Race for the Dying (28 page)

Chapter Forty-eight

Louella Unger's brilliant blue eyes, huge in her thin, pale face, locked on Thomas and grew even larger. She stared at the scar around Thomas' head, her lips forming a silent O of amazement.

“Does it hurt?” she whispered.

“Not anymore,” Thomas replied.

“It looks awful,” Louella said soberly.

“Child,” her mother said, “mind your manners, now.”

“And how do you look?” Thomas asked. He felt the gauze stick a bit, and the girl flinched. “You're going to be tender for several days, Louella,” he said. He cocked his head, examining the small wound. “Does it pain you?”

“It aches a little,” Louella replied bravely. “Just a little.”

“Well, I should think so.” Slight redness around the stitches, no swelling, no tenderness anywhere else in the abdomen—the child was well on the road to perfect health.

He replaced the dressing and sat back. The little girl was unable to take her eyes off Thomas' torn scalp. “I think you should go home,” he said. He turned to Mary Unger and her husband, Robert. “Unspiced fluids for the rest of today and tomorrow, the lightest of broths without much seasoning. Nothing with vegetables, or anything hard to digest. And then by Saturday, mild foods that offer little resistance to the digestion. A nice stew with soft potatoes, perhaps.”

“Ice cream,” Louella chirped.

“That would be fine.” Thomas held up an admonishing finger. “No nuts. Let's see. This is…What day of the week are we?”

“This is Wednesday, Doctor.”

“Ah, thank you. Wednesday. I'd like Louella to remain quiet until Saturday, when I shall visit. And then short walks and quiet play. No sudden bending. No lifting. No straining. Activity increases after that, of course, when she feels no tenderness whatsoever in her belly. By next week, she'll be nearly good as new. A regular, healthful diet may replace soft foods by Monday.”

“Daddy said he was going to take me fishing,” the girl said. Her father smiled indulgently.

“That's perfect,” Thomas said. “When you land the big one, you must remember to ask for help hauling him into the boat.” He pushed himself upright, and found himself able to balance on his right leg without the crutches. “You've arranged something in the back of a buggy, Mr. Unger? Horsehair mattress, something like that?”

“Got a goose-down mattress,” Unger said.

“Well, you'll ride in style then, Louella,” Thomas said. He nodded and looked up the ward. Bertha Auerbach was bent over, listening to something that Howard Deaton was saying. “I'll be around to see you on Saturday. Until then, you behave yourself.” He extended a hand to her father, who pumped it fervently.

“Who is taking care of you, Doctor?” Louella asked, brow furrowed with concern.

“Well, I'm taking care of me, sweetheart.” He shrugged. “That's what mirrors are for, you know.”

“May we pay you now?” Mr. Unger asked.

“Let's settle up on Saturday,” Thomas said. “How would that be?”

He glanced toward Bertha again and saw her put both hands on her hips, as if about to deliver a tongue-lashing to the teamster. “Excuse me,” Thomas said to the Ungers. “Not all patients are as delightful as your daughter.” He made his way to his chair and then wheeled up the ward.

“Doc,” Howard Deaton whispered as Thomas approached. “Doc, you're a right proper wreck yourself.”

“I'm considering hemorrhoid surgery with a rusty scalpel for the next person who tells me that,” Thomas replied, and noted the dark circles around the man's eyes, the sunken cheeks, the pale lips. “The leg is a trial?”

“Pretty bad, Doc.” The swelling had increased, and bruising near the fracture site was worrisome. “I cain't just lie here. This is like havin' a boat anchor tied to my leg.”

“The bones must have time to knit,” Thomas said. “If they aren't held in place properly, the leg will be crippled.”

“Yeah. That's what you said, but it ain't gonna work, Doc. I can't just lay here for weeks. Christ, man, I'll go mad. And I tell ya, it hurts like bloody hell.”

Thomas sat silently, regarding the leg. So much time had been spent learning techniques for the speedy removal of a damaged limb—perhaps he had only prolonged Howard Deaton's agonies by persisting with the fracture box. In less severe cases, in greenstick fractures, or when but one bone of the lower leg was affected, the technique was obviously proper. But here…

“I would not hesitate,” he had heard Professor Roberts say. I would not hesitate. Good enough, Thomas thought.

“Nature must be helped,” he said aloud, and surprised even himself at not only the remark, but also the accompanying wave of excitement that swept over him. Roberts had preached that. Nature must be helped. He swept the stethoscope from his neck, adjusted the earpieces, and listened to Deaton's heart—strong, steady, willing. “Breathe deep for me,” he said, and listened to the air rush unimpaired through the man's lungs.

He sat back, removing the earpieces from his sore head with a flinch of relief. “Tomorrow morning,” he said. “We shall repair that leg.”

“What do you mean? What do you aim to do?”

Thomas held out two fingers of each hand, pointed toward each other, but an inch apart, like over-and-under derringers staring each other muzzle to muzzle. “Your leg bones are fractured, like so. In order to assist nature in reuniting them, so,” and he pushed his fingers together, “we must lead the way. Give them guidance. It is a common procedure,” he said, feeling the slightest flush at the falsehood. “What I propose is a series of silver pins, carefully inserted into the bone fragments themselves, arranged in such a way as to hold the bones in proper position until the bone heals around them.”

“Jesus, Doc. You think that's going to work?” Deaton asked. “Course, it don't matter none. I got eyes. I can see. That leg is useless as tits on a boar hog the way it is. Fix it or take it. I guess my druthers is that you fix it.”

“The recovery is still a matter of many weeks, or even months,” Thomas warned.

Deaton fell silent, one fist thumping the bed. “That's what it'll be if you take it off, too,” Deaton said. “I seen that a time or two.” His face crumpled in a grimace, and Thomas saw moisture in the man's eyes. “I guess it's my time to pay the piper one way or the other, ain't it? I've been lyin' here, thinking about that most of the past two days. I don't figure there's much point in wasting time waitin', and then dyin' anyways…or end up with that leg all wadded up and crippled.” He shuddered a deep breath. “How do you aim to do it?”

Thomas held his fingers together again. “It is possible to insert a pure silver pin in the bone,” he said. “The pin will serve as reinforcement and keep the bone fragments in perfect position until healing union can take place.”

“Knew a man who fixed a wooden axle like that,” Deaton said. “He bored a hole in each piece, put a big old iron rod down the middle, and whanged the wood halves back together.”

“In principle, exactly the same thing,” Thomas agreed. “Silver will not react with the body's own chemistry.” He smiled as if he knew that for sure. “I'm afraid if I made you out of iron, you'd rust.”

“'Spect so. I asked the man why he didn't just make the axle out of iron in the first place. Save time and trouble. He said axles weren't made out of iron. And that was that.”

“But his repair worked.”

“Oh, hell, yes, it worked. For a while, anyways.” He tried a smile. “With silver, I'm going to be worth a few bucks more, eh?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, then,” and Deaton covered his face with one arm, “have at it.”

“Good man,” Thomas said. “I shall make preparations.” He saw that Bertha had moved around the bed and now stood with her hands folded.

“Tomorrow morning at ten,” Thomas said, again feeling the surge of excitement, mixed with a trace of foreboding. He had sent home a widow the first time he'd tried the procedure. Deaton was strong, the injury was a closed fracture, and the growing inflammation could be managed.

“I shall need perhaps eight pieces,” Thomas said, drawing Bertha to one side. “But I don't know how long. He thought for a moment, visualizing the bones of the man's lower leg.

“I shall make a list of a variety of sizes, and Lindeman can fashion them all.”

“Out of…”

“The silver that Alvi used last time was ideal,” he said. “I'm sure there are more forks to be had.”

“Gert James is going to run out of patience with you, Doctor.”

“I'll deal with her. Will you find Alvi? I'll give her the list.”

Deaton watched Bertha Auerbach leave the ward. He sighed, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “This is going to be one of them things that either cures me or kills me? Is that about right?”

Thomas reflected for a moment. “I'm confident. That's the best I can do.”

“That's something, I guess. How many others you done like this?”

Deaton's gray eyes assessed the young physician, waiting.

“None yet,” Thomas said.

“Figured that, too,” Deaton said. “I heard about Larry Beautard.” He held out his hand, and Thomas wheeled forward to take it. The man's grip was damp from slight fever. “Proud to be the first,” he said.

Chapter Forty-nine

The more Thomas pored through the various volumes in Dr. John Haines' medical library, the more he felt the conflict of excitement and apprehension. With a messy compound fracture such as Howard Deaton's, every author chose amputation. The newest text in the library, written in 1876, showed only maps of the most expedient incisions for the knife and saw.

He found himself racking his memory, trying to recall the advice from the first edition of Dr. John Roberts' Modern Surgery, a text that he now so sorely regretted losing with his steamer trunk. He had read of attempts in Europe to join bones artificially, to “assist nature,” as Roberts would say, when the very muscles, tendons, and ligaments surrounding those bones proved to be the enemy, pulling the fragments out of alignment.

He considered wiring Roberts at the university with a list of questions, but he knew that from three thousand miles away, the physician would be loath to recommend specifics without being able to examine the patient himself. Still, something might be gained, some little shred of advice to guide him.

With that in mind, Thomas set about writing a concise outline of his needs for Carter Birch, Port McKinney's telegraph operator. With any luck, some answer might be promptly received from Pennsylvania.

So intense was his concentration that when the knock came on the door jamb of the office, he bolted upright, letting out a cry as pain stabbed his ribs and hip.

“Didn't mean to set you off,” the assistant constable said as Thomas settled back in the chair.

“My God, man, I didn't hear you come in.”

“I'll be a little more clumpy next time,” George Aldrich said. His eyes settled on the dog, who had not bothered to lift his head. “Not much of a watchdog.”

“That's what he does, as a matter of fact,” Thomas said, holding his ribs. “He watches. He seems to know who his friends are. Right now his best friend is morphine.”

“You cut him up pretty bad?”

“His leg was badly abscessed. It appears that someone shot him. I removed the ball.” He stretched carefully.

“That don't surprise me. Half the town he's either bit or tried to. Riggs let fly at him once. I know that.”

“The same sort of ball that was recovered from Kittrick's brain,” Thomas said. “Riggs admitted it.”

“So there you are.”

Thomas glanced at the clock and saw that it was approaching six.

“Interesting thing,” Aldrich said, and without invitation settled carefully in the straight-backed chair on the other side of the desk. He bent far to one side and Thomas heard the jingle of metal. The constable pulled out what appeared to be half a dozen enormous spikes, square in cross section, polished off on one end, tapering on the other. He reached out and placed them on the desk in front of Thomas. From another pocket he pulled yet another, this one of the same general proportions, but badly mangled.

“Railroad spikes,” the constable said, seeing the question in Thomas' expression. “Except the flanges have been ground off.”

“So…,” the young physician said.

“And so this one here we took out of the log that broke Mr. Schmidt's saw—and killed two good men.”

Thomas picked it up, feeling the heft of it. Nearly cut in half, the iron spike had bent and split.

“That saw blade is fifty-four feet long,” Aldrich said. “A good foot wide. Only one like it in these parts. Schmidt tells me that when the saw's wound up, that blade is traveling a hundred miles an hour.”

“Amazing,” Thomas said.

“Meant to cut wood, you know. Now, you put iron in the way…”

“You mean someone drove one of these spikes into the log? Why would they do that?”

“To wreck the saw,” Aldrich said calmly. “Shuts down the mill. Costs Schmidt maybe more than he's got.”

“Wouldn't someone at the mill see it done? Good heavens, man, sledging one of those things into a log would take some effort, not to mention making a good deal of noise in the process.”

“That it would. Unless done on the stump, out in the timber. Nobody to see or hear.” He reached out and laid his hand on the six new iron spikes.

Thomas sat silently, staring at the spikes, not sure what he was supposed to say, or why the constable was confiding in him. “The obvious question is why,” he said after a moment. “And who.”

“The why is easy. There's a hundred reasons why somebody might hold a grudge against Mr. Schmidt. Anybody who runs a big operation has his share of enemies. Bound to, you betcha.”

Thomas nodded at the pile of altered spikes. “Since you have these unused spikes in your possession, it would appear you also know the who.”

“I found these in the Kittrick brothers' cabin.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“But it was my understanding that Kittrick worked for Schmidt. Both brothers did, I thought.”

“Did.” Aldrich spun the mangled piece of iron in his fingers thoughtfully.

“Not long ago,” Thomas said, and Aldrich looked up at him. “I mean, it couldn't have been long ago when that was pounded into the tree. There's no significant rust on the fresh iron, where the head was ground.”

“Nope, there isn't.” Aldrich frowned. “So, I come to ask you about last night.”

“However I can be of assistance,” Thomas said. Aldrich dropped the spike on the table and crossed his legs, folding his hands in his lap.

“Kittrick came to see you. That's what you were telling me.”

“He did. He warned me to remain silent about the knife and the circumstances of the boy's murder.”

“And then he left.”

“Yes. It's my understanding that he went upstairs to see Mr. Riggs. Mrs. Unger heard them talking upstairs when she went to his door.”

Aldrich frowned at his folded hands. “I'm just wondering why Kittrick would do that.”

“Mrs. Unger reported that the two were engaged in conversation. Not an argument. You might ask her if she recollects differently now. Riggs claims that Kittrick threatened him as well as me. That he feared for his life.”

Aldrich grunted something and made a wry face. “‘Claims,' you say. You don't believe him?”

“I don't know what to think, sir. All I know is that Kittrick was a ruffian, that he threatened me, and then went upstairs. Moments later, he was dead.”

“Any number of ways it could have happened,” Aldrich mused. “Hard to say now. Nobody saw. Well, except Riggs. Still,” and he uncrossed his legs and stretched the left one, massaging his knee.

“Still?”

“I wonder why you shoot a man in the back of the head just when he's leaving. That's a puzzle.”

“Maybe it's how Riggs claims. Afraid Kittrick would return, he saw an opportunity, and took it.”

“Goddamn good thing he didn't miss,” Aldrich said. “Otherwise Kittrick might have taken that little peashooter away from him and shoved it up his ass.” He smiled at the image. “Then you'd really have work to do, eh?”

The front door chimed, and Thomas turned to see Alvi enter, carrying a large tray.

“I have to be going,” Aldrich said, and stood, tipping the narrow brim of his hat as Alvi entered. At the same time, he scooped up the spikes and dropped them into his coat pocket. “Ma'am, whatever you have there smells mighty fine.”

“You're welcome to stay. There's plenty,” Alvi said. She set the tray on the desk. Prince lifted his head like an old drunk, his neck muscles sedated to flab. His thick, ratty tail rapped the floor a time or two.

Aldrich grinned, and switched an index finger back and forth between doctor and dog. “You feed him the same thing?”

“As a matter of fact, I do…except the dog doesn't get the peach cobbler.”

Aldrich nodded, and once more turned to Thomas. “You think on all this,” he said.

“I wish I could be of more help,” Thomas said.

“Pleasant evening to you both now.” The constable nodded at them again and left the office.

“Bertha told me that you needed more silver pins,” Alvi said. “I gave your list to Lindeman, but the only silver we have at the moment is my mother's dinnerware, Doctor.”

“I will replace it.”

An eyebrow drifted up. “I wasn't concerned with that, particularly. A service for twelve leaves plenty of spare dessert forks.” She smiled and removed the towel from the tray. Prince groaned pathetically, but didn't move. “I hope you don't mind stew again. This is elk. A couple weeks ago, one of the hunters south of here paid off a bill to Father with a hindquarter. Gert canned most of it.”

“It smells wonderful.” His eyes widened at the pan of muffins. Alvi retrieved the dog's enameled dish and deftly selected out several large chunks of savory meat, along with two small potatoes and several carrots.

Approaching the dog, she paused. “You're probably too sorry for yourself to eat a bite, aren't you?” The dog's tail flailed twice, and his jaw dropped open an inch, a long drool of saliva stretching to the floor. Alvi set down the pan, and the dog turned his head sideways without rising, reaching for the food with an impressively long tongue. In an instant, every scrap had vanished.

“If I can get him on his feet, we'll go outside for a few minutes,” she said.

“Have you had a chance to talk with your father?”

“No. Perhaps at dinner. Perhaps we'll both take an evening stroll down here. It's really quite beautiful outside.”

“I hadn't noticed,” Thomas said. “Is there someone who can take a telegram to Mr. Birch for me?”

“I'll be happy to oblige,” Alvi said. He handed her the carefully worded message that he had composed to John Roberts in Philadelphia, and she folded it up twice without looking at it. “May I send Horace down for you this evening if Father isn't up to the walk? I'm sure he'd like to talk with you.”

Thomas grimaced. “I can't, Alvi. Deaton is in a bad way, and no one else is here. He can't be left alone.”

She nodded philosophically. “I'll see what Father says.”

They both turned at the sound of a carriage sliding to a halt in front of the clinic, and in a moment the door burst open. Horace James took no notice of the mud flinging from his boots as he hastened across the waiting room. Prince huffed a short grunt, but otherwise remained silent.

“Needja ta home,” he said. “Gert went upstairs to fetch your father for dinner and can't rouse him.”