Chapter 23
The Telegram
Mason Fitch lay on a table in the cook shanty, a thick, pine splinter protruding from both sides of his left thigh. Once again the head cook was drafted to patch up a lumberjack after a logging accident. Interrupted while butchering a hog, this amateur doctor wiped his hands on his apron before sliding his butcher knife up Mason’s pant leg, slitting it to the crotch. He cut through the man’s long johns, wet with melted snow and blood, and pulled back the layers of wool.
“Best loosen that tourniquet for a minute, Henry,” he said.
“Don’t take my leg, Sourdough,” begged the pale, weak lumberjack.
Sourdough peered at him over his round, wire-rimmed glasses.
“Don’t you worry now, Mason. Your leg will be good as new in no time at all.” He stepped away for a moment, returning with a quart bottle of yellow liquid and a tin cup. He filled the cup and, with help from the others, pulled the wounded workman up to a half-sitting position. “Drink this.”
Mason Fitch obeyed, choking down the medicine. “Dear God, Sourdough! You tryin’ to poison me? What in tarnation was that?”
“Lemon extract,” replied the cook, pouring another half-cup. “Here you go, Fitch. Have another.”
Mason choked down the second drink. “Why you fillin’ me with lemons, Sourdough? Ain’t I suffered enough?”
“Stop your complainin’, Fitch. There’s more spirits than lemons in this stuff. Most bark eaters in camp would give a half-day’s pay for a pull on this bottle. Stronger than that rotgut whisky they serve in town, Mason. I confess that I take a nip myself now and then—just to clear my sinuses, you understand.”
After a third drink, the men helped Mason lay down again.
“Henry, Will, Tor, hold him tight now. Mason, we’re gonna pull out that splinter. It’s bound to hurt some so bite down on this rag,” he said, plugging a dishrag in the man’s mouth. “Now grab the edges of the table and hold on, Son.”
Mason did. With a quick jerk, the head cook yanked out the long, blood-soaked, pine splinter. Mason bit down hard and didn’t utter a sound.
“Good, good,” said Sourdough. “Henry, grab that empty sauce pan off the counter and fill ’er up with snow. Tor, hand me my sewing kit—that green box on the shelf over the sink.” Henry and Tor complied. Sourdough took a handful of snow, packed it into a ball and placed it on the open wound.
“Henry, you hold this tight for a minute. Push hard,” he ordered. The amateur doctor then pawed through the green box until he found a large, curved sewing needle. He pulled three feet of cotton thread from a spool and snipped it off with a small scissors. Tipping his head back and squinting through his glasses, he threaded the needle. The backwoods doctor removed the bloodied snow, pitching it across the room, straight into his slop bucket.
“All right, Fitch,” said Sourdough. “I’m gonna stitch up this side, first. Might pinch a bit.” He poked the needle through Mason’s chilled hide. The others watched as the camp cook sewed the wound closed, tying each stitch securely. Mason grimaced with each push and pull on the needle.
“Thirteen stitches, Mason,” said Tor. “Not so lucky.”
“Lucky?” said Sourdough. “I’ll tell you about luck. Mason, if you had been standin’ a bit to the left, you’d be singin’ in the Vienna Boys Choir. That’s how lucky you are, pal.” Then, to his assistants, “All right, turn him face down so we can stitch up the other side.”
With help from his co-workers, Mason Fitch rolled over clumsily with a grin on his face now. “I think the lemons are wearin’ off, Sourdough. How about another swig?”
“Nope. No more for you. Your damage ain’t bad enough to warrant me givin’ up any more of my bottled goods. Next time you taste my lemon extract will be in one of my Christmas pies.”
“Don’t make my leg look too ugly, Doc.”
“I’ll make it look so dang pretty that every dance hall queen in Cable will pay a dollar just to steal a look at my fancy needlework. You’ll make more a night than they do.”