Go West Young Man
My name is Galen Adams and I find I'm drawn back to where I was prior to the war against slavery and my incarceration in Libby Prison. Despite the war's end, feelings on both sides remain bitter, but the westward movement has recommenced along with scientific progress. Hence, as I make my way to back there in my hope of finding a place where my skills might be needed, I find I'm retracing my footsteps from that earlier time before the country was split apart and reflecting on the people I came to call friends back then. I wonder how many of them will also be at my destination. I'm sure most moved on from that frontier crossroads, their lives either snuffed out or forever changed by the war that tore our nation apart. Still, I hold out hope perhaps some will cross my path again. In particular, I'd be very happy to see how those I became close to fared after we lost touch due to circumstances beyond our control.
It's those skills I spoke of that are forcing me to repeat my earlier wanderings because I'm sure I can be of use thanks to my training in school and in practice. I completed school at the University of Maryland and followed the advice to go west, working my way out there gradually, starting with serving on a Mississippi riverboat as their doctor in the summer of 1852. I hadn't been a licensed physician long, not much over two years, but I promised the man who paid the bills to put me through medical school in Baltimore that I would try my hand at helping out on the frontier. He pointed out that folks out there were in dire need of competent medical help while at the same time it was a perfect opportunity for me to further hone my skills.
There were lots of actual towns in Kansas but for some reason he wanted me to start my medical practice beyond the established settlements at a crossroads near Fort Dodge where I arrived in the late summer of 1853. Train tracks were yet to be laid despite the well-established presence of the fort and its predecessors. Thus, all that met my eye upon arrival were a smattering of tents and two permanent buildings. The first of the latter housed the general store while the other was home to horses, mules and oxen. The tents sheltered saloons and cathouses. It was a far cry from the hospitals of Baltimore or even the facilities aboard the Memphis Belle.
The owner of the general store slept in his storeroom out back, but there was an empty second floor. I can't say why he built it. Maybe he hoped to attract a wife and raise a family. When the tents and campfires were abundant he was kept too busy to need personal space for anything except sleep so a cot in the corner sufficed. During the winter months it was easier to keep just two rooms warm. It left the second floor available for rent to a suitable tenant like me when I arrived by stagecoach. That second floor space, which my mentor arranged for me to occupy at a reasonable rent, was more than adequate to set up my surgery and living quarters. Fact is, if each my patients had paid year round I might have been able to pay off some of the debt I owed to Doctor Hudkins for giving me my start in my chosen profession.
The livery, the other permanent building I mentioned, was where the blacksmith, who by necessity doubled as stableman, lived. The local madam shared his bed and the few year-round girls slept up in the hayloft. The forge doubled as a cook stove and oven for us few permanent residents.
All I brought with me was the basic equipment that fits in a medical bag plus whatever else could be crammed in a desk and cabinet. I didn't even have a microscope. I soon discovered nothing else was sent ahead that might provide me with the means to apply the most modern medical techniques I'd learned in Baltimore. The idea was to make do with what little I did have so I could learn to provide for my patients despite the remoteness. It was a challenge, but resulted in me becoming a better doctor than I otherwise would have and allowed me to be of genuine assistance while incarcerated in Libby Prison. My patients were the trappers, buffalo hunters and assorted drifters who came through what was essentially was a stopover for them on the Santa Fe Trail. They camped out or lived in the smaller tents provided behind the large saloon and gambling tents for encounters with the whores who live in the cathouse tents when the population of men and soiled doves soared from spring into fall.
While Fort Dodge was only five miles away, it was rare that I had contact with any of the soldiers. They were preoccupied with their many encounters with the various Indian tribes. Since the train tracks weren't laid yet, when coupled with Indian troubles, the fort had its own supply problems. I've been told if they run into a problem their medic, not doctor, can't handle they might send for me. So far there hasn't been the sort of Indian massacre decimating the troopers stationed there or an epidemic among the few hardy souls trying to establish ranches like Bear Sanderson, who wants our ragtag concordance of humanity to become an incorporated town once the railhead is established, to warrant that sort of thing.
The thriving, if temporary community, I found upon arrival may have been rough, but it provided plenty of opportunity to practice my profession while enjoying a friendly game of poker and a drink or two in a rousing atmosphere. However, once the cold weather hit in November, the crowds and camaraderie dissipated. By the end of that month only we few permanent residents remained. There wasn't much for me to do except swap stories with the blacksmith, shopkeeper and a man from the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad Company that was just starting up. He, assisted by his younger brother, was a surveyor. We soon became quite good friends thanks to our common interest in science and shared broader education.
Tom Fuller used his equipment to help him calculate such things as the best spot to build an eventual station for the trains and how best to lay the rails to connect the Kansas cities and towns. Mostly he traveled about to establish the railroad right of way through the alternating public and railroad tracts. Still, as busy as he was, my friend had spare time and need of additional funds. He used that spare time to great advantage. Since he had a wagon the railroad bought from the blacksmith, Fritz Wolfmann, to haul his equipment, he also transported the hides as they came in to and from the temporary tannery. He became a middleman for the tanner. Tom's first customer was Fort Dodge. His 16-year-old brother Ben, seven years his junior, used the wagon to transport the hides to the fort. The one problem was this increased the cost of doing business for Gus Coleman's tannery. Ben, feeling the pull to break free as he approached manhood spent his spare time in the saloons getting to know the working girls.
Jake Wilson, the shopkeeper and my landlord, sold whatever came into town from both the residents and by wagon train from back east. Our little community despite its remoteness, and thanks to those railroad poles, could send messages electronically to Fort Dodge and on to points further east because Wilson thought ahead enough to have learned Morse Code so he could operate a telegraph key. The telegraph wires have connected the entire country, thanks to Western Union and the railroad rights of way, since '61.
I should be telling you about life in the crossroads where I found myself, so enough about my friend Tom Fuller and our shared belief in scientific progress. As I said, I wasn't adverse to the population growing again as the winter snows began to melt and the population of Dodge Town, which is what we few year-round residents took to calling it to distinguish it from the nearby fort, again began to swell into a temporary Dodge City. I was enjoying the changing weather brought about by the arrival of late March and the fact I still had enough time between patients to contemplate a bit of fishing down by the Arkansas River when I spotted a newcomer who didn't seem to fit the general population. From a distance, because of how tall he was, he looked older than his years, but as he got closer I saw he was one of those gangling youths who hadn't quite grown into his body. Despite his age, which I estimated at not more than 15, he was a misfit in this world of trappers and buffalo hunters. He and his horse were clearly just off the farm.
Now don't get me wrong, I was a fairly young doctor in that early spring of 1855, but I was twice the boy's age and a foot shorter than him. I turned 30 the previous July and still stand at not quite five and a half feet so you can guess that the young man with wavy brown hair and penetrating blue eyes towered over me at close to six and a half feet. Somehow, I didn't think he'd reached his full growth and would probably add an inch or two to his height before he began to fill out. He spotted me fishing and stopped by the shady spot, where some of the few trees grew, by a bend in the river I'd chosen as my fishing spot to water his horse and refresh himself by splashing the cold, clear liquid on his head and to drink some from what he gathered in his cupped hands.
"Fishing good around here?" he asked sticking out his hand for me to clasp and then introducing himself. "Nice to meet ya, Doctor Adams, " he added after I provided my name and answered his first question.
Somehow, despite his size, his manner was confident without seeming to push himself on a man, almost shy, even. He was polite, curious, yet seemingly not one to share much about himself or dominate a conversation with his opinions. I was intrigued by the newcomer and hoped to see more of him. Despite his outward calm, it seemed to me he was deeply troubled by something. He used his pocketknife to cut a sapling for a pole and some string in his pants pocket to toss into the water with a bent wire to serve as a hook. It was obvious this was one of the ways he'd been feeding himself along the trail. We sat and fished for no more than an hour, saying nothing before we walked into the heart of the makeshift town, me toward my office and he to the livery to stable his buckskin.
After that first meeting, I lost track of the boy as he drifted around town. However, Tom told me that evening Ben had met up with the newcomer while he was seeing to the needs of his horse and the two had already become fast friends. He was glad Matt Dillon had drifted into town from the Missouri side of where that state meets up with Kansas, Arkansas and The Nations; at least that's what he assumed from what little the boy revealed. Finally, he could converse with someone his own age that wasn't an ignorant hider who never had the chance to attend school. Our newcomer had a solid basic education, an inquiring mind and a willingness to work hard. When Ben prevailed upon him, Tom readily gave the skinny, almost to the point of emaciation, yet strong lad a job helping to deliver the tanned hides and to carry the equipment needed to complete the survey for the railroad.
The two boys, being young and full of life, got into their share of fights that first week in the rough and tumble not-quite town's many drinking establishments. I have to admit I did my share of watching these melees as I sipped my own drink or mulled over my poker hand in hopes of a paying customer requiring my services. Sometimes the two became involved because they made advances toward a girl claimed by one of the slightly older and rougher denizens of the place. At other times it was because one of the girls was being treated too rough in Matt's opinion. It seemed young Matt, always a gentleman around the ladies, didn't care to see a girl roughed up even if she was a soiled dove at the tender age of 13 pressed into making a living with her body by one of the men who showed up with a stable of girls to provide female entertainment. He was an undisciplined fighter, but his large size and strength partially made up for his lack of skill. He also tended to shrug off what he considered minor injuries from those barroom brawls, so he didn't come to me to be patched up.
That lack of a need to be patched up didn't last. It was the last full week in March when Jase Murdock came to town to trade his buffalo hides for money, whiskey and women. The tall, burly man was used to getting his own way and used his bulk and, on occasion, his knife and even his buffalo gun to enforce it. When Gus Coleman and Jake Wilson both offered far less for his hides than he'd expected, Murdock went looking for the two Fullers, whom he'd learned were now distributors. He was going to start in on Tom, but a troop of soldiers from Fort Dodge kept him from doing any real damage. That only made him madder. Murdock bided his time before going in search of either Fuller to set things straight by his lights. That evening he found Ben Fuller down by the Arkansas sweet-talking one of Miss Flo's young girls, one Murdock had taken a fancy to the previous year but had since lost interest in now that there was a fresh supply.
According to the story Ben told me the buffalo hunter gave the girl a look as he grabbed Ben by the shoulder and spun him around. Out of the corner of his eye the lad saw the slim brunette, who knew better than to remain, race up the path to town in search of another man to help keep Miss Flo from giving her to one of the customers with more perverse tastes as punishment. Being otherwise occupied, he couldn't be sure but thought he saw Matt nod at her as she passed by him. He surmised his friend must have followed at a discreet distance behind Murdock knowing trouble was brewing and the slightly older boy might need some help. Ben was already on the ground, he informed his brother and me when Matt stepped between the combatants and swung his right fist at the man who stood as tall as he and outweighed him by a good 75 pounds worth of muscle.
Ben explained he rejoined the fight as soon as he got to his feet, but, even acting together, the two boys were outmatched by the tough buffalo hunter. Instead of remaining, Ben ducked under a punch and raced back to town to find help. He couldn't pry anyone away from his fun to help out with a fistfight, especially against the much-feared Jase Murdock. The lad had nearly given up in despair when he came upon me, and his brother, chatting while leaning against the Fuller brothers' buckboard. Soon all three of us were aboard the wagon heading toward the river as fast as it could travel.
When we arrived at the spot where Ben had left Matt fighting Jase Murdock, the huge man was gone and Matt was lying inert in the dirt. We three carefully lifted our friend's body into the wagon and brought him back to town where we again picked him up, carried him into my office and placed him on the examination table. I breathed a sigh of relief when I felt a very weak pulse. For the nonce I had a patient, not a corpse. Now, if I could only find a way to keep the boy alive. There was an aura about Matt Dillon that implied he would do great things if he only lived long enough.
"I wish there was some way I could see inside his body to determine if he's bleeding internally or if there's any organ damage. His heart and lungs sound like they're ok," I said in frustration as I removed the stethoscope from my ears.
"Gordon, maybe they will someday. I only wish my limited engineering skills could help build that machine."
Since Tom's machine didn't exist, I could only go by what I knew and use what I had on hand. The tall lad on my examination table had bruises all over his body, several broken ribs, at minimum a strained left wrist, a split lower lip, a black right eye and torn knuckles on both hands. He'd put up quite a fight. He just wasn't a match for the older, tougher and more experienced bigger man.
When he survived the night, I asked Tom and Ben to help me transfer my still unconscious patient to a cot in the corner of the room. Even with adding an ottoman to the end because his feet were too long for the bed, I felt he'd be more comfortable there. He faced a long recovery if and when he awoke so I wanted to make it as easy as possible for him to get the rest he'd need. Once he was securely in bed with a sheet and blanket pulled up to his chin, the Fuller brothers left me alone to keep a watch on my patient. I knew he'd need my full attention, so I was thankful no one else was currently in need of my services, but with the population of Dodge, as we residents had come to call it, increasing daily, I didn't know how long that would last.
I'd just finished eating the dinner I'd cooked for myself when I heard a moan from the cot. I walked over to my patient to find a pair of penetrating blue eyes looking back at me.
"You can tell me how I got here from the riverbank later. Got anything to eat?"
I couldn't help but smile at him. Despite all his injuries, he was hungry. I set about fixing up some beef broth for him, figuring it would be best if he started off with something light yet nutritious. If he held that down, he could eat something more solid and it would tell me that at least his digestive system was intact. I'd no sooner put the pot of soup on my small stove to heat when I heard a loud groan. I rushed back to the cot to find he'd tried to sit up by himself and his ribs in particular protested. In his weakened and pained state it didn't take me long to convince him that he needed the extra pillows I placed behind his back before he lay back down to remain in an upright enough position to be able to more easily eat his meal.
Matt rapidly finished the broth that he spooned into his mouth while I held the bowl since I'd immobilized his left arm in a sling. After the soup, he polished off three eggs and side meat with no ill effects. I breathed a sigh of relief that it was just a matter of time before he'd be up and around. The pain from his busted ribs kept him in bed for ten days, but even I knew he had to start moving around after that. Meanwhile, there was nothing for us to do but talk. I kept close in case he needed something he couldn't reach from the cot and the Fullers had work to do for the railroad and the hunters and trappers, so most of the time it was just the two of us.
He was quite reticent about sharing his emotions and even his past, but with so much time together, he gave in somewhat. I told him about how my folks hoped I'd want to be a doctor, but the money just wasn't there so I couldn't read with the local doctor in our Illinois town full-time. Unbeknownst to me, Dr. Reese thought I had real talent and put in a word for me with a man he respected that was connected with University of Maryland School of Medicine, the already mentioned Dr. Eldred Hudkins. That school was one of only a few medical schools in the country and Dr. Hudkins agreed to not only pay my way through school but to provide me with room and board plus a stipend so I could send money back home. All I needed to do in exchange for this chance to study medicine was to go where he told me to go after I became a licensed physician for five to ten years. He told me to wend my way west, starting with working on the Mississippi river boats and including staying for two years in a frontier community that wasn't quite a town but might very well be one in the future. Somehow he'd located this crossroads we'd come to call Dodge Town or simply Dodge while in town to distinguish it from the nearby Fort Dodge. By the time the town began to close up in September, I'd have been here the required two years and would be ready to move on to the next assignment from my mentor.
Having been raised up properly in a family with strong abolitionist leanings based on firm religious beliefs, young Matt gave me the courtesy of my title, but as we came to know each other, although getting him to reveal anything personal was extremely difficult despite the personal history I'd provided about myself, he gradually opened up and agreed to call me Doc to my calling him Matt. I learned his 15th birthday wasn't until May and that he'd left his small Missouri town of Seneca after being orphaned and selling off the family farm. He had little money when he arrived and was grateful for the job Tom Fuller gave him, but once he healed enough according to his own reckoning, he planned on heading further west into Texas, Arizona and New Mexico.
Matt Dillon was true to his word. Two weeks after he was brought to my office more dead than alive, he quit his job with Tom Fuller and rode out toward the Southwest. There was one significant change. He no longer was looking simply for adventure. Since his near fatal beating, he felt a need to prove himself as a man. To that end, he purchased a Colt pistol and gun belt with some of the remaining money he'd earned from the sale of the farm and the added funds from his stint assisting my friend Tom and his brother, Matt's friend Ben to pay for it. I watched him ride away.
I knew I too would be leaving soon. I remained in Kansas after September heading in the opposite direction taken by my young friend. Dr. Hudkins had made arrangements for me to provide for the medical needs of Salina for two years before I headed home to Illinois to assist Dr. Reese. Although I wasn't sure I'd ever return to this part of the state, especially after my war experiences, I felt a certain affinity for the people I'd met and the rough life they were forced to lead. Even if the railroad abandoned their plan to place a depot here, I felt a pull to return. Of course, the odds of again seeing Matt Dillon there were not ones to bet on. Still, I secretly hoped I would chance upon that tall, gangling youth as a full-grown man. The time we'd spent with each other convinced me there was an underlying goodness about him and a determination that would make him a man of consequence. I felt he was destined for great things, perhaps as one of those who actually tamed this wild land enough to allow ordinary families to lead peaceful lives on this wide-open prairie. Besides, I'd grown quite fond of him and already missed our talks.