by Janette Oke
Scottie guided the team, turning this way and that as he snaked a pathway home, trying his best to miss chuckholes and bumps. Willie sat with Clark, steadying him and bathing his face with water from the canteen. Except for the lump on his head from the falling beam and the badly injured leg, Clark seemed to have no other wounds. Willie dared to hope that the head injury would be a mild concussion, that Clark’s mind would not suffer any serious effects from it.
The leg was another matter. As Willie looked at the severely broken leg with the bone splinter projecting from the skin, he shuddered. How could such a leg heal without the help of a doctor? “Oh, dear God,” prayed Willie aloud, “please show us what to do.”
As the wagon neared the ranch, an anxious Marty and Missie hurried out into the yard. Willie chided himself for not thinking to go ahead and prepare his womenfolk, and he jumped from the slow-moving wagon and asked Lane to watch Clark, and Scottie to drive as slowly as he knew how. Then Willie quickened his stride and reached the women slightly ahead of the wagon.
“Clark been hurt?” gasped Marty.
Willie nodded.
“Bad?” cried Missie.
“Pretty bad,” answered Willie, “but not as bad as it will seem at first. He took a knock on the head, so he ain’t conscious jest yet.”
“Oh, dear God,” whispered Marty, her hand fluttering to her throat, but Willie thought he saw relief showing in her eyes that at least Clark was alive.
“Did ya git the boys?”
“Yes,” Willie nodded.
“Thank God,” breathed Marty.
Just before the wagon rolled up, Willie placed an arm around each of the women. He wanted just another minute to prepare them.
“Yer pa also has a broken leg,” he said to Missie. “We’ll need to fix his bed right away. Then fetch some hot water and towels from the kitchen. We want to move him as gentle as we can. Will ya see to it? An’, Ma, could ya check to see what we might have around in the way of disinfectant—he’s got some scratches we should look after.”
With a quick glance toward the now-stopped wagon, the two women ran toward the house to do Willie’s bidding.
Willie moved forward.
“Quick,” he said to Scottie. “I want him in there an’ settled ’fore the women . . .” He did not finish. He did not need to. Scottie understood. Lane rushed out to help them, and with the three men manning the makeshift bed, they got Clark to the house. Missie had already turned down the bed in readiness, but just as Willie had hoped, neither of the women were in the room.
The men laid Clark on the bed and removed his shirt. Willie found some scissors and cut the pant leg from the broken limb. Scottie had removed the shoes and socks.
“We should bundle him warm against shock,” said Lane, and Willie reached for a flannel nightshirt, which they struggled to slip over Clark’s head.
“What we gonna do about thet leg?” It was a question they no doubt had all been asking themselves, but it was Lane who finally voiced it.
“For now we’ll jest protect it all we can an’ let the women see him fer a minute,” Willie said.
Marty was the first one through the door. She cried out at the sight of Clark and went to kneel beside him, brushing at the dirt streaks and bloodstains on his pale face and running her fingers through his hair. Willie remained silent for a few minutes and then asked quietly, “Did ya find some disinfectant?”
Marty held up the forgotten bottle with trembling fingers.
Missie arrived with a basin of hot water and some towels. Willie took them from her and she rushed forward to kneel by her mother. She lifted one of Clark’s limp hands and began to stroke it, as if willing it to become strong and independent again.
Willie remained silent for a moment and then passed Marty a small towel.
“Ya want to clean up his face some? Make sure the water isn’t too hot. He won’t be able to warn ya, and we don’t want a burn.”
Marty and Missie both came to life then.
“I’ll go fetch a pitcher of cool water,” said Missie and fled from the room. Marty turned to the business of cleaning Clark up. She inspected his dirty blood-caked hands, exclaiming over the bruised knuckles and the scratched and dirt-stained palms. His nails were broken and dirt filled from digging with his fingers.
“My, but they’re a mess,” said Marty, new calmness in her voice as she set about her task.
Willie sighed with relief and lifted the basin from the nearby chest so Missie could add the cold water she had just brought into the room.
The two women soaked and cleansed the damaged hands and then applied the disinfectant that Marty had produced. They wiped his face and found that, except for a couple of minor scratches, there were no open wounds there. Clark did not stir. Willie observed Marty slyly feeling for a pulse and looking relieved when she actually found one. After Willie was sure the women had spent enough time with Clark to reassure them, he turned to Missie. “I’m gonna have to ask ya fer a favor now. I know it’ll be hard to leave yer pa, but I do need to ask ya to care fer a few things fer me.”
Missie’s eyes widened, but she nodded in agreement.
“Some of the boys were out there diggin’ most of the afternoon. They’re hungry an’ Cookie’s already cleared away from the last meal. Could you rustle up a bunch of sandwiches an’ some hot coffee fer ’em?”
Missie, surprised, hesitated only a moment. She had never been asked to fix anything for the ranch hands before. Cookie always took care of their food needs no matter what time they came in. But she did not question Willie, only moved to obey.
“Do ya mind givin’ her a hand?” Willie asked Marty.
Marty was about to protest and then rose to her feet. Surely this small request was not too much for Willie to ask.
“The boys have a shift change soon an’ gotta git on out to the cattle,” Willie went on quickly with his explanation.
He was relieved when Marty nodded and moved from the room. Willie immediately left the room and went to the boys’ room. Josiah was napping and Nathan was playing quietly. Missie had asked him to go to his room before Clark was carried into the house so the small boy would not be unduly frightened by his grandfather’s condition.
“Hi, fella,” greeted Willie as cheerily as the occasion would allow him. “Would ya mind doin’ a little chore fer yer pa?”
“Mama said thet I was to stay here till she came for me,” answered Nathan. And then in deep seriousness, he went on, “Did Grandpa git the boys out, Pa?”
“He sure ’nough did,” answered Willie, roughing the boy’s hair. “But I need ya now. I’ll tell yer ma thet I had a job fer ya. I want ya to run real quick an’ tell Cookie an’ Scottie thet I need ’em at the house. Tell ’em I need ’em now. Then come right back here to yer room. Okay?”
Nathan laid aside his book and ran as his pa bade him. Scottie and Cookie quickly arrived at Clark’s room.
“Quick,” said Willie. “I’ve got the ladies busy in the kitchen fixin’ a lunch fer the hands.”
“Lunch fer the hands?” repeated Cookie in disbelief.
“It was all I could think of to git ’em from the room. Now we gotta clean up thet leg, an’ we gotta do it quick like.”
The two men nodded and Willie threw back the blankets. The sight that met their gaze was not a pleasant one. For a moment, Willie wished he could just throw the blanket over the leg again and walk away.
Cookie forgot himself and swore under his breath. “’Bout the worst one I ever seed,” he said. “Even worse shape than my hip was.”
“Well, we gotta do what we can. Pass thet there basin.” The three men worked over the wound, soaking and cleaning it and then pouring on the whole bottle of disinfectant. Willie tried to straighten the leg so that it didn’t lie at such a bizarre angle, but they knew there was nothing they could do to set the bone. After the thorough cleansing, they fixed a loose makeshift splint and wrapped the damaged leg in it, more to conceal the injury than to do i
t any good. They were just finishing when Willie heard Missie’s quick, light step.
“Thet lunch’ll be ready soon,” he whispered to the other two. “Ya go on out an’ find someone—anyone—to eat it.”
Cookie nodded and went out to round up some cowboys. Scottie, at a nod from his boss, also left the room. Willie heard him speak to Missie in the hall.
“I hear tell thet ya’re gonna fix some sandwiches, ma’am. I’ll jest wash some of the dirt off me at the cook shack an’ I’ll be right in. Mighty nice of ya, an’ I sure am in need of a cup of coffee. Mighty obliged, ma’am.”
Willie covered Clark carefully and picked up the basin with the dirty, bloody water. He held it up high so Missie couldn’t see into it.
“Yer pa seems to be restin’ a mite easier now,” he said, backing out of the room with his rather gruesome-looking burden. “Thanks fer feedin’ the men, Missie. Ya might tell yer ma thet if she wishes to sit with yer pa, the fellas can care fer themselves in the kitchen. An’, Missie, I think thet Nathan might need a little reassurance. He must be wonderin’ jest what’s goin’ on. I sent him on a little chore fer me, an’ he was ’fraid you’d scold him fer leavin’ his room unbidden. Ya might like to peek in and sorta calm him some. I gotta run. Gotta make a little trip. Won’t be long.”
Missie looked dumbfounded at Willie’s announcement, but she nodded mutely and moved toward the boys’ room. Willie ached to hold her for a minute, but his hands were occupied with the basin and dirty towels. He sensed that his wife was probably still in shock.
“Missie,” he said softly and she turned back, “he’s gonna be all right. He’s tough. As soon as thet little bump on his head . . .” His voice trailed off. Then he went on. “Tell yer ma not to let him move. Iffen he wakes up an’ thrashes ’round, call fer Scottie. We couldn’t set thet there leg yet, an’ he might hurt himself.”
Again Missie nodded silent assent. Willie moved on by her with the basin.
“An’, Missie. Try not to worry. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He passed through the door and headed for the bunkhouse and cook shack. He tossed the dirty water to the side of the path. When he reached the shack he found Cookie.
“Could only find three riders,” said Cookie, “an’ even they weren’t hungry. Told ’em to eat or else.”
“Lane an’ Scottie should be hungry,” said Willie. “They ain’t had anythin’ since—”
“This sort of thing takes one’s appetite,” answered Cookie. “But they’ll eat. They’ll eat all right, an’ they’ll drink the coffee. They need the coffee.”
Willie passed Cookie the blood-soaked towels. “Think thet ya can clean ’em up some ’fore the womenfolk see ’em again?”
“Shore,” said Cookie and tossed them in a corner.
“Tell Scottie I had to go into town. Tell ’im I want an eye kept on thet house. Iffen those women need help, I want someone to be there.”
Cookie said nothing, but his eyes assured Willie that the order would be followed.
Willie strode on down to the corral, where he lifted a rope from a post and snaked out his saddle horse. In a few minutes’ time the sound of pounding hoofbeats was echoing across the yard.
Marty had had a hard time concentrating on fixing a lunch for the men with Clark lying in the bedroom in his present condition. She couldn’t remember how many scoops of coffee to put into the pot, nor could she remember where to find bread and butter. Missie’s memory didn’t seem much better, even if it was her own kitchen. Wong was down in the garden selecting vegetables for supper, and neither of the women thought to call him.
Numbly they went about searching out sandwich materials and spreading the bread. Neither talked, although both were aware of anxious thoughts that would not be stilled. They worked on in silence until Marty noticed Missie fighting back the tears. She went to her then and took her in her arms.
“He’ll be all right. God won’t let anythin’ happen to ’im. He’ll be fine.” Oh, how Marty wanted to believe her own words! They have to be true. They just have to. If anything happens to Clark . . . Her arms tightened around Missie and she began to pray aloud.
“God, ya know how we need ya now. Ya know how we love Clark. Ya know how he has served you. He loves ya, Lord. An’ now we’re askin’ thet ya lift him up. Thet ya give ’im back his mind an’ body, iffen it be yer will, Lord. Amen.”
Missie looked at Marty, her eyes wide and the tears streaming down her face. “Oh, Ma,” she cried, “don’t pray like that! Of course it is His will. Of course it is. He must heal him. He must.”
Marty, too, was crying now. “Yer pa always prayed, ‘Yer will be done.’”
“You can pray that way if you want to,” said Missie insistently, “but I’m going to tell God exactly what I want. I want Pa. I want him well and strong again. What’s wrong with telling God exactly what you want Him to do?”
“Yer pa always says thet we don’t be orderin’ God—we ask.”
Missie pulled away, and Marty could feel frustration, even anger, in the slim body. Brushing at her tears, Missie went back to the sandwiches. Her whole person seemed shut away. Marty remained in silent prayer, for Clark and for Missie, as she began to slice beef and place it on the bread.
When the sandwiches and coffee were ready, Missie went to check on Nathan. She held the small boy close and let her tears fall. When she was sure she could speak coherently, she talked to him. “Grandpa got the boys out, Nathan. Grandpa is kind of a hero. He hurt himself saving others. Now he needs to be in bed and have a long rest. You and Josiah might have to be very quiet and especially good for the next few days. You can do that for Grandpa, can’t you?”
She felt Nathan’s head bobbing a yes up against her.
“We need to pray for Grandpa. God can make him all better again. Will you pray with Mama now, Nathan?”
Nathan agreed and the two of them knelt by his bed.
“God,” said Nathan simply, “Grandpa got to be a hero an’ is hurt an’ needs you to help him. He needs me an’ Josiah to be quiet an’ not ’sturb him. Help us to not fight or yell. An’ help Mama an’ Grandma to nurse Grandpa good. Amen.”
Missie wished to ask the young boy to pray again. She wanted to say, “Nathan, you didn’t ask God to make your grandpa well. You didn’t say it, Nathan.” Instead she held him for a moment and told him if he’d like to go to the kitchen and share the lunch with the ranch hands, he could. Nathan bounded away, glad to be free of his room.
Missie returned to the kitchen, her heart heavy and her head spinning. How could God answer their prayers if they didn’t pray them? Missie went to pour the coffee with a shaking hand.
When Missie had returned to the kitchen, Marty slipped quietly into Clark’s room and knelt by his bed. She took one of his hands in hers and caressed it, careful not to bring further hurt to the already damaged hand. It did look better now that it had been cleaned up. She pressed it to her lips and let her tears wash it again.
“Oh, Clark,” she whispered, “I couldn’t bear it iffen somethin’ should happen to you. Oh, God, I jest couldn’t stand it. Please, dear God, make ’im better again. Please leave ’im with me. I need ’im so much.” There, she was praying the very way she had warned Missie against. Well, she simply couldn’t help it! She needed Clark so much. She loved him more than life itself. She couldn’t bear to lose him. She just couldn’t! “Oh, please, God—please, please, God,” she pled.
She stayed beside his bed, crying and praying, until all her energy and her tears were spent. Clark still did not stir. Would he ever regain consciousness?
At length Marty was aware of a hand on her shoulder. “Mama,” asked Missie, “do you want a cup of coffee?”
Marty shook her head.
“You should, you know. It might be a long night. Wong made supper for the boys. I didn’t think anyone else would be hungry.”
Marty looked up. “Yer right,” she said wearily. “I couldn’t eat a bite.”
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bsp; “Coffee, then,” said Missie, holding out the cup.
Marty lifted herself to her feet and took it. She was surprised at how stiff she had become and she wondered how long she had been there beside Clark. Missie pushed a chair toward her and she sat down.
“The boys are already in bed,” Missie ventured. “Willie still isn’t back. Don’t know why he—”
“Maybe he went fer a doctor. He said thet yer pa’s leg—”
“I’m afraid there’s no doctor anywhere around,” Missie offered sadly. “He might have heard of someone good at setting breaks, though.”
Marty sipped at the coffee and watched Missie’s face.
“Didn’t Willie say where he was goin’?”
“Just said he would be gone for a while and if we needed anything to call the men. He also said not to let Pa stir around none. Might hurt his leg.”
Marty looked at the motionless Clark. “Looks like we needn’t worry none ’bout thet. Wish he would stir some. It would make me feel some better iffen I could jest talk to him.”
“Willie says that moving might injure his leg even more.”
“Maybe it’s a blessin’ thet he has thet bump on his head. At least he doesn’t suffer as much. By the time he comes to again, maybe the pain will be cared fer some.”
Marty hadn’t thought of the unconsciousness as a blessing, but perhaps it was. She just hoped it wouldn’t last too long.
They sat together in silence. Scottie came for a few minutes and asked if there was anything he could do. They assured him they would call if there was any change.
Cookie poked his head around the door, then hobbled in.
“Are you all right?” Missie asked him.
“Whatcha meanin’?” asked Cookie.
“You’re lookin’ sorta down.”
Cookie shook his head. How could he tell her that seeing Clark’s injury had reminded him of the injury in his past and the pain that had accompanied it? Clark was truly fortunate right now. He was unaware of pain. But if consciousness returned, would he be able to keep from screaming with the intensity of the agony he would feel? And how would those earth-rending screams affect the rest of the household?
