“What is it?” she demanded breathlessly.
He merely shook his head as he carefully palpated along the upper part of the femur, feeling for the fracture that Dr. Forthruth had diagnosed and had been unable to set. When he reached the top near the hip joint, he felt an unfamiliar sensation of looseness that didn’t match what he’d anticipated, what he expected, for a fracture. And when he attempted to adjust the leg, just the slightest bit in that vicinity, Hurst Lemagne shrieked and his eyes flew open.
To George’s surprise, Miss Lemagne didn’t fly into a rage or shout at him to stop. She was watching him through eyes glistening with tears and her hands clasped into tight fists, pressing into her mouth. Her breathing was rough and loud, competing with that of her father’s for volume in the small room.
Taking her silence as implicit permission to continue, George finished his examination and confirmed his suspicions. The femur wasn’t fractured at all, and all of the attempts to set the bone had been unnecessary and incomprehensibly painful, possibly even doing more damage. No, the femur wasn’t broken, but it had become dislocated from the hip. And if it wasn’t moved back into place very soon, the hip would die. It was a good thing Miss Lemagne had come for him tonight. If she’d waited until tomorrow for Dr. Forthruth—who might have eventually made the correct diagnosis—it would have been too late.
“Is there someone else here who can help? Someone strong?” he asked. The pelvis would need to be held completely immobile while George attempted to fit the femur back into the hip socket. At least one man, maybe two, would need all of their weight and strength to hold Lemagne’s hips down.
“Jelly, go see if James is returned,” Miss Lemagne said, then said to him, “There’s no one else besides me.”
George shook his head. “You’re nowhere near strong enough, miss.” He wasn’t confident a single man would be able to do the job, either.
“Can you fix it? Can you set his bone? Will he be able to walk again?”
George shrugged, unwilling to say much else unless he was successful. It was a leap of something—he didn’t think it was faith so much as desperation—that had caused Constance Lemagne to ask a black doctor for help, and her lack of trust was already so apparent that he knew he must tread carefully.
“I need bindings. Rope or strips of cloth to tie him to the bed.”
Miss Lemagne gasped and her eyes widened with horror, but instead of arguing, she left the room, presumably in search of the items. While she was gone, George checked the right hip and femur, and confirmed that everything was still in position there. The familiar movement of the joint working properly on the right side was an even stronger confirmation of his diagnosis, but he took the time to palpate the left hip area once again. Yes, the femur was definitely dislocated—there was swelling behind the pelvis much further back than the hip. And all of the nerves, muscles and tendons, and blood vessels were dangerously compressed.
Miss Lemagne rushed back in with a bundle of rope and an armful of cloth. “Will this do?”
George took the rope, and was reminded briefly of Mr. Tufts, lying on the table in his morgue, and how this time last night he’d still been alive. And how later someone had used a coil of rope just like this one to make it look like he took his own life. And now George was about to use a stretch of rope to save one—at least figuratively speaking.
He hoped.
Miss Lemagne was surprisingly helpful and calm as she stood on the right side of her father and helped George to wrap the binding across the hips and under the bed, then around and around. He tied it as tight as he could, despite Hurst Lemagne’s weak protests.
“Daddy, be still. This—this man is going to help you. Oh, if only we had some more chloroform for him.”
When George produced a small bottle of the pungent medicine, drawing it from his medical kit, she seemed surprised and relieved. He pressed some over Hurst Lemagne’s nostrils and mouth and watched as the man eased into unconsciousness. He didn’t know how long it would last, considering what was coming, but it would help.
George was really feeling the lack of cold meat on his painful, swelling eye by now, and he was just about to ask if he could have it back when a door at the rear of the house opened and closed. Heavy, rushed footsteps told him that Jelly had returned—presumably with James.
The newcomer wasn’t as tall or muscular as George, but he would be some assistance. He gave the trussed-up Hurst Lemagne a long look, then turned a grave expression toward George. “I’m here to help, sir. Doctor.”
“All right. Stand on his left side, right there by the hip. You’ll have to lay your whole weight across him, James, because the pelvis has to stay as still as possible.” George hesitated, then climbed onto the bed, facing the head, and stood over the patient. Ignoring the shocked gasp from Miss Lemagne, he lifted her father’s right calf, lifting it so the knee bent at a ninety-degree angle. The patient stirred and moaned, but his eyes didn’t open. “Are you ready? Don’t let him move.”
Aware that Miss Lemagne and Jelly were watching with wide, horrified eyes, George forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand.
Still standing over the injured man, he carefully, firmly, lifted the foot and calf—keeping it at a ninety-degree angle—and began to try and slide the femur back down into position. He lifted, twisted, manipulated, feeling his way—because that was the only way to do it—trying to work the ball of the femur down into the hip socket. The deadweight leg was heavy and it was difficult to lift and lower—lift and twist and sidle and lower—the largest bone in the body back into a place it wasn’t certain it wanted to go.
Lemagne struggled, crying out, trying to tear free of his bonds, but James—God bless him—held him and his arms down as George sweated and worked, fighting the agony in his own battered body. His vision flashed light, then dark, for it was impossible, strenuous work. He lifted, lowered, then lifted, twisted, lowered some more, pulled, pushed, twisted, trying to feel his way into the slot—all the while blocking out the cries of his patient and the horrified, muffled shrieks from Miss Lemagne and trying to keep himself from fainting on top of his patient.
“Stop, stop, stop!” Miss Lemagne screamed at last. “Stop it, I said, stop it! I knew I shouldn’t have called for you!” She was beating on him, her small fists raining down on his legs and torso as he strained, ignoring her, focused on the movement of the leg because he was almost there . . . it was almost . . .
There.
George heaved a sigh of relief as he felt the top of the femur slip down into place with a satisfying sort of thunk. The room was spinning when he dropped Hurst Lemagne’s leg, and all at once, there was silence except for Constance Lemagne’s furious sobs.
“Get out! Get out of here!” she cried, tears streaming down her face as she continued to flail at him. “You—you—horrible, awful ni—”
“Miss Constance!” Jelly took her mistress by the arm, pulling her away just as she landed a solid fist on George’s broken rib. “Look! Look at your daddy, Miss Constance. He did it.”
George barely held back his own cry of pain from the blow and stepped back to get away from her, away from the situation. He wanted to leave, to curl up somewhere and nurse his own hurts.
The room was silent now, except for Miss Lemagne’s heaving breaths and her father’s much more regular ones.
“His leg,” she said. “You fixed it. It looks—it looks right.”
Jelly and James were unraveling the rope around Lemagne’s body, and the patient hardly moved. Now that the leg was back into position, the nerves and vessels weren’t compressed and although he’d be sore, he wasn’t in pain.
“It wasn’t fractured,” George said, really wishing for the cold meat slab. The exertion had caused his own blood vessels to swell and heat and throb, making him even more fully aware that he’d nearly been beaten to death.
He would have been if this little missy hadn’t come demanding his help, and for that he had to be grateful.
But he didn’t have to like it.
“But Dr. Forthruth said it was,” she argued, taking up her father’s hand in hers. “He already looks better,” she murmured. “His color is coming back already. And his breathing . . .”
“It wasn’t fractured,” George said again, as calmly as he could muster. “The doctor was wrong. The left hip was dislocated from the femur. Now that it’s back into place, he should have much less—if any—pain.”
She was watching him with round blue eyes. The skepticism was fading. “It wasn’t broken after all?”
“No, miss.”
“Will he . . . will he walk again?”
“There’s no reason he shouldn’t regain full use of his leg,” George said, now more confident giving his prognosis. “If you’d waited until tomorrow—or even much later tonight—that might not have been the case. The blood vessels and nerves that run through the pelvis to the leg were being compressed, and if we hadn’t fixed it and relieved that pressure, they would have died. And then his leg would have been useless for certain. And half of his body as well. At least.”
Miss Lemagne was staring at him silently. “Jelly, James. Go and get . . . Dr. Hilton . . . some coffee and another slab of meat. And something to eat. And pour a good shot of whiskey in that coffee, do you hear me?”
* * *
By the time Billy Morris played a few hands of poker and got several ales into his belly, he was feeling pretty damned pleased with how things were working out.
Not only had he definitely finagled another breakfast—whenever he happened to roll out of bed tomorrow morning—from the terrifying Mrs. Melody, but he was the center of attention at the Screeching Cow. Of course everyone had heard about Pinebar Tufts being found in the Rotunda, and word was getting around that no, he hadn’t actually hanged himself, but it appeared someone had done it to him.
Which meant, that, like Mrs. Melody, everyone wanted to hear what Billy had to say instead of talking about the damned troops and when they were going to actually fight. And Billy Morris had plenty to tell them.
And with mugs of ale being purchased for him as quickly as he finished each one, Billy’s tongue loosened up more and more, and he dredged up (and fabricated) more details from his foggy memory.
The more he thought about it, the more he was certain he had seen someone lurking about the Capitol after the fireworks were done. And, yes, the man had been wearing a top hat, which meant he was one of the rich people in town. Most working men wore bowler hats or caps, and they didn’t carry walking sticks. Not usually.
There’d been a carriage parked nearby—Billy remembered that, because he’d seen the fancy markings on it when he took his first (of many) breaks and drank from his bottle of gin last night.
“Slick and black it was,” he said to the small crowd at the Cow. The Screeching Cow was a small pub not far from the Division—the area where a man could pay for any pleasure he wanted from the ladies who walked the streets and beckoned to a man as he strolled on by. There were the fancy houses with fine ladies and red plush sofas, like Mrs. Hall’s, but that was where all the senators and congressmen went. Billy couldn’t afford the likes of those establishments, but it was just fine with him if he slipped into a small, simple room instead of one with lace curtains and a fancy brocade bedcovering. Or even an alley, if he was in a hurry.
“Do you think it belonged to the killer?” asked Totty, who was another of the Auxiliary Guard. He patrolled the Patent Office and was one of Billy’s good friends because he wasn’t all that great at bluffing in poker. Billy tended to like playing cards with him because Totty usually lost all his money.
“It had to,” Billy said with a vehemence he had no right to feel. “All them gold markings on it. Or were they silver . . . ?” He scratched his head, trying to make sense of the muddled memories. He had seen a carriage, hadn’t he?
“Time to report,” said a loud voice. “Let’s go. Don’t want-ta be late, do we, boys?”
Billy sneered into his beer. That damned Wendell Popper could never stand it when anyone else was getting attention. And he always tried to boss everyone around, even though he wasn’t a supervisor or nothing. Just another Night Watch guard who thought he was as good as God or something.
Nonetheless, Billy stood. He’d considered taking the night off—why not, after what he’d been through last night?—but decided it would be more to his benefit to go on as usual. Then he’d have more information and more stories to tell. Hell, he might be able to draw this out for a few more days, get sausage and ham and eggs for breakfast and ales bought for him every night.
The crew of Auxiliary Guards shuffled out of the Cow, and Billy cast a glance down the street. He might just make his way over to the Division to find a pretty lady some night soon. He deserved it after what he’d been through, after all. A man was due a little pleasure and relaxation every so often.
It was a short walk from the Cow to the Capitol, and the sun was nearly to the horizon by now. So Billy was going to be a few minutes late starting his patrol. That was all right. There wasn’t no one to care except that Wendell Popper. The streets were surprisingly empty tonight. Maybe it was because of the thunder rumbling in the distance. Everyone was going home before the rain started.
Though he’d lost count of how many ales he’d had, Billy was hardly drunk at all. Sure, he stumbled a coupla times, and his head was a little muzzy, but he was perfectly capable of walking around the long white building, keeping an eye out for mischief-makers—and now, for killers—all the while avoiding the blocks of marble and the huge pieces of cast iron. It wasn’t a bad job, but with his newfound fame, Billy thought he might be able to get something better.
Besides, there was talk about Congress getting rid of the Auxiliary Watch. They didn’t think the patrol was effective.
Effective. He’d show them effective. Hadn’t he seen the killer? Wasn’t he the one the detective—what were they saying his name was? Adam something? That detective was going to need to talk to him, to Billy, to get the information. Maybe Billy should be a detective himself. Ole Pinkerton could use someone like him on his staff. Someone who knew how to get around in the dark and make friends and get people to talking. Someone who was quick on his feet, like Billy was.
Yessir, that was exactly what he was going to do. Once this murder investigation was over, Billy was going to quit his job and join up with the Pinkertons. That would be far safer than joining up for the army—where he’d probably get himself killed.
Billy had hardly finished that thought when a shadow fell across him from behind. Next thing he knew, something crashed into the back of his head.
Ten minutes later, Billy Morris had gotten himself killed.
CHAPTER 7
Saturday, July 6
The day was beautiful. Bright and clear, with the sky as blue as blue could be. The tall silvery, silken grasses of the Kansas prairie undulated in regular waves beneath a gentle breeze. The sun blazed above, and as he rode, Adam removed his wide-brimmed hat to wipe a trickle of sweat from his brow. The scent of sweetgrass and wildflowers mingled with the familiar tang of his horse. Adam drew in a breath of fresh, warm air as he noticed a group of hawks circling in the distance. They were above a lone tree that sprang from the ground, probably at the side of a small river or creek.
But Adam knew what circling hawks or turkey vultures meant and a pang of concern had him urging Patience, his brown, into a canter. He gripped his rifle in one hand and managed the reins with the other, feeling the comfortable weight of his pistol tucked into his coat pocket.
No one rode without a firearm in Bloody Kansas, especially if you were a Free-Stater like Adam.
His pleasure in the day evaporated as he and Patience flew through the waving grasses, drawing closer to the tree where he could see that something—someone—was hanging from the longest, lowest branch.
He flung himself off his mount as soon as he was close enough, and a cry of rage and grief choke
d up inside him as he recognized Johnny Brown, a free black man who’d been homesteading on the other side of Green Creek. Adam and Johnny had shared a campfire and fellowship one night when they both rode back from Leavenworth after a trip to the general store there.
Adam was too late for Johnny. Too damned late. Whoever had done this, strung him up, lynched him in broad daylight, was long gone—and so was Johnny’s soul.
Still in the saddle, Adam had to maneuver a reluctant but obedient Patience close enough to the hanging body so he could reach high enough to cut down Johnny. The thick flies and dried, congealed blood from the beating Johnny had gotten before he was hanged upset Adam’s brown, but she was a good girl and she held steady while he sawed away at the rope. Adam blinked back tears of rage and grief as he worked.
Just before Johnny fell to the ground, Adam saw his face. He reared back in horror. Not Johnny. It wasn’t Johnny. It was George Hilton.
Oh God, not George too.
So much waste. So much violence. So much hatred.
Johnny. George. How many others?
Adam was just climbing off Patience so he could see to burying his friend when a shout in the distance caught his ears.
He spun, diving from his horse toward the rifle he’d propped against the tree while he was cutting, but he was too late. All at once the men were there—five of them, on furious horses with foaming mouths and red, rolling eyes—bearing down on him.
They wore the wide brimmed hats and rough clothing of the prairie and carried rifles and revolvers. One of them brandished a coil of rope.
Shots rang out in a sudden maelstrom of noise and violence. Patience screamed and reared, rolling back onto her tail and then to the ground with an ugly thud that twisted her body. Adam kept running toward his rifle, but he wasn’t getting any closer . . . he couldn’t reach it, and his revolver was no longer in his coat pocket.
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