Margaret Brownley (28 page)

“Hurt? How?”

“Some of the boys are afraid that the Chinese will be running the town before long.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Libby protested. “They’re not interested in running the town. They only want to have a say. What’s so wrong with that?”

“It’s against the law for the Chinese ta stake a claim. Up ‘til now, we looked the other way. We thought there was enough gold for everyone.”

“Isn’t there?’

“Ah don’t know if there is or not. But now that the boys know how many Chinese are in the area, they decided it’s time to enforce the law.”

“So the Chinese can’t mine for gold?”

“That’s right, Libby. The problem is Macao and his men have decided to retaliate by picking up gold at night. Now that the waters are receding, nuggets can be found along the river banks.”

Libby gave a satisfied nod. “Well, it serves the miners right.” She studied McGuire’s face, sensing there was more. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

He rubbed his chin and said nothing.

“Duncan McGuire, I insist!”  Some of the other miners in the shop turned to look and she lowered her voice. “I insist that you tell me everything.”

“Very well.” McGuire waited until the other customers had turned back to what they were doing. “Benjamin Jacobs took it upon himself to post shotgun guards along the riverbanks at night. The guards have orders to fire at anyone seen picking up nuggets.”

Libby felt sick. During the last few weeks, she’d come to care for these miners and it had been easy to discount the town’s earlier reputation for lawlessness. The weather had kept the men from mining their claims. The lust for gold had lain as dormant as the snow-covered ground. She knew this, of course, knew that once the men could return to the diggings, greed would once again become the ruling force. She supposed it was inevitable that hate and prejudice would also rear their ugly heads.

McGuire looked so concerned she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He had only her best interests at heart. “I’m much obliged to you, Duncan, for being honest with me.”

“It’s only right that ya know the danger.”

“Macao is my friend,” she said simply. “Nothing is going to change that.”

*****

One night after hearing what sounded like gunfire in the distance, Libby crept out of bed and lifted a window, hoping to prove she was mistaken. Shivering against the cold night air, she stuck her head outside. A line of bobbing Chinese lanterns traveled along the crest of a distant hill. This time, there was no mistaking the sound of gunfire.

The following morning she cornered Logan just as he was saddling his horse. “Logan, I couldn’t sleep last night for the shooting in the hills.”

With a grim nod of his head, Logan reached beneath the saddle flap to tighten the girth. Judging by the shadows beneath his eyes, he, too, had lost his share of sleep in recent nights.

“Can’t you do something about the situation?” she pleaded. “Someone is going to be hurt.”

Logan’s jaw tightened. “There’s nothing I can do. They’re only following the law.”

“What kind of law allows for a man to be shot down for doing nothing more than pocketing a few nuggets?”

“I can’t change how things are, Libby. If I could I would, don’t you know that?”

Suddenly they weren’t talking about unfair laws; they were talking about the two of them. Unable to think of a suitable reply, Libby watched in silence as he mounted his horse and rode away.

*****

That night Libby was awakened by a loud knocking. She threw a shawl over her nightgown and hurried to the door. “Who is it?” she called out.

“It’s Macao.”

She fumbled with the bolt and threw open the door. “I’ve been shot,” he said hoarsely. “My shoulder…”

“Oh, no!” she gasped. “Quick, inside!” She slammed the door shut and led him through the dark room to the couch. She lit a lantern and set it on a nearby table.

She was shocked by how he looked. His face was pale, almost waxen in appearance, and one of his sleeves was soaked in blood. She quickly reached in her sewing basket for her gold scissors. After cutting the red-stained tunic away from his shoulder, she examined his wound. “The bullet’s going to have to come out.”

Macao nodded ever so slightly, but said nothing.

Forcing herself to remain calm she sized up the situation. The bullet appeared to be deep, which meant it would require an experienced hand. Logan was the only man qualified to perform such a task.

“Stay here,” she whispered. “I’m going for help.”

“No!” He reached for her arm, but he was too weak to hold on for long. “Don’t know…who to trust.”

She squeezed his cold hand and felt it tremble in the curve of her fingers. “I can trust Logan.” She spoke with total conviction. “And so can you.”

His head rolled back and he looked like he was having trouble focusing. “Do what you must, Missee Libby.” With a dull thud his head fell back against the couch.

She pressed a clean flour sack against his wound. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She opened the door and held her breath as she monitored the sounds of the night. Except for the squeaky strains of a fiddle, the night was quiet.

She ran down the steps and across the road to Logan’s cabin. She banged on the door with both fists. “Hurry,” she whispered. She only hoped he was home. To her relief, the door swung open. She was so glad to see him, she could barely talk.

“I need your help!”

Logan looked startled. “Is something wrong with Noel?”

“No,” she whispered urgently, “it’s Macao. He’s been shot.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Not wanting to leave Macao alone a moment longer than necessary, Libby raced back to her cabin, leaving the door ajar. The Chinese man failed to stir when she moved the blood-soaked cloth from his wound.

Logan walked in moments later and with practiced fingers felt Macao’s pulse. Libby found his commanding presence comforting. Right now she needed someone strong. He straightened and drew his knife from its sheath.

“Run the blade through the fire.”

Grateful for something to do, she took the knife from him and dropped to her knees in front of the fireplace. She ran the blade through the flames as she’d watched Logan do in the past. Behind her, Logan lifted the slightly built man onto the table.

Logan held the lantern high as he leaned over Macao’s motionless body. “The bullet is deep. It may have damaged a nerve. We need alcohol.”

Libby handed him the knife and reached in a cupboard for a bottle of medicinal alcohol.

“We need clean cloths and you’d better bring a blanket. He’s going into shock.” As an afterthought added, “We also need pincers.”

Libby raced around the room gathering up the things he asked for. In her haste, she accidentally knocked over the little dream keeper that Macao had given Noel, and it fell to the floor with a clunk next to Logan’s buckskin pouch. Fearful that this was a bad omen, she quickly scooped up the box and placed it on the mantel.

Logan set the lantern down and stretched out his leg.

Libby bit back the urge to ask him about it or to let on that she noticed his discomfort. Instead, she set the supplies on the table and took her place opposite him, all the while praying.

Taking the knife in his hand, he looked across at her “Ready?”

Her heart fluttered nervously. She’d never witnessed surgery, but knowing that Macao’s life hung in the balance she swallowed her fears, lifted her chin, and nodded. “Ready.”

Logan leaned over Macao’s still body and carefully worked the tip of his knife into the wound at his shoulder.

Libby averted her eyes and willed herself to remain strong. Except when he requested more cloths or alcohol, Logan worked in silence. She watched his face, looking for something that would tell her if Macao was going to make it. Logan hadn’t looked so intense since the night she gave birth to Noel. Only then, he looked wild, almost panicked. Tonight, he was in full control; his jaw was clenched in concentration, his brow lined with deep furrows.

At last he dropped his knife into a basin of water and called for the pincers. Their fingers touched lightly as she handed them to him. His eyes met hers and for a moment they shared their unspoken concern for the man who lay between them.

Logan carefully worked the pincers into the wound. Macao lay so still Libby couldn’t tell if he was still alive.

Finally, Logan straightened and held the pincers up, a bloodied bullet caught in the metal grip.

Libby breathed a sigh of relief and grabbed a handful of clean linen, which she carefully pressed against the wound while Logan washed his hands in the basin of water she’d set out for him.

“I’m going to have to sew that up,” he said. “I’ll need a needle and thread.”

She waited for him to take over before rummaging through her sewing supplies.

“Which one will work best?”  She arranged several needles on the edge of the table for him to see.

He chose a fine-pointed bone needle. She handed him flaxen thread, but he decided to use buffalo sinew.

“It’s easier to work with and it’s stronger,” he explained. “I have some back at the cabin. Here, hold on to this.” He indicated the cloth pressed against the wound. She moved to his side and placed her hands according to his instructions.

He checked Macao’s pulse. The face of the unconscious man was pale and clammy to the touch. “He’s breathing steadily.” Logan surprised her by laying his hand against her cool pale cheek.

“Are you all right?” he whispered, his eyes filled with concern.

She bit her lip and nodded, and apparently satisfied, he headed toward the door. “I won’t be long.” As an afterthought, he added, “Don’t let anyone else in.”

Logan returned moments later, bringing with him a leather pouch filled with various supplies. Locating the card wrapped with buffalo sinew, he threaded the bone needle and with nimble fingers quickly sewed up Macao’s wound.

“Where did you learn to do surgery?’ she asked.

“In the wilderness.” He refused the scissors she offered him, preferring to use his knife to cut the thread. “A trapper better know how to take care of himself, otherwise he isn’t going to last long. I know one trapper who was forced to cut off his own leg.”

“How awful,” she said. “Is he all right?”

“Last I heard he was fit as a three-legged table.”

Logan was obviously trying to make her laugh but under the circumstances all she could manage was a thin smile. She replenished the water in the basin with fresh hot water and handed him a bar of lye soap. He carefully scrubbed his hands and his supplies while she wiped away the blood from Macao’s shoulder.

“That’s about all we can do for now. Do you want me to take him back to my cabin?”

“I don’t think we ought to move him,” she said.

Logan checked the patch of matted beaver hair that he used to stop the bleeding. “Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll watch him.”

`“Logan…thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“It could be dangerous, you know; his being here.”

She lifted her chin. “No matter, he must stay.”

*****

Logan insisted upon spending the night and slept on the floor next to Macao. Libby heard him leave just before dawn. Unable to sleep, she dressed and checked on Noel before tiptoeing to Macao’s side. 

He was awake and greeted her in a weak voice. “Mr. St John a good man. And you good woman.  Is it possible that you and he…?”

The ache in Libby’s heart deepened. “My place is in Boston and Logan belongs up north in beaver country.”

Macao looked surprised. “I thought it was only us Chinese who were bound to our birth right.”

“There are some things that can’t be changed,” she said and sighed. “I’ll fix you something to eat. You lost a lot of blood.”

He stayed her with his hand. “No eat. Must leave.”

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere.”

He released her. “I cannot stay here. My presence puts you and your little one in grave danger.”

She shook her head. “The miners would never hurt me or Noel.”

“They would not mean to. But there is much hatred for my countryman. Hatred does strange things to a man’s soul.”

From the next room came Noel’s cry. Libby was torn between trying to persuade Macao to stay and attending to her young son’s needs. “Please, Macao,” she begged, “please stay. After I feed Noel, I’ll fix you tea and biscuits.”

“You are a good friend,” Macao said, his voice almost inaudible. “I shall never be able to repay your kindness.”

“The only thing I want is for you to make a complete recovery.”

Noel’s first tentative cries had now turned into high-pitched wails.

“Go to your son.” When she hesitated, he added, “We will discuss my situation later.”

Taking this to be his promise to stay, she left the wounded man’s side and hurried to Noel’s room. “Good morning, young man.”

At the sound of her voice, Noel stopped crying. She picked him up, holding him close, and was almost overcome with the love she felt for him. “You aren’t going to grow up hating anyone, are you, my dear sweet son? Promise Mama.”