CHAPTER SEVEN—PART ONE
A CURIOUS CONUNDRUM
"The wise adapt themselves to circumstances, as water moulds itself to the pitcher." (Chinese Proverb)
Still mid-evening... Kim wasn't unconscious, although he wished he were instead of surfing waves of pain. He'd blacked out periodically throughout the ordeal of being manhandled onto and off of the saddle. During the mile and a half trip from the canyon to the ranch house, every footfall of the horse beneath him had sent agonizing jolts through his body, as had being brought indoors, undressed and deposited on a lumpy sofa. The slightest movement slashed through the remnants of the narcotic shield, so he lay perfectly still with his eyes closed against the light from an overhead oil lamp. Even wrapped in the quilt he was still cold and his lungs were demanding a greater intake of air than his short shallow breaths were allowing. How easy would it be to simply stop breathing? His heartbeats pounded in his ears; it was a wonder they couldn't be heard clear across the room. Fleeting watercolor impressions marched through his addled mind like an out-of-focus magic lantern show.
From the exchange between the tall cowboy and the old man outside, he figured he must be in the Sherman residence/relay station (considerably homier than Hickman's squalid abode) which evidently was currently functioning as a hospital as well. The tall man was Slim, the boy was Andy, the old man was Jonesy, the huge man was the doctor—Fred, and the man with the bandages and encasted leg must be Jess-the-gunfighter. Kim repeated the names to himself to fix them in his memory and pondered his immediate future as others seemed to see it...
Would death come to him in the night as that old man had predicted? Up until the event that had forced him to flee his homeland, Kim had assumed (as young people do whenever they happen to contemplate their own mortality) that he would die an old man, at home in his own bed surrounded by loved ones. With matters the way they were, though, he'd been thinking about death an awful lot lately—envisioning more violent scenarios involving bullets or knives. Death by misadventure had not occurred to him. What an ignominious way to go. And poor Scooter... who would look after him... understand and take into consideration his little foibles?
When the light filtering through his eyelids was blotted out, Kim opened his eyes and beheld an approaching behemoth resembling a man only bigger... in his underwear. The giant paused to hook a chair with one finger and plunk it next to the sofa—the doctor, obviously... as he had a stethoscope dangling from his neck. The chair squealed ominously when he sat in it. The older man—the one who'd earlier judged Kim as already at death's door—had come to stand beside him. The doctor was regarding Kim with a not unfamiliar expression—curiosity tinged with puzzlement.
(Gracie's observations... In Kim's own world, miscegenation was commonplace and had been for a century, neither immoral nor illegal—just a fact of life. He'd never had to explain himself or his antecedents. In this country, he'd discovered, the frequently unlettered rural populace was attuned to and very much opposed to intrusions into their gene pool of Negro, Native American or Latin American blood. However, they were for the most part unacquainted with other forms of ethnic or racial combinations. Kim suspected there would be questions—just his bad luck to have come up against an individual more educated, more worldly, more observant than the average settler. Moreover, there would be questions for which Kim was reluctant to supply answers... even if his power of speech was miraculously restored.)
The anticipated questions were already coalescing in Young Doc's mind. When the newcomer had been brought in, the distracted doctor had at first glance dismissed him (as had Slim and Jonesy) as just another local halfbreed, but here—up-close and personal—Young Doc was baffled. Epicanthic eye folds were a common feature in Native Americans, although he'd never met one whose irises were such a peculiar amber color. In New Orleans Young Doc had seen many café au lait Creoles with eyes bronze-gold as tarnished coins, that spoke of Senegalese ancestry. He briefly considered the possibility that his new patient could be an octoroon—a generous mouth and full sensual lips fit the profile, but the fair hair and retroussé nose put the kibosh on that notion.
(Gracie's note... In addition to being a general medical practitioner and surgeon of some unorthodoxic renown in the territory, Wilfred Whatleigh was an avid student of Homo sapiens in all its imperfect glory and infinite variety—a wannabe anthropologist. And as a dilettante detective there was nothing he loved better than investigating a genotype/phenotype mystery, although he wouldn't have known those words on account of they hadn't been invented yet and science was still shaky on the subject of genetics. Nature versus nurture was another theory he embraced wholeheartedly. Gregor Mendel, Charles Darwin and Sir Francis Galton were Wilfred Whatleigh's heroes and he hoped he lived long enough to witness the passage of their theories into acceptance as substantiated fact.)
Pointing to himself, Young Doc spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable clearly. "I am Doctor Whatleigh. What is your name?"
"Slim says he's a dummy..." Jonesy advised.
Young Doc was momentarily taken aback but instantly regained his composure. Perhaps the youngster just didn't understand English. Well, no matter... language barriers were a mere piddling nuisance—many of his patients were recent immigrés who had no English at all or very little. Keeping his face professionally neutral and his voice soothingly modulated, Young Doc continued.
"I'm going to examine you for injuries... do you understand what I'm saying?"
Kim nodded yes.
"In a little while I'll give you something to cut the pain and help you sleep, but I can't do that yet because I need you to be awake so you can let me know where you're hurting, okay?"
Kim nodded yes again.
Young Doc had a hunch that this patient might prefer tea to coffee. Turning to Jonesy he asked, "Could you rustle up a pot of tea right quick... the laudanum's still on the kitchen counter. When the tea's ready, put about thirty drops in the cup... and a couple teaspoons of honey."
Young Doc then peeled back the quilt to reveal the polychromatic display underneath— a lividly purple-bruised right arm and a black, blue and purple python snaking diagonally from the right hip across the torso toward the left armpit. As expected, he found no differentiation in natural skin color above and below the beltline.
"Can you show me where it hurts?"
The patient very slowly lifted his injured arm and gestured vaguely toward his chest and belly.
Young Doc always started his exams with a patient's head—no visible injuries there. Pupils were equal and reactive to a lit match. Sclera a healthy bright white as were teeth—all present and accounted for and in excellent condition (something Young Doc didn't see very often) other than some minor misalignment. Extremity reflexes were all intact, suggesting no spinal damage. Shallow respiration and rapid pulse were to be expected but the stethoscope yielded no indication of impaired lung function. The pinch test on the back of the hand revealed a degree of dehydration. Other than minor abrasions and bruises—and damaged ribs—this patient appeared to be in prime health and adequately nourished. He must not have been on the road too long.
Young Doc's trained eye could read a human body like a road map, every distinguishing mark a chapter in a patient's history. The prevalence, location and types of marks on a given individual—taken in conjunction with overall health—guided the doctor's assessment of his lifestyle and probable occupation. He could tell a lot about a man from the condition of his hands and the location of his calluses—for instance, whether he was a cowboy, farmer or rancher... or a gunfighter. This one was none of the above. His hands were too smooth and supple, with little ingrained dirt, and his fingernails too clean and well kept. A deep indentation and light discoloration on his left ring finger indicated that something that had been there a long time had been recently removed.
However... this patient did sport an inordinate number of scars—none of them with the telltale puckered roundels of bullet wounds, most of them indicative of involvement in knife fights. For some reason he couldn't immediately identify Young Doc found this worrisome, but—lacking time to dwell on it—he tucked it in the back of his mind for later.
What concerned Young Doc more at that moment was that his patient continued shivering yet exhibited no goose bumps... and the fact that even though he had to be in a considerable amount of pain and discomfort, he made no articulate sounds. Classic hypothermia paired with traumatic aphasia? Not good at all—but Young Doc wasn't about to voice that in his patient's hearing.
It was time to examine the ribs. "This is going to hurt. I'm sorry..." The left side of the rib cage seemed unaffected. As Young Doc palpated each rib on the damaged side, he kept his eyes on his patient's face. Kim was making a valiant effort at responding only with grunts and grimaces, but his face reflected anguish and Young Doc wasn't fooled. It wasn't until he felt the surface indentation at the ninth and tenth ribs—the so-called false ribs—that Kim groaned through clenched teeth. By then Young Doc knew all he needed to know... those two ribs were cracked, possibly fractured—any pressure could drive them inwards with lethal consequences. As far as Young Doc could determine, though, the bones were intact, so there was a good chance no internal organs had been pierced by errant splinters. With any luck, peritonitis wouldn't set in and the patient would survive.
"Can you sit up for me? No? Here, I'll help you..." When Young Doc angled around to apply the stethoscope to the patient's back, he encountered the tattoo between his shoulder blades... not a very big one—maybe four by eight inches in size, outlined in black and infilled in muted shades of grey and dark brown. While he was no art expert and couldn't rightly identify the subject, the crisply-executed aboriginal style seemed vaguely familiar. The tattoo itself wasn't new, but the long thin scar bisecting it on the diagonal looked fairly recent and had been made by either a razor or a fine sharp knife. The parallel rows of unevenly spaced tiny scars on either side showed where it had been clumsily stitched together by an inexperienced hand.
By the time Jonesy returned with a cup of reinforced tea, Kim was rewrapped in the quilt with only his right arm exposed. He nodded his thanks. Jonesy hung around as Young Doc waited for the drug to take effect and make sure Kim wasn't going to vomit before helping him lie back down again. Positioned on his left side and bolstered with pillows, he immediately started fading.
"How long was he in the water?"
Jonesy shrugged. "Slim didn't say. But I'll tell you what... that lake's so damned cold you're risking your manhood just by wading in hip-deep..."
Young Doc stood up. "My stomach thinks my throat's been cut. That stew warm yet?"
CHAPTER SEVEN—PART TWO
KITCHEN TABLE PHILOSOPHY
"Ours is a world where people don't know what they want and are willing to go through hell to get it." (Don Marquis)
Getting on toward night... Jonesy filled two bowls with stew and brought them to the kitchen table along with cutlery, napkins and a basket of cold biscuits left over from breakfast. Before joining Young Doc he refilled the kettles on the stove—Slim would be needing hot wash water, too, whenever he came in. They ate quickly and in silence, Young Doc going back for thirds until Jonesy feared he would explode.
"How about some apple pie and cheese?" Jonesy asked (as if he needed to ask about the pie!).
"Sounds good to me... bring it on." After checking his other patient to ensure he was still out of it and the plaster was drying satisfactorily, Young Doc extracted a jug of cognac from his Gladstone bag and carried it to the kitchen table where Jonesy was already seated. Pulling the cork with his teeth, Young Doc topped off both their coffees without asking.
"Now Freddy... you know I don't..." Jonesy started to object.
"Tonight you do... doctor's orders!" Young Doc raised his cup in a salute. "Confusion to the enemy!"
"How bad off is that boy?" Jonesy queried after a few minutes, nodding toward the sofa.
"If he lives until morning he won't be going anywhere for a while, either. You'll have to keep him quiet and not let him lift anything heavy for a couple of weeks."
"What do you mean, keep him?" Jonesy yelped. "We're not taking him to raise!"
Young Doc shrugged. "What do you suggest? Take him out back and drown him in the rain barrel? And keep your voice down, would you?"
"You do understand that boy's a halfbreed, don't you?" Jonesy demanded.
"And your point is?"
"Just sayin', is all..."
"You know me better than that... or should by now." The tone was reproachful.
(Gracie's note about frontier doctors... Back in those days, before HMOs and governmental enforcement of equal rights, it was unfortunately true that many frontier physicians could and did refuse to treat indigenous, black or any other persons of color. Newly-emancipated slaves accustomed to receiving medical care gratis from Missy up at the Big House found themselves in a collective pickle where health care providers were concerned. And most Native Americans in any case preferred entrusting health matters to their own medical professionals. Young Doc had a one-door policy—everyone went in and out by the same front door and if they didn't like what was in the waiting room they were welcome to go wait out in the street or consult another doctor.)
"Like I said, if he's still alive in a couple of days he'll probably recover quickly enough... two to three months... "
"Two to three months?!" Jonesy squawked. "I'm about to run out of bedsheets as it is!"
"Bedsheets... oh... for binding, you mean. I'm of a mind to hold off on that for the time being... let's see how well he holds up without it."
"Why?"
"The big brains back East are coming around to suspecting tight binding invites lung fever by restricting breathing," Young Doc said. "I think they may be onto something."
Jonesy was frowning and nodding his head negatively. "Slim might have something to say about this, and Jess is gonna pitch a fit."
Young Doc went on, "Slim's the one brought him home. Must've had a reason..."
"Maybe his people'll come looking for him..."
"Oh... I rather doubt that, Jonesy." Young Doc refilled their cups, this time with a larger proportion of cognac. "Sláinte!"
Changing the subject, Young Doc said, "You know, that joker's gotta be the cleanest range rat in the territory... smells just like my wife's fresh-washed unmentionables on the line."
Jonesy wasn't to be deterred. "I just don't like the idea of a halfbreed savage loose in the house when everyone's asleep," he insisted.
"For Pete's sake, Jonesy," Young Doc retorted with impatience. "Show some compassion, how about it?"
Jonesy had the grace to look abashed.
"Furthermore, if he's got any native blood in him, I'll eat my sombrero. He's half something all right... I just haven't figured out what yet."
"How do you know that?"
"It would take too long to explain."
"What is he then? What's he doing here?"
"That's the question, isn't it?"
"Looks harmless enough, I suppose," Jonesy admitted grudgingly.
"So does Jess, when he's asleep. He wears a different face behind a gun."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning it's not always prudent to take anyone at face value until you get to know him."
Jonesy was appalled, hands flailing and the whites of his eyes showing. "Oh Lordy... please don't tell me Slim's brought another gunhawk into this house!"
"Calm down, Jonesy. I'm not saying anything of the sort. Just... keep your eyes and ears open."
"I'm not much liking the sound of that, Freddy... if there's any chance he's dangerous..."
"I think you and yours are safe enough for tonight," Young Doc chuckled, "He won't be feeling like moving around much for a couple of days... and even if he does, he sure as hell isn't gonna be moving fast."
Young Doc hoped he was right about that, adding a wee drop more to their coffees. "Na zdrowie!"
"And that's supposed to make me feel safer?" Jonesy grumbled.
Young Doc chose to withhold for the time being another observation he'd made. He'd re-guesstimated his patient's age based on two factors—muscle development and definition too advanced for a teenager, and inflexibility of ribs and intercostal cartilage on the undamaged side, indicating bones that were done growing. As that didn't happen until around age twenty-five, he was pretty sure his patient was already full-grown and as big as he was likely to get. Jonesy was already twitchy enough about having a strange teenager in the house. He'd be even more nervous if he knew their unknown guest was not only an adult but one evidently not unaccustomed to violent encounters.
Thirty minutes later... Young Doc got up to check his patients.
"Shouldn't the chloroform have worn off by now?" Jonesy fretted, worried about Jess' failure to wake up. They were still sitting at the kitchen table, emitting pie, cheese and cognac burps.
"It appears he's sleeping naturally," Young Doc said. "That's somewhat surprising."
"Not to me," Jonesy offered. "He's had a couple of bad nights here lately."
"Nightmares again?" Young Doc inquired.
"Worse than usual." Jonesy looked sleep-deprived as well, lines of fatigue and pain etched in his face. Chronic back pain could be so debilitating in so many ways.
"Still won't talk about 'em, eh?"
"No. He's a stubborn cuss, that one. Won't admit to anything. You could shoot his arm off and he'd claim it was just a graze."
Young Doc felt a philosophic dissertation coming on. "I have been a stranger in a strange land... Exodus 2:22." he intoned. "In his own way, Jess Harper is as much a stranger in a strange land as that other young man."
"How do you mean, Freddy?" Jonesy objected. "Jess isn't a stranger... he's been around five months now. He's from Texas. He's as American as we are."
"Have you ever been to Texas?"
"No."
"Why do you think Jess never talks about his family, where or how they lived?"
"I dunno... his business, I guess." Jonesy was uncomfortable discussing Jess' history, although he'd already passed along in confidence what little he did know—knowledge that had come to him inadvertently—because he trusted in Young Doc's discretion.
"Well, I have been places—including parts of Texas—where poor whites lived little better than animals on cane, rice and cotton plantations. They worked right alongside the slaves but weren't treated as well because slaves were valuable and the indigent whites weren't. I suspect Jess might have come from that kind of family... and if so, and considering what he experienced in the war and the path he followed afterward, then his life's been one long struggle from the day he was born. The difference between that kind of culture and the way we live here is even greater than the difference between us and the way people live in big Eastern cities... with gas lighting and indoor bathrooms with running water, and museums and libraries and universities."
"I'm sure he knows that, Freddy... he's been around. He's a mite short on book learnin' but he's not stupid."
"Of course he isn't... but seeing how other people live and learning to how live that way yourself aren't the same thing."
"Other men lived through the war and came home normal... like Slim. And the Shermans weren't rich folks... they worked the land and worked it hard. Why's Jess any different?"
"The difference is that Slim had a home to come home to... and a family—his momma and Andy and you. And didn't you once tell me it still took him more than a year to readjust to civilian life? Might've taken longer if he hadn't had Andy to look after. He already had a strong grounding in family values and Christian ethics to guide him back. My daddy had great admiration for Slim's father—said he was a man of principle who led by example. As I see it, Slim has followed in his footsteps. Who guided Jess, dya think?"
"No one, I reckon... but..."
"It's gonna take time, Jonesy... maybe more time than y'all are willing to invest in him."
"I just don't understand what he needs that he's not finding here... he's got a home, we look after him, we treat him like family and yet..." Jonesy shook his head mournfully, "it's not enough. We keep hoping he'll settle, the longer he stays here. Every time he gets a burr under his saddle blanket and runs out, seems he comes back in worse shape than before. Hurts Andy's feelings something awful and makes Slim mad as all get out. I'm afraid one day Slim's gonna tell him to stay gone."
"At least he does keep coming back, Jonesy. That shows that in his heart he wants to fit in. It's up here he's having trouble transitioning to a different lifestyle." Young Doc tapped his head.
"You mean he's crazy?"
"Not like the lunatics locked up in asylums... it's more like a part of the soul is broken... or lost. The Jesses of this world don't always understand what they're looking for, they just know they have to keep on looking—scared they'll never find it and scared it'll be taken away from them if they do find it.
There's a movement over in Europe to start up new disciplines in medicine—they're calling them 'psychiatry' and 'psychology'—doctors who study how the brain works and what controls how the mind thinks. They believe that if they can understand that, then they'll know how to help someone like Jess mend the broken parts or find the missing pieces... but until then all anyone can do is just what you and Slim and Andy have been doing... keep on letting Jess know his life has value, that he's needed and appreciated and wanted here."
"I understand what you're saying, Freddy... but the problem seems to be keeping him tied down long enough for that to sink in."
Young Doc gave a faint smile. "Maybe what happened today was fate stepping in do just that. He's not gonna be doing any drifting for a long time."
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," Jonesy said sourly.
"Wonder what's keeping Slim?" Young Doc mused, off-topic.
"That boy's horse was lamed up some. He's probably doctorin' it."
Young Doc checked his pocket watch. "I'll give him thirty more minutes. If he isn't in by then I'm going out after him."
Jonesy was looking positively glum as Young Doc refilled both their cups with straight brandy, toasting "L'chaim!" He pulled a sheaf of blank notepaper and a pencil out of his black bag, then licked the end of the pencil and started making a list.
"What's that, Freddy?"
"Instructions for Andy for tomorrow. I'm gonna stay over tonight but I have to run home in the morning and take care of some business. Then I'll come right back as soon as I can come up with reinforcements."
"Oh." Jonesy's eyelids were beginning to droop as Young Doc laid that paper aside and started on a fresh sheet.
"And this next one's for Jess."
"I see." Jonesy's eyes were beginning to glaze over.
Young Doc set that list on top of the first one.
"This one's for the new kid..."
"I told you... we can't keep him here..." Jonesy mumbled.
List number three was added to the stack and Young Doc kept on going.
"And this last one... is for you..." He handed list number four over to Jonesy, who read it and tossed it back.
"I done told you, Freddy... I can't lay up for a week. Who's gonna cook and play nursemaid?"
"Well, it won't be you. I'll have you some help here by tomorrow afternoon. Say, does Slim have an extra nightshirt I could borrow? And we'll have to get those two boys suited up for the night..."
Suddenly Jonesy yelped and smacked himself on the forehead. "Laundry! DAMMIT!"
"What about it?"
"Every stick of Slim and Jess' underwear and nightclothes is in the dirty laundry... except..."
"Except?"
Jonesy got up and tottered into the bedroom Jess and Slim shared, returning a few minutes later with a stack of sleeping attire in various shades of pink.
Young Doc gawped. "Holy cow! How did that happen?"
"It's a long story..."
(Gracie's explanation of the laundry fiasco at La Casa Sherman... Men's sleepwear fashions were in flux in the mid-1800s... Though originally intended as women's undergarments, the one-piece front-buttoning drop-bottomed flannel 'union suit' had mostly replaced the traditional long nightshirt as sleepwear of choice for most men. These in turn were yielding to a newer fashion—the two-piece longjohns' or 'longhandles'.
Longjohns were the off-white of unbleached cotton but the union suit came in one color only—a bright Turkey red which, after repeated washings, eventually faded to an anemic pink no manly man would be caught dead in. By that time the item would usually have reached the end of its intended purpose and would be recycled into kitchen towels or baby diapers, or relegated to the ragbag.
Dyes not being color-safe in those days, every housewife knew not to put a brand-new dye-laden union suit in the washboiler with white or light laundry. But Jess didn't know any better when it came his turn to do the laundry. Jonesy—thrifty individual that he was—had squirreled away for emergency use in future the now fuchsia-pink but still perfectly serviceable garments. And a good thing, too... or some individuals would be going to bed buck nekkid that night!)
Young Doctor Wilfred Whatleigh was big on lists. He always left a written treatment plan with every one of his patients even if the instructions amounted to (1) go to bed and (2) drink lots of water. That way he didn't have to listen to a litany of specious excuses by people who couldn't be bothered to follow directions and then wanted to blame him for the consequences. If a patient couldn't read, he drew diagrams and stick figures. Worked for him, anyway.
Young Doc was adept at compartmentalizing, so while he'd been compiling lists of customized patient care he'd also been putting together in his head additional lists of supplies needed and warm bodies available for pinch-hitting in an emergency situation requiring drastic measures. If, as he suspicioned, Slim was coming down with something worse than a head cold, there was absolutely no way he would be able to handle relay work, run the ranch and care for three other indisposed males all by himself.
Young Doc had been thinking longingly of his oversized bathtub, filled with hot soapy water and infused with scented bath salts by his diminutive wife who would scrub his back and massage his aching arms and shoulders. On the other hand, Pearl would most surely cloud up and rain all over his parade over the state of his clothes and rip him a new one for drinking, of which she did not approve. (Pearl was not your typical subservient helpmeet.) By now Young Doc had surpassed three sheets and was in fact sailing under full rigging, having snorted his way to the bottom of the brandy bottle, but he remained hyperaware of what needed to be done here tonight and tomorrow morning and had already accepted he'd be staying overnight.
Jonesy's head had slowly descended toward the table until achieving contact, at which time his candle was snuffed for the evening. His arms dangled by his knees as he drooled on the oilcloth. Young Doc woke him up long enough to march him to his bedroom, help him change out of his plaster-stiffened union suit and into a nightshirt, and install him in bed. After pulling a quilt over him, Young Doc turned to check on Andy sleeping fitfully in the other bed, the rash having spread to his shoulders, chest and back. It was time to go check on Slim.
