And then, with trembling hands, she began to slice open the inflamed wound on the sole of his foot.
“Aunt Lizabeth!” Katie cried in protest.
“Don’t look, Katie!” Elizabeth demanded firmly. “Don’t look, honey!” There was little blood and much pus. She swallowed convulsively. But it wasn’t the wound that made her ill. It was the lack of tools along with her fear of failure.
There was no pot to boil water with.
No water to boil, even if there had been a pot.
No alcohol to sterilize the wound.
Nothing.
Nothing but the knife in her hands.
Using the best of her skills, she drained the wound, brushing her tears aside when they hindered her vision.
Vaguely she was aware that the Indian had returned. As though he’d anticipated her needs, he set down two canteens full of water beside her, along with a blanket. “Mahpe,” he said, pointing to the canteen. “Mahpe.”
“Water,” Elizabeth returned, her gaze lifting from the canteens.
The Indian nodded, standing. “Wat-er!” he repeated, and then he walked away.
Tears glistened on her pale face as Elizabeth eyed the canteens blankly, noticing finally that one was made of tin covered with water-stained leather. The other was made solely of animal skin, and she determined that it was the Indian’s. With an immediate surge of excitement, she lifted the one made of tin, inspected it quickly, and then, with her heart hammering, she set it whole into the fire, watching eagerly as the leather ignited before her eyes and burned away. The moment she felt it was hot enough, she found a rock and tossed it at the canteen, nudging it back out. And then another, and another, until the canteen was completely out of the fire. Not caring that it charred her dress, she used her hem to protect her fingers as she lifted up the canteen, unscrewed the top, and poured a heated droplet onto the back of her hand. It scalded her, but she merely smiled with relief and shook it away.
Having little time to waste, she rent a strip from Cutter’s shirt and crumpled the cloth, holding it up to the sole of Cutter’s foot as she poured the scalding water over his newly sliced wound, cleansing it thoroughly.
“Does that hurt?” Katie asked as she watched.
Elizabeth nodded, never looking up. She couldn’t bear to look into Katie’s face and see her own fear mirrored there. “I have to hurt him to help him,” she revealed, setting the canteen aside. She rubbed the remaining dirt from the wound with the water-soaked rag, and then again poured over the hot water when she finished.
When every last speck of dirt was removed from the wound, Elizabeth once again lifted the blade over the fire, watching until the metal glowed. She bit down on her bottom lip for strength, and turned to set it against Cutter’s foot. His foot jerked, the motion more reflexive, than from pain, because his eyes remained closed, his face pale.
But there was no help for it. Knowing she had to hurt him to help him, as she’d disclosed to Katie, she set the sizzling blade to the wound once more, sterilizing and cauterizing it with the heat.
Finally, when she’d done all she could do, she dressed the wound, covering Cutter with a blanket. With the Indian’s help, she retrieved Cutter’s bedroll and then set Cutter upon it, tucking the blanket lovingly about him.
Worrying, she placed a trembling hand to his forehead. “He’s raging,” she remarked softly, her voice still shaky with emotion.
“Raging?” Katie asked.
Elizabeth glanced up at Katie, intending to reassure her, but couldn’t. “The fever,” she explained. “I’ve done all I can for him,” she added dismally. “There’s nothing to do now but wait.”
Katie stared, confusion screwing her young features. “You don’t really hate him?” she wanted to know. “You don’t hate my uncle. Do you?”
Dear God, what had she done? The chaos she’d brought to poor Katie’s life—how could she ever forgive herself for it! “No, honey,” Elizabeth cried. “No... I could never hate him.” She stared back, but it wasn’t Katie’s face she saw in that moment... it was Cutter’s.
You did real good back there, Doc,she heard him whisper. She closed her eyes, almost able to feel the warmth of his breath against her ear. “Oh, Cutter,” she sobbed, squeezing her lids tight, blocking out the echo of Cutter’s words. She had done the best she could then, too... and it hadn’t been enough. Black Wolf had died in spite of it.
Dear God, she didn’t know what she would do if Cutter died, as well.
She couldn’t bear it. Hot, silent tears slipped past her lashes.
Did you think I’d won my title by default? her own voice mocked her.
Well? She scorned herself. Hadn’t she, after all?
Chapter Thirty
