Her Healing Ways (17 page)

“That's good enough for me.” Ellen unbuttoned her starched white cuff and rolled up her left sleeve. “I'm ready.”

Mercy smiled and began the process of pricking Ellen's arms and introducing the vaccine solution. Maybe Mercy should seek Lon out later and help him see that she was right, that they had to stay and fight—

The double doors of the church flapped open. Ma Bailey hurried inside, shutting the doors against
the stiff November wind. “Sorry I'm late!” she exclaimed, sounding breathless and hurrying down the aisle. “I want to see this.” She halted and stared at Mercy and Ellen. “I don't see how sticking a needle over and over into Ellen Dunfield's arm is going to keep her from getting smallpox.”

Mercy didn't turn. “I have explained it—”

“Did you know that the gambler just left town on a supply wagon heading for Boise?” Ma gazed at Mercy with avid interest.

Mercy's breath caught in her throat. Despair and shock washed over her in debilitating waves. Nonetheless, her training stood up to the challenge; her hands didn't falter in their work. She went on pricking Ellen's skin and infusing the vaccine.

It was good that her hands knew their work because her mind had whirled away from her, her stomach churning with acid. Lon Mackey had gone to Boise. And without a word of farewell to her. What had she done? And would she ever see him again?

 

When Lon climbed down from the supply wagon's bench near dark, he was chilled to the marrow and stiff. He needed to buy a warmer hat and some gloves. Still aching from the hard bench, he limped slightly, heading toward the brightly lit saloon. His spirits limped along, too. He'd left Mercy behind. He'd finally decided that the only way to make her see sense was to leave. But how long would it take for her to come to her senses and follow him here? He
didn't like to think of her facing Indigo's trial alone, but that might force her to leave Idaho Bend.

Putting this from his mind, he kept walking. He'd warm up in the nearest saloon and see if they had a gambler already. He needed to get started making money again. He walked into a large saloon, saw the stove against the back wall and walked straight to it. He stood with his back to it, letting the fire warm him as he viewed the gathering of men.

He observed that a professional gambler was already plying his trade. When Lon was completely thawed, he tipped his hat to the gambler and headed outside to find the next saloon. Boise was twice as big as Idaho Bend and had more than twice the saloons.

At the third saloon he visited, he sat down in his favorite spot in the middle of the room, but near the back wall with his face toward the door. He took off his heavy wool coat and began to shuffle the cards. He suppressed the feeling that he didn't really want to be here doing this.

When Mercy came to her senses and was forced to leave Idaho, he'd keep his promise and find a more genteel way to make a living. Through the yellow cigar smoke, two well-dressed men and a man who obviously worked with his hands sat down at his table. Lon grinned. He broke the seal on a new deck of cards, shuffled them and asked the first man who'd sat down to cut the deck. Then he dealt the first hand,
the cards slipping, whispering expertly through his palms.

Yet something strange was happening. Lon had the oddest sensation, as if he were outside his body watching himself, as if he were acting a part in a play. It was as if he'd split himself in two and only one part was aware of this. He shook off the odd impression. Leaving Mercy behind so she would wake up and realize that he was right must be causing havoc with his mind.

He'd left her a letter, which he'd read and reread so many times he'd memorized it.

Now he forced himself to think only of the cards and the faces of the players sitting across from him.

In the middle of the third game of the night, Lon heard the swinging doors open and looked up. Lightning flashed, sizzling through him. He almost
leaped to his feet. His heart thudded in his chest. But he retained enough sense to make no outward sign that the man now standing in the doorway was the very man who had stabbed him. Lon held this all inside as the game proceeded. How should he handle this? Why wasn't the sheriff around when he was needed?

 

At the end of another hand, Lon saw his quarry turn to leave. That decided him. He leaped to his feet. “Stop that man!” he shouted. “He's a wanted man!” His shouts stirred up confusion. The men in the saloon looked around, exclaiming, questioning.

Lon shoved his way through the crowd in time to see the small mustachioed man hurrying out the doors. Lon burst through after him, drawing his pistol from his vest pocket. “Halt! Or I'll shoot!”

S
till grieving Lon's desertion, Mercy froze in her tracks on Main Street. Four men had ridden into town—one was the unwelcome doctor and the other three were strangers, but they all wore black suits and tall stovepipe hats, the sign of professional men. The judge perhaps? Another deputy? A lawyer? She could practically feel her stomach sliding down toward her toes.

Digger had said the territorial circuit court judge wasn't due until next week.
I might be jumping to conclusions.
Mercy's beleaguered mind slipped away from Main Street.
Lon, I want you here. Why did you leave me?
The raw ache over Lon's leaving Idaho Bend throbbed throughout her whole being, physical and emotional. Her spirit whispered,
Isn't God sufficient for thee?

“You think that's the judge?”

Mercy jerked and turned to Ma Bailey who had appeared at her elbow.

“I don't know.” The four men tied up their horses and stopped at the door of the new hotel that had opened last week. The doctor was now pointing her out to the other three and sneering.

As Mercy grappled with what this might mean, she didn't relish the prospect of a conversation with this intrusive woman. Yet she smiled politely, if not sincerely. “Is thee enjoying having thy daughter and son-in-law with thee?”

“Yes,” Ma said in a sad voice, twisting the apron she wore over her faded brown dress and shawl. “But my son-in-law says he won't have no woman doctor tend his wife when her time comes. I told him you're a good doc, but he forbid it.”

Irritation crackled through Mercy. For a moment the urge to snap at the woman nearly overwhelmed her better sense. Then she looked into the older woman's deep brown eyes, now filling with tears.

As always, Ma had said exactly what she meant to say without much consideration of another's feelings. Sometimes that was good and sometimes that was bad. But a person always knew where she stood with Ma.

Now Mercy read in Ma's tear-filled eyes worry for her daughter's safety. This son-in-law's verdict against Mercy was an untimely and unnecessary reminder of how the world at large judged her. It
nearly triggered her own tears. She inhaled sharply. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Maybe he'll change his mind,” Ma offered, the lines in her face trembling as she fought against weeping.

Her words echoed in Mercy's mind and shifted her thoughts to Lon. The thought didn't ease the pain of Lon's desertion, but it did put it into perspective. Lon was a man and he'd made a mistake. But if he wanted to turn back, he could change his mind.

“Maybe.” Mercy put an arm around Ma's shoulders, offering sympathy. “Maybe he will.”

Ma lifted the hem of her apron and wiped her eyes, whispering, “I don't want anything to happen to my girl.”

Mercy stood there, comforting this rough woman who had a good heart buried deep inside her crusty exterior and nosy ways. Resting her head heavily on Mercy's shoulder, Ma wept without making a sound.

Mercy thought of her own daughter. Should she follow Lon's advice? Was she wrong to hold Indigo up to public scrutiny, and perhaps ridicule and humiliation?
Should I have gone with him?

Usually when Mercy asked one of these deep questions, an unmistakable leading—usually a strong feeling—came to her, revealing a clear answer or direction. How often had she heard her mother or father say, when faced with a difficult decision, “Way will open”? That meant that if God wanted them to
take action, He would prepare the way, show them the way.

Here and now, Mercy only felt dry and empty—bereft. She wanted to go home and pick up her knitting and never leave her snug cabin again. She gazed up into the slate-gray sky.

No, I can't give in to that gloom again. Lon is still running from himself. I can't. I won't run from this challenge. No more hiding.

“I'm sorry he thinks that way,” Ma murmured, pulling away.

Mercy forced a grin. “I am, too, but I will not despair. Thy son-in-law is new in town. We will hope that as he gets to know people he will accept me as a doctor.”

“You're always nice to me.”

Ma said the words like a little girl. They stung Mercy's conscience like darts. How often when she was near Ma had she spoken kindly but inwardly let annoyance consume her?

“Thee has a good heart, Ma Bailey. Thee showed that when the miners needed help. Thee didn't hesitate to do what thee could for others that night.”

Ma tried to smile, then turned away and hurried toward her house.

It was then that Mercy noticed one of the men who had arrived with Dr. Drinkwater walking across the street toward her. Was he the Boise lawyer she had telegraphed?

Lon, I wish thee had not left me. But I must stay
here and fight for Indigo, fight for myself. Ma Bailey's daughter might need my help and I must stay here for her and the others. Lon, thee must break the bondage of the past completely or there is no future for thee or for us. Father, please, I need Thy “way” to open.

 

Night folded around Lon as he slipped through the moonlit forest higher on the mountain slope. He was still pursuing the man who stabbed him. And to make things even more difficult, he was favoring one ankle. Someone in the crowd outside the saloon had tripped him and he'd fallen, twisting his ankle. He hadn't wasted time finding out if it had been on purpose or not.

The cold December wind shook the dried oak leaves nearby. Though slowed by his injury, Lon had managed to follow the man out of town and far up this slope at a distance. Or had he lost him? Darkness had come much too soon for his liking.

From behind, a blow caught him in the kidneys. Pain. He doubled up, falling to his knees. Another blow struck his right ear. Head ringing, Lon rolled onto his back. He jumped up. The man caught him with an uppercut to the jaw. Lon began throwing punches. The near blackness made it difficult to find his target.

A fist punched him in the jaw again. For a moment, stars of light flashed before his eyes. Then he came fully back to consciousness. He heard the
man running off, stirring the branches of the fir trees and the underbrush.

With the back of his hand, Lon wiped the blood from his split lip and continued his pursuit. He threaded his way between trees. The man must have stopped. Lon paused, straining to hear movement. An owl hooted. Something—a bat?—swooped overhead.

Again, Lon was struck from behind. This time the man missed his kidneys. Lon rode the punch. He turned, and with a fist to the jaw, downed the man. Then, bending over him, Lon planted a powerful punch to the side of his attacker's head.

The man lay, gasping in the faint moonlight. Lon pulled the pistol out from his vest. The man cursed him. “Well, go ahead and shoot, Yankee colonel!”

Lon stood stock-still. He couldn't make out the man's face. “What did you call me?”

“I called you what you are, you Yankee colonel. I seen you.” The man sounded as if he were fighting tears. “I know you. Your regiment killed practically every man in my company that day at Antietam.”

Bloody Antietam. The worst slaughter of all. But Lon couldn't put what the man was saying together. “What has Antietam got to do with your stabbing me in Idaho Bend? You and I played cards together for several nights.”

“I didn't know who you was at first,” the man said, panting. “You just looked familiar somehow. And then that night I recognized you. Something you
said triggered my memory and I seen you again, your sword in the air, leading your men down on us.”

“We were at war,” Lon said, shaking his head as if he weren't hearing right.

“That don't make it right!” The man cursed him.

Lon stared down at the shadowy shape on the ground. “Are you crazy? The war's over.” His words rebounded against him as if an unseen fist had landed a blow to his own head.
The war's over.

“The war will never be over—not in my mind!” the man retorted. His tone was sick, hateful, venomous.

“Four years of war wasn't enough for you?” Lon asked, feeling disoriented and dazed himself. “You didn't get enough of killing and dying in four years?”

“No. Not while Yankees like you live.”

The quick, hot reply shocked Lon. “Why would you want to go on fighting the war?”

“Stop talking. Just shoot me or let me go. I got nothin' more to say to you.”

Lon was at a loss. He couldn't release the man he was sure would try to kill him again—and perhaps others. But it was a long way back to town, and Lon had nothing with which to tie the man's hands. Then it came to him.

“Get up,” he ordered the man. “You're a prisoner of war. Put your hands on your head and keep them there.” Lon waited to see what the man would do.

His prisoner obeyed his orders, just as if they were both in opposing armies and Lon had captured him. Clearly, the war had not ended for this man. It was a startling, stomach-churning realization.

“Go on then,” Lon ordered. “We're heading back to the sheriff. You'll be charged there.”

The man began walking and Lon followed at a safe distance, his pistol poised to fire. He couldn't trust this man, not if he were still trapped in the war.

A cloud covered the sliver of a moon, hiding his prisoner from him. Would he try to get away? No, the man kept moving forward, his elbows out at that awkward angle. Maybe the man was relieved to have been caught. If he was in custody, he wouldn't be compelled to try to get revenge. What a weight he must carry—trying to right all the wrongs of the war. That was worse than death. He pitied the poor wretch.

Still, Lon recalled the excruciating pain he suffered after being stabbed, and the long feverish days and nights. He couldn't let this man go free to do that to some other former soldier.

Lon kept trying to grapple with what it all meant, how it had all happened. The man's words kept echoing in Lon's head.
The war will never be over—not in my mind.

Deeper into the cold-night hours and with his pistol in hand, Lon steered the man into the dimly lit sheriff's office. The sheriff looked up from his
chair, where he had obviously been dozing. “What's this?”

Lon told the man to halt. “This is the man who stabbed me in Idaho Bend.”

The sheriff looked at Lon and then at the man. “You're sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure. Can you arrest him, or do I have to do that, too?” Lon growled, cold and irritated.

Frowning, the sheriff grabbed manacles from a peg on the wall, and with a couple of sharp metallic snaps, secured the man's hands. He motioned for Lon to follow him as he led the man to the cell in the rear of the office. When the prisoner was in the cell, the sheriff slammed the door.

The man glared at the sheriff and Lon. “You a Yankee, too?”

The sheriff gave him an irritated look. “The war's over. If you think you're still fighting it, you're loony.”

Lon followed the sheriff out to the office area again. He shook his head, wincing from the pain caused by the blows he'd taken tonight, and then collapsed into the chair by the desk.

“You're sure this is the man who stabbed you?” the lawman asked again.

“Yes, we played cards several times before he decided to stab me.” Lon had thought that catching the man would have given him more satisfaction. Instead, he was gripped by an odd feeling. Something had happened to him during the exchange with this
Johnny Reb, the label Yankees had for Confederate soldiers. This Reb who had decided to continue the war single-handedly.

Lon said, “I need a place to stay tonight. Which hotel in town is best?”

The sheriff replied with a few short words and Lon rose.

“Is that it?” the sheriff asked.

“What do you mean?” Lon turned, already heading out the door.

“Well, you sounded all fired up about this man when I talked to you in Idaho Bend. Why aren't you…?” The sheriff gave him a sideways glance. “You don't seem mad or excited or anything.”

Lon paused, completely still. He probed his emotions and found no anger, just peace and a deep desire to eat his fill and then fall asleep. “Why should I be? I caught him, and now you've arrested him.” Lon shrugged and headed out the door to find his late supper and a bed.

Outside in the bracing night air, he shivered and began walking fast. As if touching a recently healed wound, he probed his heart and mind once more. He found no pain. Instead, there was something he'd longed for but which had eluded him until now. He felt a deep peace inside. And suddenly he wanted nothing more than to get back to Idaho Bend and share that peace with Mercy.

 

Mercy walked into the saloon, which had been turned into a courtroom. She recalled the night she
had operated on Lon's stab wound, and the nights spent in the back room nursing him. The agitating memories rushed through her like a flight of raucous crows.

He's gone. He left me.
Mercy kept her back straight and her chin level. She would show neither fear nor pain. Was she doing right by fighting? Or was this court case a sign for her to leave Idaho Bend?
My trust is in Thee, Father.

Indigo walked beside her with her head down.

Mercy didn't blame her. It was hard to look into faces that held condemnation or censure. The Civil War had outlawed slavery, but what of the bondage of prejudice? How did one fight that invisible war?

The Boise defense lawyer who had come to town yesterday motioned for Indigo to come with him and for Mercy to sit with the other people who'd come to watch the trial. She made an effort to smile at the bystanders she knew and sat down on the edge of a hard chair.

The judge in his black robe, the prosecuting attorney and Dr. Drinkwater entered the room. The people rose and stood until the judge sat down behind a rough-hewn table and motioned for them to be seated.