CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
First Lieutenant Owen Wallace of K Company, 8th Cavalry lowered his field glasses, then said to the officer beside him, “They’re white people, not Apaches. I see a woman with yellow hair, the others lying on the ground I can’t make out.” He shook his head. “They may be dead.”
“The work of the hostiles sir?” Second Lieutenant John Anderson said.
“Maybe. They could’ve been caught out in the open,” Wallace said. He raised his glasses and again scanned the surrounding terrain. “But I see no sign of Apaches.” Then, “Give Captain Watts my compliments and ask him to join me at the head of the column.”
Gray-haired army surgeon Captain Steven Watts drew rein alongside his commander and said, “Trouble?”
“I don’t know yet,” Wallace said. “Come with me, doctor. You too, Mister Anderson.”
The three soldiers cantered toward Jenny and the others, and the girl watched them come. This was her third day on the trail, and she was exhausted. The Kiowa seemed strong enough, but Dan Caine was drifting in and out of consciousness, and his breathing was labored.
The officers dismounted and Jenny said in a rush, “They’ve both been shot. But Deputy Sheriff Caine is very ill. He still has a pistol bullet in his side.”
Wallace gestured to the doctor, and Watts immediately took a knee beside Dan.
“Apaches?” the lieutenant said.
“No,” Jenny said. “An outlaw.” She didn’t feel the need to explain further.
Watts sniffed Dan’s wound and said, “There’s no gangrene. But I have to operate on this man as soon as possible. The pistol ball has to be removed.”
“Will he . . . Doctor, will he be all right?” Jenny said.
“It’s too early to tell,” Watts said. “I won’t know the prognosis until I operate.”
“How long will that take, Doctor?” Wallace said.
“The bullet is deep,” Watts said. He shook his head. “I can’t say. And the other man needs treatment.”
First Lieutenant Wallace looked hard at the Kiowa and said, “Apache?”
“No, Kiowa. And I was once an army scout.”
The officer took a moment to think that through, decided the Kiowa was an unnecessary complication best ignored and said, “Doctor, my orders are to press the hostiles closely. Take what you need from the supply wagon and catch up as soon as you can.” He read the question on Watts’s face and said, “Yes, and you can have your assistant.”
“Private Evans is a good man,” Watts said. “He’ll make a fine physician one day.”
“Yes, I’m sure he will,” Wallace said. “Pity he’ll never make a fine soldier one day.”
* * *
Before First Lieutenant Wallace and his sixty troopers and two Navajo scouts left in pursuit of the handful of lobo Apaches that had so far eluded death or capture, he unloaded Watts’s medical supplies from the wagon. He also provided a small tent, to be discarded after use, blankets, a bundle of firewood, taken from a supply packed under the wagon, a loaf of sourdough bread, bacon and coffee, and, vitally, an oil lamp.
Captain Watts and his assistant Private John Evans, an earnest young man whose brown eyes blinked constantly from behind his round glasses like an intelligent owl, wasted no time in getting Dan Caine ready for surgery. The tent was erected, a blanket spread inside as a makeshift operating table, and the oil lamp was lit.
Earlier, Watts had examined the Kiowa’s wound and again detected no gangrene.
“Through and through wounds are less of an infection risk and he’s not losing blood,” Watts told Jenny. “He can wait for a while yet.” The doctor glanced at a scarlet sky bannered by ribbons of gold and purple, and said, “It will be dark soon. I’d better get started.”
“I’ll pray for him, Doctor,” Jenny said.
“That can’t hurt. And while you’re at it, say one for yourself, young lady,” Watts said. “If I was your doctor, I’d recommend a week’s bed rest and plenty of beef tea.”
“I’ll sleep after I know Dan Caine is recovering,” Jenny said.
Captain Watts patted her on the cheek. “Good girl,” he said.
When the doctor and his assistant went into the tent, Private Evans carrying the oil lamp with its halo of yellowish light, the Kiowa immediately kneeled and turned his copper face to the copper sky. He chanted softly, repetitive incantations that Jenny realized were prayers to his god.
* * *
Only thirty minutes passed before Watts ducked out from under the tent opening, wiping bloody hands on a white towel. Jenny considered it a good omen. Didn’t surgeries take hours and hours?
The captain saw the girl’s concerned face and said, “He’s still under from the ether, and he’ll sleep for a while. I found the bullet quite easily since it didn’t lodge in any major organs.”
Jenny said, “Will he be . . . well again?”
“Mr. Caine is young and strong, and I’m sure he’ll recover nicely,” Watts said.
“And the captain is a fine surgeon,” Private Evans said.
“Thank you, Evans,” Watts said. “I blush at your completely unbiased opinion.”
He held up a bullet. “Forty-five caliber. Mr. Caine may wish to keep it, have it bronzed perhaps. It came within an inch of killing him.” He handed the bullet to Jenny, a bloody cloth to Evans, and said, “After you clean up, Private Evans, perhaps you’ll start a fire and fix us a supper of the army’s excellent bacon and moldy biscuit. In the meantime, I’ll see to the Indian’s shoulder.”
“I’ll cook supper,” Jenny said. “I need something to occupy my mind.”