Regan didn’t need light to see Spring’s smile.
The stench of rotting flesh hit Colt the moment he entered the Meachems’ small cabin. Having encountered the smell of gangrene while training at the Freedmen’s Hospital in Washington, it was something he’d never forgot. “Where is she?”
“This way.”
The Meachems were among the poorest in the area. They farmed, but not very successfully. Addy’s husband, Wayne, clerked at Miller’s store, and she swept floors for any business that would hire her.
Addy led him into the tiny windowless bedroom where the stench was thick as smoke. Her four-year-old daughter was lying on a thin pallet against the wall. Near her stood the tall gangly Wayne, and his parents, Fred and Mirabelle. The entire clan had come to Wyoming three years ago. Wayne offered a terse nod of greeting but Colt noted the hostility in the faces of his parents.
Mirabelle snapped at Addy, “Is that where you rode off to? I told you Betsy doesn’t need a doctor!”
Wayne said, “Yes, she does!”
His father countered, “He ain’t touching that child.”
Colt knew bigotry when he saw it and the father’s blazing eyes were clear. He ignored it and turned his attention to young Betsy lying deathly still beneath a thin tarp. According to Addy on the ride over, she’d pulled a pot of boiling water down on herself from the stove and her legs and feet were scalded.
Colt moved closer to the pallet only to have Wayne’s ancient father step in his path.
Addy screamed through tears, “Get out of the way, old man!”
Mirabelle declared, “She’ll be fine. We don’t need him.”
Wayne warned, “Step out of the way, Pa!”
Probably due to all the shouting, Betsy’s eyes sluggishly opened for a moment then drifted closed again. Wayne stepped between Colt and his father and glared at the older man until he relented and moved aside. Colt knelt beside the pallet. He hesitantly lifted the tarp and the sight and stink of the rotted black flesh roiled his stomach so badly he had to draw in deep breaths to keep from losing his dinner. Gangrene covered the girl’s thin legs from toes to knees. “Bring me a lamp.”
“No oil,” Addy whispered.
His lips tightened. Truthfully, he didn’t need additional light to know that the child was at death’s door. He placed a hand on her forehead. She was hot as a stove. He removed his stethoscope from his bag and pressed the cup against her chest. Her breathing was shallow and faint, but her heart was racing like the engine of a runaway train. After putting the scope back into the bag, he silently surveyed the adults: the distraught Addy, the teary-eyed Wayne, the anger on the faces of his parents. “Why’d you wait so long to let me know she’d been burned?” he asked quietly. Addy said the incident had happened ten days ago.
Mirabelle sneered. “Because any fool knows how to treat a scalding. If I keep putting potato shavings and yeast on her legs for a couple more days, she’ll be good as new.”
Rage filled Colt. It was not the first time he’d encountered folk remedies that did more harm than good. Had he been summoned the day she was burned, more than likely Betsy would already be good as new. Instead... he stood. The weight of what he had to tell her parents felt like a ton of boulders crushing his chest. “Addy and Wayne, I need to speak with you outside.”
Addy began to sob audibly, and even in the shadows, the plea in her eyes was plain. “Please, Dr. Lee, do something! I don’t want to bury my baby. Please!”
Wayne draped his arm across her shoulders, hugged her close, and kissed her forehead. “Come on,” he told her, voice thick with tears. “Let’s go outside.”
Mirabelle and Fred stood silent.
Colt rode home with Addy’s screams of “No!” puncturing his heart. There was nothing a doctor could do to save Betsy’s life short of amputation, and even if her parents had the funds to make the trip to Cheyenne to find a surgeon, she wasn’t strong enough to survive the journey. He was left sad and angry. Sad because a child would be buried soon, and angry because bigotry and ignorance were contributing factors. Addy’s screams of pain would resonate inside himself for a long time.
Finally home, he unsaddled his horse, bedded him down in the barn, and walked slowly to the house. The light shining from the parlor was like a small beacon and he silently thanked Regan for its glow. He assumed she and Anna were asleep but when he entered, she was seated at the dining room table writing.
She looked up. “How’s the child?”
He shook his head, set his bag on the table, and sat.
His pain must’ve been visible because she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” He told her about the scalding. “Had I known earlier, they wouldn’t be planning her funeral. Her grandmother treated the burns with potato shavings and yeast.”
“I’ve never heard of that. It doesn’t work, does it?”
“No, and neither does flour or bandages soaked in turpentine or any of the other concoctions people sometimes swear by. They usually do more harm than good. Some are comical though. I once had a man come to my office wearing a pair of his wife’s underpants around his neck.”
“What on earth for?”