Firefly (23 page)

Morgan took the injured man's feet and helped Phillips hoist him onto the table.  Blood stained a dirty shirt of indeterminable color; the man had been shot at least three times that Julie could see.

Phillips leaned forward as Julie began cutting the stained shirt away from the wound.

"You think he'll make it?"

"Hard to tell." Morgan poured ether onto a cloth and handed it to Julie.  She placed it gently over the man's nose and mouth.  He struggled just a bit, but he was already too close to unconsciousness to fight the anaesthetic long.  "Depends on how much damage there is inside.  Was he on his horse when you found him?"

"Nope, he was sitting in the shade, restin'.  Got back on though by hisself.  Rode pretty good most of the way, but o' course I didn't rush him.  Still, it's prob'ly close to two, three miles from town where I found him."

"Well, just let us get to work on him, Ted, and I'll do the best I can."

The marshal nodded, tipped his hat with a blood-stained hand to Julie, and backed out.  The room had seemed noisy with his bulky presence; now that he had gone, the silence deepened.

"There are three shots, but four wounds," Morgan observed as he rolled his sleeves past his elbows.  "The one just below the ribs is a flesh wound; it can wait.  The one in the right thigh is probably the worst.  I'll bet you a five dollar gold piece the bullet is stuck in the femur."

"Is that bad?"

Her voice wasn't shy and quivery any more.

"Yeah, it's bad.  The guy's got legs like tree trunks; I'm gonna have a hell of a time finding that slug."

His first task was to staunch as much of the bleeding as possible.  The shoulder wounds quickly saturated the cotton cloths Julie had put on them.

"Get fresh ones, and then hold your hand here."  He put his own finger on a spot where the pulse beat strongly.  "It cuts off the circulation and gives the blood a chance to clot.  I'm going to do the same with the leg."

It would have been easier to work with the man's pants off, but instead Morgan just cut away the leg.  They were ruined anyway, with that ragged hole where the bullet had gone through.

Morgan took a wide leather band, not unlike a belt, and slipped it around the top of the thigh, right where the hip joint drew the muscles in.  When he tightened the tourniquet, the flow of fresh blood ceased almost instantly.

"There, that will hold the leg while we figure out what to do about this shoulder," Morgan said in a voice reminiscent of a school teacher.  While Julie placed a pile of towels and a basin of warm water at hand, he gingerly poked the area around the wound with a finger.  The patient showed no response at all.  Morgan picked up a towel, dipped and wrung it out, then began washing the mutilated flesh.  "I don't want that tourniquet on too long, so I'm going to work as fast as I can."

The bullet that had gone through the shoulder had hit and chipped the shoulder blade.  Closing the entrance wound was relatively easy, but the gaping hole on the man's back and the removal of the fragments of bone took time, and patience, and a steady hand.  Julie watched in amazement as Morgan worked.  After each piece of bone dropped into the waiting glass dish, the physician placed a bloody hand on his patient's neck, then nodded with unemotional satisfaction when he found the pulse still strong.

"I think that's the last of them." He let the forceps fall off his fingers and clatter to the metal table top.  "Keep your hand on that spot while I cauterize and then you can close this wound.  I've got to get at that leg."

Morgan wiped his hands on another damp towel as he walked around the table to the other side and the naked, bluish leg.  With the blood cleaned away, the wound appeared nothing more than a neat little hole.  Morgan slid one long finger into it.  Blood welled up around his hand, but it did not gush, nor did it look fresh.  Some of it had already clotted.

He wiped his hand again, then reached for the glass tray of instruments.

"I found the slug, just barely touched it with the tip of my finger.  It's in the bone deep."

Julie watched calmly as his strong fingers gripped the forceps again and inserted the blades into the man's flesh.  No hesitation, no trembling, just the assurance of a man doing what he knew to be necessary.

"What are his chances?" Julie asked.

Morgan shrugged.  He had the instrument in as far as he could get it and still maneuver.

"Fair.  Maybe a little less.  If I were a gambler, I wouldn't put much money on him."

He was fighting death again, even though he knew the odds were not in his favor.

Julie heard the sound of metal on metal.  Morgan wasted no time congratulating himself, because a second later the blades of the forceps snapped together, empty.  He swore.

"One more try. If I don't get it then, I'll cut to it."

Julie held her breath even as she drew a gut-threaded needle through shoulder muscles.  And she prayed.  Not just that this attempt to remove the bullet was successful, but that this patient would live.  He might very well be a claim jumper, a thief, the very wickedest of wicked men, but his life seemed suddenly very precious.

She let her own work wait a moment while she took a dry towel from the pile and wiped it across Morgan's forehead.  In the small closed room the air was stifling, and Morgan's hands were otherwise occupied.  It was the least she could do.

"I've got hold of it again," he breathed, snapping the instrument's handles together.  "Keep your fingers crossed."

He pulled with slow, steady force, not daring to wiggle the forceps even to dislodge the dollop of lead.  The muscles and tendons of his wrist and forearm corded with the strain of maintaining that pressure.  A single stout jerk might have brought the misshapen projectile out easily, or it might have slipped the forceps off with another disappointing snap.  Julie crossed her fingers and prayed again.

"I think it's coming," Morgan said through clenched teeth.  "Can you wipe my forehead again?  Thanks."

She used the towel to push back the lock of hair that had fallen over his brow.  Sweat dripped down his temples, and she wiped that away, too.

He nearly fell backwards when the bullet finally gave and  came free, but even then he did not so much as smile in celebration until he had examined the forceps and verified that they did indeed hold the flattened slug.  After a single deep breath that was probably meant to be a sigh of relief, he removed the bullet from the forceps and reinserted the instrument into the wound.

"I want to make sure there aren't any slivers of bone or other pieces of lead that I missed," he explained.  "Then we'll sew him up and wait to see if he survives."

Julie lost track of the time.  She had heard voices in the other room occasionally, but not for quite a while.  She thought she recalled hearing the door open and several pairs of footsteps descend the porch stairs, but she couldn't be sure and it seemed quite some time had passed since then.

They worked silently, each aware of the tension that filled the room, the desperation, the fear, the hope.  And when they had finished, almost at the same time, they dropped bloody needles to the tabletop and sighed wearily.

Morgan was the first to speak, his voice drained and emotionless.

"Can you pour me some of that coffee?"

"But it's hours old!"

"It's also wet, and I'm thirsty."

The coffee pot Winnie had brought that morning sat on the counter by the single window, which faced the back yard.  When Julie turned to pour the cold, stale coffee, she could not help but see the glorious vermillion sunset that silhouetted the mountains under the faint twinkle of the evening star.  The sun was gone; only its glow remained.

Morgan drank the bitter coffee in almost a single gulp, then made a face at the taste.

"
Gawd
!  Remind me never to do that again."

"I'll try.  Did you know it's almost dark outside?"

He looked over his shoulder at the window.  The scarlet had even in those few seconds deepened to crimson, and that would not last long.

"I'm not surprised.  If you want, you can go home and I'll finish up here.  You look exhausted."

She smiled weakly.

"So do you.  Besides, you'll need someone to help sit up with him, won't you?"

Morgan shook his head.

"If Ted's not still out there waiting, I'll bring him from the office so he can help.  You go on home and get some sleep.  Ted and I can carry this guy into the other room, and I've got a decent chair there now to sleep on."

"A decent chair to sleep on?" she echoed.  "Are you trying to be a martyr?"

"No, just a typical frontier physician.  It won't be the first time, believe me."

Julie began to gather up discarded towels and rags that had been dropped carelessly to the floor.  Without looking at Morgan, she scolded him as firmly as she would have Willy.  "I don't know when was the last time you slept on a chair, but I do know it is definitely the last time.  You've worked too hard today, and whether you intend to admit it or not, you didn't get much sleep last night, if any.  You can't continue without sleep and expect to work your best."

With a rueful little chuckle and a gentle shake of his head, Morgan bent to help her clean up the mess.  She could be marvelous, this Julie Hollstrom, when she wanted to be.  Hanging on his every word one minute and ordering him around like a sergeant-major the next.  And all this with a man lying on the table, bloodied, naked, and barely alive.

"First I'm going to clean up, or we won't be able to stand this place come morning."

He watched her, and he did not have the strength to order her away.  Not tonight.

She carried the instruments and gory cloths to the kitchen, where all was nearly dark.  After she had dropped the towels and rags into a bucket of cold water by the door, she struck a match and lit a lamp on the table.

There were two empty buckets on the back porch by the pump, Horace's one convenience.  Once outside, Julie thanked the late physician for the laziness that made him put down a new well close to the house.  She also paused, for just a moment, to inhale the peace of the summer night.

What a lovely night it was, with just the last fading glimmer of blue crowning the mountains and the dark velvet sky sprinkled with stars.  In the clear desert air, they seemed closer than ever, almost near enough to touch.  Crickets scraped their tuneless violins, an owl hooted like a staccato bassoon, and a soft breeze sang in the distant cottonwoods like fairy fingers on a harp.  Though the air was warm, Julie shivered with a chill after the steamy confines of the surgery.

Or maybe something else sent that shiver through her.

She clasped her arms about her for a moment while she stared up at the stars.  She knew the Great Bear and found him, but Orion had not risen yet, the only other constellation she could recognize.  Failing to locate any other familiar patterns in the pinpricks of twinkling light, she bent to fill the buckets and take them back to the kitchen.

She found Morgan with his arms in a shallow basin, scrubbing them with a cloth as bloodied as any soaking in the other bucket.

"Here," Julie offered as she set a bucket on the table.  "This may be cold, but at least it's clean.  It will be a while before I have hot water; the stove's cold, too."