The Purchase Price; Or, The Cause of Compromise

by Emerson Hough

  CHAPTER XX

  THE ART OF DOCTOR JAMIESON

  Eleazar proved a faithful messenger once more. Before the eveningshadows had greatly lengthened, three figures appeared at thelower end of the approach to Tallwoods mansion house. Jeanne, asusual looking out from their window, saw these.

  "It is the old man, Madame," she commented. "And yes, _Monsieur leDocteur_ at last--thank the _Bon Dieu_! But one other--who isthat?"

  "It is the old man, Madame," commented Jeanne.]

  It was a very worn and weary doctor who presently swung out of hissaddle at the gallery step. His clothing was stained with mud, hisvery shoulders drooping with fatigue. In the past few days hescarcely had slept, but had been here and there attending to thewants of surviving sufferers of the boat encounter. None the lesshe smiled as he held out his hand to Josephine.

  "How is my patient?" he inquired. "Plumb well, of course. And howabout this new one--I thought I fixed him up before he came home.I've been grunting at Eleazar all the way, telling him it's allfoolishness, my coming away out here--he could have fixed Dunwody'sleg up, somehow. I suppose you know the old man's son, Hector. Hecame along for good measure, I reckon."

  The young man referred to now advanced, made a leg and pulled ablack forelock. He was a strapping youth, attired in the latestfashion of French St. Genevieve. He bowed to this lady; but at thesame time, the glance he cast at her French waiting-maid wasevidence enough of the actuating cause of his journey. He hadheard somewhat of these strangers at Tallwoods house.

  "I'll been forget to tell the _docteur_ h'all about Mr. Dunwodee,"began Eleazar.

  "What business have you to forget!" demanded Jamieson sternly."Has anything gone wrong?"

  "_Mon pere_," began Hector, "I'll tol' him, if he didn't tell the_docteur_ about how Monsieur Dunwodee he'll broke it his leg somemore--"

  "What's that?" The doctor whirled upon him.

  "It's quite true," said Josephine. "He had a fall, here in thehouse. He thinks he has broken the injured bone. I didn't knowfor a long time that he had been shot. He stood out here lastnight talking to me."

  "_Stood_ out here--_talking_ to you--with his leg brokenthrough--the front bone? Couldn't you have any mercy? You didn'thave to _use_ that broken wrist, but he--standing around--"

  "He did not tell me, until the last moment. He said he thought hehad a little fever and believed he would take a little quinine."

  "Oh, quinine--a Missourian would take that to save his immortalsoul--and quite as well as to take it for a broken bone like that.I did the best I could with it--out there in the dark, but itwasn't half dressed. Come--" He motioned Josephine to follow himto Dunwody's room.

  Eleazar had slunk away about the house, but Hector, left alone withJeanne, improved the shining hour. In a few moments he hadinformed her that he was most happy to see one so beautiful, one,moreover, who spoke his own tongue--although perhaps, it was true,not quite as that tongue was spoken in Canada. As for himself, hewas a cooper, and had a most excellent business, yonder at St.Genevieve. But the society of St. Genevieve--ah, well! And so on,very swimmingly.

  In the sick chamber Jamieson advanced with one glance at Dunwody'sfevered face. "What's up, Dunwody?" said he. "What has gonewrong? Easy now, never mind."

  He shook his head over the results of his first scrutiny. Heturned to Josephine, "Have you ever seen anybody hurt?"

  "I've been on two battlefields," said she. "I've nursed a little."

  Dunwody turned to her a face whose eyes now were glazed withsuffering. He nodded to Jamieson without any word.

  "Sally, get some hot water, quick!" called out Jamieson in thehall. "So, now, old man, let's see."

  He stripped the covering quite down and bared the lower limb,removing the bandage which he had originally applied. For a momenthe looked at the angry wound. Then he pulled back the covering,and turned away.

  "Well, well, what is it?" croaked Dunwody hoarsely, half-rising onhis crumpled pillow. Jamieson did not reply. "I fell, out therein the hall. Weight must have come on the bad place in the leg. Ithink the bone snapped."

  "I think so too! That mightn't have been so bad--but then youstood a while on that bad leg, eh? Now look here, Dunwody; do youknow what shape you are in now?"

  "No, I only know it hurts."

  "If that leg were mine, do you know what I'd do with it?"

  "No; but it isn't yours."

  "Well, I'd have it off--as quick as it could come, that's all. Ifyou don't, you'll lose your life."

  "You don't mean that?" whispered Dunwody tensely, after a time."You don't mean that, Doctor?"

  "I mean every word I say. It's blood poisoning."

  The only answer his patient made was to reach a slow hand under hispillow and draw out a long-barreled revolver, which he laid uponthe bed beside him.

  "I didn't think you such a coward," ruminated Jamieson, rubbing hischin.

  "If you think I'm afraid of the hurt of it, I'll let you do yourwork first, and I'll do mine afterward," gasped Dunwody slowly."But I'm not going to live a cripple. I'll not be maimed."

  They looked each other firmly in the face.

  "Is it so bad as all that, Doctor?" demanded Josephine. Her answerwas a sad look from the gray old eyes. "Blood poison. Some kindof an aggravation. It's traveling fast."

  Josephine gazed down at the bulky figure lying there prone, solately full of rugged ferocity, now so weak and helpless. Her eyefell on the weapon lying on the bed. She gently removed it.

  "That was what he preferred to my skill," commented Jamieson.

  Dunwody turned, his gaze on Josephine now. "You don't belong here,now," said he at length. "You'd better go away."

  "This is just where she _does_ belong!" contradicted Jamieson. "Ifshe has courage to stay here, I want her. I've got to have help.She'll do her duty, and with one hand tied! Can't you do as much?Haven't you any idea of duty in the world?"

  "Duty!" Dunwody's lips met in a bitter smile.

  "Listen here, Mr. Dunwody," began Josephine, "I've seen worsewounds than that, seen weaker men survive worse than that. There'sa chance perhaps--why don't you take it like a man? I exact it ofyou. I demand it! Your duty to me is unpaid. Come. We mustlive, all of us, _till all our debts are paid_."

  He made no answer at first save to look her straight in the facefor a moment. "Maybe there is such a thing as duty," said he."Maybe I do owe it--to you. I've--not yet--paid enough. Verywell, then."

  "Come," cried out Jamieson suddenly, "out you go on the table. Geta hand under there, girl."

  There was no word further spoken. Gently they aided the injuredman to his feet and helped him hobble through the hall and into thegreat dining-room beyond, where stood the long table of polishedmahogany. Dunwody, swaying, leaned against it, while Jamiesonhurried to the window and threw up the curtains to admit as much aspossible of the light of late afternoon. Returning, he motionedDunwody to remove his coat, which he folded up for a pillow. Theremainder of his preparations necessarily were scant. Hot water,clean instruments--that was almost all. An anaesthetic was ofcourse out of the question.

  "Dunwody, we're going to hurt you a little," said Jamieson, atlast. "You've got to stand it, that's all. Lie down there on thetable and get ready."

  He himself turned his back and was busy near by at a smaller table,arranging his instruments. "What then represented surgical carewould to-day be called criminal carelessness. Next he went out tothe front door and called aloud for Eleazar.

  "Come here, man," commanded Jamieson, after he had the old trapperin the room. "Take hold of this good leg and hold it still.Madam, I want you at the foot on the other side. You may get holdof the edge of the table with your hands, Dunwody, and hold still,if you can. I won't be very long."

  Swiftly the doctor cut away the garments from the wounded limb,which lay now exposed in all the horrors of its inflammation. . . .The next instant there was a tense tightening of the muscle
s of theman on the table. There was a sigh of deep, intaken breath,followed, however, by no more than a faint moan as the knife wentat its work. . . .

  "I'm not going to do it!" came back from under the surgeon's arm."There's half a chance--I'm going to try to save it! Hold on, oldman,--here's the thing to do--we're going to try--"

  He went down now into the quivering tissues and laid bare the edgeof the broken bone, deep to the inner lines. Thus the front of theshattered bone lay exposed. The doctor sighed, as he pushed atthis with a steady finger, his eyes frowning, absorbed. The bulletwound in the anterior edge was not clean cut. Near it was a long,heavy splinter of bone, the cause of the inflammation--somethingnot suspected in the hurried dressing of the wound in the halfdarkness at the river edge. This bone end, but loosely attached,was broken free, thrust down into the angry and irritated flesh.

  For an instant Jamieson studied the injury. The silence of deathwas in the room. The tense muscles of the patient might have beenthose of a lifeless man. Only the horrid sound of the drippingblood, falling from the table upon the carpet, broke the silence.

  "I had a coon dog once," began Doctor Jamieson cheerfully--"I don'tknow whether you remember him or not, Dunwody. Sort of a yellowdog, with long ears and white eye. Just wait a minute." Hehastened over to the side of the table and bent again over his caseof instruments.

  "There's been all kinds of coon dogs in these bottoms and hills, Isuppose, ever since white folks came here, but Dunwody, I'm tellingyou the truth, that dog of mine--"

  By this time he had fished out from his case a slender probe, whichhe bent back and forth as he once more approached the table.

  "There's wasn't anything he wouldn't run, from deer to catamount;and, one day, when we were out back here in the hills--I don't knowbut Eleazar here might remember something about that himself. . . ._Hold on, now, old man_!"

  The old doctor's forehead for the first time was beaded. He wantedsilver wire. He would have accepted catgut. He had neither. Forone moment, in agony himself, he looked about; then a look of joycame to his face. An old fiddle was lying in the window. Amoment, and he had ripped off a string. In two strides he was backat the dripping table, where lay one marble figure, stood a secondfigure also of marble.

  "We were just trailing along, not paying much attention toanything, when all at once that _dog_. . ."

  Doctor Jamieson's story of his famous coon dog was never entirelycompleted. His voice droned away and ceased now, as he bent oncemore over his work.

  What he did, so far as he in his taciturn way ever would admit, wasin some way to poke the catgut violin string under the bone, withthe end of the probe, and so to pass a ligature around the brokenbone itself. After that, it was easier to fasten the splinter backin place where it belonged.

  Doctor Jamieson used all his violin string. Then he cleaned thewound thoroughly, and with a frank brutality drenched it withturpentine, as he would have done with a horse or a dog; for thisburning liquid was the only thing at hand to aid him. His own eyesgrew moist as he saw the twitching of the burned tissues under thisinfliction, but his hand was none the less steady. The edge of thegreat table was splintered where Dunwody's hands had grasped it.The flesh on the inside of his fingers was broken loose under hisgrip. Blood dripped also from his hands.

  "I'm only a backwoods doctor, Dunwody," said Jamieson at length, ashe began rebandaging the limb. "I reckon there's a heap of goodsurgeons up North that could make a finer job of this. God knows,I wish they'd had it, and not me. But with what's at hand, I'vedone the best I could. My experience is, it's pretty hard to killa man.

  "Wait now until I get some splints--hold still, can't you! If wehave to cut your leg off after a while, I can do a better job thanthis, maybe. But now we have all done the best we could. Younglady, your arm again, if you please. God bless you!"

  The face of Josephine St. Auban was wholly colorless as once moreshe assisted the doctor with his patient. They got him upon hisown bed at last. To Dunwody's imagination, although he could neversettle it clearly in his mind, it seemed that a hand had pushed thehair back from his brow; that some one perhaps had arranged apillow for him.

  Jamieson left the room and dropped into a chair in the hall, hisface between his hands. "Sally," he whispered after a time,"whisky--quick!" And when she got the decanter he drank half atumblerful without a gasp.

  "Fiddle string in his leg!" he grinned to himself at last. "Maybeit won't make him dance, but I'll bet a thousand dollars he'd neverhave danced again without it!"

  When at last Josephine found her own room she discovered her maidJeanne, waiting for her, fright still in her face.

  "Madame!" exclaimed Jeanne, "it is terrible! What horrors thereare in this place. What has been done--is it true that Monsieurhas lost both his legs? But one, perhaps? For the man with oneleg, it is to be said that he is more docile, which is to bedesired. But both legs--"

  "It is not true, Jeanne. There has been surgery, but perhaps Mr.Dunwody will not even be a cripple. He may get well--it is stilldoubtful."

  "How then was it possible, Madame, for you to endure such sights?But is it not true, how the _Bon Dieu_ punishes the wicked? Formyself, I was in terror--even though I was some distance away; andalthough that young gentleman, Monsieur Hector, was so good as tohold my hand."