The Sheepherder (Part Two)
When a gravely wounded sheepherder arrives at the clinic of Dr. Thomas Maghee, his assistant Claire will find herself reckoning with both a complex case and long buried wrongs on the Wyoming prairie
Though you may find it hard to believe, this short story is based on real Wyoming history.
Check out the historical note at the end to read about Dr. Thomas Maghee and the first facial reconstruction surgery that took place in Rawlins, Wyoming in 1886.
Wednesday, November 3, 1886
The next day, I entered Mr. Webb’s room with a thin gruel to give him for breakfast. “Good morning, Mr. Webb.”
He said nothing, though his eyes were open and I knew he heard me.
“Let’s sit you up.” With his cooperation, I propped him upright. “There we are.”
I placed the feeding tube on what was left of his tongue and slid it back. As the day before, he remained motionless. I tipped some gruel into the tube and we managed to get the whole bowl down. When I removed the tube, he grabbed my hand.
“Oooour num?”
We locked eyes and I tried to decide what he was saying. He repeated, “Oooouuur num?”
My name? “I’m Claire.”
“Ou—y.”
I smiled, unsure of what he’d said. Lovely?
Gently, I dabbed at some of the ruined flesh of his face—not only did we need the dead skin to slough off, we needed to avoid infection. But the cloth came away free of any yellow or opaque white puss; only pink-tinged fluid. A small miracle.
It was strange, being so close to a man who seemed completely the same as any other I’d ever known. As the oldest daughter of a cattle rancher, I’d been raised to hate sheep and the herders, to think of cattle and horses as superior animals and myself a better kind of person for raising them. I always felt my father was too harsh regarding these men, but it was how things were done. The cattlemen ruled the range, and sheep were a deadly threat to a cattle operation.
But attending Mr. Webb forced me to consider how wrong my father had been--shepherds were just men, no different from my father and his friends. But they had the misfortune of being men of poor means, and that meant their lives were worth little more than the sheep they guarded.
The day wore on with predictability—Thomas alternated between attending to Mr. Webb and retreating to his office to research and make notes. He was unusually taciturn and it was clear his mind was lost in the details of this complicated case. Thomas was a skilled and experienced surgeon, though it was hard to imagine how anyone could repair such terrifying damage to a man’s face. Yet the determination was evident—the doctor was formulating a plan.
I went to bed that night ill-at-ease. More and more, I thought about that summer and my father’s actions to protect his range land. Sleep was elusive, and when I did drift off, my dreams were filled with the sightless gazes of dead men, eyes fixed and unseeing.
I woke in a cold sweat, and strangely enough, I could only think that I’d never wondered before what those men had been called. Rising from bed, I pulled on my dressing gown, the temperature in the room cold enough to see my breath. The stove in the front room was cold, a few ashes and embers in the bottom. Quickly, I added some kindling and wood to the fire, building it back up until the flames were licking in the pot belly. It was unlike Thomas to allow the stove to burn out, but I hoped it meant he was sleeping, as he’d been up late and up early each day since Mr. Webb’s arrival.
A peek in his office revealed the doctor hunched over his desk, his long fingers gripping a pencil as he brushed long strokes over the pages, sketching something.
The same place I left him last night.
“Thomas.” I stepped inside but he didn’t look up. “Thomas.”
I put a hand on his shoulder and he started, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed when he turned to me. “Claire? What are you doing up so late?”
“It’s nearly sunrise.” Worry knotted in the pit of my stomach. Thomas was dedicated to his work, obsessive even, but I’d never seen anything absorb him so thoroughly before this case.
He peered out the window. “Oh.”
“You need to rest--you’ll not be able to treat anyone if you run yourself ragged.”
Thomas stood and took my hands in his. “What would I do without you?”
Heat flushed through me despite the cool temperature and I didn’t know what to say. “I—I’ll make some breakfast.”
“That would be nice.” He let go of me, and went to stove, warming his hands in the heat. With his back to me, I sidled to the desk and looked down at the open page of his notebook. There was a neat sketch of Mr. Webb’s injuries on the page, with many notations scribbled around the drawing. I caught a few words of one of the tight scribbles—needed skin graft…shin? Hand? Thumb…
The stove door banged shut and I looked up. Thomas was placing the percolator on the stove, having added more fuel to the fire. Its warmth was spreading through the room and I watched Thomas move about, scattered and discombobulated. What should I make of his actions? He never touched me in such a familiar way. The sensation was warm—and confusing.
I poured myself a cup of coffee when Thomas went down the hall to check on Mr. Webb. I added some milk to it and took a sip, savoring the rich, strong flavor. The liquid was the same color as Mac’s warm brown eyes. Another pang struck me. I hadn’t thought of him once since the day Mr. Webb came to us.
The memory of his visit to the office flooded back to me along with the vision of his warm chocolate eyes, the blue muslin fabric of my dress, and the invitation to the social. I had forgotten about the social in the wake of Mr. Webb’s convalescence. Dare I ask?
I had little work in the evening, so there was no harm in asking. Surely Thomas will let me go. Perhaps he’ll take a break and attend as well.
When Thomas returned to the room a few minutes later, he had regained himself, the focused doctor once more. He flipped open his notebook and returned to his sketches, beginning to mumble to himself. I poured him a cup of coffee and set it on the desk.
“Thank you.”
I set about cooking breakfast for myself, the doctor, and our patient.
When I set a plate of bacon, eggs, and biscuits a hour later on Thomas’s desk, I paused a moment and gathered my thoughts. “Thomas?”
“Hmm?” He continued reading the text before him.
“I’ve had an invitation to attend the social in town tonight. I’d like to go, if you can spare me for an evening.”
“A social?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Friday.”
“With who?”
“MacKenzie Tanner.”
“Who?”
“Eli Winter’s apprentice.” I hedged. “If you’d rather I not go, I don’t—“
“No, no,” he cut me off. “It would be advantageous for you to go out and socialize, I believe.”
“But, Thomas, if you’d rather I—“
“You ought to go, Claire. I’ve kept you far busier than a lovely young lady like you ought to be.”
“Are you quite certain?”
“Of course.”
We remained in awkward silence for a few moment before I said, “I’m going to the mercantile. Would like anything? We’re low on supplies.”
“I don’t need anything.” He dismissed me with the wave of his hand and returned to his notebooks.
I ignored the sinking feeling in my chest and left the clinic wrapped in a heavy cloak with a basket hanging on my arm. I would collect what we needed at the mercantile, after stopping by the blacksmith’s.
Friday, November 5, 1886
The sun had set by the time Mac was to fetch me for the social.
I put on my blue dress, and regarded my reflection in the mirror. Little wisps of hair rested around my face, their honey blonde color darker than the pale color of my skin, much less dark since trading ranch work for work indoors. I dabbed some rose water on my neck, my mind wandering to the patient in the room down the hall as I walked out to the front room. Mac would arrive any time now. He’d been raised on a spread adjacent to my family’s. Did Mac remember those summers when the sheep had been moved onto the range? Had he ever given thought to what those men’s names were?
A knock interrupted my thoughts, and I opened the door to reveal a clean shaven Mac, standing with his hat in his uninjured hand, wearing a neat suit.
He smiled at me and gave a little bow. “Claire, you look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I pulled my shawl around my shoulders and Mac placed his hat on his head, offering me his arm.
“I’m better with two good hands, but one will have to do for now.”
I smiled. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll let the doctor know I’m leaving.”
I headed for Mr. Webb’s room. Opening the door, I came face to face with two men whose expressions might not have been able to be more opposite from Mac’s.
I stood for a moment, uncomfortable as they both stared at me.
“You--you look lovely,” said Thomas, confusion across his brow.
“Thank you.” A blush crept across my cheeks. “I’m looking in to say I’m leaving.
Mr. Webb’s gray eyes rested on me, inscrutable.
“Make sure that lad walks you home.”
“Of course.”
“Have a nice time.”
I looked at Mr. Webb. “Make sure to keep the doctor out of trouble.”
His face didn’t change—how could it?—but he surprised me with a wink.
Mac and I walked arm-in-arm from the clinic to the town hall, and while I found this pleasant, an awkwardness existed between us now. Even so, Mac was clearly pleased I’d agreed to accompany him.
The social was bustling by the time we arrived, someone playing the piano and another on the fiddle. As we took to the dance floor, my mind turned from the case of George Webb for the first time in days.
True to his word, Mac swung me around again and again to the music, until I was breathless and flushed . He was an excellent dancer, and he smiled at me the entire time.
“Can we sit for a moment?” I asked as a song ended. “I need to catch my breath.”
We sat down together, watching couples waltz to the music.
Mr. and Mrs. Albright, owners of a significant cattle spread, stepped in time together. Mr. Albright’s imposing figure and ten gallon hat reminded me of my father. My thoughts trailed back to sheepherders and my father and those dark summer days.
“Are you alright?” Mac asked a moment later, warm eyes filled with concern. “What’s wrong?”
I gave him a half-hearted smile. “I’ve had much on my mind since our newest patient arrived.”
“And shouldn’t the newest patient at the clinic put much on the good Doctor’s mind?” Mac suggested.
“Oh, it certainly has.”
Mac raised an eyebrow. “And your mind? Why’s it so much on your mind?”
“It’s a very unusual case,” I said. Mac waited. “That day you came for stitches—Dr. Maghee was out because he was called to a patient. A sheepherder, west of town, that tried to take his life.”
“Tried?”
I glanced around, lowering my voice. “He put a shotgun under his chin and pulled the trigger with his foot.”
Mac’s expression turned to that of horror.
“It’s dreadful,” I continued. “He tipped his head too far back and only succeeded in mangling his face.”
“That’s…that’s…”
I nodded in agreement. “The case is consuming the doctor—I’ve never seen him so focused on such a complex case. And it’s strange, because the man—his name is George—he’s a sheepherder.”
Mac gazed at the bandage on his hand. “Hmm.”
“Do you remember? What happened, that summer?” I asked after a few moments.
“How could anyone forget?”
An overwhelming sense of grief washed over me and my eyes welled with tears.
Mac took my hand in his good one and squeezed it. “There was nothing you or I could have done, Claire. It was a choice your father made. A choice my uncle made. It didn’t have anything to do with us.”
He was right, of course, but I couldn’t shake the memory of those men; the way their faces had been haunting my dreams since Mr. Webb’s arrival.
“Do you ever think of—that someone ought to...” I trailed off, unable to say what was on my mind.
“Tell someone?”
I bit my lip and nodded, unable to meet his eye. What would it mean to tell someone what the ranchers had done to those men, then hidden the evidence?
“Some things are better left alone, Claire.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Not usually,” Mac said. “I don’t give it much thought.”
“I hadn’t either, until this case.”
We sat together a while, our hands still clasped together. I ought to let go of him, but I didn’t want to move from the comfort of his touch.
Mac squeezed my hand again. “Are you ready to go home?”
“Yes.”
He stood and offered his arm, and we said our goodbyes to friends on the way out.
Snow was falling softly when we stepped outside, drifting down rather than riding the howling wind between buildings on Main Street.
“Thank you for asking me to come tonight.”
“I’m so pleased you decided to accompany me.”
“I wasn’t going to come.”
“Something tells me it’s not just the patient that’s got your mind all wrapped up.”
Heat ran through me. Is talking about Thomas?
“What’s made you so uneasy?”
“The nightmares,” I answered. “I’ve been dreaming about the herders every night since Mr. Webb arrived.”
Mac stopped walking and we turned to face one another. “What our fathers and uncles did was wrong, Claire. They know it. But you can’t change it. And stirring that up will cause trouble you don’t want to reckon with.”
“But working in medicine is about helping people, Mac. And isn’t it the right thing to speak up?”
Mac shook his head. “Speaking up will stir up all kinds of ghosts I doubt you want to see running around town.”
“They murdered those men.” Tears filled my eyes again.
Mac glanced around, concerned someone would overhear me. “They did that. We didn’t. That wrong is on their head, not ours. You’re doing a good thing helping the sheepherder. Can’t offering him help when many wouldn’t give you some peace of mind?”
I began to cry as he spoke. It was too much to remember and try to push back. Then, to my surprise, Mac pulled me to him, wrapping his strong arms around me. I rested my cheek against his chest and we stood, holding one another.
His hands pressed my back, and he murmured comforting words. When I turned my face up to his, those warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners before he placed his lips on mine.
When Mac eased back, he brushed a strand of hair back from my forehead and said, “I’ve been wishing to do that since we were twelve years old.”
A laughed escaped me and I pressed a hand to my heated cheeks. Without another word, he tucked my arm back into the crook of his elbow before I could reply and we walked in silence to the clinic.
“Good night, Claire,” he whispered on the front stoop, before he kissed me again, then disappeared into the darkness.
I floated inside, pleased the clinic was quiet and both men were asleep, and went to my room.
But it wasn’t until I had changed from my dress to night shift and crawled below the covers that I realized I hadn’t thought of Thomas once as Mac had kissed me.
Tuesday, November 9, 1886
On the ninth of November, the seventh day of Mr. Webb’s stay at the clinic, Thomas stopped me as I headed to the patient’s room with a bowl of broth and rubber tube.
“He’ll not be eating this morning,” he said. “I’m going to perform the first procedure upon him today.”
I nodded. “I’ll prepare everything to assist you.”
Thomas shook his head. “Dr. Thode will be assisting me.”
“I won’t be helping?”
“No. This is the first of many complex procedures. Better that he assist.”
The sting of rejection filled my chest. “Of course.”
“I’ve already prepared my instruments. Bring Mr. Webb to the examination room.”
I took the broth back to the kitchen and went to Mr. Webb’s room. “Hello, Mr. Webb. How are you feeling today?”
The uneasy look in his eyes gave me the answer. So far as I knew, Thomas hadn’t told him anything at all. “Your first procedure is today.”
The wrinkles across his forehead deepened and fear bloomed in those dark eyes.
“Take my arm and we’ll walk to the procedure room,” I said, moving to his side.
Mr. Webb didn’t move.
“Doctor is going to start putting your face back together, Mr. Webb. But you’ll have to come with me.”
Still, he didn’t move. A bubble of frustration welled up in me.
“We can’t help you if you won’t cooperate.”
“Oooh,” he got out, shaking his head.
“No? Why on earth not?” I asked. “Don’t you want the doctor’s help?”
George Webb and I stared at one another for several long seconds. Tears pooled in his storm cloud eyes; one slipped free to drip onto the ruined flesh of his cheek.
You’re afraid. To my surprise, my own eyes filled with tears, and compassion filled me. As I looked at him, I realized it didn’t matter if he was a sheepherder or not. He was a man in desperate need of help and support. He was afraid and injured and alone. The choice that had been my father’s all those years ago would not be the choice I would make now.
“I know you’re afraid, but Dr. Maghee can help you. Everything will turn out fine.” I sat down on the edge of the bed and took his trembling hand in my own. For a little while, we sat together and cried quietly.
Then Mr Webb, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and I stood to help him up.
His hand was rough and calloused and very large, enveloping my hand the way my father’s hand had when I was young. Shame burned through me. Those men, with unseeing eyes, had been just like this man. Like Thomas. Or Mac. Or my father.
Mr. Webb clutched my hand a little lighter as we walked down the hallway. When he sat down on the examination table, he peered at me intently for a moment and gave my cheek a light pat the way he might a child’s.
My throat ached as I squeezed his hand. “Listen to the doctor and you’ll be all right. I’ll be waiting for you just outside the door.”
I exited the room but Thomas followed me out.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” I said, my heart a little lighter. “But you have to help him. He can’t be left in such a state for the rest of his life.”
Thomas nodded, his expression understanding. “I agree. And I will help him. I promise.”
“Thank you.” I blinked back the fresh wave of tears in my eyes. “I’ll be out here if you need me.”
Thomas studied me.
“Dr. Thode is waiting for you,” I said.
“Right.” He glanced back through the door. “This will likely take several hours. Please keep coffee ready and have something in the stewpot.”
“Will do.”
Thomas went back into the room and shut the door behind him. I went to the front room and dropped into a chair, where I mopped my eyes with a hankie. Then I prayed--for myself, for my father, for the men with unseeing eyes from that summer long ago. But most of all, I said prayers for the man with deep gray eyes for whom I’d offered compassion, and received compassion in return.
Author’s Historical Note:
Dr. Thomas Maghee was a real Wyoming doctor, and George Webb, a sheepherder from Great Britain, really did attempt to commit suicide via shotgun in November of 1886 outside Rawlins, Wyoming.
In the many months that followed, Dr. Maghee and the local dentist, Dr. Thode, worked on numerous surgeries to piece together Geo Webb’s face, which was horrifically damaged in the attempt:
I wrote the original draft of this short story, (formerly titled “Stormy Gray”) as an undergraduate at the University of Wyoming, a student in Alyson Hagy’s wonderful Writer’s Workshop Course. The story came out of my research for a historical narrative, which we were tasked to create based on archives at the American Heritage Center. “Stormy Gray” won the 2009 Undergraduate Research Award. The version you read above has been lightly edited and renamed since.
Dr. Maghee, who worked for the Union Pacific Railroad, treated patients all over the west before settling in Rawlins, where he performed the series of surgeries on Mr. Webb.
Maghee’s Wyoming claim to fame, however, is his involvement in the lynching of “Big Nose” George Parrott in 1881. Outlaw Big Nose George was sentenced to death in Rawlins, but ten days before his execution date, he was caught trying to escape, and was subsequently hung by a mob of up to 200 people.
Another Rawlins doctor, John Osbourne (who would go on to be elected Wyoming Governor in 1893, claimed Parrott’s body after the execution, and with Thomas Maghee’s help, they used it for medical study. Maghee studied the outlaw’s brain, giving the skull cap to a young woman named Lillian Health, who was his real life assistant and would go on to become Wyoming first woman doctor. Osbourne, on the other hand, skinned (yes, you read it right) Parrott and had shoes (again, you read it right) made with it.
THEN HE WORE THOSE SHOES TO HIS GUBERNATORIAL INAUGURATION.
I swear, I’m not making any of this up. I’ve seen the documentation in the archives. Wild, right?
But back to Dr. Maghee and George Webb: the sheepherder endured surgery after surgery in an attempt to repair his face. Maghee pioneered facial reconstruction surgery, sewing skin from Webb’s thumb to his forehead to allow the skin to heal together, and then using that skin to construct a nose. Eventually, Geo Webb’s face was repaired to an astonishing point:
The last record I could find of George Webb was his employment as a janitor at a bank in Laramie, before he passed into obscurity. But as you may see now, the story of his attempted suicide and subsequent repair via surgery is a fascinating bit of history.
And in case you’re interested: Big Nose George Parrott’s corpse was buried in an whiskey barrel in Rawlins. In 1950, the barrel was discovered during construction excavations. When the barrel was opened and the lower half of the skull revealed, someone thought local physician, Dr. Lillian Heath, had a skull cap that she used as a flower pot (yes, you read it right). So they went over the elderly woman’s office and asked her about it. She shook out the flowers and handed it over (she’d kept the memento all these years and used it as a door stop at one point as well), and what do you know? It fit onto the lower half of skull perfectly. The excavation team had dug up Big Nose George Parrott.
Thank you for reading the final installment of “The Sheepherder” here on The Rewrite.
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