by Andrew Smith
Tommy leaned against the tree trunk next to me. “We might need to wait a while or look for a way down that’s not so steep. Arrow’s gonna start slipping on those front shoes and I’m afraid he’ll pull his knees.”
“We could sit it out. It’ll break soon. Sun’s going down, I think.” I sighed. “I’m sorry, Tom.”
“What for? You pee on this tree right here where I’m leaning?”
I smiled. “No. I don’t know. I just feel like I gotta say it. You got anything to eat?”
I thought about telling him about the phone call to his house the other night. It didn’t matter now. I was sure it had been Jack Crutchfield, though.
“There’s some wet jerky, probly.”
The rain came harder, louder. Tommy rummaged through his bags for food and produced the jerky and a bag of chips with the top wadded shut. We ate. It wasn’t cold, really, but my hands were icy and the food was good.
“I got some tobacco,” Tom said.
“Any whiskey?”
“You drank it all, rummy.” Tom packed a dip of tobacco behind his lip and handed the can to me.
I sat down against the tree and spit, pulling my knees up to my chest. “I’m cold.”
“So am I. And I don’t have anything dry after last night.”
“Neither do I. You remember that?”
“I wasn’t that drunk.”
Tom sat down beside me.
“Not enough to sing again.”
“Never.”
I took my hat off and brushed my wet hair back. I thought about Luz, wondered where she was; if they were on their way back yet. We sat there, not saying anything, staring out at the river, the head of the falls, listening to the roar of the river competing with the roar of the storm.
“Like a horse pissing on a flat rock,” Tommy said, disgusted.
“Like every horse in the state.”
“The world.”
The storm lasted for another hour, then finally broke and cleared to a hot and muggy evening. You could feel the steam rising from the forest floor, evaporating from the big slick rocks along the river. We were stiff and cold, huddled under that tree. Tommy was the first to rise, and made an attempt to brush away the mud on the seat of his jeans. I stood. My pants, stiff and heavy, rubbed and ached against my skin.
“Riding’s gonna hurt,” I said.
“I was thinking that,” Tom said. “I wanna see you get up on that big horse of yours.”
I spit. Reno was soaked, the saddle seat was wet and cold. I hauled myself up from the left stirrup and slung my right leg over my horse. I tried to settle in as gently as I could, but it did hurt, and I winced and Tommy grinned that coyote grin, his eyes gleaming and squinting under his rain-soaked hat brim.
I threw my canteen to him. “Here. Fill this up.”
“With water, right?”
“Good one, Tom.”
Tommy limped over to the edge of the river, balancing on a rounded baby’s-head boulder at the top of the falls, dangling my canteen beside him. Reno turned and watched him go. And that was when Chase Rutledge, dark and wet, stepped out of the trees holding a little black pistol in his right hand, which he raised and pointed level to Tommy’s head and then he fired.
Tommy spun around, legs twisting across one another, and landed hard and wet and heavy on his back, on the slick granite, making a dull and hollow thud, sending my canteen clattering away down the rock face of the falls.
TWENTY-FOUR
Everything was blurry and whirling like a dream. Like a bad dream. I started to move and Jack Crutchfield came up and grabbed me by the back of my pants and pulled me down right over Reno’s hind. My head hit the ground hard. I started to black out. My hat tumbled away and I knew I was bleeding. I tried to push myself up onto my elbows and Reno startled and backed up, stepping solidly above my right knee, then bracing and pushing off.
I screamed and twisted under that weight. I felt something snap in my leg with an audible crack and Reno bolted forward. I think he knew he’d hurt me. I tried to sit up, and the pain was sickening, intense, washing over me in pulsing waves.
I could see Tommy’s legs, bent at the knees, and moving like he was trying to push himself on his back, trying to slide away somehow. I could, even above the roar of the water, hear him moaning, soft and distant; saw his arm move up and across his body, then flop down like he was trying to cover himself, writhing.
I tried to get to my feet, but my right leg was broken and I couldn’t will it to do anything. Jack stood behind me. He had a gun, too, pointed right at the top of my head. I knew we were going to die here, together. I couldn’t watch Tommy die. I looked up toward the sun, sinking down behind the trees across the river. I tried to close my eyes, but they wouldn’t stay.
Blood ran, warm and thick, through my hair and down my neck, feeling like clotting egg yolks, spreading out like a pink mold in the wetness of my T-shirt.
Chase walked over to Tom, still holding that little black wheel gun straight out in front of him; the same gun I had thrown into the trees across from the church—how long ago?
He stood there, I could see his face clearly, eyes fixed on Tom, looking down.
“You don’t look so good, Buller,” he said. Then I saw him spit on Tommy.
Tommy’s legs twitched.
“You better watch this, Stotts,” Chase yelled over to me. “ ‘Cause you know where I’m putting this gun right before I shoot you.”
Then Chase bent slightly and put the gun right up to Tom’s forehead.
And from somewhere in the trees behind me I saw a plum-sized rock whirring and spinning in the air, arcing a curve and then striking Chase Rutledge in the temple. The gun fluttered from his hand, bouncing off into the water, and Chase clutched his head, already spurting purple blood. He tripped across Tommy’s bent knees and toppled, trying to stop his fall with his hands against the slickness of the rocks, headfirst into that rushing white water.
“Jack! Jack!” Chase screamed from the water. I just saw one arm flail up and then he was gone.
Jack Crutchfield ran after him, tucking his gun into his pants. He stopped for a second over Tommy, glancing down at him with a grim and hateful sneer, then looked into the river.
“Jack!”
Jack stepped down through the rocks at the edge, his head lowering from my view like he was descending a staircase until I couldn’t see him anymore.
I heard Tommy say a kind of “huh?”—soft and low, like he was trying not to wake someone up. I pushed myself around and tried to get my left leg up under me. It hurt so bad. Then I saw Gabe moving quietly between the trees. He looked at me. I was so relieved to see my friend, so thankful for that arm of his, that for a minute I forgot about how hurt I was.
He went to Arrow and took Tommy’s gun out. He pulled the slide back, ejecting a round. There already was one in the chamber. He walked by me and brushed my hair with his hand, picked up my hat, holding the gun toward the water. My blood painted his upturned fingers. He rubbed it between them.
“God, Troy.”
“Go see Tom. Please, Gabey. Go see to him.”
Gabriel, every bit as wet as we were from that afternoon storm, walked silently toward Tommy, like he was standing on ice, holding the gun with both hands, pointing to where Jack had gone down to the water.
“Gabey. Gabey,” Tommy said faintly. Gabriel looked down at him quickly, but kept his eyes fixed on the river. He walked over to the edge, standing up straight, and I could see him very clearly, looking down the rushing course of the water.
“They’re gone,” he said, and turned back to me. “They’re both gone.”
I tried to pull myself toward the river.
“Tom! Tommy!”
He wasn’t moving.
I scooted along the wet ground, dragging my right leg, digging in with my fingernails and kicking myself forward with my left foot. Gabriel knelt down beside Tommy, looked over to see me crawling, set the gun down carefully at his side. H
e touched Tommy’s hand, resting on his belly.
“Tommy?” he said.
I could hardly see, the tears were pooling in my eyes. I felt snot running from my nose, the blood warm and slippery on my neck, and the pain in my leg so intense I could vomit. I made it to Tommy’s side. His leg straightened out on the ground. I propped myself up so I could see his face. I was crying, sure I was seeing my friend shot to death.
He opened his eyes. The bullet had passed clean through his shoulder, just above his collarbone. I forgot about my leg and grabbed his head with both of my hands.
“Oh my God, Tom. I thought he shot you in the head.”
I brushed his hair back from his brow, amazed there was no bullet hole there.
“Did I get shot?” he said weakly.
“Clean through,” Gabe said. “That’s better, I think.” Gabe pressed down on Tommy’s shoulder, wadding up his shirt as he did. “You’re bleeding bad, Tom. We should sit you up.” He started to pull Tommy up, then let him lay back when he yelled with the hurt. Gabriel exhaled a deep breath and looked nervously downriver again. “Jesus, he was going to kill you. Kill you both.”
“Gabey saved you,” I said. “You shoulda seen that rock he threw. I never seen anyone get hit so hard in the head. It sounded like a balloon popping. I could kiss you, Gabey.”
And Gabe just looked at us both and said, “How am I gonna get you down?”
I leaned away from them and threw up.
“It feels like my leg’s caved in.” I put my head down on my outstretched arm. I felt sleepy, but knew I should try to keep my eyes open. I saw the brim of my hat lying on the ground where it had fallen as I crawled across that slick granite, and I could see it was soaked through with blood from the inside.
“Did I get shot?” Tommy said again.
“You’ll be okay, Tom. You’ll be okay,” Gabe said. “I’d just like to know how the hell I’m going to get you two down from here.”
“What happened to them?” I said.
“They went in the water,” Gabe said. “I don’t know. They’re just gone.”
“You keep that gun, Gabey,” I said.
“You keep it, Troy. Just in case,” he said. “Their horses are tied back over there.” He nodded in the direction he had thrown that rock from. “I’m gonna see if they got anything there that can help with Tommy’s bleeding. Keep the gun here. I’ll be right back.”
Gabe picked up the gun and set it down on the ground near my left hip and ran off into the woods, leaving us both lying there, bleeding and breathing heavily, by the side of that roaring water.
“Stotts, I think I need to sit up. I can’t feel my arm.” Tommy tried to push himself up to a sitting position with his left hand. I pushed his back, and as he sat up I saw all that blood, covering his back and pooled up where he had been lying. His face was white.
I pulled myself up next to him.
“That’s not good, Tom.”
He rolled his eyes to me, keeping his neck rigid. “You got blood all over. Turn your head.”
I could barely move it, it felt like I opened it up when I did.
“You got a cut back there at least four inches,” he said. “Deep, too.”
“That’s not good, either.” I touched his shoulder lightly and said, “Does that hurt much?”
“I’m on fire. I feel it in my arm and my back and under my ribs. It’s hard to breathe.”
“I’m gonna press on it back here. It’s bleeding pretty good.”
I reached around his shoulder with my right hand and pressed my palm down over the spot where the small hole showed in the back of his T-shirt. I put my fingers over the top to squeeze the other side and Tommy jolted and took a couple short painful breaths.
“I’m sorry.”
“How many times you gonna say that today, Stotts? I’m sorry, too. What happened to you there?” He was looking at my legs. My right foot twisted in, looking disconnected.
“Reno broke my leg.”
“I swear to God I always knew he was trying to kill you.” Tommy pulled his knees up to his chest, but it hurt and he stretched his legs back out in front of him again. He sighed. “What a mess. We’re all messed up, bud.”
“You’ll be okay, Tom. You have to be okay.” I wiped my face on the back of my left hand.
Gabriel emerged from the woods, a leather saddlebag slung over his shoulder.
“I let those horses go. Just in case they…” He stopped. “I got some good stuff.”
Tom half whispered, “Fix us up, Doctor Gabey.”
Gabe sat down eagerly in front of us and opened the bag.
“First things first.” He produced a half-full bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He unscrewed the top and gave it to Tommy. Tommy took the bottle in his left hand, head still bent forward in pain, unable to lift his chin.
“I’m supposed to remind you about that,” I said.
“Please let me have some. I promise not to sing.” He tipped the bottle, chin down, so the whiskey spilled a bit down into his lap. He winced as he swallowed, but he took three big gulps, then lowered his head and passed the bottle to me. He turned it over and looked at the black-and-white label. “It’s even got your number on it.”
I love you so much, Troy Stotts. Rider number seven.
“They didn’t have anything for first aid or nothing,” Gabe said.
“They had this.” I drank and gave the bottle back to Tom.
“Give me that knife of yours.”
“It’s in my back pocket,” I said and shifted so Gabe could unclip it.
Gabriel unfolded the knife and began to cut away at Tom’s shirt around the wound. I pulled my hand back with the bit of shirt sticking to my palm from the glue of his blood. The holes were small and angry-looking, still oozing blood, with the flesh around them appearing yellow and dead.
“It looks like that was a twenty-two, maybe,” I said. “It’s small.”
Tom took another swallow and turned his chin down, trying to see the hole in the front of his shoulder. “It doesn’t feel small to me.”
He was feeling better now, so was I. I took the bottle from him and drank some more whiskey.
“Give me that,” Gabe said, and I swear I saw Tommy look up with shock in his eyes when Gabriel took the bottle from me. And I realized Gabriel wasn’t going to drink it, but when he saw us both look at him like that, I think he changed his mind. He held his breath and tipped the bottle up.
And he didn’t even wince or make any sound, either. He wiped his mouth and then turned the bottle over and poured some whiskey on Tom’s shoulder. Tommy just about jumped out of his clothes, too, when that alcohol hit the wounds.
“Sorry,” Gabe said. He pulled some socks and a T-shirt out of the bag. “Sorry about using my socks, but they’re clean.” He wadded up the socks, putting one on each side of Tom’s shoulder, and I held them there while Gabe tore at the T-shirt and tied it around Tommy’s neck and looped under his armpit tightly.
“You’re next,” he said to me, and he got up and walked around behind me. I heard him pour whiskey on a piece of shirt cloth and I braced myself.
“That needs stitches. I don’t think there’s anything we can do about that cut.”
Then he pressed the whiskey-soaked cloth against the back of my head. I jerked forward from the stinging, and it hurt most when he wiped away the blood that had clotted in my hair. I could feel tears leaking from my eyes.
“That’s bad,” he said.
“It’ll be worse if you used up all the whiskey.”
“Sorry, Troy. We don’t have anything else that’s clean.” Gabriel pulled his T-shirt off and capped the collar over my bloody hair, then tied it back behind my head. I must have looked like some bloodied hermit, lost and wandering down from these mountains. I stared at him, a bare-chested blur while he worked over me, watching that little gold cross of his dance like a puppet from his neck. The shirt smelled like him; it made me feel better; and I felt the whiskey and the thr
um thrum thrum of my heart and the waves of pain and nausea flushing over me. I listened to the churning hum of the water rushing by, the wind whooshing through the trees. And that cross swinging and twinkling in between me and the river and the sky, like a hypnotist’s bauble.
He handed the bottle around to me. “You better wear your hat, Troy. It might keep it together till we get some help.” He placed the hat back on my head after wiping it out with his bare hand, tilted back with the front of the brim angled up.
Gabe looked down at his open palms, creases lined black with our blood. His mouth hung open; his stare fixed. He jerked his hands down slightly as if to shake them clean. He closed his eyes tightly.
I drank and gave the bottle to Tommy. I could feel the rush of the water through the granite ground, the sound vibrating through my body.
“Do you think I could splint that leg?”
“I think you could cut it off right about now if you wanted to.”
“I feel good now. Thanks, Gabey,” Tom said. “I think I could help you if you need me.”
Tom set the bottle down between us.
“Let’s get a splint on him and then we’ll make a sling for your arm, cause that ride’s gonna hurt you pretty bad. But we need to get down.”
Gabriel turned and walked back into the trees, looking for straight branches, I guessed. It only took him a minute and then he returned with two sticks he was measuring against his own leg. I took another drink, and somehow I almost felt like laughing. I looked down at Tommy’s gun, still resting beside me.
“Here, Gabey.” I handed him the gun. “Put this away.”
Gabriel ejected the magazine, then the chambered round. He reloaded it and tucked it into his side pocket. That was pretty smart, I thought.
“One reason you should wear a belt, Troy.” Gabe unbuckled his belt and slipped it out of the loops on his pants. “I’m taking yours, too, Tommy. Sorry. Now we’re gonna both be like this guy, always pulling up our pants,” And Gabriel took Tom’s belt off of him, then laid them down, and slid them under my leg. I gasped a little as he fed the ends under my broken leg. After he laid the branches on either side of my knee, he looped the belts through.
