Arizona Territory
Jerome
September 1899

Sophie Ryan stopped at the crest of the hill that buffered the town of Jerome and pulled a spyglass from her satchel. Where could he be?

Nothing stood out from the monotonous terrain. Vegetation was sparse, having been largely choked out from the smelter fumes courtesy of the extensive copper mining operations in the area.

She stowed the spyglass, tied her scarf more tightly beneath her chin to ward off the chill in the air, and continued her search. She didn’t slow down when she slipped on loose scree, the urgency of finding the man pressing on her. She worried that he didn’t have much time. She worried that the furious and panicked whispers of conversation she’d overheard between a woman and a man whose voices she hadn’t recognized had been too late for Sophie to help the victim.

But one thing had stood out.

The woman had shot someone, and the frantic conclusion was to leave him in the hills to die.

It was midday in the Black Hills, but billowing clouds cast the day in somber expectation. A lightning bolt flashed in brilliance causing Sophie to jump, and the rolling thunder barreled through her chest. She held onto her hat as the wind blasted her and continued into the ravine. This area was known as the hogback, where a sharp turn in the road led into town, but she’d paid little attention to it when she’d arrived two weeks ago. It was also further from town than she’d remembered, and more rugged.

She hoped she’d overheard the woman correctly.

She should have asked for help except the conversation had filled Sophie with foreboding. The woman—and the man—were criminals. She was sure of it. There’d been mention of the town marshal along with his deputy, as if the perpetrators had known the law would be on their side, so she had to assume the lawmen were corrupt.

Still, she’d stopped at the doctor’s office on her way, prepared to drag him with her, but to her dismay he’d gone north to Flagstaff and wouldn’t return until the following day.

If she didn’t act quickly a man could die.

She was on her own.

She rounded a rocky outcrop and barely caught herself from tumbling over a drop off, grabbing a handhold at the last second. There was no sign of town in the distance; she was well into the wilderness now. If she fell, she, along with the mysterious victim, would likely not be found for days or weeks.

Willing her racing heart to calm, she caught sight of a boot protruding from one of the few bushes present.

She’d found him.

Carefully, she shuffled to his location, not wanting to tumble into the ravine. Thankfully he’d come to rest on a flat spot.

He was unconscious, blood on his left shoulder seeping through his coat.

“Sir! Sir, are you all right?”

She cupped his face, trying to wake him, his dark hair coated with dust. His eyes fluttered open and she recognized him. He was the ornithologist who was in town to study the local birds. Or something like that. Sophie’s boss at the Jerome Mining News, Olivia Bromley, had pointed him out from afar one afternoon, his deliberate demeanor as he walked his horse—the bay’s coat shiny and her hind quarters sleek and strong—down the main street causing Sophie to stare a bit too long. Olivia had suggested perhaps a story on his work, and Sophie had tucked the idea away. But she hadn’t seen him again after that.

Until today.

“You’ve been shot,” she said. “You need to see a doctor, but we need to stanch the blood.”

She removed the scarf from her neck, folded it several times, and tucked it beneath his coat and against the wound, pressing firmly.

He winced.

How would she get him to town? Her horse was about a mile up the hill since it had been too precarious to take the animal any further. She didn’t think she could get the man up the incline. Should she leave him and take the risk of bringing her horse here?

“Can you stand?” she asked.

He groaned but said, “Yes.”

She retrieved his hat from nearby and handed it to him before struggling to get him to his feet, her frame dwarfed by his. Thunder rolled across the sky, the ground trembling beneath her, and rain began to fall in sheets.

“My horse is some distance from here,” she yelled above the din.

“Go down.” He indicated the ravine.

“Is that wise? There could be runoff from the storm.” Flash floods could strike without warning.

“There’s shelter.”

Sophie wanted to argue, but they both needed to conserve their energy, so she guided him downward.

Once they were off the slope, he weakly pointed forward as rain streamed from the brim of her hat. Water had already formed at the lowest depression of the land, and Sophie hesitated.

Then she saw it. A cave. He moved toward it and she had to pick up her step to keep pace. As they neared, wooden beams outlined the entrance. Not a cave, but a mine adit.

Once inside, it was a relief to be out of the relentless downpour. She was surprised to see a pallet, several books strewn about, and a crate with paraphernalia, some of it for cooking.

Was the ornithologist living here?

“These adits can flood,” she said, not bothering to hide the alarm in her voice.

“I know,” he answered. “But so far it’s been dry.”

How long has he been here?

She shed her water-logged hat and helped him remove his wet jacket. He grunted as she helped him to the pallet.

“Do you by chance have medical training?” he asked, grinding the words out.

“Some,” she hedged, not feeling entirely confident about where this was headed. “My mother is a doctor. But I can’t ….”

He sighed. “Excellent.”

“Not excellent. You want me to … extract the bullet? I haven’t any instruments.”

“I do. In the crate. Brown pouch.”

Sophie’s heart pounded. Was he insane? Frantic and shaking, and knowing time was of the essence, she went to the wooden box and found the pouch. She emptied the crate and turned it over, then laid the tools on top. Wanting more mobility, she removed her satchel and duster, then moved the oil lamp from the dirt floor and put it on the crate, lighting it with a lucifer. With the storm raging, visibility in the adit was poor. She would need every bit of help she could get.

“There’s whiskey ….”

A quick scan and she found the bottle nearby.

“I think the bullet is below the clavicle and about two inches deep,” he said.

“Are you a doctor?” She eyed the whiskey, willing her nerves to calm.

“My uncle was.”

She popped the cork on the bottle and took a quick gulp.

“That wasn’t for you,” her patient quipped.

“Just for the jitters,” she replied. “I need to remove your shirt.”

“Cut it off.”

Using shears from the pouch, she cut the shirt down the middle, then snipped further along the left sleeve until the affected area was clear. Blood continued to ooze. She applied pressure again with the now soaked scarf.

“Can you hold this?” she asked.

He brought his hand to hers and she guided it to where it was needed. With a deep breath, she examined the tools. Everything looked to be here. She placed her canteen of water nearby.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked.

His eyes met hers. “It’ll be all right. Clean the wound with the whiskey.”

She nodded as he removed the scarf. She poured the liquid, and he jerked and hissed, then closed his eyes.

She shut her eyes as well. He was going to hate the next step.

She removed the glass cover of the oil lamp, her hands still trembling, and ran the ends of the forceps through the flame. He turned away from her, the veins in his neck bulging, clearly girding himself for what was to come. She sopped away the blood to see the entry point as clearly as she could.

Just do it.

She dug the pincers into the wound and the guttural scream he released shook her clear to her toes, but she stayed the course, grunting as she pressed his opposite shoulder down to keep him still and holding his torso down with her knee. If she lollygagged, it would be only more painful if she had to do this again and again.

She moved the forceps in incremental motions and quickly located the bullet, but each time she tried to grasp it, the tips slipped.

Just do it.

She pushed deeper and clasped the bullet firmly. In one swift motion, she pulled it free of his flesh. His low scream drowned out the cacophony from the unrelenting rain, dampening her elation. She brought the scarf back to the wound to stanch the new blood spilling out.

With great focus, she threaded the needle and put the tip into the lamp flame, trying to ignore the man’s rapid breathing, a clear indication of his pain.

She nudged him with the whiskey bottle. He opened his eyes, looking dazed.

“Drink,” she said.

His right hand shook so she held the bottle steady as he took several gulps, her own trembling having lessened. He laid his head back, and she went to work stitching the wound. When it was done, she rinsed the area with whiskey again, and with a corner of the scarf that was less drenched she cleaned the blood and wetness away.

He stared upward, his gaze glassy and his bare chest heaving.

“Thank you,” he said.

Sophie placed the needle on the crate. Her hands were covered in blood. His blood. Despite the chilly air, she was drenched in sweat and took a swipe at her forehead with the sleeve of her day dress, avoiding her reddened hands.

“You’re welcome.” Now that the panic in her bones was receding, she felt weak and tired. She sat back on her rump, completely dazed by the day’s events.

He held up his right hand, as bloodied as hers so she clasped it.

“I’m Ben.”

“Sophie.”

Copyright © 2024 K. McCaffrey LLC