Spoilers: No spoilers, but more references to various episodes that you might recognize. :)

Disclaimer: Emergency still doesn't belong to me. I'm just borrowing the characters, and I'll return them eventually. Maybe. ;)

A/N: I've said it before, but I think it bears repeating anyway - thank you to everyone who is reading, and especially those who are reviewing!

To my anonymous reviewers (since I couldn't answer you via PM):

To Lost Username:

Thank you for the concern! Thankfully, both of us are doing alright. :) I'm so glad that you enjoyed the chapter! The edits mostly had to do with the details of the firefight, and a couple small changes around the dialogue, basically things that I noticed when I went back through it. My inner perfectionist refused to leave them alone, lol. I'm so glad that you enjoyed the mention of Bellingham and Brice! I just had to include them. *grins* Whether the fire or Brackett, Johnny and Roy seem to be in for it either way. ;) Thank you again! Your reviews are so incredibly appreciated.

To Guestjh:

Thank you very much! I'm a big Robert Fuller fan as well, and doctor Brackett will appear again soon. :)

As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I would be utterly lost without him.

I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!

Frontier Medicine

Chapter 10: At Death's Door

The sight of the burning saloon disappeared quickly as the wagon rolled down the street. Hal proved to have a fine touch with the horses, finding just the right balance between too much haste and not enough, and soon, they reached the small gathering of people behind the General Store.

Roy couldn't help but be reminded of the field dressing stations he'd seen during the war. The women and young children would have been out of place there, but the sight of injured men lined up and waiting for further treatment was one he remembered all too well.

Several lanterns had been lit and placed around area, pushing back the encroaching darkness. The injured themselves had been laid carefully along the General's Store's back porch, where the wooden planks kept them off ground, and the overhang offered them some shelter. Roy was relieved to see that the unconscious men had been kept upright, just as he'd told the sheriff they should be. They were leaning against the store's back wall, their heads tilted back so that their airways were clear, and they had each been covered with a blanket. (Given the crispness of the fabric, Roy guessed that the blankets had come from the stock inside the General Store. The lanterns probably did as well - knowing Bill Bryant, Roy was willing to bet that he'd given the group permission to take whatever they needed.) Dixie, too, had been covered in a blanket, though she was laying on her side, another folded blanket serving as a pillow.

Nearby, the man with the broken ankle was sitting up against some unmarked barrels, and a few others were with him, the men who'd been injured seriously enough in the chaos inside the saloon that they weren't fit for the bucket brigade. One had what looked to be a badly broken arm, considering the angle of his wrist, and another was nursing a broken nose. He looked dazed, so he probably had a head injury as well. A third man was holding his side and wincing with every breath - likely because of some cracked or broken ribs.

Some of the women were staying with the injured; two were watching over Dixie and the unconscious men, one was offering the others water from a canteen and a tin cup, and another was tending to some of the men's less serious injuries, wiping away dried blood with a damp cloth. A short distance away, yet another small group of women - along with a few others who were less able-bodied for one reason or another - were busy looking after the children, comforting them and keeping them distracted as best they could.

Roy finished taking in the details just before Hal hopped down from the driver's seat and came around the back of the wagon to help them. As Roy, Johnny, and Hal moved Harrison and Lane over to the porch with the other unconscious men, one of the women brought over two more blankets.

"Is there anything else I can do?" Hal asked, once Harrison and Lane were settled.

Johnny paused for a moment, meeting Roy's gaze. "If we're gonna treat everyone here, we're gonna need supplies," he suggested.

Roy nodded, already guessing what Johnny had in mind. "Good idea."

Johnny reached under the collar of his shirt, pulling out a thick, braided leather cord with a key hanging on it - the key to the clinic. Brackett had given them each a copy with the understanding that they would only use it if they had no other choice. He was, Roy supposed, practical enough to prepare for the worst, despite his insistence that they not treat anyone without his or Dixie's supervision. Roy's own copy rested in his pocket.

Johnny pulled the cord over his head and handed it to Hal. "I'm not sure if Dixie even thought about locking the door to the clinic when we left, but if she did, this'll open it," he explained. "Head there, and get as much as you can from the medicine cabinet and the chest of drawers - that chest is where Brackett keeps his instruments. You'll have to be careful…a lot of it's fragile. The doc keeps some wooden crates down in the cellar, and you should be able to use those to pack everything. If there's still room, grab anything else that you think might be useful."

It really was a good idea, Roy thought - and beyond the fact that it would be a lot easier to work if they had everything nearby, there was another reason that it was probably wise: as much as Roy hated to consider it, if the fire eventually spread to the clinic, then at least they would still have what they needed to treat the town's casualties.

"On the way back," Roy interjected, looking over at Hal, "let the Sheriff know that we'll have the supplies to keep working from here. Tell him to be careful too - everyone who was inside the saloon, fighting those flames, should stay at the end of the lines, as far away from the smoke as they can. If anyone starts having trouble, they should send 'em to us."

Hal nodded, slipping the key around his own neck before he hurried back over to the wagon, and climbed up into the driver's seat. He spurred the horses on with a flick of his wrist, and the wagon disappeared down the street.

Roy cast one last look in the direction Hal had gone, then crouched down beside Harrison, reaching out to touch his throat, searching for his pulse. It was still too fast, maybe even faster than it had been before, and his chest seemed to stutter with every breath.

Roy sighed as he drew his hand back, his fingers curling a little.

Johnny, who'd been examining Lane nearby, caught his gaze once more. "That bad?" he asked quietly.

Roy nodded reluctantly. "How's Lane?"

"He's not in great shape, but not as bad as Harrison - he's stirred a couple of times. I think he might come around soon."

That, at least, seemed promising. It didn't necessarily mean that he would recover, but it was a step in the right direction.

"Will they be alright?" a soft voice asked.

Roy turned around, realizing that the question had come from the woman who'd gotten the blankets for Harrison and Lane. She was young, barely over twenty, Roy guessed, with auburn hair and dark brown eyes that shown with concern. Her hair was pulled up into a bun, and she wore a simple white blouse and a blue skirt that reached her ankles.

"It's hard to say," Roy answered honestly. He paused, looking her over once more. "You've been watching Dixie and the others?" he guessed.

She nodded. "Yes, I have. I'm Sharon Walters. Betsy's been watching them too - Betsy Williamson."

Miss Walters motioned to a blonde woman who stood a short distance away, and the other woman offered them a small smile, though it wasn't hard to see the strain underneath. Roy could certainly relate.

He dipped his head in greeting, introducing himself and Johnny, though both women already seemed to have a good idea of who they were.

He heard Johnny offer a quiet "Howdy."

"We'll need to examine all the injured, and see how they're fairing," Roy said to the women. "Can you tell me if there's been any change with the four men we pulled out of the saloon?"

"Anne and Janie have been looking after the others, the ones who are awake," Miss Walters answered, "so they'd been able to tell you more about Mr. Fulton - the man with the broken ankle. But everyone here seems about the same." She bit her lip, obviously wishing she had happier news to share. "Nurse Dixie hasn't woken, but her breathing has been steady, at least. The others…none of them have woken either, not even for a moment. And no one has moved. I think he," she pointed at the big man who'd hit Dixie, "might have little more color in his face, but other than that, no one really seems any better. What do you think, Betsy?"

The other woman nodded sadly in agreement. "Other than that, there's been no change to speak of."

Roy had hoped that the women were wrong, and that there had actually been some improvement, but their words proved to be all too true. The big man who'd woken earlier did seem less pale, and his breathing had begun to even out, his heart rate more regular as well. But the last two, the young man and the older Mexican man, were in no better shape than Harrison was, even though Harrison had lain longer in the smoke. Dixie's condition worried Roy almost as much. She seemed no worse, but like Miss Walters had said, she didn't seem likely to wake soon, and that in and of itself could be a bad sign.

Miss Walters and Miss Williamson agreed to continue their vigil, and when Roy and Johnny set about examining the conscious men, the two women who'd been tending to them offered their own updates about the injured. They'd treated what they could, and tried to keep the wounded as comfortable as possible. Overall, the men seemed to be fairly well off, all things considered. The man Roy had rescued from beneath the poker table - Mr. Fulton, as Miss Walters had said - was still coughing on and off, but his pulse was strong and steady, and the congestion in his chest was beginning to clear. His ankle was bruised and swollen, but it seemed to be a simple fracture, and it wouldn't need to be set.

The man favoring his side did indeed seem to have cracked - rather than broken - ribs, so at least there was no danger of a punctured lung. His ribs would need to be wrapped, but there wasn't much else they could do for him. He would simply have to wait to heal. The same was true of the man with the broken nose. His nose had finally stopped bleeding, though he was already sporting the beginnings of a spectacular bruise across his cheeks and around his eyes. He still seemed a little dazed, and he was complaining of an awful headache, but beyond that, he was doing as well as could be expected.

The man with the broken wrist seemed to be in the worst condition. The break was serious enough that Brackett would need to be the one to set it; Roy didn't trust his own skills enough yet to attempt it, and Johnny had said the same. They decided to splint the wrist instead, keeping it immobile until the doc arrived to see to it himself. The splint, unfortunately, would have to wait until Hal returned with their supplies - the General Store had a small selection of lumber, but the boards were too thick and heavy to brace an injured limb.

It wasn't the only thing that would need to wait.

"My arm hurts somethin' awful," the man admitted through gritted teeth. "You couldn't give me something to ease the pain?"

Roy longed to grant the request immediately, but he could only assure the man that they would give him something as soon as they could.

Much to Roy's relief, it wasn't long after they'd finished with the last man that Hal returned with the buckboard. Crates of various sizes now filled it from front to back, though Hal had, thankfully, had the foresight to pack the supplies from the medicine cabinet closer to the end of the wagon, so they could be reached more easily. (Roy dearly hoped that they wouldn't have need of any of Brackett's surgical instruments, though he made a note of their location just the same.) Hal had also tried to preserve as much of the medicine cabinet's organization as possible, which helped a great deal as they worked to sort it all out. There'd been no need to unload the wagon either, since, as Hal had explained, the sheriff had said they should keep it so they'd be ready to move if they had to. That had been both welcome and worrying news; welcome, because it would certainly save time if they had to leave, but worrying because it meant that the sheriff thought they might need that time.

Hal helped them unhitch the horses, and led them over to the corral, the one Bill Bryant used for the teams that brought goods to restock the store. As soon as that was done, Hal wished Roy and Johnny the best, then turned and started walking up the street to return to the bucket brigade.

Roy and Johnny immediately set to work again, dividing the care of the patients as evenly as they could. It was Roy who administered the morphine to the man with the badly broken wrist. The man had slumped visibly, the tension draining from his muscles as the morphine did its work. Roy made a mental note to keep a close eye on him. Morphine was truly a boon for a wounded man, but many a soldier had come away from the war with an addiction to it,* and he didn't want this man to join their ranks. The morphine, at least, did dull most of the man's pain as Roy and Johnny put the splint on his wrist.

They had just finished wrapping a final strip of linen around the splint when a worried call came from the porch. Roy immediately recognized Miss Walters's voice.

"Mr. DeSoto! Mr. Gage! This man's stopped breathing!"

Roy and Johnny were on their feet immediately, though as Roy caught sight of the man who was in trouble, he wondered if they were already too late. It was the youngest man, and the already bluish cast of his skin was rapidly deepening, his chest still, his features lax.

Roy reached him first, calling out, trying to see if that might be enough to get the young man to respond to him. When it wasn't, Roy quickly felt for his pulse. It was rapid, but faint. Johnny immediately helped lift the man away from General Store's back wall so that Roy could hook his forearms underneath the young man's shoulders. Roy gave him a rough shake, hoping that the jolt would get him breathing again, but there was no change. Roy tried again, and then again, but the young man's chest was as silent and still as before.

He shared a grim look with Johnny before they laid the young man down on the wooden planks of the porch, and Roy tilted the man's head back while Johnny opened his mouth and used two fingers to try to make sure that he had a free air passage.

Then, together they reached for the young man's arms, pulling them up, away from his body, and then pushing them back down, trying to mimic the natural rhythm of breathing. With the thumb and fingers of his right hand, Roy started to apply careful pressure to the young man's chest on and off, encouraging circulation around the heart. the way that Brackett had showed them.*

Long minutes passed as they kept going, but the young man's lungs refused to resume their work. With his hand still on the young man's chest, Roy felt it as his heartbeat slowed, growing fainter by the moment, until at last, there was nothing at all.

"We can stop," Roy told Johnny quietly.

A stricken look of understanding passed over Johnny's features as they laid the young man's arms back down on the porch…a young man who looked even younger now, painfully so. It wasn't hard to imagine him as he'd probably been just hours before, happy to be done with his work for the day. He was clean-shaven, and even streaked with ash as they were, the green-striped shirt and brown pants he wore looked to be almost new. Few bothered to go to that much trouble if they were only going to visit the saloon. Had he been planning call on a lady?

Roy felt a dull ache in his chest at the thought.

A glance at Johnny showed that he was staring down at the young man, his jaw clenched tight, and his eyes dark.

Roy cleared his throat, not sure he could speak past the lump that seemed to have formed there.

"We should move him."

Johnny nodded stiffly and walked around to grip the young man's ankles, leaving Roy to take his shoulders. They lifted the young man's body and carried him away from the porch, gently laying him beside the General Store, where he would be out of sight of the women and children and the other injured.

Roy turned at the sound of a soft footstep, and found that Miss Walters had followed them. She held a blanket in her hands, likely the one the young man had been covered in earlier. With a sheen of tears in her eyes, she stepped forward and carefully draped that blanket over the young man's body, covering his face.

There was a moment of respectful silence, then Roy turned away reluctantly, seeing Johnny and Miss Walters do the same. There was nothing more they could do for the dead now, but the living still needed their help.

Without a word, he and Johnny moved to examine everyone again.

Roy felt sure that they hadn't missed anything when they'd checked on the young man the last time, but a shadow of doubt still lingered. What if they had missed something? What if there was something they could have done? Would it have been enough to save his life?

They couldn't afford to think that way, though, not really. Not for long. Roy had learned that much during the war. If you let it, self-doubt would eat you alive, and keep you from doing your job.

Still, they would have needed to examine everyone again anyway, regardless - and maybe it would offer the rest of the group some reassurance. Roy hadn't paid much attention to them as he and Johnny had fought for that young man's life, but now, he could see the shocked looks of the conscious men, their pale faces and solemn stares. The women were teary-eyed, and even the children seemed subdued.

Roy did his best to help, moving from patient to patient and offering comforting words where he could. He heard Johnny murmuring support of his own, though the tense line of Johnny's shoulders told him that the young man's death had hit his partner hard.

A soft moan drew Roy's attention, and he looked over, seeing Johnny crouched in front of Lane.

"Hey, Roy," Johnny called a second later, "I think Lane's wakin' up."

Roy had been in the middle of checking on the man with the broken wrist, but he stood up and quickly made his way over to his partner. Sure enough, Lane was starting to move, his head lolling from side to side, his brow furrowed, his mouth pulling into a grimace.

From what Roy had seen of him, Lane always had the look of a cowboy who'd spent most of his life out in the elements. Roy guessed that he was somewhere in his early forties, but there were deep lines around his eyes and mouth and across his forehead. Right now, the soot streaking his skin had worked its way into those creases, deepening them, making him look liked he'd aged years in the span of a day. Even his short, brown hair and sparse, brown beard had taken on a grayish tinge, which only added to the effect.

"Lane?" Johnny tried. "Lane, can you hear me? Come on, open your eyes."

Lane did - his blue eyes snapping open suddenly before he doubled over, coughing roughly and wheezing as his lungs worked to clear themselves. Johnny clapped him on the back every few moments, trying to help clear the congestion. The coughing fit lasted long enough that Roy had begun to worry about Lane ever catching his breath, but finally, the fit subsided, and Lane slumped over, utterly spent. Johnny caught him and Roy helped to sit him back up against the wall.

"Tilt your head back," Roy told him, "and breathe as deeply as you can."

Lane cooperated, coughing a few more times before his gaze locked on Johnny, and his eyes narrowed. It was hard to describe the expression he wore. It skirted the edges of disdain, but there was surprise as well, and something that almost looked like grudging respect.

Johnny stared back evenly, waiting for the man to speak.

"Got…got off work early today," Lane rasped at last. "Had some drinks. More'n I should've, I guess. Went upstairs to sleep it off. Woke up smellin' smoke, and went out in the hall. That's th' last thing I remember before I saw you."

Lane regarded Johnny for a moment longer.

"You got me out," Lane declared, and there was a hint of disbelief in his words, like he couldn't quite accept what he was saying. "It really was you, in the hallway. I woke up for just a spell, and you got me out," he repeated.

Johnny nodded. "Yeah."

"Why?" Lane demanded, his chest heaving as he struggled to get enough air.

Johnny gave a small shrug of his shoulders that was anything but casual. "It was the right thing to do."

The words were familiar, and Roy knew that, for Johnny, it really was that simple. It had been that simple when he'd saved Jed Miller's life when he'd found him bleeding in his yard, and it had been that simple when he'd found Lane in that smoke-filled hallway.

Lane looked incredulous for a moment, like he expected there to be some sort of catch involved, some sort of ulterior motive, but Johnny just left his answer at that.

Finally, Lane seemed to realize that Johnny was serious, and he gave a hesitant bob of his head. He didn't say "thank you" - given the way he'd treated Johnny three months ago, outside on the boardwalk by the saloon, Roy wasn't really expecting that - but it was hard to miss the gratitude in his eyes.

An unnamable emotion crossed Johnny's face, but it disappeared just as quickly, and a moment later he was reaching for Lane's wrist to take his pulse. Lane still looked a little uneasy, but he seemed willing enough to go along with it.

Roy took that as his cue to start asking Lane about his symptoms.

He complained of a headache and an aching chest - Roy wondered if he might have cracked a rib or two with the force of his coughs - and even without bending down to take a listen, Roy could hear him wheeze with every breath.

But, all things considered, he could have been much worse.

Confident that Johnny could handle Lane now, Roy left to finish examining the man with the broken wrist. Thankfully, he seemed to be doing well. The morphine was still dulling the worst of his pain, and the splint seemed to be doing its job. Roy gave the man a gentle pat on his uninjured arm, then stood up again and walked over to check on Dixie.

It was Miss Williamson who was sitting close by, on the edge of the General Store's porch, watching over Dixie and the Mexican man who rested a few feet away.

"There's still been no change," Miss Williamson said as Roy approached.

Roy nodded in understanding, and then bent down to press two fingers to Dixie's neck. Her pulse was steady, and a quick check of her breathing assured him that it was deep and even. Now that they had the supplies from the clinic, he debated about trying to wake her with some smelling salts, but since they weren't sure how bad her head injury actually was, he was hesitant to risk it. It would be better if she could wake up on her own.

Roy frowned, considering their options, when the clatter of another wagon in the distance made him look up. Soon enough, he was sure that the wagon was headed their way. He stepped down from the porch, ready to meet it, and Johnny joined him a moment later.

When the wagon rolled into view, Roy realized that it was Marco who was driving this time. He stopped a short distance away from where the supply wagon was parked, then hopped down out of the driver's seat.

A man and woman were sitting in the back of the wagon, and Roy didn't wait for Marco to explain and neither did Johnny. They hurried around the rear of the wagon, reaching it just as Marco unlatched the board at the end of the wagon bed. Roy was relieved that both the man and woman were awake and alert, but the woman was pale and breathing hard, and the man was flushed and grimacing, rubbing his chest every few moments.

"They were in the bucket brigade," Marco told them as he helped get the man and woman out of the wagon and over to the porch. "Señor Wallace said that his chest hurts, and Señora Hays almost fainted."

The moment the newest arrivals were seated on the porch, Johnny immediately started forward to examine Mr. Wallace, and Roy began checking over Mrs. Hays. She had brown hair and brown eyes, with streaks of gray just beginning at her temples. Roy guessed that she was somewhere in her mid forties, and she had a slender but solid-looking build.

"Marco said you nearly fainted?" Roy prompted.

"I suppose…I did, but…I'm fine," Mrs. Hays insisted, her chest heaving. "Just…just need a minute…to catch my breath."

"Is there any pain?" he asked.

"No," she said, "no…pain. I just got…real dizzy and weak all of the sudden…and everything started to go dark."

"Has this ever happened before?"

"No, never."

Roy checked her pulse, and found that it was fast, too fast, but at least it was steady, with no signs of wavering. There was a clear sheen of sweat visible on her pale skin, though, and she was cool and clammy to the touch, which told him what the problem was likely to be.

"I think you just got overheated, ma'am," Roy assured her. "But you need to rest here in the cool air for a while, and you should have some water."

Roy glanced away for a moment, looking for the woman who'd been passing the canteen and the tin cup around - preoccupied as he was, if he'd been told her name earlier, he couldn't remember it now. He spotted her by the women who were watching over the children, and managed to catch her eye, motioning for her to come over.

She did, and soon the younger woman - Anne, he learned - was helping to keep the tin cup steady as Mrs. Hays drank from it with shaky hands.

With Mrs. Hays being looked after for the moment, Roy excused himself and walked over to see how Mr. Wallace was fairing. Johnny had him sitting against the General Store's back wall with the others.

"How is he?" Roy asked quietly.

"Okay," his partner answered. "I'll keep an eye on him, but it doesn't seem like a heart attack. I think it's angina.* He said he's had some trouble with it before."

Roy nodded, relieved to hear that for Mr. Wallace's sake as well as their own. With the addition of Mr. Wallace and Mrs. Hays, they had nine patients total, and three of them were in a particularly bad way from the smoke. Under those conditions, it would have been a struggle to care for a man suffering from a heart attack.

He just hoped that they wouldn't be adding any more patients to the tally, though the red-orange glow visible down the street didn't bode well.

Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, Roy turned a little and spotted Marco by the General Store's corral, watering the horses from the wagon he'd used. Roy supposed that there hadn't been much chance to water them closer to the fire - any water they had on hand was likely being used to fight the flames.

Letting Johnny know where he was going, Roy jogged over to join Marco at the trough.

Marco glanced up as he arrived, offering a very small, tired smile, though his expression quickly grew concerned as he nodded in the direction of the porch. "¿Estarán bien?" he asked. Then, seeming to realize that he hadn't spoken in English, he quickly translated, "They'll be alright?"

"We think so," Roy assured. "With some rest, both Mrs. Hays and Mr. Wallace should be fine."

"I am glad to hear it." Marco smiled again, a little more fully this time. though there was no missing the weary line of his shoulders, or the still-hoarse quality of his voice.

Roy nearly told him about the grim condition of some of the others, as well as the young man's death, but he held his tongue. There would be time enough for that later, when the firefight was finished. Right now, it might only discourage Marco and the others who were still battling the blaze.

Without conscious thought, Roy's eyes drifted back down the street, in the direction of the saloon.

"How bad is it?" he asked after a moment.

Marco sighed, his smile fading once more. "Bad. Very bad. It spread to the café next door, and el viento…the wind…is still driving it to the east."

Roy grimaced, though he wasn't surprised. Now that he'd left the relative shelter they'd found in the shadow of the General Store, he could feel the way the air was stirring, could feel it rustling his clothes and brushing over his skin.

"The café has gone up fast," Marco continued. "Faster than the saloon. The Sheriff has had us emptying the saddle and tack shop beside the café, and the other stores nearby."

Roy didn't answer right away, letting the implications of that settle in his mind before he spoke.

"Probably a good idea," he offered finally. At least the owners will have something left when this is over, he added silently, unwilling to voice the thought aloud.

"Si," Marco agreed, his tone subdued.

Silence fell, and Roy didn't try to break it, his thoughts lingering on the fire. If the blaze continued to grow the way that the Sheriff seemed to think it would, then they could probably expect many more patients over the next several hours. Roy just hoped that their supplies would hold out long enough to treat them all.

A few, quiet minutes passed, and when the horses finished drinking their fill from the trough, Roy helped Marco hitch the team to his wagon once more. Johnny came over long enough to convince Marco to drink some water as well before he left, but soon enough, Marco was climbing back into the driver's seat and picking up the reins.

"Vaya con Díos, mi amigos*," he told them.

"You too," Johnny returned.

Roy echoed him, and together, they watched as the wagon started down the street, back towards the bucket brigade.

Confident that they were out of earshot, Roy filled Johnny in on the news from the fire before they rejoined the others on the porch. Johnny eyed their supply wagon with the same expression of concern that Roy knew he was probably wearing.

Some supplies - like bandages - were easy enough to replace. While it wasn't ideal, if need be, any clean strip of cloth would do. But other things - some of the medicines especially - would have to be sent for, and it would take days for them to arrive by stagecoach.

Roy was trying to figure out if there was a way to ration some of those medicines when he heard the pounding of horses hooves. Two riders, he guessed, and once again, those riders were headed their way.

"Great," he heard Johnny say wearily. "What now?"

Roy bit back a sigh of his own, bracing himself for another patient, bad news, or both, but when the first rider finally drew close enough for him to see, his shoulders slumped in relief.

There, riding down the street at a gallop, was Dr. Kelly Brackett.

TBC

Historical and Content Notes

Morphine Addiction: Morphine addiction truly was a widespread problem after the Civil War. All told, "Thousands of Civil War soldiers who were wounded during combat, or more commonly, became sick in camp, were first dosed with opium or morphine in field hospitals during the war," and as a result, "Many came home struggling with addiction to narcotics." (Source: journalofthecivilwarera (d o t) o r g, "Civil War Veterans and Opiate Addiction in the Gilded Age.") One Union solider described his experience with morphine addiction this way: "No tongue or pen will ever describe…the depths of horror in which my life was plunged at this time; the days of humiliation and anguish, nights of terror and agony, through which I dragged my wretched being." (Source: same as above.)

"The way that Brackett had showed them" - Resuscitation methods in the Civil War era: CPR as we know it didn't actually come about until 1960. (Source: cpr (d o t) heart (d o t) org, "History of CPR.") However, throughout history, various methods were used to try to revive a person who had stopped breathing. In the 1500s, one method involved flagellation, essentially "whipping the victim to try and shock the body back to life." (Source: australianscience (d o t) c o m (d o t) au, "Resuscitation through the ages.") Then, in the 1800s in the United States, there was the "trotting horse method," which involved putting a drowning victim on the back of a horse, with the idea that "the movement would result in alternate compression and relaxation of the chest." (Source: same as above.) But, the majority of the technique I had Roy and Johnny use in this chapter was drawn from the account of Dr. Charles Leal. He was the military surgeon who was the first on scene when President Abraham Lincoln was shot in the head at Ford's Theatre on April 14, 1865. This very early form of CPR is the method that Dr. Leal used to try to revive the wounded president. His efforts did in fact help to prolong Lincoln's survival, though, sadly, the wound was ultimately fatal. (Source: infouci (d o t) org, "History of the cardiopulmonary resuscitation (Part One).")

Angina: Angina is "a type of chest pain caused by reduced blood flow to the heart." (Source: mayoclinic (d o t) o r g, "Angina.") Descriptions of it stretch all the way back to 1632, "in the memoirs of the Earl of Clarendon," though the most detailed description of it seems to come from William Heberden, during his presentation "to the Royal College of Physicians in 1768." (Source: rwjms1(d o t) umdnj ( d o t) edu, "Description of Angina Pectoris by William Heberden.")

Spanish translation: "Vaya con Díos, mi amigos." - "Go with God, my friends."

A/N: We're nearing the end of the fic - just a couple more chapters to go. :)

As always, thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!

Take care and God bless!

Ani-maniac494 :)