He stropped his scalpel sharp and examined the teeth of his bone saw. Amputations were far from unusual and he had well perfected the techniques he preferred.
A tourniquet at Rob's thigh replaced the hasty lashing near the ankle. Ickes nodded his readiness to the Widow Oakes and began his cut.
A proper stump required a good pad of flesh beyond the bone ends. Ickes laid Rob's leg open with firm scalpel strokes that bit close to the bone. The first brought Rob half awake, straining against the bonds, and Mrs. Oakes quickly applied weight. For a moment, he tried to scream against the pain, then his eyes rolled and he again lost consciousness. Mrs. Oakes clucked her sympathy and Doctor Ickes continued.
He took both the tibia and fibula off two inches up Rob's calf. He released the tourniquet a little at a time, searing small bleeders closed with the white-hot tips of small iron rods heated in a lamp. He tied off the major vessels and rested a few moments to make sure nothing broke open.
He shaped a flap of flesh and skin and folded it over the mass of muscle extending beyond the bone ends. When he had it all shaped to his satisfaction he applied his own special treatment.
He had learned it from an older surgeon who swore it helped keep poison from wounds. Doctor Ickes uncorked his quart of Bower whiskey and poured it liberally over Rob's raw flesh. His patient stirred but remained unconscious. Mrs. Oakes sniffed her disapproval. Doctor Ickes offered her the open bottle which she scornfully refused. Shrugging, he took a long pull himself and began sewing the flap closed with his best catgut.
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Maddoc Ruby was buried on county lands with little more ceremony than that received by Rob's horse. Ruby's buckshot had severed the animal's spine and ruptured major blood vessels. The horse had died quickly. Rob's buck and ball had struck Maddoc Ruby squarely in the middle. Some argued that Rob's shot was pure luck in the dark of night. Others figured that Rob Shatto knew how to shoot. There was no question about Rob's second shot. Ruby's head was in about the same shape as Rob's foot.
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When the first agonies began to subside, Rob thought he might get home in a week. He was wrong and it was nearer to three before Doc Ickes approved an easy wagon ride out to the Little Buffalo. Even then, the Doctor cautioned absolute rest, and soon the beginning of his special stump treatment. Rob wondered aloud what form of torture that would be, but Amy saw that he obeyed orders and took only short walks using his crude crutches.
Beyond the expected agony of tortured flesh, strange phantom pains wracked Rob's shorter leg and sorely tried his ability to endure. Excruciating cramps twisted his nonexistent toes and at times his repositioned calf muscles knotted and kinked in convulsions that brought dank sweat to his forehead. Amy and Widow Oakes heard his teeth grind and found his bed sweat soaked and tumbled.
Yet, Rob offered little complaint. If he brooded over the certain limiting of his activities, he showed it to no one. He waited out his confinement with a stubborn durability that included bright words for his many visitors and willing display of his nicely healing stump.
Each day following the initial healing, he allowed himself comforting howls of pain mixed with bellowed threats of terminal retribution upon the person of Doctor Jonas Ickes. Visitors listened with amused tolerance and sympathy, recognizing Rob's participation in Doc Ickes' special healing and toughening method.
Bare-fisted fighting had gained some popularity in the cities. Doctor Ickes had observed one of the better fighters for prizes toughening his fists by soaking them in hot brine. The fighter had claimed his cut knuckles also healed faster when soaked regularly in brine. Jonas Ickes had tested the method and found it effective. Once each day and twice once he got healed up, Rob Shatto soaked his stump in brine water. Rob howled because the sting was not serious and it was the only time he could fairly bellow his frustrations.
Rob's early efforts to maneuver on his crutches were only marginally successful. Rob swore the loss of his foot upset his weight distribution and fouled his balance. Occasionally, he misplaced a crutch or struck a slick spot. On two occasions he measured his length in painful sprawls on polished floors. He swore he would put sharpened spikes into the tips of his crutches to better grip the popular glass-like floors.
Amy and the widow ignored his outbursts and offered only rough sympathy. One foot or two, Rob Shatto was not a man to be patronized. They gave sensible help and let him otherwise find his own way.
Still, there was something brewing somewhere deep in Rob's thoughts. Amy could sense it in his sudden quiets and withdrawal. She waited until sure Rob was not silently deploring his condition before she asked him.
His old, strong grin erased any somberness from his features. He said, "Sorry Amy, I didn't know it showed. Fact is, I've been thinking about Maddoc Ruby coming after me and reached the conclusion that I might just not be done after all. We've been forgetting that old Bart Harris is behind all this trouble. What is to keep him from sending another of his clan up here to replace Maddoc?" He did not wait for a reply. "What I've been thinking is that we've got to keep an eye peeled until I'm on two legs again. Then," Rob paused to raise a powerful clenched fist, and Amy saw muscle ripple along his arm, "I'm figuring to ride south and settle up with Bart Harris once and for all!"
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The stump hardened as it healed. As the terminated nerves lost their extreme sensitivity, Jonas Ickes added daily massage to Rob's brine regimen.
The Widow Oakes had recognized the Shattos' genuine need and had moved herself bag and baggage to the Little Buffalo. She and Amy collaborated in enforcing Doctor Jonas's directions. They observed sternly while Rob soaked and then, despite his insistence that they would rub it clean away, they massaged his toughening stump to their satisfaction.
Amy's father sent a man to the county. He arrived at Shatto's in the company of Doctor Jonas Ickes. Both had apparently prepared for the ride in Ickes' tavern room. They appeared in fine fettle, amused by everything the other said, and completely unconcerned by anything Rob Shatto thought or cared about.
They examined Rob's stump, poking and kneading. They muttered together, and the man congratulated Doctor Ickes on a superb piece of surgery. Ickes congratulated the man on his excellent judgment. Somewhere along the line, Ickes told Rob that the man made wooden legs. He failed to mention the craftman's name.
Amused, despite their high-handed ways, Rob tolerated their measuring and poking. The leg maker made a clay cast of Rob's stump, completed his measurements, and as his material hardened, he walked off to look the place over. Rob saw him poking about and talking to different people. Finally, he came wandering back.
He plunked himself solidly on a stool facing Rob Shatto. When he spoke, there was no drunkenness or fooling left. His eye was sharp and his voice direct.
"Mr. Shatto, Mr. James Cummens, Junior asked me to see you. My name is Robert Cranning. I am perhaps the finest maker of artificial limbs in our country."
He stopped as though to study his words. "I may be the finest maker in the entire world." He spoke so surely, as though beyond dispute, that Rob suspected he was about as good as he thought he was.
"Now, Mr. Shatto, any cobbler or country carver can whittle out a wooden leg. A man can get around on such, but the leg stump often chafes, the clumsy contraptions loosen, some break, others lead to bad hips, or strained knees, and most artificial legs are too heavy.
"So, Mr. James Cummens, Junior suggested I examine your need and qualification for my services. I do not fit my work to botched surgery, Mr. Shatto. I am a master craftsman, not a clumsy tinkerer. My techniques are revolutionary and they work!
"Fortunately, Doctor Ickes has performed superbly and you have toughened your stump so that shape change will be minimal. I am prepared to explain my method, my reasoning and my intentions. If you choose to accept my services, I assure you my fee is heavy. If you do not so choose, Mr. James Cummens, Junior will defray my expenses and you, Sir, may stumble clumsily about the rest of your life!"
"The leg itself will be carved of a rare wood called 'Eifel', imported from islands near Cathay. The wood is so dense it will not float. It is as strong as iron, but far lighter. I will carve an approximation of the socket in which your leg stump will fit. At that point, the finishing process begins.
"The bronze casting will be heated almost to the melting point and inserted into the roughed-out socket. A perfect fit will be burned. Actually, the burning is a might oversize allowing a soft leather insert to be first molded over the bronze casting, then slipped over your stump to provide a fit that is so perfect that one might get around carefully without the use of straps."
Rob digested Cranning's words. He had assumed leg fitting to be the casual affair practiced by old seamen and soldiers he had often encountered. It seemed that one could genuinely profit from Cranning's imaginative planning.
"Now, Mr. Shatto, I have examined your way of life, including talking with your people. You are a vigorous, active man. You will continue to be so. Therefore, I suggest that the usual boot-fitted artificial foot is not for you. Such a foot is perhaps more socially graceful, but it also has many drawbacks. It is for instance, heavy, it does not bend and flex. It does not allow for quick turning. Succinctly put, it gets in the way.
"As you are not a mincing socialite, many of whom I have fitted, I strongly suggest that you choose a simple peg-leg.
"Ah, I see you are startled. Well you might be. Certainly, my profit would be greater fitting you with a booted foot. However, one might consider that seafarers, who must balance on rolling and pitching decks, invariably choose a peg.
"A peg, Mr. Shatto, is lightweight. It allows actual spinning around, and it can be handily braced against objects to prevent slipping. Frankly, the peg-leg has only two disadvantages. It looks like what it is and it sinks too readily in mud or snow. Still, it is the best and I recommend it.
Rob listened to more, recognizing that Robert Cranning knew his business and preparing himself to accept his recommendations.
"Your peg, Mr. Shatto, must be exactly the correct length. A half-inch too long and a severe strain is placed on the hip. Either too short or too long causes a graceless and unnecessary limp.
'The peg tip is of utmost importance as well. The common tip is made of leather. Such a tip wears swiftly and can become polished and slick. The Cranning tip is made of a specially imported material from the Spice Islands. It is called gum rubber. A suitable hole is drilled in the tip of the leg and a cylinder of gum rubber inserted. As the rubber wears a bit of padding is put under it exposing more rubber. Extra tips are available and gum rubber will not slip. It wears well and no doubt the substance will find many uses when it grows more readily available.
"Now, that is my plan, Mr. Shatto, and this is my fee."
Cranning was right. Rob blinked a little at the charge, but he thought the man's work could be worth it. Rob made Cranning blink by ordering two legs. One for Sunday, he claimed.
"Now, Mr. Cranning, I have my own request." Rob added, "If I am to wear a peg-leg, I would like it to be a bit special. I would like a gold band about an inch wide, and say a quarter inch thick fastened tight just above the tip."
He called to the other room, "Will you bring my good box, Amy?"
He opened the heavy chest between them and Robert Cranning felt his equanimity fail. Raw gold lay in worm-like strips to a depth of many inches. Rob said, "Choose what you need for the bands. I wish them to be of gold I mined in the west. Your fee, I will pay in cash, or you can draw on my Philadelphia accounts. Mr. James Cummens, Junior can arrange it."
Cranning left with his clay mold carefully packed and seeing the hill country with different eyes. He had been casually shown more gold than he had expected to see in a lifetime by a well-traveled giant who had recently killed the ambusher that had shot his foot off. Amazing people, he thought, and felt safer when he saw the mountains falling behind.
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The new leg slid on as though it had always been there. Rob stumped about trying to get the feel of it. He stuck with a cane for a while and was careful not to wear raw spots on his stump.
He replaced his right stirrup with a flagstaff socket and could ride as well as ever.
There was a lot of speculation about Rob's bright yellow band. Most decided it must be brass. That was way too much gold to be flashing around on a peg-leg. Rob let them wonder. Perry Countians became used to seeing the distant flash of the gold band and they would say, "There's Rob Shatto comin'."
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Amy watched him getting ready. it took nearly six months before she sensed he felt he could handle his leg well enough to take the trail. He opened the subject one night as they sat before a dying cooking fire.
Rob said, "It's been nearly a year, Amy. People have been looking suspicious at nearly every stranger that comes up the river or over a gap. I reckon it's time I rode down and settled up with Bart Harris. There won't be sure peace for us while he is lurking like a dusty, old spider waiting to send another ambusher up here."
She supposed she might speak against it, but she knew Rob was right. Pretending that by ignoring the situation it might go away, was not her way either. She said, "Rob, are you sure your leg is well enough? Shouldn't you give yourself a little more time?"
The gold band flashed as Rob moved his leg. "No, it's good enough, Amy." He grimaced slightly, "Funny how my toes still itch once in a while and a few days ago I'd have sworn I stepped on a hot coal. For the most part though, it's right."
"Rob, are you just going to ride down there and shoot that old man? Isn't the law down there, too? Won't they look on it as murder, just as they might up here?"
He studied on it some. "Way I figure it, old Bart Harris and his clan will be living way out, and as meanly as they did up here. My guess is that they don't stand well with any law they've got down there. But, law or no law, I'm going to see an end to it."
He stayed silent a while. "I've never gone hunting another man, Amy. I'm finding it isn't too good a feeling. At least in this case it isn't. I surely wish I could see another way, but since I don't. . . Well, I'll go on with it as best I can."
They said little more, but she found herself being special to him and realized he touched her even more often than usual.
Rob rode a strong Morgan mare and trailed a pack animal. He had changed into his old hunting clothes, and with his gold-banded peg-leg glinting, Amy thought him the most adventurous and dashing looking man she could ever imagine. She had no fear that old Bart Harris or the Rubys would harm Rob Shatto, but she prayed that the law would stay far, far away.
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The Ruby girl was scratching idly at the weed-choked garden patch when she saw the tall hunter walking his horse along their path. The man was truly a big'un alright, and he rode with his rifle laid ready across his saddle bow.
She couldn't see much of his face under his wide-brimmed hat, but she could tell he was looking her over closely as he came up.
The rider stopped his horse and she could see he was dark as an Indian with eyes that looked sort of black and mysterious. She stopped herself from scratching and listened to what he was saying.
"Good day, Miss. I am looking for the Ruby place. Might this be it?"
She allowed as it was. He shifted the rifle a little, and his voice seemed to be a little quieter somehow.
"I'm looking in particular for Bart Harris, Miss. Might he be around?"
She found herself amused and said, "Shore mister, he's around. Right up on the hill, there behind you."
The way the hunter snapped his horse around to face the hill startled her a little, and she sought to end the joke.
"Why old Bart's been dead near six months now, mister. He's buried up there with all the other Rubys." She saw the man relax in his saddle.
"Fever was terrible bad last summer. Took
off most o'our folks. All the men folks is gone, 'ceptin' Maddoc Ruby, a'course. He's out west somewhere and might never come back."
"No men left at all down here?"
"Well, no growed-up Ruby men. Soon be some marryin' though. Then, we'll have men folks around again."
The hunter tipped his hat real polite-like and turned back out the lane. She saw then that his right foot was missing and he had a peg-leg with a shiny band on it.
She thought about the tall hunter for a while, but the sun got too hot and she went to the porch to rest a bit. A baby began squalling and she forgot all about the stranger that had been looking for old Bart Harris.
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Chapter 18
Cadwallader Jones was a well-read man who took pride in proper speech and correct writing. Without intent, he made Rob acutely aware of his own crude language and barely legible scrawl.
Rob's friend, Abel Troop, also enjoyed the benefits of formal education. Now, Amy and Doc Ickes were setting examples that left Rob's English far behind.
If his friends and family noticed Rob's frontier vernacular, they concealed it, but Rob was aware and he was determined to improve.
James Cummens had selected reading as Rob's path to self-improvement and Rob thought him right. Books used the correct words and constant exposure to them would enlarge his vocabulary and change his word selections, just as living among rough and unlettered men had first molded his speech patterns.
Rob found the reading hard going. The Lewis and Clark journals held his interest, but the classics selected for him by Cad Jones proved sterner stuff and he labored in them with limited pleasure.
As his skills grew, the Bible caught his attention and he began a systematic reading of the great book. Not particularly concerned with religion, Rob read his Bible as a story of ancient adventure and found it exciting.
Shatto (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 14
