Sanctuary (9 page)

The preacher took Doc by the arm, forcing him to his feet. “No, Doc. That's not what you are. I'll show you what you are. I brought your bag. It's all stocked and ready to go.”

“No!” Doc's eyes were wild, crazy. “No! I can't do that anymore. Didn't you hear me? That's what I've been trying to tell you.”

The preacher grabbed Doc's shoulders, and looked the old man full in the eyes. “Come with me, Doc. Come with me, and I'll show you who you are.”

There was something compelling in those eyes and something compelling in the promise, too. So even though Doc was shaking his head, he let himself be pulled from the room for the first time in more than a day.

The preacher led the old man down the back stairs, holding his arms to steady him.

“Where are we going?”

“We'll be there in just a few minutes. Just a stretch of the legs from here.”

Doc sidled toward the Silver Dollar Saloon's back door as much from habit as anything as they passed it in the alley. But the steady pressure of the preacher's hand on his arm would not be denied, and he followed, curious now.

They threaded their way through puddles and patches of mud that defined the streets and alleys of Sanctuary, past backyards still littered with the bones of winter—the spring sun not yet strong enough to pull most people from their homes for spring cleanup.

Doc hadn't walked any distance for years, his only exercise swamping the Silver Dollar. He found the walk tiring but exhilarating, too. The spring sun felt strong on his face, and once his eyes had accustomed themselves to its brightness, he saw the town with the clarity spring and fall bring to Montana.

He could hear the spring song of the chickadee—
cbeeee-cheeeee
—and the cry of the downy woodpecker. And once he saw the flash of a flock of bluebirds in their roller-coaster flight.

It was spring, all right. Still there could be snow—Doc had been snowed on every month of the year in one part or another of Montana—but the promise of warmer times was written on the land.

The two passed the slaughterhouse, choosing the road that bumped down off the bench to the river bottom and the town dump. The road was relatively steep, and Doc's attention was focused mostly on safe places to put his feet, but a flash of white beside the road caught his attention.

Doc pulled loose from the preacher's grip and stepped across a sidehill to a little ridge open to the full rays of the sun. He stood there for a moment before kneeling on the hillside.

“First one of the season,” he said as the preacher stepped up beside him. The old man was pointing to a wild crocus, its silky blossom hugging the ground as though for warmth.

“Haven't seen one in years,” he said. “Just haven't been away from the … the bottle long enough to look, I quess.

“Early spring is so drab and gray and dead. I think God made these crocuses to bloom now just to show us the promise of color and beauty and life in this land.”

Doc stood, but still his eyes were focused on the chip of color. “I've always hoped that when I die, they'll bury me someplace where these crocuses grow.”

The preacher put his hand on Doc's shoulder. “Count on it,” he said, with a certainty that pulled a smile to the old man's face.

“You know something I don't?” Doc said with a grin.

“Maybe,” the preacher answered, a grin spreading across his face, too.

They walked down the hill and into the Indian village, a smile painted as tentatively across the old man's face as the crocus was painted on the hillside.

A knot of children stood outside the Old Hawk shack. The younger were playing games in the dirt and mud, but the older children were quiet and vigilant.

Judd was the first to notice Doc and the preacher. He met them in the middle of the village.

“Connie Old Hawk is sick,” Judd said, “really sick. She's got a fever, bad, and her stomach hurts. Everyone thinks she will die.”

“Doc, here, might have something to say about that,” the preacher said.

Doc stopped cold. “No! I'm not ready for something that serious. Not with a child.”

“You don't know how serious it is until you see her. Can't hurt to take a look.”

The Old Hawks were huddled over the only bed in the room when Doc, the preacher, and Judd stepped in. They looked up for a moment, their faces etched with concern, and then returned their attention to Connie.

The child was flushed with fever, her face glowing red with the fire that raged within her. Mrs. Old Hawk was replacing a wet washcloth on the girl's forehead, but it was obvious that the cloth was as much to treat the helplessness Mrs. Old Hawk felt as Connie's fever.

Connie was about seven years old. Her normally bright eyes were opaque with sickness. She looked at the two white men dully, without interest.

Doc's breath left him in one long sigh.

He pulled down the blankets on the bed. She began shaking as the fever's chills spread across her body, and Mrs. Old Hawk tried to cover the girl again.

Doc shook his head. He pulled up the girl's shift. Her abdomen seemed swollen and tight and when his fingers probed the lower right quadrant of her belly, Connie cried out in pain.

“Jesus!” Doc said, a light sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Appendicitis. Acute appendicitis. Hard to say how bad it is until the surgeon goes inside, but it looks bad, really bad.”

The Old Hawks couldn't understand the doctor's words, but they understood the expression on his face and the tone of his voice.

Mrs. Old Hawk began to keen, and the high-pitched wailing cut into Doc's mind like a razor. He grabbed his forehead with both hands, his knuckles white with the pressure, as though only his fingers were holding his mind in his skull.

Dark thoughts about those days in the Bear Paws when he had been treating Indian children riddled with army shrapnel came back to him with the fury of a winter storm, and he nearly buckled under the pressure. The Nez Percé women had been keening then, too, while their children died, while Doc fought futilely for their lives.

“Stop her! Please stop her!”

The preacher touched Mrs. Old Hawk's shoulder. She looked deeply into his eyes and found comfort there. He was speaking softly to her in Cree when Doc cut in.

“This girl's got to go to Doctor Wilson's surgery.”

“Doctor Wilson was called out to the Grotbo place,” the preacher said. “Mrs. Grotbo's due for her seventh, and she's having some problems. He won't be back in town until tomorrow, maybe later.”

“You sure as hell know a lot about what's going on in this town,” Doc said.

The preacher shrugged. “It's a small town. Hard to keep secrets here, but we couldn't move Connie even if Doc Wilson was here. She'd never survive the trip to the surgery. It's up to you, Doc. It's all up to you.”

“No!” Doc's eyes were wild, crazy. “No! “You can't ask me to do that. It's been too long, and I'm not ready.”

“Doc, this little girl will die unless you get hold of yourself. You're the only hope she has. Maybe that isn't fair, but that's the way it is. Are you really going to let her die just because you're afraid?”

Doc's voice died to a whisper.

“Preacher, I have no great faith in your God,” the old man said, his face white as spring snow. “But you best pray for this little girl now as you have never prayed before. Pray for me, too, preacher. Pray for me.”

Doc opened his bag. It was fully stocked, as the preacher had promised, including tin cans of chloroform, a half dozen pairs of rubber gloves, antiseptic, gauze, cotton, and what looked to be a full complement of new surgical tools.

His mind was in turmoil, but as he checked through the bag, old procedures and habits came back to him and almost unconsciously he began planning the surgery as carefully as a general plans a battle.

“You ever worked in a hospital, preacher?” Doc asked.

Mordecai shook his head.

“Well, you've managed to acquire everything we need for surgery. That's nothing short of remarkable.”

The old man squinted at the preacher, his brow wrinkled in conjecture.

“You told me you were a surgeon,” the preacher said. “I asked a pharmacist to stock the bag the way a surgeon would want it stocked.”

“No pharmacist in Sanctuary.”

The preacher shook his head. No, there was no pharmacist in Sanctuary.

A feeble groan jerked Doc's attention back to the child. Concentrate! He had to concentrate, put everything out of his mind but this young girl's feeble struggle for life.

“Preacher, tell the parents that Connie is very, very sick, and that her only hope is an operation. Explain to them that we will have to cut into that little child's body—here, now.”

Doc's voice almost broke then, but he regained control. “If they don't give me permission, I cannot operate, and Connie will surely die. And tell them,” he said, his voice dead as stone, “tell them that she may die anyway.”

Doc cleared the table of dishes. He washed it carefully with soap and water, scrubbing it with a brush he found in his bag.

“I'll need a good kerosene lamp, Judd. Not the kind with the wick, but the kind with the mantles. A two-mantle lantern would be nice. It has to be in good working condition, boy. If we lose the light—” Doc left that sentence hanging like dread in the air. “Can you get one for me?”

Judd nodded and stepped through the door, shoving to get past the crowd outside. Jack Ten Horses had such a lamp. He used it for poker games that stretched long into the night.

Judd rapped at Ten Horses' shack. No one answered, but Judd could hear stirring inside. He rapped again, more loudly. The sound was greeted by a snarl.

The stories about Ten Horses, how he had killed one of his own people, flooded into the boy's mind, and he shuddered but he rapped again at the door.

A dirty curtain hiding the interior of the shack from Judd's eyes was torn aside, and Ten Horses' face, squinting against the light, glared at him.

Judd swallowed hard as he heard the door bolt
snick
open like the bolt of a rifle closing on a cartridge.

“What the hell you want, boy?” Ten Horses growled.

“I would like to borrow your lamp,” Judd said in a rush. “The doctor has to operate on Connie Old Hawk, and he needs the light to see.”

“Came down to moccasin flats to do some cutting, huh?” Ten Horses hissed. “Could be I'll do some cutting of my own.”

He stood, pulling on a pair of trousers and slipping on a shirt.

“We'll see who's bull goose around here,” he muttered to himself.

Ten Horses was in an ugly mood, and Judd longed for invisibility, but he couldn't forget Connie Old Hawk's fever-stained body and the fear in the old doctor's eyes.

“Can I take the lamp?” Judd asked.

Ten Horses glared at the boy, but nodded.

Judd followed in Ten Horses' wake as he stalked across the little village toward the Old Hawks' shack, cutting through the crowd outside like an axe through kindling.

The butt of his palm slammed against the edge of the door and it split, swinging inside to slam against the wall. Doc was still bent over the table, cleaning it now with carbolic acid.

Both men looked up as Ten Horses crashed through the door, and in the stunned silence Judd heard the preacher say, “Well, Doc, here's the third member of the surgical team and right on schedule, too.”

Ten Horses' face traversed the emotional gamut from rage to incredulity.

“Not me,” he said, his voice tinged with disbelief. “I'm not going to help you cut into this child. If I do any cutting around here, it won't be on this little girl.”

“No,” the preacher said. “You're not going to do any cutting. You're going to help us save her life.”

“Bullshit!” Ten Horses stood beside the table shaking his head. “I'm not helping you. I don't owe you anything. I don't owe her anything. I don't owe any of these people anything.

“Any debts I had were paid up at the slaughterhouse, and I didn't get so much as a thank-you. I've done my share, preacher. No more. From now on I take, and they give.”

“You're going to help give this child life, Jack. I have to help Doc with the retractors. We need a man on the chloroform, and you're elected.”

“Judd's the only other one here who speaks English well enough to do it. That's too much of a load to lay on a twelve-year-old. You're going to do it, Jack, because you owe it to yourself.”

Ten Horses' bluster ebbed. “I can't. I can't watch while he does that.”

“You'll be too busy to watch. You'll be deadening that little girl's pain. You know how to do that. You've probably had more experience at deadening pain than anyone. You have to do it, Jack, if not for her then for yourself.”

Doc settled the debate. “Hot water on the stove,” he said. “Shed that shirt and wash up. Scrub your body from the top of your head to your belt. Get with it. We haven't got much time.”

Jack Ten Horses turned dutifully to the stove.

Doc stood over the little girl, scalpel in hand. He was talking to himself, talking his way through the operation. The preacher and Jack Ten Horses were listening to every word, their consciousness stretched tight.

Ten Horses had never felt so frightened—or so alive.

“I'll be making a McBurney's incision, about four inches long,” Doc said. “I expect the appendix is perforated. That will give the preacher and me a little more working room.”

The scalpel was trembling in the old man's hand.

“Jesus, I wish I had a drink,” he whispered.

The girl was already unconscious, free of pain for the first time in the past several days, unaware she was sole possessor of the minds of the three men and a boy in the squatter's shack, unaware that the entire village waited outside for news of her.