CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
It was an easy ride across to the next town of Lancaster. It was a journey Doc Turner made every other day or so as he was the peripatetic surgeon for both towns and had been for almost ten years. During the war it sometimes proved treacherous. Wandering bands of renegades occasionally drifted this far west but not often. Turner always offered up a prayer of thanks for that. Not that he was overly religious, simply that he was never one to hedge his bets. Even the slightest chance that God could be looking down at him was enough. He prayed, he rode, he did his best not to concern himself with the various problems confronting him back in Whitewater.
He calculated that Ezra, suffering from delusions, hallucinations, or both, must have decided to return to the mine. Turn
