Chapter 14 #3
The brief touch grounded him effectively.
He trailed her into the surgery and waited by the door. Doc Burnett lifted his head and acknowledged his presence with a nod.
Caleb had seen the inside of this room more than he cared to. Immediately, the coppery smell of blood nearly overpowered the bitter odor of the liquids Doc used to clean wounds.
Bright light was streaming in the windows, illuminating the space that was used as a surgery and for consulting with patients.
Doc had a cluttered desk by a bookshelf and a gun rack with two rifles on one side.
Near it a worktable had been cleared, and Bass Dart was lying on it.
Closer to the door, several tall cabinets stood open, displaying medical instruments and supplies.
A bed extended from a nearby wall, and in the center was a high table Doc usually used for operating.
Tex Washington lay on that table. He had a boyish face that was twisted with pain.
He was agitated—half asleep, half awake—his arms jerking about with sudden spasms that ran through his entire body.
Doc and Sheila had removed his leather chaps and cut away his boot and his pant leg to get to the wound, and the lower leg was now covered with a linen cloth from the knee to the ankle.
Duke was standing beside the table, leaning over him and talking calmly.
Doc, carrying a bottle of something, crossed the room to Bass Dart. He had a scalpel and other instruments in a shallow pan that he handed to Sheila, who stood beside him at the worktable, assisting him.
Father and daughter moved with practiced efficiency. One anticipated what the other needed before a word was spoken.
Watching them, Caleb understood why people rode for days to reach this house.
A moment later, restrained grunts of pain told Caleb that Doc was digging the bullet out of Bass’s arm. The cowboy was a tough one. That was for sure.
It took a good fifteen minutes after two pieces of lead dropped into the pan before Doc was satisfied with his work, and another ten for him to stitch and bandage the wound. After helping Bass sit up, he put the arm in a sling and then washed his hands.
“So what do you think, Doc?” Ortiz asked, gesturing to both of his men.
“Bass looks good. He’s fortunate that wound didn’t fester. It’s surprising, really, but we’ll take all the good luck we can get.” He glanced at the bandaged arm. “If all goes well and he doesn’t use it for a week or so, he should heal up nicely.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Bass told him, glancing at Caleb with a weak grin. “Told you it weren’t nothing.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Doc said sternly.
“How about Tex?” Duke asked.
Doc frowned. “Not quite the same answer, I’m afraid. You can see he’s burning up with fever. That’s a bad sign. That alone might kill him. It’s hard to tell. What we need to do is keep him on that table and immobile for now. The extra laudanum I gave him should settle him soon.”
“What about his leg? Can you fix it?”
Before he could respond, the young cowboy’s eyes fluttered open. “Duke…Duke…are ya…?” He was reaching out, and Ortiz took his hand.
“It’s okay, Tex. I’m here, hijo.”
The patient closed his eyes.
“Can you save it?” Duke asked again quietly, not lifting his gaze from the young man.
“I did what I could to see if it was possible to piece it together. The bullet sheared off the fibula and shattered the tibia.”
Caleb’s eyes moved to the wounded limb. The foot extended from the linen covering, kept upright by two rolls of cloth on either side. At least, it was still attached.
Doc was looking at him from across the room. The quick shake of his head was meant only for Caleb. It conveyed volumes.
“Tell me what that means,” Duke said grimly.
“I have to take it off at the knee. And even at that, there’s no telling if Tex will survive. But he’ll die for sure if I don’t amputate now.”
Certainly, his friend had done everything in his power for the young man. But that only meant that the choice now lay between saving the life or losing the leg.
Ortiz looked away at the window, his face clenched tightly. Finally, he took a breath and nodded.
Caleb recalled Duke saying that Tex was twelve years old when he took him in. Twelve. Paddy’s age.
Too young to be talking about amputations and death. Too young to have already spent years riding herd across half the continent.
Doc told Bass to go out and wait in the kitchen. Sheila helped her father gather what he’d need for the operation.
Caleb steeled himself for what lay ahead.
Tex’s eyes were open but unfocused. “Where are you, Duke?”
“Right here,” Ortiz answered. “I’m right here.”
Two callused hands—one old, one young—held tight to each other.
“I’m scared, Duke. Where are you?”
“I’m right here with you. You’ll be fine, son.”
Caleb looked away. The bond between them was plain to see. Not by blood. Not by law. Simply by years of loyalty and care. It reminded him of something he'd been thinking about more and more lately.
Family wasn’t always decided by the one you were born into.