by Janette Oke
It was almost morning before Clark woke again. Willie had been dozing in the chair and was awakened by Clark's moaning. Clark's eyes were open when Willie looked up at him; and, though the pain would have been considerable, Clark was rational.
He looked at Willie and, for the first time in three days, seemed to be aware of his situation.
Willie was relieved to realize that Clark was alert. At least his mind had not been affected.
"How ya doin'?" asked Willie softly and lifted some water to Clark's lips.
Clark sipped very little and then turned his head. A groan escaped him.
"Pain," was all he said. "Pain."
"Where does it hurt the most?" persisted Willie. He had to know the extent of the head injury.
"Leg," said Clark.
Willie felt a measure of relief pass through him. "How's yer head?"
"Hazy . . . little ache . . . all right."
"Good."
Clark rolled his head back and forth, the moans escaping from his throat.
"Where's Marty?" he finally asked.
"I made her go sleep fer a while."
This satisfied Clark. He lay clenching his jaw to keep the screams from coming. Willie knew that he needed more medication and moved the lamp to the window, their prearranged signal.
"How long?" Clark gasped out.
"You've been here fer three nights. It happened the afternoon of the day before."
"The old mine . . . I remember."
It was a good sign. Willie breathed a thankful prayer.
123
"How are the boys?"
"Haven't heard much since we brought you out," said Willie and let it go at that.
"Did ya get Abe out?"
"His pa did."
"Good."
Clark tried to fight away the pain so that he could sleep again, but it didn't work. Scottie was soon there, and Clark took the medication without protest. This time he did not sleep as soundly. He dozed off and on. The pain was still with him, but he was able to bear it.
"Didn't give 'im as much," Scottie whispered to Willie. "We gotta ration this here stuff out."
Willie nodded.
The light from the dawn was gently coloring the morning sky. Clark slept, then spoke and slept again. Willie knew that Marty was anxious for a word with her husband. Perhaps she had slept enough and needed to be called.
"Scottie, can ya stay a few minutes with 'im? I should wake Mrs. Davis. She'll want to see 'im." Scottie nodded. Willie woke Marty gently.
"He's awake now. Not too much awake, but he's able to talk some."
Marty threw back the quilt that covered her fully clothed body and bounded from the bed.
Willie attempted to slow her down. He took her arm. "He's in awful pain, Ma. It ain't easy to see 'im like thet." Marty nodded dumbly, but her step did not slow.
When they reached Clark's room, Scottie stepped outside; and Marty threw herself at Clark's bedside and began to weep against him.
He reached out a trembling hand and soothed her hair. He let her cry. He knew her well enough to know that she needed that. When her tears were spent, he spoke to her.
"I'm all right. Don't fret yerself."
"Shore," she smiled, blinking away tears. "Shore ya are." "My leg's not too good, though. Ya knowin' thet?"
"I know." The way Marty said it made Willie aware that
124
she truly did know. Marty must have been the one who had changed the bandages. Once again, Willie felt a surge of respect for the strength of this woman.
Clark ran a feeble hand through Marty's tangled hair. "Yer not lookin' yer best, Mrs. Davis," Clark teased her. "Thet's funny," said Marty, smiling through tears, "ya
ain't never looked better."
Willie left them.
125
Chapter Sixteen
More Struggles
Scottie was there to portion out small amounts of the morphine as Clark needed it. Clark really could have used far more painkiller than he was allowed, but once their supply was gone there would be no more.
Clark was able to talk with his visitors. Nathan even was allowed a short visit with his grandpa. He was awed to see his strong grandfather lying pale and still on the bed; but when Clark teased him and rumpled his hair, Nathan felt reassured. Marty and Missie both spent their time trying to think of something they could do to ease Clark's pain or restore his body. Missie fussed in the kitchen over special dishes that she hoped would tempt her father's appetite. He tried to eat to please her, but it was difficult for him to swallow the food with the dreadful pain always present throughout his whole body.
Word came from town concerning the boys who had been involved in the disaster. Andy seemed to be recovering. His broken ankle had not been crushed, and his parents felt that it would heal with time. They were deeply grateful to Clark for his courageous rescue.
126
Funeral services were held for Abe. Marty hardly knew how to tell Clark, but she felt that he deserved to know. She approached the subject cautiously.
"They say thet Andy's leg should be healin'."
"Thet's good," said Clark. "The way thet timber had 'im pinned, I was a-feared thet it might be bad broke."
"The other boy--Casey--he's fine. Jest some scrapes an' scratches an' his deep inner hurts, I guess. The third boy, Abe, was his younger brother."
"He told me."
"Abe didn't make it, Clark."
"I know." Clark spoke very quietly.
"Ya know?"
"He was already dead when I first found him."
Marty was surprised and, for a moment, angry. "Ya knew he was dead when ya risked everythin' to go back on in there an'--"
Clark hushed her. "If it had been our boy, would ya have wanted him out?"
Marty was silent. Yes, if it had been her boy, she would have wanted to hold him one more time.
Marty was relieved at the clearness of Clark's mind. She was so glad that the head injury had not caused permanent damage, but she could not shut from her mind the picture of Clark's leg and the condition it was in. Each time she entered the sickroom, the stench of the injured leg met her with increasing force. The leg was in bad shape; it might even claim Clark's life. Marty fought that thought with all of her being. They needed medicine. They needed a doctor. At times, she was tempted to demand that Willie hurry them to the train so they might head for home. In more rational moments, Marty knew the length of the trip and the weakened condition of Clark would certainly snuff out his life.
And then Clark began to flush with fever. His eyes took on a glassy look, and his skin was hot and dry. It's the poison, admitted Marty. It's the poison from the wound.
Marty could hardly bear this new dilemma. He had been
127
doing well. He had been gaining back a little strength. He had even been able to talk. And now this. They had no way to fight this. Oh, dear God, what can we do?
At first, they did not talk about Clark's condition; for to talk about it would be to admit it, and also to admit that they were defeated, for they had nothing with which to fight the dreaded killer.
At last Marty knew they could no longer try to pretend that the problem was not there.
"Bring me a pan of hot water," she said to Missie. "An' boil a good, sharp pair of yer best scissors. We've gotta do somethin"bout yer father's leg."
Then Marty went to find Scottie. Willie and Scottie had thought the drug ministrations to Clark had been unnoticed by Marty, so Scottie was caught off guard when Marty walked up to where he was working on the cinch of a saddle and calmly announced, "Scottie, I don't know how much medicine thet ya still have left, but Clark needs a good-sized dose now. I've got to clean up thet leg the best thet I can or it's gonna kill 'im. The poison from thet gangrene is goin' all through his system an' we don't have much time."
Scottie looked at the small figure before him. She was nobody's fool. She also had more inner strength than any woman he knew. In no
way would he be able to stomach the cleaning up of the offensive leg.
He went for the medicine and gave Clark a large dose. Marty waited until the medicine had taken effect, then gathered together all of her limited supplies and every ounce of her courage and went to Clark's room. She threw the window wide open and lit a small piece of rag to help with the odor and then threw back the light quilt and removed the bandages. It was even worse than she had feared. Never before had Marty faced such a sight and smell. She wanted to faint, to go be sick; but she would allow herself neither. She soaked and snipped and cut away dead flesh, but even as she worked she knew that she was fighting a losing battle. She finished her difficult task, knowing that what she had done would not be enough.
Gently she covered Clark, all but the damaged leg. She left
128
it exposed to the air, thinking that the air might somehow do it some good. Then she cleaned the scissors and knife that she had used and put things away in their proper places and went to her own bed.
Down upon her knees, she cried out her anguish to God. She began by telling Him how much Clark meant to her and reminding God of how faithfully Clark had served Him over the years. She told God that she had already suffered through the loss of one husband and couldn't possibly bear to lose another. She reminded the Lord of her family at home and of Missie and the grandchildren here. They too needed Clark. And then she pleaded and finally demanded that God heal her husband. Hadn't He promised to answer the prayers of His children when they prayed in faith, prayed believing?
Then she returned to Clark. Clark's breathing was just as shallow, his face just as flushed, his brow just as hot as before; but Marty determined that she would sit right beside him and wait for the Lord's miracle.
Missie came in. At the sight of her father's infected leg, she gave a little cry and, placing her hand over her mouth, ran from the room. Marty's heart ached for her. What would she ever have done if she'd seen it 'fore I cleaned it up? thought Marty. Marty was thankful Missie had been spared at least that much.
Missie too went to her room and fell down beside her bed. "Oh, God," she prayed. "Ya can't let Pa die. Ya can't! Please, God. Please." Missie was unable to do more than tearfully plead.
In Clark's room, the drug began to wear off. Clark tossed and turned in his pain. Marty bathed his hot face and body in an attempt to get the fever down. It had little effect. Clark soon became delirious, and Marty had to call for help to hold him. Willie came and then Cookie, and the two men sent Marty from the room. Marty paced back and forth, back and forth, praying that God's miracle might soon come. Still Clark's screams and groans reached her ears.
Maria came. White-faced and wide-eyed, she stood in the hallway and talked to the tearful Missie. She did not stay
129
long. The agony of Clark and the distress of the total household drove her crying from the home.
The hours crawled by. Marty went to the sickroom occasionally, but Clark's misery was more than she could bear. At last, she went to her room again, and again fell beside her bed. This time her prayer was different.
"Oh, God!" she cried. "Ya know best. I can't stand to see 'im suffer so. I love 'im, God. I love 'im so. Iffen Ya want to take 'im, then it's all right. I won't be blamin' Ya, God. Ya know what's best. I don't want 'im to suffer, God. I leave 'im in Yer hands. Yer will be done, whether it's healin' or takin', thet's up to You, God. An', God, whatever Yer will, I know thet Ya'll give me--an' all of us--the strength thet we need to bear
it."
Marty arose from her knees and went to find Missie. A strange peace filled Marty. She still shivered with each scream from Clark. It still pierced her very soul to know that he suffered so, but Marty knew that God was in control and that His divine will would be done.
She found Missie in the boys' room. The boys were not there. They had been taken to the barn by Lane so that they might not hear the agonizing cries of their grandfather.
Missie clutched the small harness that Clark had used to carry her as an infant and that she in turn had used to carry her own sons. She was sobbing out her hurt and anguish.
"Missie," Marty said, taking the girl into her arms. "It's gonna be all right. I know it is."
Missie burst into fresh tears. "Oh, I wanna believe that. I've been prayin' an' prayin' for God to make him well." "He may not," said Marty simply.
Missie looked at her mother in bewilderment.
"But ya said--"
"I said it will be all right. An' it will. Whatever God decides to do will be the best. He knows us. He knows our needs. He seeks our good. Whatever He wills--"
But Missie pushed away her arms.
"Oh, Missie, Missie," sobbed Marty. "I fought it too. I fought it with all my being'. I want yer pa. I want him here with
130
me. But God knows thet. I don't even have to tell 'im. But, little girl, we've got to trust Him. We've gotta let God truly be God."
Missie rose and left the room, still sobbing. Marty heard her close the door on her own room and throw herself on the bed. There was nothing more that Marty could say. She could only pray.
Marty went to the kitchen to ask Wong for coffee for the men in the sickroom. Clark had been given another opportunity of rest. The last of the medication had been given. Each one in the house felt the lingering question of "what then--?"
As Marty carried the pot of coffee and cups to the room, she met Missie in the hall. Her face was still tear-streaked but more serene. "Mama," she said, "I just wanted you to know that it's all right. I've prayed it all through, an' I'm . . . I'm willin' to. . . to let God be God. He does know best. I knew it all along. It's just easy to forget sometimes when you want your own way so--" She could go no further.
Marty managed a weak smile, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. She leaned over and kissed Missie on the cheek and then moved to go on to the room where Clark lay.
Missie wiped her tears on her apron and straightened up just as a knock sounded on the door.
Missie went to answer. Maria stood there, her shoulders square and her eyes shining with faith and pride. And just behind her stood Juan.
"Can we come in?" she asked. "My husband . . . is a doctor."
131
Chapter Seventeen
Juan
Juan walked purposefully into the sickroom and set his case on the bed. His quick glance took in Clark's pallor and the flush that colored his cheeks. His nose caught the stench of rotting flesh, and he turned to the leg.
He knew even before he looked just what he would find. The crushed limb was badly infected, and the gangrene was not only eating away the flesh of the leg but was also poisoning the body of the man. The leg would have to be removed.
Juan's thoughts went back to another time, one just like this one. Another man lay before him with a similar leg and, at that time as well, Juan the doctor had needed to make a lifesaving decision. He had decided then, as he was deciding now, that the leg must be sacrificed in order to save the life. All of his training and experience told him so. He had done what he needed to do. The man had lived.
And then . . . Juan shuddered as other memories crowded into his mind. The angry screams, the raging accusations, the shouts that spoke of betrayal, and finally the sound of a pistol
132
shot. For a moment, Juan felt that he must flee Clark's room--and the memories. Then the groans of the sick man and the cries of the women in the hall strengthened him. He straightened himself and looked at the two men in the room.
"I'm going to need lots of boiling water and a strong man to assist me," he said evenly and removed his jacket.
"I wish thet I could volunteer," said Willie. "I'd like to, but I'm a-feared thet I'd cave in halfway through. I can see to the water, an' I'll find ya a man."
Willie told the ladies about the need for boiling water and went on to the bunkhouse. Lane was sitting in the doorway watching Nathan and Josiah who played with Max.
Wil
lie went to the bunkhouse, motioned Lane inside, and shut the door.
"We found us a doc," he said; and, at the surprise that showed on everyone's faces, he continued. "Juan. Juan has all the trainin' an' has even been in practice fer a few years. I know ya all have questions. So do I, but now ain't the time fer answers. We'll git 'em all in good time. Right now I need a man. I got a job thet won't be easy to do. The doc needs help. He's gonna take off thet there leg. Yer wonderin' why I don't offer, him being' my father-in-law an' all. Well, I'll tell ya straight out. I'm not sure thet I could take it. I might fold up on the doc jest when he needed me most. Anyone here thet thinks he could do it?"
Willie's eyes looked around the bunkhouse. Not all of the cowboys were in. Some of them were out on the range taking their shift with the cattle. Those who were in the room probably wished they were far away as well, mending fence or herding doggies. Willie had asked a hard thing.
Jake lay stretched out on his bunk, catching up on some sleep. He had had the late shift the night before. In the corner, Smith, the bitter, critical member of the crew, sat smoking a cigarette and staring at the cards in his hand. Browny was his partner in the game. Clyde, who sat on a stool near the window, shifted the lariat he was working on into the other hand and shot tobacco juice at the bean can sitting on the floor. Lane went white and stared at his hands as though trying to
133
measure whether they would be capable of such a job. The room was heavy with silence. At last, Lane cleared his throat and spoke softly. "I'll go."
"Ya sure?"
Lane nodded his agreement.
"It won't be easy."
Lane recognized that.
"Wish I could help ya--I can't promise. Yer sure ya can do it?"