Tex Med: A Young Man’S Adventures with the Texas Rangers

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© 2012 by Robert J. Eells. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/01/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8710-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8711-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012920708

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Change is in the Air

Chapter 2

Weekend Adventure

Chapter 3

Family

Chapter 4

Texas or Bust

Chapter 5

Settling In

Chapter 6

The General Store

Chapter 7

The Offer

Chapter 8

The Station

Chapter 9

Ranger Training

Chapter 10

Clinic Training

Chapter 11

Patrolling

Chapter 12

The Ranch

Chapter 13

Visitors

Chapter 14

Rodeo

Chapter 15

Darkness and Light

Chapter 16

The Plan

Chapter 17

The Sermon

Chapter 18

Decision

About the Author

To my wife, Janice, and to our children,

Richard and Anne

Acknowledgments

Thanks to my wife, Janice, who donated the dining room table for much of the writing, allowing me to spread out in all directions. My former secretary, Betty Videto, typed the first draft and caught some of the early mistakes. She was a delight as always. Gwen Hersha deserves special praise for her editing efforts—both corrections and her rewriting suggestions. The latter were almost always accepted and made the final version much more readable. Bethany Anderson—Art major and graduating senior at Spring Arbor University in Michigan—produced the wonderful cover. We met only once, during which time I described what I had in mind. It’s exactly what I wanted. The original is a commissioned work of art and will one day be framed and proudly adorn a wall in my home. Finally, thanks to all my friends who waited for the arrival of the novel. I hope they’re not disappointed.

Picture of two Rangers and a soldier in about 1916. Figure on the right—according to a descendant—is the real man who is the inspiration for the fictional character in this novel. Note that he seems to be reaching for his pistol.

Catherine Street Hospital of the University of Michigan. Built in 1891, it served many types of patients and was one of the training centers for medical students during the first two decades of the twentieth century.

Chapter 1

Change is in the Air

[January 1916]

It was time for a change. And I was finally getting it. After nearly two years in medical school at the University of Michigan, I had become weary of books and exams. Now as I watched my surgery professor wash up with a deliberate scowl on his face and order me to the big sink as well, I felt twinges of excitement. Finally some practical experience!

Dr. Thompson was an excellent surgeon. I had witnessed his skills on several occasions along with other students who packed the gallery circling the operating room. He normally practiced on live patients, but today he was filling in for an absent professor who specialized in autopsies. The unusual scowl was making it clear to me that autopsy was one of his least favorite procedures.

Mr. McFarland, he snapped, just wash and dry your hands. Put on gloves for protection and join me in the dissection room… the man is dead, so our own germs are no longer an issue.

When I entered the room a minute later, I was surprised to see that he had already begun the first incision.

Do you have a strong stomach, Mr. McFarland? he asked with emphasis.

I think so, professor, I responded. I have observed several operations already in my first two years, even a couple by yourself. So far, so good.

Autopsies can be rather unsettling, he continued, for example, this man apparently died painfully from stomach cancer. It may be unpleasant when we get him completely opened up.

Within seconds he had finished the longer abdominal cut, then stunned me by handing the scalpel to me with instructions to finish with the two angled incisions. Little experienced at slicing into anything but dead animals, I hesitated. The hesitation was a big mistake. Any time you’re ready young man, he said with more than a little impatience in his irritated voice.

I made the cuts with a slight tremor in my hand; then dutifully acted when he ordered me to pull back my side of the tissue as he did with his half. Another big mistake: as we exposed the internal organs, the first wave of gases erupted fully into my face. The noxious smell was overwhelming. To say that it was worse than rotten eggs doesn’t begin to do it justice.

I staggered back one step, then two—holding my breath for as long as possible before twisting my head for a brief inhale. It didn’t work, for within seconds subsequent waves enveloped me and permeated the whole room. I reached out to steady myself and support my weakening knees but found nothing solid to grasp. I was standing in the middle of the room just hoping to stay upright. Why had I eaten such a big breakfast? Turning back to the table, I glanced at the cadaver then up to the professor. Was that a look of pity on his face? He was talking. I was fading. I had to focus. Try not to fall on the deceased, Mr. McFarland, I heard him say, as if in an underground tunnel. His voice kept coming. As I predicted, it was cancer. It has spread from his stomach to his upper intestine and into surrounding tissues. But look at this, he calmly noted as he opened the stomach, "Ulcers. Look at all the massive ulcers. I knew there had to be other reasons for the man’s acute suffering. Probably responsible for the odor, don’t you think?" I could only nod my head up and down. Speaking would have forced more breathing, and that’s what I was trying to avoid.

Somehow I managed to stay vertical during the remaining minutes of the autopsy—and thankfully, Dr. Thompson was only interested in confirming his suspicions about the cause of death; he began to gather the necessary tools to close up and get out of there. But when he spoke next I realized it wasn’t over yet.

Have you ever done suturing? he asked innocently.

Not much, I fearfully answered in a whisper. Mostly cats."

On a person or cadaver, I mean?

No, I sighed. My fate was obvious. Here’s more of that practical experience I had craved just a short time earlier.

This will be a good exercise for you then, he said as he ripped off his gloves and headed for the exit. Don’t worry about being perfect; only the mortician will see your efforts.

I took him at his word and most likely broke the world’s record for cadaver closing. It didn’t matter to me what it looked like or the appraisal of any mortician—I needed fresh air. And fresh air for the upcoming summer would be even better, I thought.

The autopsy with Dr. Thompson wasn’t the only disappointment in medical school three semesters in. It wasn’t that I had wavered in my desire to be a doctor—after all my grade point average stood at a solid B plus. It wasn’t even the pressure I felt from my family—especially from my father who had served as a medic in the Spanish-American War in 1898. As strange as it sounds he had fallen in love with that messy duty and regretted that he hadn’t been able to pursue a medical career. He was married and had a family to care for, and I knew he was inwardly hoping I’d fulfill his dreams of practicing medicine. But honestly, that wasn’t the real reason for disappointment. There were other things wearing on me.

Since high school medicine had been my calling. I felt drawn by God to become a physician. I found it difficult to say no to my Creator when He kept nudging me in a specific direction. Sometimes I wondered if my two fathers were conspiring against me! It didn’t matter. My heart had freely chosen to prepare for life as a physician.

But now after three semesters, I was tired. And I knew what was pushing me toward a temporary break from medicine. The first was a common complaint among medical students—boring professors. Two of our instructors stood head-and-shoulders above the rest; they were experts with their subjects and had great overall reputations—but they continually droned on in class reading their lectures aloud. Line-by-line in a mind-numbing monotone! It was seventy-five minutes of torture—week after week. I had only managed to survive by gulping down several cups of strong, black coffee before class and pinching myself in sensitive places as the time dragged on.

Much worse, though, was the second ordeal. Sadly, by the fall of 1915 the medical school had committed itself to a fairly new subdivision of medicine called psychiatry. Sigmund Freud seemed to be the name on everyone’s lips. The babble was: Freud said this, and Freud said that, and it was usually, of course, about sex. Now, I, along with most of my fellow red-blooded sophomore males did have occasional thoughts about the opposite sex. But it didn’t consume us—perhaps with one or two exceptions. In sum, Freudianism seemed a big stretch for us. Dr. Fraud became our favorite label for his brand of medicine.

About halfway through that third semester Professor Goldwyn, the leading psychiatrist, had pulled me aside before class and suggested we have a private consultation in his office following his lecture. Needless to say, I didn’t take many notes while I sat conjuring up all kinds of fanciful reasons for this singular event. What could he possibly want with me? I was surprised he even knew my name.

I slowly gathered up my books and materials after he finished class so he would beat me back to his office. Strangely, I found the door was closed. I stood there nervously for a few seconds trying to pump up my courage before knocking, and stopped in mid-blow because I was about to rap my knuckles on a black-and-white photograph of—Sigmund Freud! Sacrilege no doubt. Instead, I sheepishly pulled back and redirected my taps slightly to the right of this somber Austrian. Out-of-the blue I smiled at the thought that came to me suddenly. I had just spent seventy-five minutes without even once thinking about sex.

Please come in Mr. McFarland, he squeaked in response to the barely audible sounds of my hand tapping on his door. Have a seat. This shouldn’t take long. Hopefully not! Awkwardly, I squeezed into his cramped little office. And cramped would be an understatement. The entire space couldn’t have been more than 100 square feet, and a large, ornate desk consumed nearly half the area. The remainder was taken up by shelved books as well as books and manuscripts spread randomly on the floor, at least it appeared that way to me. It was a mess. The entire room made me think of the stereotypical absent-minded professor at work.

I noticed at once his graduate diploma hanging directly over his head on the back wall. It would have been hard to avoid such a prominent display. A medical degree from the University of Texas. He sure didn’t look like a Texan to me, or speak like one either. Noting where my glance lingered, he offered this explanation: Harvard and Yale had waiting lists. I couldn’t wait. I’m a man on a mission, Mr. McFarland. But at least I survived Texas, if barely.

It was a strange room, and an even stranger man in both appearance and behavior. He was nearly entirely bald, with bushy eyebrows, and a pale complexion—almost translucent—and he wore the thickest glasses I’d ever seen. Perhaps he was going blind reading all those books and manuscripts. His voice was so high-pitched that I admit some of us had wondered if he sang soprano. In fact, when we first heard him lecture it took a mighty effort not to react in class. Of course some of my classmates mocked him after that first exposure, and despite my guilty conscience I had joined in their laughter.

We exchanged a few pleasantries and then he got right to the point: I’m a little worried about your grade. Your last two quizzes were Cs and you realize that an overall B average is required in medical school. You seem a bit distracted in class. Will you be able to recover in the next few weeks?

Ouch. He had me, though it was nice to know that he cared. Now I was really nervous. In an instant, I decided to be a man and take my medicine. I’ll do better, I stammered. I know some good students who can help me.

Fine. Excellent. He looked back to his desk while I endured the uneasy silence.

Was the meeting over? Was it time for me to excuse myself? Then suddenly, in an attempt to create a diversion from the silence, I leaned forward and pointed to an elaborate fountain pen sitting on his desk—it had caught my eye right after the elegant framed diploma. It’s beautiful, I said. May I examine it?

Of course, he answered with obvious pride.

I held it carefully in my hands—almost caressing it with my fingers. The pen was certainly exquisite, with symbols and tiny lettering on the circumference. What about the etchings? I asked. Any special significance?

Wow—the diversion had worked. He proceeded to ramble on for several minutes about where it was made (London), how he obtained it (graduation gift from his uncle), details about the mysterious lettering (Hebrew), and even more details about his family (from Eastern Europe to New York City). It was information overload for this humble sophomore. I pretended interest but spent most of his oration gripping and twirling his beloved pen in my increasingly sweaty hands. More awkward moments.

Once he completed his story of the fountain pen, a tiny mischievous smile appeared on his face and he shifted in his chair. He kept watching me in silence as I manipulated his beloved pen.

Finally, his smile became a smirk and he leaned forward and declared: You realize, don’t you, that pen is also a writing instrument. Before I even had time to determine a possible second meaning, he exploded in laughter—it was instantly irritating. And it went on and on. I felt physically assaulted as his exhaling ha-has were literally pushing me back into my chair. Was there no escape from this bizarre little man? I couldn’t help but think: Fraud! Help!

Professor Goldwyn finally ran out of energy with his voracious laughter and simply rose from the leather desk chair, wiped away his tears with a monogrammed hanky, thanked me for coming, and motioned me to leave with a delicate wave of his hand.

Thankfully I didn’t forget to replace the pen. But after closing the office door I was sorely tempted to use my own pen to put a mustache on Freud. That might be too obvious now . . . maybe later.

It was boredom, weirdness, and information overload that had infected my attitude toward the 1915-1916 academic year. And by the middle of the second semester my principal means of survival was remembering occasional weekend adventures with my friends—or whatever it took to escape from the world of classroom medicine.

Chapter 2

Weekend Adventure

First it was the screech of steaming brakes, and then the toppling motion that sent me head first toward the front seat, only to bounce backward and end up on my back staring up at the slick fabric on the ceiling of the Model T Ford. I had been dozing, so I was more than a little confused. What the heck is going on? I choked at the driver as the car swerved off the road to a swift halt.

Something’s wrong! Fred responded with alarm, I had to brake from top speed because there is a man in the middle of the road waving both hands in a frenzy.

He darted out from in front of the car parked on the side of the road, said Mike, the other rider. Hood’s up, probably just car trouble.

Could have killed us all, though, I replied lamely. Quickly changing the subject, I added, Well, we’re here, so let’s see what the trouble is. Anyone know how to fix a car?

I’ve worked on my Dad’s Model T Ford, acknowledged Mike. If it’s something simple, maybe I can get it started.

We all got out and were immediately confronted with the real crisis: a pregnant wife in the back seat, clearly already experiencing some labor pains. We did our best to calm the husband, but this was their first child and he was on the verge of panic. He relaxed somewhat when we told him we were all medical students.

Mike, check out the car, I said as I pulled Fred toward the young woman. Turning toward the husband, I offered: If Mike can’t fix your car, we can transport both of you to the nearest hospital in Detroit. Heading that way ourselves. Surely you know where the hospital is located?

I do, but it’s at least fifty minutes down the road.

That won’t be a problem, I responded confidently. I was wrong.

We entered the back seat, explained who we were, and asked permission to examine her. After a second or two she assented with a quick nodding of her head. We immediately realized why privacy was not her primary concern: She was in a very late stage of labor. No hospital delivery for her. We were about to help birth our first baby, too.

Without much resistance from Fred, I took control. Maybe it was because both my friends were city bred and raised, unlike myself. As a country boy, I had spent many summers on my uncle’s dairy farm, watching animals birth their young, even assisting my uncle a couple of times. Combining that background with a few medical school lectures, and I thought I knew what to do.

First thing was to remove her from the car. It was too cramped in the back seat. Fortunately, I had also noticed a berm running parallel to the road. We carefully moved her to the other side, placing her on a blanket out of sight from wandering eyes. I made sure her head was on higher ground so that gravity would be working in our favor.

My hands weren’t clean, so I had Fred pour some of the husband’s whiskey over them as I scrubbed. Guess the man was prepared for some emergencies after all.

We all went to work. Mom-to-be pushed and grunted and I coached. She pushed some more. Hard work. Sweat dripped from her forehead. At one point, I even asked Fred to kneel beside her and assist by pushing with both hands on her abdomen. I must have learned that trick from my uncle.

The little baby was born to smiles all around. Our work, though, wasn’t quite complete. I decided to wait for the afterbirth. Fred got to push once again, and I got even bloodier hands. The man sacrificed the rest of his whiskey and the blanket in exchange for a son. Great deal for him.

Mike even repaired the car. We agreed to follow him to the hospital as a precaution. The husband insisted on writing down all our names and addresses and promised thank-you letters in the near future. He gave me a special gift. John, he said with tears in his eyes, I’m going to name him Charles John Price. His middle name will always remind us of what happened here today. My eyes became a little moist too as I thanked him. I didn’t bother to inform him of the double honor, in light of my full name: John Charles McFarland.

After leaving the happy parents at the hospital, we returned to our original plan for the weekend—dinner, then a movie in downtown Detroit. And not just any movie but the D. W. Griffith spectacle, Birth of a Nation. We had heard and read a lot about it and were eager for the opportunity. I wasn’t quite prepared for the size and opulence of the Detroit Opera House—bigger than anything in Ann Arbor—or the added treat of a full orchestra pounding out stirring music throughout the evening. Cast of thousands, exciting Civil War battle scenes, dramatic acting—perhaps a bit melodramatic—

but overall an unforgettable night of entertainment.

I had only two negative reactions to the movie—its length and its depiction of Southern Negroes. All three of us agreed on the first problem. When you’re accustomed to movies of thirty or sixty minutes, sitting for nearly three hours—even with an intermission—can be unsettling and uncomfortable. Fred, at six feet and six inches, kept shifting in his seat trying to stretch his legs to avoid cramping. Later, before we even reached the parking lot, we had concluded that movies of this length would never catch on.

Neither of my friends, however, seemed troubled by how the movie portrayed postbellum American Negroes. Lazy, greedy, and ignorant had not been my experience with our dark-skinned fellow citizens. Rather, hard working and loyal would have been my description of Negroes. Perhaps it was mainly my upbringing, for my Christian parents had drilled into me the belief in the essential worth and equality of all human beings.

Gently introducing my perspective, though, was a mistake. For them, the movie was right on the mark. You’re pretty naïve, John, said Mike after my opening comments. My experience has been the opposite of yours.

Mine, too, agreed Fred. Negroes have done a lot of harm to the South after the War.

Outnumbered and saddened by their attitude, I quickly changed the subject. Look, we originally planned to have dinner before the movie. Delivering baby Charles changed that plan. It’s now later than we anticipated, but can we eat on the way home?

My diversion worked when Fred jumped in with, Absolutely. I’m starving. Let’s eat. Now