Western Dilemma

by Janelle Daniels

  Western Dilemma

  Everett Clarke knew the seductive feeling flowing through his veins. He’d searched for it, chased it, had even created it.

  Danger.

  Normally the thrill would excite him, but right now, as he walked through the dim, crowded tunnels, workers laboring in hellish conditions to pull out copper, danger wasn’t something he wanted to face.

  He continued with his inspection, stopping every so often at a lantern to write notes. The small bit of light hardly helped, and his eyes strained. But what he was working on was too important for him to stop.

  When you were this far down into the earth, not even a glimmer of natural light penetrated the layers of dirt and rock. As a doctor, he knew how human eyes worked, how they dilated and contracted depending on how much light there was. But in complete darkness, there was no way to adjust. If the lantern went out, you were blind.

  And that was just one of the dangers.

  Birdsong echoed in the tunnel, but it seemed far away. They needed more birds to alert them to danger. The men needed to know immediately if there were toxic gasses. He felt a twinge of pity for the animals, but if they saved human lives, he would do what was necessary.

  Their workers were worth safeguarding, and he’d do everything in his power to keep them healthy. He didn’t miss the irony of his feelings about the sacredness of life. He protected the lives of those who worked for him, but he gambled with his own well-being.

  Cliff jumping, mountain climbing, sailing, and anything that held a modicum of danger called to him. He didn’t know why he felt the urge to test himself against nature over and over again—he just couldn’t stop.

  As he scratched down another note, footsteps sounded behind him.

  “We’ve replaced all the torches with lanterns as you asked, Mr. Everett. What do you want done next?”

  He turned toward Mr. Brown, one of the supervisors assigned to help him make safety improvements in the mine. Everett wasn’t there as one of the Copper Kings, just as a safety inspector. He and his partners hadn’t wanted the employees to be too intimidated to come to him with ideas for improvement.

  And it was easier to do that as Mr. Everett, a fellow mine worker, than as Everett Clarke, Copper King. “I want more canaries brought down. The few we have are difficult to hear over the mining, and I want the workers to know if there’s a problem immediately.”

  The man rubbed his bald head, grimy dust mixing with sweat. “If you think it’s necessary.”

  The man had questioned him about the extra lanterns as well. “You don’t?”

  He shrugged. “This isn’t a coal mine. Besides, if the person closest to the bird starts running, we all run.”

  “Hmm. Well as good as that system is, I think we can improve upon it. Regardless of what we’re mining, gasses are still a problem.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “We also need to overhaul our fire prevention tactics. I want water barrels placed every few hundred feet with several buckets. Also, I want fire doors at the openings of each shaft. If a fire starts, I don’t want the entire mine to go up.”

  The supervisor shifted on his feet. “It might take time.”

  Everett cocked his head. “I don’t think you understand. Every minute we wait, the risk of people dying increases. I know these changes will take time, but once they’re in place, there should be little upkeep. We’re mining copper, but our top priority is making sure everyone is safe. Don’t you agree?”

  “I think safety is good, but at some point, it’s overkill.”

  “And that’s what you think I’m doing?”

  The man nodded, unafraid to voice his opinion to a peer. “We’ve been able to handle fires just fine.”

  Everett lowered the paper he was writing on and gave the man his full attention. “You’re right. But you’ve been lucky they were small. The water barrels and the fire doors aren’t for small fires. They’re for explosions, ones that will kill massive amounts of people. Heaven forbid anything like that happens, but the likelihood is high, and it’s better to be prepared.”

  The man relented. “All right.”

  Everett never had any doubt the man would do as he asked. Everett’s temporary position demanded it. Besides, he wouldn’t allow anyone to stop him from making this place safer—Copper King or no.

  A bell rang through the tunnels, and the workers dropped their pickaxes.

  “Five minutes!” someone announced.

  That reminded Everett—he wanted to talk to the partners about giving the men more breaks. He knew if they did, production would increase. He was writing just that, when he noticed several of the men going toward one of the abandoned tunnels. He frowned. “Mr. Brown, where are they going?”

  “Huh?” He looked to where the men were disappearing, and the confusion left his face. “Oh. They’re going to relieve themselves.”

  Everett’s eyebrows shot up. “In the tunnels?”

  Mr. Brown shifted on his feet. “There’s not enough time to go to the surface,” he explained.

  That was a problem, and Everett quickly wrote it on his paper. The men would definitely need more breaks.

  Curiosity overcame the man. “What are you writing?”

  Everett’s hand slowed. “Using the tunnels that way can’t go on. Everyone is going to have to return to the surface to relieve themselves.”

  “Every time?”

  Everett had been patient with the man, but his patience was wearing thin. He didn’t expect people to follow his orders blindly, especially not disguised as he was, but it irritated him that he needed to defend every single change. “We need everyone to go to the surface so the workers don’t get tunnel disease.”

  The man wrinkled his nose, the parasitic condition which affected many miners was well known.

  “The reason it’s so prevalent is because miners insist on using abandoned tunnels as outhouses. My guess is it’ll stop spreading if we make these changes.”

  Everett knew his hunch was right and that this practice needed to stop immediately if they were going to have healthy workers. Mr. Brown didn’t look convinced, but it didn’t matter. Change would happen regardless, and, after a time, everyone would realize he was right.

  “Is there anything else?” Mr. Brown asked.

  Everett looked at his list, tapping his pencil on the paper. “We need more ventilation in here. The gases are building up and getting dangerous. We’ll need to construct fans in each shaft and have people operating them every moment workers are in here.”

  As Everett listed off several more changes to be made, he realized he’d need a more thorough plan. Each item would take time and resources to implement, and he had to prioritize which would bring the most immediate benefit. He wished they could change everything overnight, but he had to be practical. “I also want—”

  Small streams of dirt fell from the ceiling up and down the tunnel. The men hardly paused their excavating, but Everett held up his hand for Mr. Brown to remain silent as he studied the ceiling. The beams in the shaft seemed farther apart here than in other parts of the mine.

  He frowned, unable to remember the recommended spacing. He pointed up, and Mr. Brown’s gaze followed. “What do you notice about the beams?”

  “You mean that they’re farther apart?”

  Just as Everett thought. “Yes. Why are they like that?”

  “There wasn’t enough lumber when they carved it out, so they made do.”

  They’d made do and put everyone at risk. Everett struggled to remain professional. “The tunnel will need to be reinforced immediately. Anything could happen—someone could breathe wrong—and the whole thing will come down.”

  Mr. Brown nodded, but Everett couldn’t tell if the man belie
ved him. Maybe he should ask Lucas, the partner in charge of the mining operation, for someone else to assist him, someone who wouldn’t question everything he said.

  Everett flagged down the men as they returned from the abandoned tunnel. “Everyone needs to go get extra beams and reinforce this shaft immediately. Leave your tools, leave everything, and go right now.”

  One of the younger-looking men, practically a boy, looked between Everett and Mr. Brown. “Why, sir?”

  He wasn’t being disrespectful, just curious, so Everett answered. “The structure is unsafe, and before we excavate further, we need to make sure it’s sound.”

  The other men nodded and left the tunnel, happy to have a break from digging. To them, it didn’t matter what they worked on—they were getting paid either way. And since Everett was posing as a supervisor, they’d do as he asked. The young man said his thanks for the explanation and followed the others.

  Everett turned back to Mr. Brown. “Before you do anything else, supervise the men as they install the beams. Make sure it’s done properly. It only takes one bad beam to start a chain reaction.”

  “Will do.”

  “After that”—Everett looked at his list—“get the canaries. It shouldn’t take too long and—”

  An ominous groan sounded, one that had the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

  Danger!

  They both froze. Mr. Brown’s eyes widened.

  Crack.

  “Go!” Everett yelled as rocks started to fall.

  He dodged a chunk the size of his head as they hurled toward the main shaft.

  We won’t make it!

  With his last bit of energy, he pushed Mr. Brown toward a section where the supports still held, and watched the man fall to safety.

  It was the last thing he saw before the ceiling rained down and blackness enveloped him.

  ***

  Emery Kane wasn’t fanciful, but as she waved goodbye to her last patient, a woman clutching a packet of herbs as she walked out the door, she was in heaven.

  Oh, Emery’s clinic didn’t have angels or miles of marble and gold, but she couldn’t imagine ever feeling happier or more at peace than she did in that moment.

  She closed the clinic’s door softly, turned, and leaned against it as she looked over the crisp, professional room. For years, she’d imagined this very moment. As she’d worked in overcrowded, filthy hospitals, watching patients die—from infections, not their illnesses—this was what she’d dreamed of.

  It might not be a hospital or anything grand, but it was hers.

  She pushed away from the door, moving to organize her already immaculate supply cabinet. Technically, this part of the clinic was for the town doctor, but with the doctor gone visiting patients more often than not, it was left to Emery. She might not be a doctor, but she’d studied hard, worked at the side of many doctors as a nurse, and had seen her fair share of illnesses and wounds. She might not have a certificate saying she was a doctor, but with her experience, she could be. And in the doctor’s absence, she stepped in to fill that void.

  She was willing to do it in order to take care of others, but acting as a doctor wasn’t what she loved.

  What she enjoyed more than anything was helping people recover, taking care of them from the time the doctor was finished until they were able to leave on their own. There was satisfaction and joy to be had in caring for someone who couldn’t care for themselves. It was a responsibility she cherished, and the clinic with its attached boarding house made it possible.

  In the three weeks since its opening, none of the beds had been used. She’d taken care of her patients then sent them home.

  She would never wish anyone harm, but she couldn’t wait to put her boarding house to good use. It was only a matter of time until something happened.

  And when it did, she’d be ready.

  The rest of the morning, she kept herself busy in the clinic, seeing two more patients. She was contemplating lunch when shouts echoed from the street.

  The rag she’d been dusting with fell from her hands as she raced out the door. Those weren’t screams of happiness or excitement. They were ones of fear. Of pain.

  People poured out into the street at the noise and more screams sounded, mixing with the confusion.

  She calmly watched the crowd and waited. When accidents happened, Emery didn’t unravel. She only got stronger.

  She remained on the boardwalk and scanned the riders, cataloguing injuries and mentally noting which supplies she’d need.

  One head wound. A dislocated shoulder. Another man had a nasty cut on his cheek.

  As they got closer, she realized one man had a broken leg. She’d need to make a splint, but the wounds were all easy to tend to. The men would heal. Relieved the injuries weren’t severe, she turned toward the door, intending to gather her supplies, when she saw another man tied to his horse, face down.

  He was unconscious.

  She raced into the clinic. He might be dead, but if he was still alive, she’d need to work quickly to give him a chance. She didn’t know what his injuries might be, so she gathered a variety of items. She’d only performed minor surgeries, but if she needed to do something more to save his life, she’d try.

  Footsteps pounded on the boardwalk outside the door, and she called out, “In here!”

  Men rushed into the building, carrying the unconscious man.

  She pointed to the table in the center of the room. “Put him there.” She looked at the other men. “Is he the worst off?”

  A man she recognized, Mr. Brown, stepped forward. “Yes, Nurse Kane.”

  “Then I’ll need you all to wait in the next room. Except you, Mr. Brown.”

  Clara Morrison, the sheriff’s wife, poked her head through the doorway. The woman’s brown hair was tied back, and she was already wearing a work apron. “I heard the trouble and thought you might need an extra set of hands.”

  Emery nodded. “You read my mind. Thank you for coming.”

  Clara moved to the side of the table, awaiting instruction, and Emery waved everyone else out. “I’ll let you know about his condition shortly.” She glanced to Mr. Brown. “Roll up your sleeves and wash your hands and arms. You won’t need to do much, but I’ll need to roll him over to check his back.” Mr. Brown was covered in dirt, but all the men were. It would have to do.

  Mr. Brown jumped into action, and Emery turned her attention back to the man lying on the exam table.

  He was filthy too, blood crusting on his face and matting his hair. She had no idea what his other injuries were. “Clara, get a bucket and sponge. We’ll need to clean him quickly and see what’s wrong.”

  Clara didn’t ask any questions, just did as she was told.

  Emery stepped toward the table and grabbed a pair of scissors before glancing at the man’s face. Even through the grime and dust, she saw how handsome he was, and her heart twisted. She hoped she could save him. Hoped she would prevent his loved ones from mourning him.

  Refocusing, she quickly cut his clothes off with clinical precision and placed a sheet over his lower half to protect his modesty. She might be a single woman, but she was no stranger to male anatomy. As a nurse, one body was the same as any other—even if this man would’ve normally drawn her eye.

  Clara returned with the water and sponge, quickly making work of the dirt covering the man’s body. Emery looked at the head wound closely. “It’s a nasty gash, but it’s not as bad as it looks. I’m assuming this is what rendered him unconscious.” She glanced over his head again, only seeing the one injury. “It’ll need stitches, but there’s not much else I can do for it.” She looked over the rest of his body, noting a few suspiciously cracked ribs and large scrapes and bruises forming over the rest of his body. “He may have a little bit of trouble with his ribs, but he should be all right if we keep them wrapped.”

  She had Mr. Brown and Clara turn him on his side just to double check he didn’t have any other injuries on h
is back. Once they laid him back down, she tended to the cut on his head, meticulously cleaning it. “How did this happen?”

  Mr. Brown took his hat in his hands, revealing a bald head. “So, he’ll be all right?”

  Emery looked at the man, at the worry lines on his face. Her expression softened, and her movements slowed. “Yes. If he wakes up, he’ll be just fine. What happened?”

  “There was a cave-in. The tunnel wasn’t secure, and several of the men left to get beams to fix it. It was just the two of us left in there. When the ceiling came down, he pushed me to safety before getting trapped. If it wasn’t for him, I’d probably be dead.”

  “How did the others get injured then?”

  “They hadn’t completely cleared the shaft yet, and a few rocks fell on them. It didn’t all come down though.”

  Emery looked at the man on the table in appreciation. He was a hero. He’d saved all those men. “It’s a miracle he survived.”

  Mr. Brown nodded. “We all thought he was dead. But when we dug him out, he was still breathing. I owe him my life.”

  Mr. Brown gave her more details about the accident as she finished cleaning the wound. She selected a needle and thread and began the intricate work of closing it. He’d have a scar, but it was close to the hairline, so, with small stitching, she hoped it wouldn’t be noticeable.

  When she finished, Mr. Brown stepped forward to look at her patient. “When will he wake up?”

  This was the part Emery hated. She couldn’t give promises or guarantees. “I don’t know. It’s likely he’ll regain consciousness. The wound doesn’t look severe. But in cases like these, there’s a chance he won’t.”

  The man swallowed hard. “What else can be done?”

  “I’ll finish tending to his other injuries. Other than that? Prayer.” She wished she could offer more hope. But besides watching him every moment, forcing him to drink teas to stave off infection, and allowing his body time to heal, there wasn’t anything else she could do. “Do you know how I can contact his family?”

  The man shook his head. “No.”

  She’d need to track his family down. They’d want to know about his injuries—and need to make arrangements if he didn’t survive. But she refused to leave him until she was certain he was stable. With any luck, it wouldn’t take long to find them. “What’s his name?”