INCOGNITO: CHAPTER 6
"You never should have made me wait, Matt. You should have let me take that bullet out of your leg last night, but no, you just had to chase that fella down. Now infection's gonna set in and heaven knows how many other complications. If you'd quit trying to tell me how to do my job . . ."
"STOP IT!" Matt thrashed his head side to side, trying to smother the voice. "Doc! You're talkin' crazy! I begged you to take it out!"
"Crazy, eh? You're not the only one to tell me I don't know what I'm doin'. You and that knothead Festus, well neither of you has ever listened to my advice. You shoulda sent Frank to follow that man. Now you and your family are gonna pay the price because you'll probably lose your leg, mister know-it-all marshal. I don't see how I can fix this mess."
"Doc! Give me one more chance, please! Take the bullet out now . . . I need my leg!" Matt thrashed his head again, struggling to open his eyes so he could look at his life-long friend. Everything was a blur. He reached a hand up to rub his eyes, only to feel someone's hand gently take it away.
"Easy now, Marshal Dillon." The man's unfamiliar voice bounded around in his head like an echo chamber. "I'm Doctor Philip Steele. I removed the bullet, but you had a long, complicated surgery."
"Doc-ter," Matt tried his best to repeat, but his lips were as thick as Buck's, and they wouldn't work.
"Marshal Dillon, it's me, Delilah." Her familiar face appeared over him next to the stranger's. "You had a bad dream from the chloroform. The bullet's out." He felt her gentle hand stroking his growth of beard.
"Kitty . . need . . . shave."
"No," she said softly. "Now listen to me. I'm not Kitty. I'm Delilah Nelson and I think your scruffy face is just beautiful." Delilah looked up at the surgeon for reassurance. "I don't know who Kitty is, maybe his wife?"
"Just keep talking to him and giving him those ice chips," Dr. Steele said, looking up at the clock on the wall. "I'd like to explain all this to him before I catch my train."
"Train!" The word registered clearly for Matt. "Need . . . train," he mouthed carefully. "Dodge."
"Where's Dodge?" Steele asked intentionally.
"Kassthus." Matt slurred.
"Very good!" the doctor answered enthusiastically, pleased that his patient was starting to respond after such a rough procedure. Turning to his colleague, he said, "Burke, he won't be able to tell you the name of his physician in Dodge for a while. If you and Delilah will keep trying to bring him around, I'll write up all my records now so you'll have all the details to pass along."
The surgeon from Cheyenne had no sooner started writing at the office desk when a young man with a badge on his coat stormed through the door without knocking. "I'm Blake Rains." he announced. "How's my boss?"
But Matt Dillon recognized that voice. Instantly, he recognized that voice, like the voice of the Angel Gabriel himself. "Bake!" He spit out the ice chip and licked his lips, then tried again. "Blake! C'mere, man!" Burke Bartholomew and Delilah Nelson stepped aside, watching the young deputy bend over their patient. When he clasped the marshal's hand, the big man was actually struggling to compose a crooked grin.
"You look fine, Matt."
"Useless . . . as hell." Matt tried to study Blake's eyes, focusing first on one then on the other. "Can't get up."
"They've got you doped up. You'll be up and around in nothing flat."
"Stonker?"
Blake hesitated with his answer. It was so like Matt Dillon to ask about some other man and ignore his own troubles. But it was damned hard for a lawman to lie, straight off face to face to another lawman, and Blake knew he wouldn't get away with it.
"He never knew what hit him, Matt."
The marshal huffed at the news, then took a couple of thoughtful breaths, maybe in honor of Thor Stonker, maybe just wanting to put the whole mess behind him. "Move's done?" He felt like an idiot trying to form a couple words at a time.
"Yep." Blake brightened, eager to share good news. "There's men doubled up in a few of the cells, but they're all back at their little piece of paradise across the river. Seth'll be up to see you right after he gets cleaned up. He's plannin' to bring a bottle of whiskey." he grinned.
"Train . . . tomorrow . . . then." Matt drew the words out. "Get outta here."
Blake looked across the room at Dr. Bartholomew, who'd watched the whole scene play out. He was shaking his head side to side slowly, a somber look on his face. But even without a doctor's confirmation, the young deputy knew there was no way Matt would be ready to travel the next day. "Maybe not that soon, Matt," Blake said softly.
Pleased with his patient's mental acuity, Dr. Steele left his notes and walked to the side of the table. "How you doin', Marshal? You remember me?"
"Yeah. Cheyenne doc." He paused a minute and squinted his eyes while his brain engaged. "Steele."
"Plenty good, Marshal. I'm going to explain what happened. Do you mind if your young friend listens in?"
"Want him to." Matt's brief sentence sounded clearer this time.
"Good." Then he surprised Blake with his next statement. "Sit down in this chair and take a boot and sock off, Mr. Rains. You can be my model."
The doctor held up a spent cartridge while Blake busied himself with his boot. "I don't have to tell either of you lawmen what a .44 Henry flat can do to a man." The owner of three Henry .44's himself, Matt took a calculated look and nodded.
"This was lodged in your lower leg, Marshal." He turned to Blake while he held up the cartridge. "Mr. Rains, if you'll prop your leg up here on the table where the marshal can see it . . ."
He traced two fingers over the outside of Blake's now bare leg where his boot had been. "A narrow bone called the fibula runs right here, clear down to the ankle. The bullet severed tendons and ligaments and broke your fibula right here, about four inches above your ankle." He paused for a moment to let his groggy patient process the information. "A bigger bone called the tibia is what you feel when you run your hand down your shin. It's the bone that supports most of your weight." Slowly, he moved his fingers to the front of Blake's leg and traced down his shin to demonstrate. "The size of your tibia stopped it, or you'd have had two broken bones."
"Good news, Matt." Blake feebly smiled his encouragement.
Matt wasn't sold, and rightly so. "Stopped it?" he said.
Confident that Matt had a basic grasp of both consciousness and lower leg anatomy, Dr. Steele told Blake to put his sock and boot back on, an ideal pause that gave him time to make certain of what he wanted to say next.
"Yes. You're a big man with big bones. But I want to be clear. The bullet lodged in your tibia. When a bullet penetrates a bone, it's like penetrating a tree. It doesn't exactly enter smoothly. When I removed it, I had to extract a couple of shattered pieces of your tibia with it."
"Bottom line." Tired of the medical jargon, Matt's expression was stoic, his jaw muscles rippling. Philip Steele took a deep breath, carefully considering his response. This wasn't some bank clerk who could spend his life in a chair. The doctor softened his voice.
"If you're lucky, in six months you'll have a little more than half the strength you had in that leg."
"The hell with that!" Matt spit out the words, then immediately wanted them back. "Sorry."
"No offense, Marshal." The surgeon patted Matt's hand condescendingly.
Stuck with a mouth that couldn't form sentences, Matt drilled down on the man with his eyes. "Dodge. Gotta . . . get home." Reflexively, he pulled his hand away and stuffed it under the blanket. Couldn't walk, couldn't talk, and he was starting to get angry.
"Dr. Bartholomew will release you when he thinks you can tolerate two days of train travel. I'll leave all my instructions for your care with him."
"Bullet's out . . . Doc . . at home."
"Good. I'm glad you have a doctor at home. Burke'll make sure he gets a copy of all my notes."
Matt looked at the surgeon through eyes that were starting to glaze over. "Th' doc's . . . Doc."
"Of course, Marshal," the surgeon agreed, without the foggiest idea what his patient meant. "You get some rest now. Dr. Bartholomew will talk with you in the morning."
Matt rolled his head away. If nothing else, that prescription sounded good. He listened to the two doctors and Delilah conversing in hushed tones across the room, not able to make out a single word. Some doctor from Cheyenne had drugged him beyond belief, then taken his right leg away from him, and now the man was going to get on a train and head for home. Home: the most excellent place a man could ever hope to be.
"Blake?"
"Right here, Matt." Blake stood up quickly and leaned over the table. "What do you need?"
"Tell thoctor . . . tell th' doctor . . . thank you."
XOXOXO
Morning dawned as expected, but Matt Dillon didn't until the sun was more than halfway through its journey. He rubbed his eyes and groaned, vaguely aware of a burning sensation in his leg and a stiffness beyond compare in his back.
The man's voice was cheerful. "Good afternoon, Marshal." Matt rubbed his eyes again, then looked down at the foot of the bed. "I introduced myself yesterday, but you probably don't remember me. I'm Doctor Bartholomew. If you'll just stay quiet there, I'll come and shake your hand when I'm finished treating your leg."
"Treating?" Matt croaked through a parched dry throat.
"Yes Sir." the doctor answered without looking up from his work.
Blake leaned over the bed. "Hey, Matt. The doctor's cleaning up something on your leg. He'll be done soon."
Matt grunted. "You got any water?"
"Yeah, sure. Right here." Blake held a canteen to Matt's lips, the ideal dispenser for a man who couldn't sit up. "You sound a lot better today, boss."
"It's tomorrow?" Matt swiped the back of his hand over his lips while Blake lowered the canteen.
Blake grinned. "Well, it's today for me but yeah, I guess it sure enough is tomorrow for you."
"What're you doing here, Blake? You should be halfway to Dodge by now."
"Not a chance, Matt. I'm stayin' right here with you."
Finished at the foot of the bed, Dr. Bartholomew appeared in Matt's line of vision. "Good afternoon again, Marshal," he smiled and extended his hand. "Burke Bartholomew. And I agree with Blake, you sound a lot better today."
Matt shook the man's hand indifferently, then took a minute to look around. Nothing looked even remotely familiar. "Where am I?"
"Well," the doctor answered in a soft voice. "You're in a bedroom in my office. Couldn't very well leave you out front, what with patients coming and going. You owe your friend Blake a thanks for staying. It took him and Seth Bullock and two more men to carry you back here last night."
"Blake and Seth could get me to a hotel. I've slung my arms around a couple of fellas' shoulders before."
"No, no hotel right now, Marshal. You won't be standing up for a while. And you have two drains in your leg that I have to look at and change every day so you don't get an infection."
"What's that? Why didn't you just sew me up like Doc always did?"
Bartholomew ignored the question for the moment. "You ready to tell me who this 'Doc' is? Because it's pretty apparent that you're no stranger to bullet wounds."
"Doc. Doctor Galen Adams in Dodge . . ." Matt hesitated for a few seconds. "Well, Doc's retired now. He lives at my place, ten miles outside town. But yeah, he's patched me up for a lotta years. Those scars are all his handiwork."
Bartholomew smiled. "Marshal, a skilled physician leaves a trail of beauty with his needle just like a correctly shod horse leaves a hoofprint of beauty in the dirt. You don't need to say another thing about Galen Adams. He has my respect and my admiration. Sounds like he has yours, as well."
"He's pretty good for an old cow doctor," Matt answered in a low voice, retreating into his own private thoughts.
Bartholomew allowed silence to shroud the room for a minute before he spoke again. "Well, actually that's good news, Marshal. With your own personal physician at home, you'll be out of here in half the time."
Matt took a deep breath. There had to be some way to get through to Bartholomew without revealing the chink in his armor. Sure, he was a marshal, but more than that, he was a man with a wife and three kids at home; a family who'd be worried if they found out he'd been crippled up in some town in Wyoming. He could struggle through a bit of a limp or explain away a bandage when he got home. But he had to get there, and soon.
"What's half the time?"
"If I answer that, you're the kind of man who'd hold me to it."
Never a man to tolerate a chalky answer, Matt bristled. "Blake, maybe you'd better stay a day or two after all till I can get up and hobble to a train. We'll get through this together, son. Wire Frank. Tell him the prison's all buttoned up but we've been detained a couple of days."
"And Kitty?"
Matt put a firm hand on Blake's arm. "I said wire FRANK!"
tbc