by Lynn Landes
“The bullet is still inside, why didn’t they take it out?” Steven asks returning with the small bottle of morphine. He pours out a tablespoon full and helps Simon drink it.
Harris doesn’t reply. He knows the answer to that. Barclay is a beast. Harris turns and grabs his surgical bag.
“Barclay was punishing me,” Simon whimpers on the table.
Steven starts mixing a poultice of herbs mixed with medicine and Harris turns away to a table near the wall, unrolling his tools.
“Punishing you for what?” Steven returns to cover the bottom half of his body with a blanket and bring his body temperature up.
“I let her escape,” he groans and starts coughing. Steven’s eyes meet Harris’s worried ones.
His breathing grows strained, and Harris checks his lungs, confirming his fears. Pneumonia. If he lives a few more days, it will be through strength of will.
“Steven you treat the bicep wound.” Confessions are nothing new to Harris. He’d heard it all during the war and after. “Fill it with poultice and keep him on the morphine to help with the pain. I’ll tend to the shoulder wound. It needs to be flushed clean and packed. Can you get clean bandages and a change of clothes for him?”
“Of course,” Steven quickly patches the bicep, they decide not to stitch it as it has already sealed itself, except for the rip during moving. Steven steps to a closet where they keep fresh bandages and riffles through for a change of clothes.
When Harris turns to prepare the medicine, Simon grabs his hand with shocking strength. “You have to help her,” he hisses.
“Help who, Simon?”
“Green eye’s…”
Harris flinches. “What?”
“They killed them all, Doc. An entire village of Indians, I didn’t know they’d butcher them…” sobs wrack his body, and Harris stares at him in horror with a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Steven listens from the cabinet and watches Harris closely.
“Where, Simon?” He eases Simon back down praying it will not be the answer he’s dreading.
“We tracked them for days, uggh,” he moans, and his breathing slows as the morphine begins to take effect.
“Simon, where?” Harris demands, louder this time.
“We have to treat his wounds,” Steven says stepping back to his side. They work together to remove his clothes and irrigate the area washing it as clean as they can. He trims back bits of rotting flesh.
“What’s he talking about?” Steven asks.
“Not sure. Where are they all coming from? That’s twenty-four soldiers wounded by arrows or knife wounds. Must have been a big battle.”
“Just another Indian attack, they are growing bolder. I heard they’ve been stealing weapons,” Steven replies and rushes to mix the poultice, even though he knows it won’t save his life.
“There weren’t no guns…” Simon moans again.
“Guns? What guns?” Steven asks handing Harris the poultice. Harris packs the wound and wraps up the bandage before covering him with a second blanket.
“He’s just rambling.” Harris snaps, “We’ve done all we can for now. He might have a few days, just depends on how fast the infection spreads.”
“There’s been talk over at the saloon, I can grab us some food and ask around.”
“No,” Harris says with a frown at the patient. “You don’t want anything to do with Barclay. The mans a butcher,” Harris snaps in disgust, then looks at Steven. “Sorry, I treated some of his victims in the past.”
“I understand, Let’s clean up, get him moved to the bed in the corner, where we can keep an eye on him,” Steven suggests.
“Sounds good,” Harris is unable to stop thinking about the green eyes. “I’ll take the first shift.”
Steven doesn’t argue, they have treated over two dozen wounded volunteer “soldiers,” but none of them spoke of the battle they’d been in. Some had knife wounds, puncture wounds, and broken bones. As soon as they are treated, they leave, some go home others take trains or stagecoaches to where ever they came from. His job as the Doctor was to address the injuries and mind his own business.
Harris has seen first-hand how the skirmishes between the soldiers and Indians are escalating. A frown creases his brow as Steven leaves calling back, “I’ll have dinner sent over from the saloon.”
“Thank you,” he replies as he glances at the restless patient and finishes wiping down the exam table.
Simon watches him from the bed along the back wall. “Never knew we were coming…” he mumbles.
Harris turns and walks to his bedside, grabbing a cup of water on the way.
“Who, Simon?” He helps Simon sit up and supports him when he has another coughing fit.
“Shoshone…”
“What?” Harris jerks as if slapped, “Where, Simon?”
Simon laughs semi-hysterically, “It’s too late they killed them all!”
“Where?” Harris demands loudly and runs a hand over his face and beard.
Horror filled eyes meet his and tears flow, “Snake River,” Simon gasps and starts coughing.
“No!” Harris jumps up, pacing frantically as he thinks. He runs a trembling hand through his long dark wavy hair, “The Spring Tribal is at the Snake River.” It’s a three-day ride if you have a fresh horse, and don’t stop. Kimani is with her family…
He whirls around to Simon and finds him staring at him. “Tell me, what happened. Were there any survivors?”
“We surrounded them. We watched the tribe until the weather changed. A snowstorm was coming, and General Barclay didn’t want to take a chance for anyone to escape. He said no survivors. No prisoners.” He glances away and glares back at Harris. “I don’t kill children and woman… Doc…” he coughs, “Boy he didn’t like that.”
“No, you just stood back while they slaughtered innocent people!” Harris shouts wondering why he is trying to ease this man’s pain.
“It was kill or die. I killed.” Simon looks away in shame. “Barclay said they stole guns, from soldiers.” His eyes close for a second, before he starts rambling again, “Weren’t no guns. They put me at the end West end of the river to collect…” Simon winces as a wave of pain rips through his body. Harris watches him as memories of the tribe floods his mind.
Chief Nashoba and his tribe of Shoshone have shared the land with the River’s family for years. He grew up with them, and as a doctor, he had spent a great deal of time with them.
“To collect what?” Harris demands as he grabs the morphine again.
“The Gatling guns did the job, Doc. The bodies flow with the fast-moving water. You understand I had to collect them and kill any that need killing.”
Harris blanches and pushes away the images of the people he had come to love and respect over the years.
“She didn’t need killing,” Simon coughs again, and this time the cough produces blood.
“Morphine?” Harris offers.
“No, need to tell you…” he wheezes and waits for the spell to pass. “Found a girl. She was wounded, almost drowned, can’t believe she was able to climb out of the rapids. I watched her,” he coughs, gasping and vomits the little bit of water he took.
“Easy, now, no more talking. Just rest.” Harris orders and cleans him up.
Simon sits up and clutches at his arm, spittle flying he is desperate to be heard. “I watched her climb… over a mountain of death and fight to live and I raised my gun… I couldn’t do it. She collapsed on the river banks and passed out.”
“What then? How did you get shot?” Harris sits next to him, so he can hear.
“I dressed her in the clothes of a dead soldier. Her body was beaten, bloody, she had a wound on her leg…” he falls silent wondering if she will be hurting as much as he is. Harris waits quietly for him to continue, afraid to stop him.
“Then she woke up and fought me, Doc!” Simon turns back to him, “I slammed her on my horse, gave her a pistol and… she shot me.” Simon grins,
and Harris sits back stunned.
“Why is that funny?”
“Those green eyes flashed behind me, and she shot me in the arm to protect me.” Simon chuckles which leads to another coughing fit before he closes his eyes thinking of the sight she made.
“Green eyes?” Harris asks gruffly. “Damn,” he jumps up and frantically paces. There can be no mistaking it now.
“Doc?” Simon calls. Harris pauses and looks at him. “I told her to ride south, that was … four... days ago.”
“What did she have with her?” Harris drops beside him on his knees. Desperation fills his eyes and Simon realizes for the first time that the girl has a chance.
“My horse, saddlebags had ammo and rations for two days, but … she was injured. Not sure how long she could stay on the horse.”
“She’s stubborn, that horse will wish she’d fall off before she does,”
Simon interrupts him by grabbing his hand, “They are tracking her, Doc. No survivors… he said.”
“Who’s tracking her?” The thought of someone hurting her has a determined glint entering his eyes.
“General sent two trackers. The Newton Brothers, best trackers we have.”
“What are their orders, Simon?”
“No witnesses, Doc,” he explains softly.
Harris jumps up and begins to repack his bag with medical supplies he might need. He stomps to the closet and rips open the door, pulling out rolls of bandages, and packs them up. “Tell me about her wounds,” Harris orders as he packs.
“Bruises, gashes, gunshot wound, possibly, to the leg,” Simon says. “Doc, it’s probably too late, she’s hunted.”
Harris grins at him, “No they are the hunted, now.”
Chapter 10
Harris grabs two wool blankets and lays them on top of each other, then begins filling them with the supplies he will need. It is a hard, three-day ride if the weather breaks. He may overtake her if he’s lucky, but she could be anywhere. Where would you go if you were hunted? Chief Nashoba said they were going to the Spring Tribal at Snake River. It is at the base of Cathedral Mountain and offered everything the tribe needed. Water, hunting, fishing but it also the perfect place to lay a trap.
One side of the mountain is crumbled from the previous springs rock slides. It provided perfect shallows and slowed the river down on the west side, but the east side took all the rain shed from the mountain causing significant rapids.
“Gatling guns, how could she survive it,” Harris mumbles as he packs. It would have been pure devastation. He curses under his breath.
“Two, Doc. We had two Gatling guns. One on the east side and one on the west. They were set up in a cross-fire to prevent any chance of escape. He called it an extermination,” Simon coughs up more blood, before collapsing back on the bed.
“Damn!” After the last massacre where over eighty soldiers were slaughtered, the mutilations have gotten much worse. The soldiers retaliate, and the Indians counter. It is horrible to witness. The battles seem to be moving north of the state and into Idaho and Canada. This is one war he will not volunteer for.
Having grown up with the Shoshone tribe and Kimani included, he couldn’t stand back and be a part of the atrocities he’d heard of. General Barclay, in particular, enjoys carving up the enemy. Another cough from the corner has Harris glancing back at his patient but doesn’t move to help him. Time is of the essence if he’s going to get to Kimani. Harris continues packing, food, change of clothes for her two dresses, coats, socks, even a pair of small boots that he prays will fit her feet. They keep a stock of clothes for the patients in case they need it.
A knock sounds on the door and before it opens and Harris groans inside. Not the Widow Donovan again. She smiles at him, lifting a tray of warm food and Harris pushes back a frustrated sigh. He continues rolling up the blanket and secures both sides with leather straps.
“Mrs. Donovan, what can I do for you?” Harris asks.
“Well, Dr. Harris, Steven told me to bring a plate of food over to you.” She quickly moves to the small table away from the patient and sets up the food.
Janie Donovan has had her sights set on being a Doctor’s wife, and she is persistent. Her husband died from smallpox, and she has been living at the fort for the past six months. Harris ignores the tantalizing scents from the food and continues working.
“That’s very kind of you, just leave it, and I’ll get to it soon.” He grabs the heavy blanket and walks it to the door, next to his medical bag. Now that he thinks about it, a good meal will provide fuel for the trip.
“Well, you just handle that like it weighs nothing, Dr. Harris,” she giggles, and it grates on his nerves. His eyes snap to her, and she pales a bit.
“It’s soup, bread and a slice of my Mama’s apple pie. Made fresh this morning,” she stammers.
“Thank you,” Harris sits at the table and quickly begins to eat. When his eyes close in appreciation, she grins in satisfaction.
“Coffee? Mrs. Donovan you surely are a Godsend.”
Dressed in a purple dress and matching coat, Janie is a beauty. His eyes trail over her dark brown hair and chocolate eyes. She meets his gaze and smiles.
“I’m glad you think so, Harris.”
“You will make some man a great wife, but not me. I’m not looking for a wife,” he tells her in no uncertain terms.
Janie flinches as if slapped. “Well, don’t be so quick,” but he interrupts her with a hand.
“Ranch life is hard, and the life of a doctor is not for everyone.” He glances at her pale complexion, perfectly manicured nails, pressed dress and curled hair. He can’t help but smile.
“I lost my wife, Janie, and I’m not looking to replace her anytime soon. I’m not trying to be harsh, but you deserve the truth.” He sips his coffee and glances at Simon, who has finally succumbed to sleep.
“Three years is a long time to be alone.” Janie walks towards him, and he hisses in frustration.
“Who said I was alone?” He continues packing, and Janie blushes in embarrassment, she rises to leave.
“Thank you, Harris. I’m sorry about your loss, I know what that’s like, but you should keep in mind that she wouldn’t want you to be alone the rest of your life.”
“Maybe,” Harris closes his eyes against the image of her lifeless body. Blonde hair, lush curves, and lavender scent. The sickness ate at her slowly draining her of her life. She made him promise to find love again, but he would not find it with Janie.
Janie’s eyes fill with irritation as she turns to leave.
“Help her!” Simon thrashes, drawing her attention.
“Easy, Simon. I’m going soon.” He rushes over to his patient and pushes him back down gently, pulling the covers back over him.
“Green eyes, white?” Confusion has Simon grabbing his upper arm, demanding, “Why is a white girl living with Indians?” Simon asks in a fevered daze.
“They raised her,” Harris replies and stands to finish packing.
“Girl?” Janie asks with a frown. “Is someone in trouble?”
“Yes, I have a family situation. Thank you for the food, could you please tell Steven I had a family emergency, and I had to leave. He needs to see to our patients.” Harris walks her to the door opening it for her, leaving no room for small talk.
“Of course,” she hurries to find Steven, slamming the door on her way out.
Harris grabs his winter duster and pulls it on, before turning to the door. Time is of the essence. Kimani will have been alone for seven days at best before he gets to her. With her wounds, he isn’t sure what kind of condition she will be in. Her beautiful smile flashes in his mind, and he picks up his pace. Slamming a hat on his head, he lifts his supplies and heads to the livery to secure a second horse. Every second that passes feels like an hour. Even stopping to send a telegram to his brother, Chase, is a test in patience. Chase is the Sheriff of their hometown, but he used to be a U.S. Marshall. He can investigate General Barclay and t
he assault.
At least the snow is slowing down as he rides out of town. He can only pray that it’s a blizzard where she is, just to buy him some time to get to Kimani and slow down the trackers.
Chapter 11
General Barclay is sitting at his large mahogany desk studying a map when the knock comes. He quickly folds it up and places it inside the drawer before calling out.
“Come in.”
Steven enters with a pinched expression on his face.
“Dr. Ellis, what are you doing here?” He frowns.
“General Barclay, I thought you should know that we have a patient who has been talking about an Indian massacre and guns.”
“Damnit Ellis, what does that matter? Kill him and be done with it!” He pulls the map out and begins writing on it, dismissing the Doctor.
“Already done, but you said the weapons wouldn’t be traced back to us.”
“What weapons, Dr. Ellis?” Barclay grins and stares at the Doctor daring him to say something else.
“Right.” Fear has him turning back to the door, but he stops and turns around, clearing his throat.
“One more thing, General. Dr. Harris Rivers left this evening. Something about a family emergency, but our patient claimed that he grew really agitated when he told him about a green-eyed Indian girl.”
His eyes narrow and he stands up slowly, drawing an envelope from the drawer. “Why does this girl keep causing so much trouble? Harris isn’t a problem. He has a soft spot for Indians. If I remember correctly, he actually treated Indians and soldiers during the war.” Walking swiftly to the door he hands Steven the envelope.
“I understand, I thought you’d want to know.”
“Thank you, Dr. Ellis. Our next shipment is leaving tonight on the train. I need this to go as planned. This is the final delivery of Gatling guns that we need.” He watches Dr. Ellis open the envelope and check the cash.
“No problem, I’ll see to it.” Dr. Ellis leaves quickly, heading towards the train yard to make sure the two Gatling guns, ten cases of U.S. army rifles and shot are loaded in the rail cars.
