by Janette Oke
“Guess it bothers me to see a good man hurt” was all Cookie said.
The evening crawled on. The sun disappeared and the stars came out. Soon a silvery moon was shining down on a familiar world. The horses stomped and fought in the corrals, Max barked at some distant coyotes, the crickets chirped, and the night-winged insects beat against the windowpane in an effort to get to the light. Still Clark did not stir, and Willie did not come.
Marty and Missie sat together, talking in low tones and praying in turn. At length Missie stood and moved toward the door.
“I think I’ll fix something to drink. Do you want tea or coffee?”
“Tea, I think,” responded Marty wearily. She, too, stood and walked about the room. Missie left for the kitchen, and Marty moved to pick up Clark’s ragged clothes from the floor. She looked at them. They were dirty and torn and the trousers were minus one leg. Clark’s leg? She kept forgetting the broken leg in her anxiety over Clark’s unconsciousness. But she was not overly concerned about the leg. Many people had suffered broken legs. Usually, with a little skill on the part of some attendant, the leg was soon whole and workable again.
Marty pulled back the bedcover and looked at the leg swathed in bulky bandages. Actually, the men did a rather poor job of it, she thought. She began to unwind the white material, determined to fix the bandage up a bit. To her surprise there was blood on the cloth. Broken legs did not bleed, unless of course the injury was more extensive. Marty unwound the bandage more hurriedly, and the little cry that escaped her lips was like the sound of a small wounded animal. Clark’s leg was not just broken—it was destroyed! Marty felt a sickness sweeping all through her and rushed to the small basin on the stand in the corner. Her whole body shook as she retched. Faint and weak, she grasped the edge of the stand and fought to stand on her feet. At length she regained enough strength and presence of mind to be concerned for the evidence of her sickness before Missie returned. She gathered up the basin and the small pitcher Missie had used for the cold water and headed for the backyard, disposed of the basin’s contents and washed it out, and then returned quickly to the room. The cool night air had helped to revive her some, and she hastily attempted to put things back in order. Hurriedly she rewrapped the broken limb, trying to copy the men’s original bandaging as closely as she could. Then she chided herself. It was not a time for secrets. She knew Willie had tried to spare her—her and Missie—but the truth needed to be known.
She unwrapped the wound and began to methodically and carefully clean and bind it up, doing the best job possible for her to do. She finished just as Missie returned with the tea.
Marty was glad for the strong, hot tea. She sipped it slowly until she felt some of its strength gradually making its way through her body.
“I took a look at yer pa’s leg,” she stated as matter-of-factly as she could.
“The broken one?”
“The broken one.”
“I hope you didn’t move—”
“Yer father did not stir.”
A minute of silence followed.
“It’s bad, Missie, really bad.”
“How bad?”
“A heavy timber or rock must have fallen on it.”
“You mean—?”
“I mean it’s crushed. It’ll need a real doctor, one with special skills an’ tools—”
“Then we’ll find one. Willie probably went for one. That’s what he did. He went to find a doctor.”
“But ya said—”
“What do I know? Just bcause I don’t know of a doc doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Willie hears far more—”
“I hope an’ pray he knows of one.”
“He will. He will. Just you wait and see. When he gets back here, he’ll have—”
The sound of horses came faintly through the window. Missie ran to the door and looked out through the darkness into the yard. No, not horses—a horse. Willie was back, but Willie was alone.
“The doc must be following,” Missie called over her shoulder to Marty. “Willie is home now.”
Missie ran to meet him. When they returned to the house together, Missie’s cheeks bore fresh tears. Marty guessed the meaning.
“Willie had them telegraph every town he knew. Nowhere around do they have a doctor,” she confessed. Willie, standing with slumped shoulders and an ashen face, could not speak.
Marty crossed to him. “You’ve done all thet ya could,” she comforted, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, Willie.” She coaxed forth a smile that she did not feel. “We’ll jest have to pray even harder,” she said.
Three people now sat in silence or moved slowly about the room or spoke in hushed tones. Clark did not stir through the long night.
When dawn came, Willie insisted that Missie get some rest. The children would be needing her. Missie left to lie down for a brief time. Still no change in Clark. The day moved on, from forenoon to noonday, afternoon to evening. Marty left Clark’s side only for a few minutes at a time. She was not interested in eating, could not think of sleeping. Her mind was totally focused on her husband lying silently in the bed.
Just as the long day ended and the sun was leaving the sky, Clark stirred and a groan came from his lips. Marty rushed to him. He opened his eyes, seemed to recognize her, and groaned again. He slipped back into unconsciousness, but to Marty it was a blessed sign. Just to see him move and look at her was something to be thankful for. She allowed the tears to stream down her face as she buried it against him.
Eleven
Struggles
Clark remained unconscious the entire next day. Marty stayed by his bed, longing to be able to talk with him. Missie came as often as her duties would allow. In the late afternoon Willie returned to the house and insisted that both of the women take a rest. After a bit of an argument, they went, realizing they could not carry on longer without some sleep. Willie had Wong bring him coffee, and he settled himself beside Clark’s bedside. He had slept very little himself in the last two days. His eyelids felt heavy and his eyes scratchy. He rubbed a callused hand over his face.
Why did this have to happen? Why? The time they had looked forward to for so long—had dreamed of as a time of joyous reunion—had turned into a nightmare. Why? Surely God hadn’t brought Clark and Marty way out here to take Clark’s life and possibly damage Marty’s faith. It was all an enormous puzzle to Willie.
And the boys? He worried about his sons. They had been so excited about meeting their grandparents. Missie had made it a great adventure for them. They had counted the weeks, the days. And then, when they had met their grandparents, they had loved them so quickly, so deeply—and now this tragedy. Poor little Nathan. Not only had his grandfather been taken from him in the last few days but even his grandmother and, thought Willie, his own ma, too. Missie’s mind was far too unsettled and troubled by her father’s condition to do more than respond to her children’s basic needs.
Willie got up and moved to the boys’ room. Josiah slept soundly, mostly unconscious of the burden the household was presently bearing, though he probably felt the emotional undercurrents. Nathan was not there; perhaps he was in the kitchen with Wong or visiting Cookie or playing with Max. The poor little fellow. He was trying so hard to be good.
Willie crossed to his own room and looked in on Missie. Though she was sleeping, her face was still pale and drawn. Willie’s heart ached for her. He gently smoothed back her long hair and left her.
He looked in on Marty. She, too, slept soundly. She looked exhausted—as well she might. She had hardly left Clark’s side since the accident.
Willie went back to Clark’s room. He should check the leg. He pulled back the covers and looked at the neat, fresh bandage. This was not the bandage he had hurriedly wrapped. Someone else had been caring for Clark. Someone else knew of the leg’s condition. Willie wiped his hand over his face again. Did the women know? If so, he hated the thought of their suffering this additional burden. At the same time, he felt some of the
tension leave him. It would be far better if they did know. It would help prepare them for what likely was ahead.
Willie pulled the light cover up over Clark and sat down heavily in the chair. The house was quiet. Most of its occupants were asleep. Willie, too, dozed occasionally, only to waken to chide himself and determine not to let it happen again.
Josiah must have awakened from his hap and left his bed in search of another family member. Willie, hearing him in the hall, went to get him. He picked up the small boy and held him close, walking back and forth in the hallway and murmuring words of love to him. Josiah cuddled closely against his father, his pudgy hands around his neck and his fingers intertwined in Willie’s thick hair. He liked to be held. He liked to be loved. As far as Josiah was concerned, the world had no sorrows.
At length, Willie held the little boy away and looked at him. “Are ya hungry?” he asked.
“Yeah. Where Mama?”
“Mama is restin’. She’s very tired.”
“Mama sleepin’?”
“Right. Do you want to go see Wong an’ have him git ya some milk an’ bread?”
“Yeah!” exclaimed Josiah in glee. He always enjoyed a visit with Wong.
Willie carried him to the kitchen. Wong looked up from the table where he and Nathan were cutting doughnuts.
“Aha,” said Wong, “small boy is wake now.”
“Awake an’ hungry, Wong. Ya think ya might have somethin’ fer him?”
Wong smiled. He enjoyed the children.
“Yes, yes. Wong find.”
Nathan called to Josiah. “Hi, Joey. Ya all done with yer sleep? See what big brother is doin’. Look! I’m helpin’ Wong make doughnuts. We’re gonna have ’em fer supper.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Wong. “Too slow. Maybe tomorrow.”
“I’ll hurry,” said Nathan and began to slap down the cutter in rapid succession, making weird-shaped doughnuts with chopped-out sides as one cut overlaid another.
“Slow. Slow,” called Wong. “We have some for supper. You make slow.”
Nathan obliged with more careful cuts. Willie squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “I can hardly wait,” he said. “Those shore look like good doughnuts.” Then he turned to Wong.
“Speakin’ of supper, ya wanna jest feed the boys? The women are both havin’ a rest, an’ I plan to let ’em sleep as long as they can. The boys can play outside fer a while an’ then they can eat. I’ll jest have a bowl of soup or some stew in the bedroom.”
Wong nodded.
Willie returned to the bedroom and took his place beside Clark. There was no change.
The hours crawled by slowly. Cookie came in and stayed with Clark while Willie washed up his sons and readied them for bed. He spent extra time with them, holding them and reading to them, and then he tucked them in and remained in their room until they both dropped off to sleep.
When he returned to the patient, he was surprised to hear Clark groaning. Cookie was bending over him, trying to restrain him from movement.
“He’s comin’ out of it,” said Cookie. “Don’t be surprised if there’s some screamin’.”
Clark moaned again and fought against his extreme pain, not aware enough to realize where the pain was coming from.
“Don’t know how he’s gonna stand it when he wakes up a bit more,” Cookie muttered, and Willie had the impression Cookie knew firsthand what he was talking about.
Willie feared what Clark’s cries might do to the sleeping household.
“Isn’t there anythin’—?”
“Ya watch ’im and try ta hold ’im down,” said Cookie. “I’m gonna find Scottie.”
Cookie hobbled out, and Scottie soon came noiselessly into the room, breathless from running. Willie watched as he pulled out a small package from his pocket and opened it. Willie did not see the contents of the package, nor did he ask any questions, but Scottie seemed to feel some information was in order.
“A little morphine. Cookie’s. He needs it now an’ then fer the pain thet still bothers ’im. Makes me keep it so he won’t be tempted to take it oftener than he should.”
Willie nodded.
Clark was thrashing and moaning, his brow covered with perspiration; his hands tried to clutch at the bedclothes as if to tear away the pain. Scottie leaned over him and spooned the drug into his mouth. It was a while before it took effect, and the men guarded and soothed Clark as they waited for the medicine to work. At last Clark became quieter and eventually fell into a deep sleep. Willie was thankful for the respite. But what would they do when Cookie’s small supply of morphine ran out?
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. Though the pain would have been considerable, Clark was rational.
He looked at Willie and, for the first time in three days, seemed aware of his situation.
Willie was relieved to recognize that Clark was alert. At least his mind had not been affected. “How ya doin’?” Willie asked softly, lifting 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 another wave of relief pass through him.
“How’s yer head?”
“Hazy . . . little ache . . . all right.”
“Good,” Willie encouraged.
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 must have satisfied Clark. He lay clenching his jaw to keep the screams from coming. Willie knew 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.
“How’re them 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 closed his eyes, obviously trying to fight away the pain and maybe 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 murmured 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 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 agreement.
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 scrambled 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 no doubt knew her well enough to let her cry for a while. When her tears were spent, he spoke to her.
“I’m all right. Don’t fret yerself.” His voice sounded rough but s
urprisingly strong.
“Shore,” she smiled weakly, blinking away tears. “Shore ya are.”
“My leg’s not too good, though. Ya knowin’ thet?”
“I know.” The way Marty said it confirmed to Willie that she truly did know. Marty must have been the one who had changed the bandages. Once again, Willie felt a surge of respect for this strong 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 and wiping away her tears, “ya ain’t never looked better.”
Willie quietly left them alone.
Scottie was there to portion out small amounts of the morphine as Clark needed it. Clark really could have used far more pain-killer than he was allowed, but once their supply was gone there would be no more.
Clark was able to talk a bit 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 looked reassured. Marty and Missie both spent most of 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 she hoped would encourage her father’s appetite. He made a great effort to eat and please her, but even she could tell it was difficult 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 in time. They were deeply grateful to Clark for his courageous rescue and sent word that he was in their prayers.
Funeral services were held for Abe. Marty hardly knew how to tell Clark, but she felt he deserved to know. She approached the subject cautiously.
“They say thet Andy’s ankle should be healin’.”
