FIELDS OF WHITE
by BeckyS
© September 2002 – December 2003, as allowable


PART 3

Once he was sure they were gone, he rushed back into the cabin.  He took brief seconds to make sure the door was securely latched with the loop string on the inside, then in two quick strides was kneeling at his brother's side.

Adam hadn't moved from where Blake left him.  His face was turned away, and Joe took his chin gently to turn it towards him.  Blake's hand had left a vivid welt on his cheekbone, just below the gash from his slide down the mountain, and had knocked him senseless again.  Joe felt cold anger rise again in his heart.  He was tempted to take Sport and chase the man down, to give him a taste of the brutal treatment he seemed so fond of handing out, but his brother needed him.  His hands shook as he dipped the cloth in the cool water again.  He pressed it against the ugly bruise with his right hand and laid his left on Adam's forehead, feeling his rising fever. 

He prayed that Pa and Hoss would find Cochise, would backtrack him to the line shack, but who knew when they'd arrive, if at all?  Adam was in bad shape and getting worse. 

"Adam?"  He tried to rouse him by shaking his shoulders, but carefully.  He called his name again, and this time unshed tears thickened his voice, almost choking him.  He laid his cheek against his brother's broad chest, grabbed him tight with his arms and prayed harder than he'd ever prayed in his life.  "Please, God – please help me.  I don't know what to do.  Please, someone tell me what to do . . ."

He gradually became aware of the strong, steady thumping of Adam's heart, the even breaths that lifted his chest.  A calm stillness entered his soul, and he finally faced facts.  The bullet had to come out, and he was the only one here to do it.

He slid to the floor next to the cot and considered his options.  Adam was out of it, so if he did the job now, his brother wouldn't feel it.  His hands were shaking, though, from cold or fear or even lack of food, he didn't know.  He tucked them under his armpits as he tried to decide what to do.  A delay of a few more minutes or so likely wouldn't hurt, but would give him a chance to steady himself and get completely ready.

He'd need more water and bandages, as well as a thin-bladed sharp knife, if he could find one.  He suddenly remembered that Adam, intrigued by his father's stories of the less than spacious cabins on shipboard, had built small storage boxes under the bunks of the line shacks.  They left canned goods and such on the shelves – anyone in need was welcome to stop the night and have a meal – but there were a few things Adam had thought should be available for emergencies, yet would be prime targets for theft.  Such as a bottle of whiskey. 

Joe considered how he was going to get into the box, which was actually built into the wall, and whose outer edge served as a support for the middle of the cot.  Its lid was the mattress board, which he was going to be hard put to raise with his brother lying unconscious on top of it.

He sighed deeply and looked around the small room.  Not really so small, he mused, but certainly crowded with a horse and two men, one injured and one near-frantic.  "No, I'm not gonna panic," he muttered.  "I can't.  Think, Joe.  What've you got to work with?"  A saddle, a horse – yeah, that was real useful – an empty rifle scabbard, cupboards holding a few dishes and some canned tomatoes—

"Wait, there was a rope . . ."

He scrambled to his feet and flipped the saddle over.  Adam's lariat was still tied in place.  He undid the leather thongs that held it in place and unwound the rope.  He dug around at the side of the cot and found the frame's handhold hidden under the thin, overlapping mattress.  It was a moment's work to toss one end of the rope over a rafter and tie the other end to the handhold.  He pulled experimentally on the loose end and saw the mattress frame rise slightly, tilting Adam just enough that his head flopped to the other side.  Good!  He slid his brother to the far side of the cot, against the wall, then pulled on the rope again.  He raised the side of the mattress as high as he could without squashing his brother, and tied the free end of the rope in a loose knot on the handhold as well.  He then scooted underneath and, although he couldn't see into the box, quickly unloaded everything he could feel.

He untied the rope and slowly lowered the mattress again, checked Adam carefully, and breathed a sigh of relief that his brother hadn't even seemed to notice.  A mixed blessing.

There was quite an assortment of items spread on the floor, and Joe took quick inventory.  Yes, the expected bottle of whiskey, which would be useful for cleaning the wound as well as acting as a painkiller if Adam woke.  A kit of bandages, along with a few small tins and glass pots that strongly resembled the contents of Hop Sing's medicine chest.  They were labeled, fortunately in Adam's bold script rather than Chinese.  Liniment, headache powder, a stomach settler, a greasy ointment Joe recognized by the smell from the last time he'd scraped an elbow raw falling from a horse – all could be useful.

There were some lengths of rawhide strips for repairing bridles and such, tools for fence work and, finally, a rolled piece of leather which, when opened, proved to contain a selection of awls, knives and other implements.  His stomach flipped, and he swallowed hard.

He had everything he needed.  Except, perhaps, courage.

A soft, deep moan drew his attention to the cot.  He checked again for fever, appalled to find how quickly it was rising.  "We're out of time, aren't we, Adam?  It has to be now."  But Adam was waking up.  How would he ever keep him still?  His heart aching, he did the only thing possible. He unbuttoned his brother's ruined shirt, rolled him onto his stomach, then pushed the shirt up as high as he could.  He spread-eagled Adam's arms and legs, and tied him firmly hand and foot to the four corners of the cot frame with rawhide strips.  He was careful to make sure Adam's wrists were protected by his gloves, but he also made sure there was no real slack.  Then he took the end of the rope, fed it down the wall side of the bed and pulled it out from the bottom.  Eyes blurred by tears that he refused to let fall, he pulled the other end tight across Adam's back and tied one of his best knots, in hopes the restraint would help keep his brother in place once he felt the cut of the knife.

Adam moaned again.

"It's all right," he said, one hand on Adam's shoulder.  "I'm gonna take care of everything.  You just go on back to sleep for a while.  Dream about building a fort outta all that snow in that huge field out there.  Just picture yourself making up snowballs, one after the other, piling them up in one of those pyramids you always build, gettin' ready for Pa or Hoss or me to come out so you can nail us.  Before you know it, you're gonna be feelin' a whole lot better."

Adam seemed to drop off again, and Joe prayed he'd stay that way.  He'd never tried to get a bullet out of someone before, and he knew it was going to be hard enough without hearing his brother's cries of pain.  He tried to remember everything anyone had ever said about dealing with wounds, from Hop Sing's laments over one more injury to his boys to the men talking about castrating the young bulls at roundup.  He didn't know why, but Young Johnny – who'd been old as long as he could remember – always held his cutting knife over the fire before working on each young animal, so after he'd chosen the two thinnest, sharpest knives, he took them to the fireplace and held them in the flames until they changed color from the intense heat. 

He set them carefully to one side and dragged the bucket of now-melted snow to the cot.  He retrieved a couple of bowls and dipped them into the water, then placed the kit with the bandages in easy reach.  He then lit and hung a lantern from the rope that was still draped over the rafter.  He slid it just a bit to the side so he could have the best possible illumination on what he had to do.  "Is that everything?" he asked himself. 

He tried to think through all he intended to do, picture every move.  Pa had taught his sons that technique, to review a process over and over in their minds until they were sure.  His mind froze, though, on the first moment he would press the knife to his brother's skin. He could see the blood welling, flowing down Adam's side to the bedding, soaking it dark red—  "Stop it!" he commanded himself.  This wasn't helping.

It was likely to happen, though, so he grabbed the rolled bedding that had been tied onto the skirt of Adam's saddle and extracted the slicker from it.  He took out his pocketknife – one of his father's birthday gifts to him – and sawed the slicker in half.  He pushed it under Adam on each side of the bed.  He had to be practical; there was only one mattress, and if it got blood-soaked, there would be nowhere else to put him.

He started talking, making himself believe.

"Enough stalling.  You have to do it, and it has to be now, before Adam wakes up again.  Soak the wound with a wet bandage, clean it off good so you can see what you're doing.  Just a little bleeding – well, that'll change, you know it will.  Be ready for it. 

"Get the knives, set one aside.  Try to figure the angle, yeah, poke a finger just a bit down in there; better than a knife that could cut in the wrong direction.  No shaking.  Keep your hands steady.  Yeah, that's where it'll be.  Wonder how close he was to the gun, how deep the bullet is.  Please, God, please not deep. 

"The bleeding's starting up a bit.  Wipe it up, get that knife in there, see if you can find the bullet.  Don't mess around, Joe; get it done!

"Ease it in – God, Adam, stay still, don't wake up, not now! – something hard in there.  A rib?  No, ribs are higher, could it be?  Take the other knife, hold the wound open; something down there, not too far . . .

"How do I get it out?  Gotta get one knife under . . . just a little under, push it up against the other . . . sweat in my eyes . . . don't lose the bullet, don't lose it, ease it up . . . gently . . .

His breath came in gasps. "So much blood!  Can't see it any more, there's too much blood!  Where is it – please, I can't have lost it!

"No!  Calm . . . you can do it . . . Pa believes you can control yourself, prove him right . . . more, a little more, is it coming?  Is it almost out?  Don't move, Adam, please, don't move, not yet, let me get it, oh, God, it won't come, gonna have to cut . . . more blood, so much blood, I'm sorry, Adam, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . ."

The small, bloody piece of metal slowly rose to the surface, delicately balanced between the two knives.  As soon as Joe was sure it was completely out, he grabbed it and flung it across the room.  Hands shaking in earnest now, he pulled the cork from the bottle of whiskey and poured the pungent liquid over the bleeding wound.  Adam cried out in pain, pulling at his bonds, but he'd been tied well and couldn't move away from Joe's hands.

Tears coursed down Joe's face as he pressed clean wadding against the wound and held it there, trying to stop the bleeding.  His brother's moans ripped through his heart.  "It's all over, Adam," he wept, choking on the words.  "The bullet's out – I did the best I could, and I got it out.  I hope to God I did it right."  He snagged the blanket with one hand, still pressing on the wound with the other, and drew the warmth over Adam's back. 

Shattered by fear and body-aching fatigue, he dropped to sit on the floor next to the cot among the blood-soaked bandages, bowls filled with reddened water, and the now-filthy knives.  He stared at his blood-stained hand that was stroking his brother's hair almost with a will of its own . . . but it was a very long time before he stopped shaking. 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~
to be continued