The writer was raised in McGill. His book—The Fatal Affair in Convict Canyon—has been adapted by screen writers into a screenplay. This is a chapter in a spin off. A lawman has been ambushed by men who had robbed an express train near Reno. He has been shot in the knee by a highpowered rifle. This is a description of an actual leg amputation in Carson City in November 1870. The names and some minor details have been changed. Imagine the horror of the amputation of a limb before the advent of pain killing drugs.
When he heard that Wells Fargo agent James Helm was in critical condition, federal marshal Jim Ashworth rode thirty miles from Reno to Carson City, where Helm was recuperating. “Gangrene has infested the leg,” the doctor told Ashworth. “Tissue in and around the wound has died. It’s called necrosis. I removed some dead tissue, but I doubt I got it all.” “What causes it?” “Any number of things. After being shot, Mr. Helm scrambled around in dirt dragging the injured knee. Also, I removed pieces of bloodied cloth that had been blown through his pants into the knee. Either could have caused the infection.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“It’s difficult to say. Gangrene is life threatening as it is, and it often leads to sepsis. That’s an infection of the blood, generally called blood poisoning. The body overreacts to the original infection and gradually kills the organs, even the brain. It sometimes heals on its own, but there’s no known cure.”
“What comes next?”
“Two other doctors have examined Mr. Helm. We think an amputation of the leg above the knee might save him.”
“Good god, have you told him yet? The pain must be unimaginable.”
“As I explained to him and his wife, we’ll dose him with morphine. It’s the only pain-relieving agent we know about. It was used extensively for amputations during the Civil War.”|
“Then he won’t feel pain?”
“He’ll still feel almost unbearable pain, but we can’t make him unconscious. Too much of the drug can cause fatal respiratory and cardiac problems. He may feel relaxed at first, euphoric even, so the experience of pain should be somewhat reduced. We told him that without amputation he will likely walk a slow path to death. With amputation, the chances are still fifty-fifty that sepsis will set in and kill him”
“What did he and his wife decide?”
“We left the room so they could talk. When we returned, she was crying. I won’t forget what he said: ‘Cut the damn thing off, doc, and order me a new one.’” Helm was given whiskey and morphine and held down by two neighbors. Removal of his leg with keen-edged knives and a hacksaw-like surgical saw took about ten minutes. His thigh was cut five inches above the shattered knee. The bone of the lower leg had been blown open four inches. Completion of the operation was slowed for another half-hour as blood was sopped up, arteries were tied off, and a stump was fashioned to stave off further infection.
“Gangrene had set in from the ankle to above the knee,” the doctor told Ashworth. “He’d have died within days. Now he may recover.”
A local newspaper reported: “Agent Helm bore up well. We are happy to report that the prognosis is good. The doctors say that the vital condition of the patient is what is needed to work a cure.”
The day after the operation, the report was “he is lingering and low, but the good news is that the stump is healing without complications. The pain continues to lessen.”
The next day’s report was encouraging. “He has improved in the last 24 hours. His spirits are high. Without some unforeseen change for the worse, he will probably recover.” The third day’s news was of that feared unforeseen change. “We are under the painful necessity of reporting the death of James Helm, the Wells Fargo agent. His doctors tell us that sepsis had set in after the amputation of his leg above the knee. There is no known cure. Agent Helm had nerves of steel and a constitution of iron.”
The inquest findings were: “(1) The immediate manner of death was an infection called sepsis that set in after the amputation. (2) The ultimate cause of death was homicide resulting from a fatal wound caused by the perpetrators of the recent express train robbery near Reno.”
The funeral was at the opera house in Virginia City. The parson described Helm as a family man and lawman killed in the line of duty. The homily concluded: “As it is said in Isaiah 57:2, ‘Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death.’ Our friend James Helm, who lies before us today, is at peace.” A sunburned, gray-bearded, longhaired prospector stood. He wore wrinkled miners’ clothes with kneehigh, laced boots and a floppy broadbrimmed hat. He nodded at the parson
and said in a nasal voice, “Pard, I ain’t used to followin’ up from a man what owns a gospel mill.” He took out a kerchief, snorted into it, and continued. “I don’t know nothin’ about that God yer talkin’ about. But pard, I knows a good man when I sees ‘im.” He pointed at the casket. “That was a good one. We got a shebang cooked up for ‘im at ol’ No. 1. You can ferget yer gospel book and yer doxology and bring yer dancin’ shoes.”
“Amen” rippled through the congregation. A slow march to the graveyard was led by the band of Engine Company No. 1 playing a mournful dirge. A celebration of life ensued at the engine company’s firehouse. There was dancing to a piano and two fiddles. Whiskey flowed freely. A dozen miners and firemen were run in by the sheriff to sober up, including a fire captain and a tuba player and the bass drummer of the band.
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