.

  As Thad grained Cato, he surveyed the Belmont farmstead. It was dominated by a two-story limestone house constructed of the rock that provided the natural floor of much of the eastern Kansas Flint Hills. It was a comfortable home with several fireplaces and an iron wood cooking stove to ward off wintry blasts, and the thick stone walls cooled the house nicely during the heat of summer. A hundred feet or so west of the residence was a small stone barn, not far from which stood a sturdy smokehouse that sent forth the enticing smell of smoking hams and bacon that sweetened the air. The hogs that Quincy did not market found their ways to the smokehouse to satisfy a seemingly unquenchable demand in this cow country that was desperately short of pork. Quincy was on his way to being a wealthy man, and every year the Belmont farm added more of the little A-framed huts for the growing herd of brood sows and their litters of pigs.

  Quincy wore many hats: a livestock man, a commercial meat producer, a skilled blacksmith who manufactured quality knives—including some of Thad’s custom-made surgical instruments—and a preacher with a ballooning flock. He had carved his place in the Flint Hills after his discharge from the Tenth Cavalry buffalo soldiers in 1868 while they were stationed temporarily at nearby Fort Riley. He was called to the lime-caked hills, he claimed, but he coupled his call with good business sense by purchasing this quarter section not more than five miles north of Manhattan, the growing county seat of Riley County, Ka
nsas. It didn’t hurt that Fort Riley, a thriving military post, lay something over fifteen miles east of Manhattan and provided an insatiable demand for bacon, hams and other pork products.

  “Thad, time to eat. Come on up.” The friendly, feminine voice came from the house porch, interrupting Thad’s reverie. He looked up and saw Rachael waving, and he returned the wave and headed up to the house.

  2

  THE BELMONT GIRLS, attired in dusty work garments, were already seated at the long oak table when Thad entered the dining room. They looked up at him, almost in unison, with wide, welcoming smiles on their dusky faces, dark eyes appraising him with interest. Thad suspected that white guests were not commonplace in the household and that white diners were even more rare.

  "Good afternoon, ladies," Thad said. “Thank you for allowing me to join you."

  Elizabeth, the fifteen-year-old, replied, “We’re honored, Dr. Locke. Mama told us you were coming. We so wanted to watch you castrate the boars, but Papa didn’t think it was a proper sight for young ladies. Silly, but you think?"

  Thad was not about to challenge Papa’s wisdom. “That's your Papa's decision. It's not for me to say. I'm sure he has his reasons.”

  "Well, we've been scooping pig poop all morning, and Papa doesn't seem to find that too uncouth for our sensibilities."

  Elizabeth was on the feisty side and not unknown to challenge her father's authority, not unlike her older sister. Serena would be twenty-seven now, a dozen years older than the spirited Elizabeth. Clarissa, who was two years younger than Elizabeth, and Susanna, who was two years younger than Clarissa, had always seemed more subdued and obedient. But who knew what a few more years might bring?

  Rachael entered the room with a huge platter of—no surprise—ham, basted with a tasty-looking reddish sauce, and spared Thad further queries concerning his opinions about Quincy's edicts. "We're so happy you could join us, Thad. Aren't we girls?"

  The girls smiled on cue, shaking their heads in the affirmative and rolling their eyes.

  "It's my pleasure, Mrs. Belmont. I wouldn't pass up the opportunity."

  “Thad, my name’s Rachael. Please don’t make me feel like an old woman.”

  “No, ma’am. I wouldn’t want to do that. You’re sure not an old woman, I mean—”

  The girls giggled.

  Quincy entered the room and took his place at the other end of the table. Rachael left for a moment and returned with bowls of sweet potatoes and green beans. As she took her own chair next to her husband's, she said, "You may go ahead with the blessing, Papa."

  Quincy surveyed the table to confirm that all were in praying mode and commenced. "Heavenly Father, we ask that you bless this food we are about to receive. Please take note of our special guest this noon. I am informed that he is a seldom and reluctant churchgoer. Help him find the path to salvation that he might someday share with us the joy of everlasting life. Take care of this family and direct us in the way of righteousness. Amen."

  Thad looked toward Rachael for direction, but her eyes were fastened with anger on her spouse. Momentarily, she turned to Thad and shrugged helplessly. She nodded to Elizabeth to pass him the ham platter. Rachel got up and returned with a tray of hot biscuits and a bowl of honey, and their attention was quickly diverted to the feast.

  Silence settled on the dinner table until Elizabeth spoke. God, how she reminded Thad of Serena with her intelligent, coffee-brown eyes and the tawny skin, favoring her mother's Seneca lineage. "Dr. Locke, Mama says you're a real doctor. Is that true?"

  “I'm a veterinary surgeon. That's a real doctor, but I take care of animals. What your mama means is that I was trained as a medical doctor, and I am also licensed to help people.”

  "I don't understand."

  "There were no veterinary schools in this country until one was established at the Iowa State Agriculture College a half dozen or so years ago. Before that time most veterinary surgeons were either self-taught or learned their skills by working with another vet. Some attended medical colleges. I went to the University of Pennsylvania medical school."

  "Really? Did you have to go to school a long time?"

  "Two years, after finishing high school. I understand the curriculum requires three years now. When I was there, we took two years of lectures and had to pass an oral examination before we were turned loose on the public. In other words, we took courses in the theory and practice of medicine and studied anatomy, surgery and midwifery, but we never practiced on a live person before graduation. I do treat human patients sometimes in case of an emergency, but the first baby I helped birth was literally the first baby." I smiled and winked, "Of course, I didn't tell the mother. It might have frightened her. I did have the advantage, though, of having helped cows and sows give birth long before I went to medical school. Pulling baby pigs isn’t that much different than delivering human babies, actually.”

  "That's kind of scary," Clarissa said, her eyes wide.

  "There's not that much difference between animals and people. Except animals don't talk back and seem to appreciate more what you do for them. Well, not always. I've been stomped by an ungrateful bull or cow a few times."

  The kids laughed, and after that, conversation loosened up. Thad received a good quizzing about his animal—and people—adventures while Quincy glowered in silence, although he forgot himself a time or two and betrayed some interest in what Thad had to say.

  After putting away double helpings of Rachael’s apple cobbler, Thad tendered thanks to his hosts and received a solemn nod from Quincy and broad smiles from the girls who had been given afternoon work assignments by their father. Rachael took his arm and led him out onto the porch and strolled with him to fetch Cato.

  "It was so nice to have you join us, Thad. The girls thoroughly enjoyed your stories. Elizabeth says she wants to study to be a veterinary surgeon when she finishes high school."

  "There's no shortage of work for a vet, but she’d better not be dreaming of great riches. I wouldn't change the life for anything, though."

  Her expression turned serious as she watched him saddle Cato. “I was embarrassed about Quincy's blessing, Thad. It was rude. I'm sorry."

  "There's no better man. I guess he was just trying to save my soul." Thad grinned and took her hand. "I may be a lost cause, though. I regret that he barely tolerates me.”

  "He respects you, Thad. He truly admires your skills, and you wouldn't believe how much pride he takes in the surgical instruments he fashions for you."

  "There's a profit to be made in developing and producing top quality veterinary instruments. I have some ideas I'd like to discuss with him if we can carve out a bit more comfort between us."

  "Just be patient with him. I'll broach the subject with him."

  He decided to take a chance and abruptly shifted topics. "How’s Serena?"

  Rachael appeared neither surprised nor unnerved by the question, but Thad could tell she had already rehearsed a reply in her mind. "She's doing well, Thad. Very well." She offered a sad smile, and her eyes moistened a bit. "I'm sorry. You know I can't say more.”

  3

  AFTER LEAVING THE Belmont place, Thad headed back to the Lazy L, the half section owned by him and the Manhattan Bank. The small ranch property lay about four miles—as the crow flies—southeast of the Belmont farm, and Thad ran a cow herd of about twenty-five Herefords there—not near enough to make a living, but they helped assuage his addiction to the cattle business. The grass would have carried two or three times as many cow-calf pairs, but he didn’t have the cash or credit to fully stock the place yet.

  He had built a four-room limestone house with a little windowless lean-to for an emulsion room—to facilitate a serious photography habit—on high ground. He had set aside one room with a separate entrance for storage of his veterinary instruments and supplies and had installed a crude oak table for treatment of the occasional small animals that were brought in for care. Unfortunately for his business, very few folks in the F
lint Hills would spend a half dollar to fix a dog or a cat's broken leg or to patch up one of the creatures who had got the worst end of a fight with a bobcat. A bullet was more likely the poor animal’s sentence.

  Cato knew the way home, and Thad gave him his lead, although he thought about turning down the trail toward the Big Blue River Valley and making the climb to the medicine wheel. He had not been over that way for almost a year now, and it was probably just as well, since it usually sent him brooding about Serena. It had been eleven years now, and their story, he thought, was like a novel chopped off in the middle of a chapter. Maybe it was the unfinished part of it that haunted him so much and kept him from moving on.

  He wondered what had become of her and why the family was so secretive about Serena’s whereabouts and what she was doing. Of course, his only contacts with the Belmonts were professional ones that did not lend themselves well to casual inquiries. Would he ever see Serena again? He concluded that it was unlikely, and, perhaps, for the best.

  Summer 1874

  4

  THADDEUS JACOB LOCKE, a sandy-haired, rangy six-footer, sat tall in the saddle astride his three-year-old Appaloosa gelding at the top of a scalped ridge overlooking the Big Blue River Valley. It was the first day of June, his mother’s birth date. He knew that because Aunt Nancy, his mother's sister, had reminded him at breakfast. It saddened him just a bit, but he was not deeply troubled, because he had never known his mother, Deborah Locke, who had died giving birth to him and his sister, Hannah, 19 years ago, come July 4.

  The Appaloosa, Cato, whinnied and danced restlessly. The horse was generally a calm beast just short of docile and had been given to Thad by his older brother, Cameron Locke, who ran the only Appaloosa herd in the Flint Hills. Cato had been gifted to the young man because of the horse's gentleness, since Cam Locke, a former Confederate cavalry officer, had long since given up on honing Thad into a first class rider.