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glint of tears in them.
    He probably blames me, too, Christy thought. She felt like an outsider, the cause of all this horror. If she could have left, if there were anywhere for her to go, she would have.
    â€œThere’s one chance of saving Bob, though,” the doctor continued. “I could bore a small hole in his head, to let the bad blood out and try to lift the pressure. Mary, I want to tell you the truth. I’ve never tried this operation. I saw it done once. But it’s a risky procedure. It’s up to you, Mary. Will you let me try it?”
    â€œI say no,” the bearded man who was Bob’s brother exclaimed. “Life and death is in the hands of the Lord. We’ve no call to tamper with it.”
    â€œNo, Ault, you’re wrong,” Mary said. Her voice was firm. “We can’t let go so long as there’s one livin’ breath left in Bob. We’ve got six young’uns to feed. Will you try, Doc?”
    The doctor seemed unsure for a moment. Christy could see his problem. There wasn’t much chance for the injured man, with or without the operation. With a mountain cabin for an operating room, no nurses, little light, what chance did he have? Still, if Bob Allen died during the operation, it was likely that some of these mountain people would blame the doctor.
    â€œAll right then,” Dr. MacNeill said at last. “We’ll go ahead.”
    He’s made a courageous decision , Christy thought. Had there ever been such an awful setting for an operation? A baby crying, the smell of chewing tobacco, a crowd of people, dirty pots and pans by the hearth. It was hardly sanitary.
    â€œWe’ll use the kitchen table,” the doctor said. “Fairlight, I’ll need boiling water and a hammer and awl. And somebody get me a couple of saw horses and two or three boards. That will have to do for an instrument table. Those of you who aren’t helping, stay out of the way, clear to one side. And no wailing or crying.”
    Soon the doctor’s instruments were sterile, and he was prepared to operate. As some of the men lifted Bob Allen onto the makeshift operating table, Christy heard a scuffle at the door.
    Suddenly Bob’s wife dashed through the cabin. In her raised hands was a razor-sharp axe. She lifted the axe high over her head and gave a mighty heave. Christy clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.
    With a crash, the axe bit deep into the floorboard under the table.
    Christy stared at the axe in stunned disbelief. But the doctor continued his work, unconcerned. Then Mary took a string and tied it around one of her husband’s wrists.
    â€œAll right, Mary,” said the doctor. “That’s fine. That should be helpful. Will some of you take care of Mary until this is over?”
    Mrs. Spencer led Mrs. Allen to a chair in a corner. “What was she doing with that axe?” Christy demanded of Mr. Pentland. “And the string . . . Is she crazy?”
    â€œIt’s to protect Bob during the operation,” Mr. Pentland explained matter-of-factly, as if he were surprised that Christy didn’t understand. “The axe is to keep him from bleedin’. And the string is to keep disease away.”
    Once again Christy felt that she’d entered a world where she didn’t belong. Here people still believed in omens and witchcraft. It was as if these people had been born a century earlier.
    â€œI’ll need some help here,” the doctor said, but no one moved forward in response.
    He glanced over his shoulder. “You—do you have any nursing training?”
    There was no answer. Christy realized that he was speaking to her.
    â€œMe? I . . . no,” she stammered. “I’m a teacher.”
    â€œThat’ll do just fine. Come here.”
    Once again, as she had been at the station and this morning at the General Store, Christy was aware of many eyes on her. She joined the doctor at the