Don't Poke the Bear [western 02] Page 6
I try to keep the anger out of my voice when I yell, “You kill those horses and there’s nothin’ to keep me from killin’ you. Plus I get the saddles and guns, and while they ain’t the same as horses, that’s more’n I started with this mornin’.”
I stand up and take careful aim.
“What’re you doin’?” he shouts.
The guy’s tall, and Shrug’s wide, and so far it’s been workin’ to his advantage, except that he can’t completely hide beneath Shrug without exposin’ some part of himself. I walk a few yards to the right, to get a different angle, and see him tryin’ to maneuver Shrug’s body in such a way as to cover himself better. From this vantage point, I see his ear is exposed. That ain’t worth a lot, but it’s somethin’, and will serve to discourage him some more.
I take the shot and hear him yell.
Then it dawns on me that if Shrug was gonna make a move, this’d be the time to do it.
But he doesn’t.
Which gives me great concern.
I mean, I’m lookin’ at him, and can see that he’s only shot through the shoulder. It ain’t a bad wound. But Shrug hasn’t moved so much as a muscle all this time. I start wonderin’ if maybe when he got trampled as a kid, his insides got moved around as well. What if his heart or some other vital organ is in a different place than most people’s? What if he’s dead? Could he actually be dyin’ while I’m fartin’ around with this guy?
As if he can read my mind, Shrug whistles the sound a wood warbler makes.
“Shut up!” the guy beneath him yells, and hits the side of Shrug’s head with the butt of his gun.
I start chucklin’, realizin’ what’s goin’ on.
Shrug is layin’ there, on top of this guy, butt naked, enjoyin’ the fact I’m whittlin’ him down, one shot at a time! He could make his move and let me end it with a single shot, any time he wants.
But he’s havin’ too much fun.
Which is why I love Shrug!
A few minutes later, Shrug moves his head a couple of inches, and I shoot half the guy’s nose off!
“You bastard!” he yells.
A few minutes goes by and he shouts, “I think you’re out of bullets.”
“You’re right,” I yell. “Climb on out.”
Shrug allows his right foot to fall off the guy’s leg, exposin’ his ankle. I shoot it and he screams in pain.
“Where the fuck you learn to shoot like that?” he yells.
“My uncle was a gunsmith,” I say. “Used to build rifles by hand. Let me test ’em. I been shootin’ rifles my whole life.”
“I seen better!” he yells.
“Maybe,” I holler. “But riflin’ is all about practice. I figure to get a lot more today, shootin’ holes in you.”
“I ain’t givin’ up!” he shouts. “You can shoot me all day, but I ain’t goin’ nowhere!”
“Good!” I holler. “’Cause I ain’t never had this much fun killin’ a cowboy!”
17.
I WALK A few more yards to the right, and watch the guy below try to move Shrug to compensate for the angle. His right foot has been shot twice, and he can’t feel it when Shrug lets his leg fall to the side. When he does, I shoot the guy in the foot for the third time.
I give him credit for trainin’ horses and bein’ one tough bastard, but this third shot in the foot makes him start to cry.
“Let me go!” He yells. “I ain’t done nothin’ to you!”
He’s been shot three times in the right foot, once in the left ankle. I’ve shot one of his ears off, and half his nose. All these wounds are bleedin’, but he still manages to keep Shrug on him in such a way that it’s hard to get a clean shot without hittin’ my best friend.
Shrug knows this, so every now and then he moves a different part of his body. Since I don’t know which part he’s movin’, I can’t find the openings quick enough most of the time. But when Shrug suddenly lifts his right arm, I put a bullet in the center of the guy’s left hand.
“Damn!” he yells, and I can imagine Shrug smilin’.
An hour goes by, durin’ which time I shoot the rest of his nose off, and put two more slugs into his left hand.
Then I walk back to my horse.
“You leavin’?” he yells.
“Yup. You outlasted me!”
A few minutes later I come back and sit where I’d sat earlier.
“I knew you weren’t leavin’!” he shouts.
“Glad to see me, are you?”
“You didn’t shit that quick,” he yells. “You must a’ taken a piss.”
“Nope. I was out of bullets. Had to reload.”
“You’re wastin’ a lot of ammunition on one man!” he shouts.
“Can’t help it! You’re a tough man to kill.”
“Damn right I am!”
I wait a few minutes, watchin’ him suffer. Then I say, “I feel like I ought to tell you somethin’.”
“Fuck you!”
A few minutes pass. Then he says, “What were you gonna tell me?”
“The guy that’s layin’ on top a’ you.”
“What about him?”
“He can kill you anytime he wants.”
“Oh yeah? So why don’t he?”
“He’s havin’ too much fun.”
I take careful aim with my rifle, and wait for my words to sink in. Suddenly the guy lifts his gun up to smash it into Shrug’s skull…
…Leavin’ me enough room to shoot the gun out of his hand, just like Bad Vlad taught me.
I walk down the hill, noticin’ he still hasn’t moved out from under Shrug. Probably can’t. When I’m standing next to ’em I say, “How’d you train your horses to do that?”
“I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’,” he says.
“Pity. Those are damn fine horses.”
“They’ll stomp you to death first chance they get.”
I frown.
“Shrug?” I say. “Kill him.”
And Shrug does.
18.
I HELP SHRUG get his pants on and lay him on his side so the wound is facin’ up. I can tell while helpin’ him that the bullet is still in his shoulder. We got to get it out before he can start healin’, and hope he don’t lose too much blood in the process.
I carefully get his shirt back on, then take mine off, fold it as small as I can, and place it inside his shirt over the wound. Then I arrange him so he’s layin’ on his back, against the side of the hill with his head higher than his feet, which allows the hillside to keep pressure on his wound.
“I bought that saloon we talked about last fall,” I say.
He nods. Then lifts his right hand and rubs his thumb and fingers together while raisin’ his eyebrows.
“We do all right. But it ain’t as profitable as I was led to believe.
He moves his hand to his face and makes a sort of mask, then slides it down. That’s his sign for Gentry.
“Yep, we’re still together, and she’s still the prettiest woman in Kansas, as far as I’m concerned, and a great business woman too. Why, if it weren’t for Gentry’s whores, we’d be losin’ money. I think that’ll change, now that I got all the repairs behind us. Oh, and I built an indoor jail hole. First one ever.”
Shrug looks at me curiously, holds his thumb and index finger over his nose.
“Yeah, Gentry says the same thing. But I got plans to solve that.”
He gives me a skeptical look.
“Reason I mentioned the saloon, I got Gentry and five whores there who can take care of you, and a clean bed you can sleep in. You know three of ’em. Emma, Leah, and Hester.”
He nods.
“There’s a doctor in town who can dig this bullet out of you usin’ ether that’s so strong so you won’t even feel it. At least till the next day, when it’ll hurt like hell.”
Shrug smiles, but shakes his head.
I sigh. “Figured you’d say that.”
Then I say, “Will you be okay here while I fetch my horse?”
He nods.
“Okay then, I’ll get Major. I’ve got a sandwich for you, too. Finest one I ever ate. Where’s your water?”
He motions to his right.
“I’ll get it.”
I start walkin’ in the direction he pointed, to the tall grass, and in minutes I find the leather straps that lead to the canteens he started his trip with. I also notice the two remainin’ horses are still standin’ where they were hours ago, when the shootin’ started. I ’spect the horse he shot belonged to one of his partners, since a man would shoot his own horse last and the worst one first.
While I don’t approve of mistreatin’ animals, it crosses my mind for the second time that if Teddy was the worst of their horses, mine deserves a good cussin’. I won’t cuss Major, ’cause ornery as he is, we been through a lot together. Havin’ said that, I might give these other two horses a try and see if they’ll follow my direction.
Then I realize I don’t know their names.
Probably so well-trained they won’t do anythin’ for me less I call ’em by their names.
Shrug can’t use his left arm without feelin’ severe pain, but his right hand is all he needs to enjoy Wing Ding’s sandwich.
“Helluva sandwich, right?”
Shrug nods. Then raises his eyebrows.
“Don’t know what’s in it. Some sort of Chinese cookin’. Guy named Wing Ding. He’s the one helped me dig my jail hole. I hired him last night to work full-time. He’s gonna take over all the cookin’ duties. You can eat like this every day if you come to my place to heal.”
He smiles.
Then I get an idea.
“Look. I know you don’t like towns, and don’t like bein’ seen. But I can wait here with you till it’s dark. Bring you in the back way. No one’ll see you.”
He ponders it.
“Did I mention I’ve got five whores who live on the same floor?”
His lips curl into what I’ve come to recognize as a smile.
Then, to my surprise, he nods.
“You will? You’ll let me take you to town?”
He nods again.
“Well, that’s wonderful! Gentry’ll be thrilled!”
Then Shrug makes a fist, and opens it and wiggles his fingers. That’s his sign for Rose.
I frown. “You never said why you left Rose. I thought you’d be happy there.”
He moves his hand, makin’ signs until I realize what he’s tryin’ to say.
“Are you tellin’ me Rose is on her way here?”
He nods.
“Why?”
He points at me.
“She’s comin’ to see me?”
He nods again.
“Why? I mean, that’s wonderful, but why? Is there somethin’ wrong?”
He nods.
“What?”
He shrugs.
It’s difficult gettin’ detailed information out of Shrug. What makes it worse is, apparently he can speak perfect English. At least, accordin’ to Phoebe, who traveled with us the last time Shrug scouted for me. So I don’t know it to be true, but accordin’ to Phoebe—who never lied that I know of—Shrug not only speaks perfect English, but French too, and has a beautiful singin’ voice to boot.
But he won’t speak to me. I don’t know why. Guess maybe I offended him those first two years we traveled together when I assumed he couldn’t speak, and never bothered to ask if he could.
“You were what, a day ahead of her?”
He shakes his head and holds up four fingers. Then holds up three more.
“Seven hours?”
He nods.
I do the math in my head and say, “So Rose should be comin’ through here in what, about three hours?”
He holds up four fingers and points behind us, and makes a curvin’ motion, then moves his hand straight up, which I understand as bein’ his sign for a mountain.
“You mean this big hill here?”
He shakes his head, no.
“Well that don’t make sense,” I say, knowin’ he can hear the frustration in my voice. “There ain’t no mountains around here. Wait—are you talkin’ about the cliffs of the Arkansas River? Past the sulfur pits?”
He shakes his head again.
“Good, ’cause that makes no sense, either. Rose’d follow the trail through Newton like we always do. Then, ten miles north of Dodge, she’d head due south, which’d put her about a half mile east of here, just like always.”
He signs it again, slowly.
I frown and say it out loud as he signs it. “When Rose comes here…she’ll travel around the…mountain?”
He makes a sign for horses.
“What? No oxen?”
Shrug shakes his head, then holds up three fingers, twice.
“You’re tellin’ me Rose is travelin’ with six horses and no oxen? Why, that’s insane!”
He shrugs and starts signin’ it again, from the start.
I repeat, “Rose is drivin’ six horses, no oxen, and they’re goin’ to circle some fargin’ mountain that ain’t even around here.”
Shrug starts quietly laughin’ till the tears come out of his eyes, and I wonder if maybe the pain from his wound has affected his mind.
I say it again, changin’ up the words a bit, tryin’ to make sense of it.
Then it hits me.
“You shithead!” I say.
Then I start laughin’, toss my head back and sing, “She’ll be comin’ round the mountain when she comes!”
19.
FOR THE NEXT couple of hours we sit and I talk while waitin’ for Rose to show up. I don’t bother workin’ on Shrug’s wound, knowin’ Rose is a better doctor than any I’ve met. In all the time I’ve known her, she’s only lost one patient, and that one had been gored repeatedly by a hydrophobic bull. By the time it’s late afternoon, I get around to sayin’, “Oh, and we got a bear livin’ with us!”
Shrug shows me his quizzical look.
I say, “Yup, right in the house, in the corner of the main room.”
He cocks his head and I say, “Black bear. Maybe 600 pounds.”
I start tellin’ him how Bad Vlad shot the gun out of my hand in near pitch dark, and how I wound up with Rudy after tryin’ to scrounge up burial money. I got sidetracked and told him about how we’re at war, only we don’t know much about it. Then I get back on the subject of Rudy, and how he danced that night, and how Gentry threatened to leave me, and how I shot six holes in the piano. Halfway through that part of the story, and before I got to the part where the Doc operated on him and how we take him for walks and play tag and such—Shrug touches my arm, signalin’ me to hush. We both listen. I have wonderful eyesight, and a fine pair of ears. But I don’t hear or see anythin’.
Shrug makes a fist, opens it up, and wiggles his fingers.
“Rose is here? Already?”
He nods.
“Okay. I’ll go find her and we’ll bring the wagon to you.”
Turns out I don’t need to go huntin’ for Rose. As I crest the hill I see her headin’ straight for us. I ride on up, and we wave as I approach.
“How bad is he?” she says.
I wasn’t surprised Rose knew about Shrug bein’ shot. She always knows these sorts of things without bein’ told. Because of that, and because she’s a great doctor and cook, and can talk to animals and serpents, and because she’s a great traveler, and a woman of wealth, and able to read other people’s thoughts and put her own thoughts in people’s heads, and because she can disappear from view right before your eyes, and jump fifteen feet straight up in the air onto tree limbs—Rose is a helluva handy woman to have around.
When she ain’t scarin’ the shit outta you by doin’ all them things.
“He’ll be fine,” I say, “Now that you’re here. How are you, Rose?”
She smiles. “Life is good. Let’s get Wayne in the wagon, and we can catch up on everything while I work on him.”
I notice she’s taken to callin’ Shrug “Wayne.” Phoebe used to do that. On the trip from Rolla to Dodge last September, our mail order bride, Phoebe Thayer, took a shine to Shrug early on, which was a good thing for both of ’em.
“How’s Hannah?” I ask, as we round the hill toward the spot where Shrug’s waitin’ for us. Hannah’s the little orphan girl we met on our last journey. Like Rudy, she’d been abused throughout her young life, and Rose took pity on her and took her back to Springfield to raise.
“Hannah’s blossoming. Roberto and his wife are watching her for me, so she’ll probably speak fluent Spanish by the time I get back.”
Roberto is Rose’s ranch hand, and has been, ever since I met her.
“Shrug gave me the impression you came all this way because of me.”
“I did.”
“Why’s that?”
“Someone’s coming for you, and I need to be here.”
“Who’s comin’?”
“Bose Rennick.”
20.
ROSE AND I lift Shrug into the back of her wagon and place him on his side so she can work on his wound. It’s still light enough for her to check his shoulder. She hands me back my shirt, and I pour some canteen water on it and wring out what blood I can, before puttin’ it back on. Rose tears Shrug’s shirt away from the wound, looks back at me and frowns.
“Bullet’s still in there,” she says.
I nod.
She sighs and reaches for her doctorin’ bag. I’ve been on the receivin’ end of her work more times than I care to remember, but this is the first time I remember Shrug needin’ medical attention.
She scolds him with an angry tone. “How did this happen?”
Without waitin’ for a response, she gives him somethin’ to drink. I recognize it as a potion that takes the pain away, though I don’t know what it’s called. I do know it takes several minutes to work.
“You were careless, weren’t you,” she says to him. It came out more like a statement than a question.
Rose says, “We’ve talked about this before. You’ve got to stop trusting people. They don’t like our kind.”