by Janette Oke
“Thet’s good,” said Clark. “The way thet timber had ’im pinned, I was feared it might be bad broke.”
“The other boy—Casey—he’s fine. Jest some scrapes an’ scratches an’ his deep inner pain, 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 with a raised hand. “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 deeply relieved at the clarity of Clark’s thinking. She was so glad 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 her entire being. They needed medicine. They needed a doctor. At times she was tempted to demand that Willie hurry them to the train so they could head for home. In more rational moments Marty knew he’d never survive such a long trip in his weakened condition.
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 to herself, the poison from the wound.
Marty could hardly bear this new dilemma. He had been doing well under the circumstances. He had been gaining back a little strength. He had 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 infection.
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 thought Marty had not noticed the drug ministrations to Clark, 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 ya still have left, but Clark needs a good-sized dose now. I’ve got to clean up thet leg the best 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 gazed into her face, wonder in his eyes. “Yer a better man than I am,” he said, then must have caught his blunder. “Well, anyway, I’m thinkin’ I’d not have the stomach to do what yer intendin’ to do.”
He went for the medicine and gave Clark a large dose. Marty waited until the morphine had taken effect, then gathered together all her limited supplies and every ounce of her courage and went to Clark’s room. She threw the window wide open and lit a piece of rag in a tin can to help smoke out the odor, 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 be sick. But she would allow herself neither. She soaked and snipped and cut away dead flesh, but even as she worked she knew 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 it exposed to the air, thinking the fresh air might do it some good. Then she cleaned the scissors and knife 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 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 before I cleaned it up? thought Marty. Marty was thankful Missie had been spared at least that much.
The drug began to wear off, and 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 long. Clark’s agony and the distress of the entire household sent her crying from the home.
The hours crawled by. Marty went into 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 wept from the bottom of her soul. “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 we need to bear it.”
Marty eventually arose from her knees and went to find Missie. A strange peace filled Marty’s being. She still shivered with each scream from Clark. It still pierced her to the quick to know 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, however, were not there. Lane had taken them to the barn, where they wouldn’t hear their grandfather’s agonizing cries.
Missie clutched the small backpack 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 want to believe that. I’ve been praying and praying for God to make him well.”
“He may not,” said Marty simply, looking into her daughter’s face.
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 her arms away.
“Oh, Missie, Missie,” Marty began to sob. “I fought it, too. I fought it with all my bein’. I want yer pa. I want him here with 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 to her own room, and she could hear the muffled sobs. There was nothing more that Marty could say. She could only pray.
Marty went to the kitche
n to ask Wong for coffee for the men in the sickroom. They had given him the last of the medication, allowing him to sleep once more. Each one in the house felt the lingering question: 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, and I’m . . . I’m willing 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 straightened to go on to Clark’s room. She heard a knock sound on the front door and turned to watch Missie wipe her face with her apron and go answer it.
Missie opened the door, and there stood Maria, her shoulders square and her eyes shining with faith and pride. Just behind her stood Juan.
“Can we come in?” she asked. “My husband . . . is a doctor.”
Twelve
Juan
Juan de la Rosa walked purposefully into the sickroom and set his case on the bed. With a quick glance, he took in Clark’s pallor and the flushed 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 man’s body.
The leg would have to be removed.
Juan’s thoughts went back to another time, one very much like this one. Another man lay before him with a leg in similar condition, and at that time, as well, Juan the doctor had needed to make a life-saving 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. And the man had lived.
And then . . . Juan shuddered involuntarily as other memories crowded into his mind. The angry screams, the raging accusations, the shouts of betrayal, and finally the sound of a pistol shot. For a moment, Juan felt he must flee Clark’s room—and all those memories. Then the groans of the sick man and the weeping 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, removing his jacket.
“I wish I could volunteer,” said Willie. “I’d like to, but I’m afeared I’d cave in halfway through. I can see to the water, an’ I’ll find ya a man.”
Willie told Marty and Missie about the need for boiling water. Maria, watching nearby, nodded quickly and led the other two women into the kitchen.
At the bunkhouse, Willie found Lane sitting in the doorway watching Nathan and Josiah playing with Max. He went into the bunkhouse, motioned Lane to follow him inside, and shut the door. He looked around at the cowboys in various stages of repose.
“We found us a doc,” Willie said. At the surprise on everyone’s faces, he explained, “Well, the Lord found us a doc. It’s 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 bein’ my father-in-law an’ all. Well, I’ll tell ya straight out. I’m not sure I could take it. I might fold up on the doc jest when he needs me most. Anyone here think he can do it?”
Willie’s eyes scanned the bunkhouse. Some of the cowboys were out on the range taking their shift, but those who were in the room probably wished they were far away, as well, mending fence or herding cattle. Willie had asked a hard thing.
Jake, stretched out on his bunk, had been catching up on some sleep. He’d had the late shift the night before. Smith, the bitter, critical member of the crew, sat in the corner 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 on the floor. Lane went white and stared at his hands as though trying to determine 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 do it.”
“Ya sure?”
Lane nodded agreement.
“It won’t be easy.”
Lane recognized that.
“Wish I could help ya . . . I can’t promise. Yer sure ya can do it?”
Lane swallowed. “I know I can’t,” he said solemnly. “But I’m . . . I’m trustin’ thet He can.” He motioned upward with his hand.
The religion-hating Smith looked at the silent, shy Lane, a look of grudging respect on his face.
Willie and Lane went to the house, where the doctor was waiting. Willie led the group in prayer; then the men went to Clark’s room and the women to the kitchen.
The hands on the clock seemed to drag their way around. The three women had boiled all the water they could find containers for and now sat at a small worktable, untouched coffee cups before them. They had prayed together off and on throughout the whole ordeal, weeping and praising and quoting Bible passages for comfort and encouragement.
“Juan always wanted to be a doctor,” Maria began slowly during a pause in the conversation. The other two lifted red-rimmed eyes to her face as they listened to her story. “From the time he was a small boy, he dreamed and planned. At first his father said no. If he wanted to serve, he could be a priest and serve the church. But Juan argued and pleaded. Finally his father said, ‘Yes, go ahead, but you will need to pay your own way. My money will not go for foolish dreams.’ His father is very wealthy. In his own way, he loves his sons. He wanted both of his boys to stay and ranch with him. Juan went away to the city to school. It was hard. He had to work and he had to study. His father thought he would give up and come home again. But Juan did not. At last he was finished. He was a doctor and was given a good job in a city hospital. His father thought he should come home now. He could be a doctor to the gringos and make good money treating their families, but Juan said no, he must first know more, and then he would come home.”
Maria stopped. It obviously was very difficult for her to continue.
“And then one day he was urgently called home. He must come right away. A man had been hurt. Juan went home and found the injured man. He, too, had crushed his leg. A horse had fallen on him. The leg was too badly broken to fix. It might have been different if he had quickly had a doctor and been taken to a hospital soon. But by the time Juan got there, the leg was like this one. It was infected and stealing away the man’s life.”
Maria stopped again and took a deep breath.
“He had to take the man’s leg. He had to. There was no other choice. Juan did the only thing he could do. The man lived and he again came awake. And then . . . then a dreadful thing happened. He discovered that his leg was gone. He was angry. He screamed at Juan. He wanted to kill him. He said Juan had always been jealous of him and had used his knife to make him less of a man. He screamed and screamed until the father came. He, too, was angry. He sent Juan from the room. And then . . . then there was a pistol shot. Juan ran back to the room. The man had shot himself. Juan’s father had not stopped him. The father lay weeping across the body of the dead man. It was his son—Juan’s brother.”
Missie gasped her horror, and Marty shut her eyes against the tragedy of it.
“Juan left his father’s home,” Maria continued after a moment, “and said he would never, never be a doctor again. He hated what he had done to his family. He came to me. I loved him very much. We were planning to be married. Juan said he could not marry me, that he was going far away. That he would never again be a doctor. He threw his bag across the y
ard and wept as he told me. I said that I loved him. That I still wanted to marry him. That I would go away with him. At last he said I could come. I packed a few things and we went to the village priest, who married us. Juan did not know it, but I packed his medicine bag, as well. It has been hidden these many years.
“We came here and began to ranch. Juan knew ranching. He had been raised on one of the biggest ranches in Mexico. He had ridden and cared for cattle from the time he was a small niño. But still Juan was not happy. He could not forget the past. Nor could he hide the desire to be a doctor.”
Maria toyed with the handle of the cup that held the now cold coffee.
“I said that Juan was troubled about coming to church, Missie. About what to teach our little ones. That is right. I did not lie. But Juan is also troubled about other things. He looks at the boy with the twisted arm and it turns a knife within him. He knows he could have set the arm properly and the boy would not have been crippled. He knows of the boy with the broken ankle in town. He knows that you all suffer here in this house with the good man, Clark. It makes my Juan suffer, too. He has not slept or eaten the last several days. He did not know what to do. He did not know that I had his bag and there was medicine in it.”
Maria sighed.
“He will always ask himself, could he have saved the leg if he had come sooner?”
“No,” Marty interjected. “He mustn’t think that. The leg was crushed. It was a very bad break. I don’t think anyone could have saved it. I pretended—but I didn’t really believe it. Juan mustn’t blame himself. He mustn’t. He mustn’t blame himself ’bout his brother, either. Juan did what had to be done. He couldn’t have done anythin’ else.”
Maria smiled weakly. “I know that and you know that—and deep down I believe Juan knows that, too. But it still torments him. Only now . . . now I pray he can forget that deep hurt and go on to do what he was meant to do. He was always meant to be a healer, my Juan.”
Willie walked into the kitchen, his face pale and his hands looking shaky.
