Some Kind of Courage

by Dan Gemeinhart

  I felt a warm stickiness on my arm and sat back in the mud, letting her go.

  The bullet had got her right in her neck. Right in the middle, between her shoulder and her head.

  It was a wet, seeping wound, blood spilling out like struck oil. It matted in her mane and stained her white parts red.

  “Oh, Sarah,” I said through tears. Her breath was slowing down, gasp by gasp. I didn’t like how her mouth hung open, how her tongue just flopped out in the mud. “Oh, Sarah, no.”

  She was my Sarah, my half-wild Indian pony. She was my memory, my family, my home. I’d gone all that way, all those miles, through all that hardship, to have her back with me where she belonged. And now I was losing her.

  The hooves of running horses came upon us fast and fierce, but I didn’t even look up. My eyes and my heart were locked steady on my horse, lying there suffering.

  “Hands up!” a voice hollered, but I kept my hands soft on poor sweet Sarah. She needed to know I was there, with her. “Hands up!” the voice shouted again. Though I didn’t raise my hands, I did finally raise my head and look up at the voice through hot tears.

  “You shot my horse,” I said, my voice broken. The man sat high on a black horse. He was holding a rifle pointed straight at me. He was tall and thin, with a big bushy salt-and-pepper mustache above his tight mouth and a shining silver star pinned to his chest. More men on horseback came up behind him and spread out to either side, guns drawn on me.

  The man squinted at me through the dim light and falling rain, and his mouth slowly fell open. He lowered his gun and swore.

  “It ain’t Fawney,” he said to the other men, who lowered their guns as well. “It’s the boy. It’s just the boy.” He swore again.

  “You shot my horse,” I repeated.

  The man looked down at Sarah, bleeding out in the mud.

  “I’m sorry, son. You came charging up toward us. Bareback on that red-and-white pony, wearing that hat. We thought you was Caleb Fawney.”

  He hopped down off his horse with a squeak of saddle leather and walked over to where I knelt. He looked down for a moment, then sighed and swore, and I heard him cock a round into his rifle’s chamber.

  “Step aside, son,” he said.

  I spun around. He held his gun ready, his finger on the trigger.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded.

  The man’s face was grim, his eyes sorrowful.

  “I’m putting yer horse out of her misery.”

  “No! You can’t kill her!”

  The man sighed a heavy sigh from the bottom of his lungs.

  “I’m afraid I already did. She’s suffering. Now go ahead and get on outta the way so I can end it.”

  “I won’t let you! I won’t let you shoot her!”

  He looked into my eyes. His were dark and somber, but there weren’t no meanness in them. They reminded me of Papa’s, after Mama and Katie died.

  “Listen. You ain’t doing her no favors. She’s shot through the neck. Look at the blood, boy. The only way to take care of her now is to let her go. That’s what you gotta do. You gotta let her go. So the hurtin’ can stop. It ain’t a cruelty, son … it’s a mercy.”

  I looked at him, my lungs heaving. My eyes wet and hot. Feeling so much. Remembering so much. Remembering Papa and Mama, and Katie. I tried to feel them, tried to reach out with my heart and feel my parents and my sister. I tried to know what to do.

  And I did. I knew. I sure enough knew. I knew how Papa would want me to take care of my horse, even if it was hard. Even if it was the hardest thing in the world. And I knew how Mama would always expect kindness from me above all else, even if it was painful. And I knew that Katie would never be able to stand seeing our sweet Sarah suffer.

  I was soaked right through with rain. When I spoke, my teeth chattered.

  “All right,” I said, my voice a weak croak. “All right.”

  I turned back to my Sarah. Her breathing had calmed down to a weak, regular rhythm.

  “Oh, girl,” I said, choking. I ran my hands up her neck, scratched my fingers into her mane. “Oh, my sweet girl.” I bent down, pressing my head against hers, pressing my chest against her neck. My tears flowed down onto her skin just like her blood flowed down onto the muddy ground.

  It was all with me, there. All of it. My memories, my very earliest memories of riding her and loving her. My memories of her and me and Papa and Mama. And Katie. Katie, who adored her like nothing else. How gentle Sarah was, how sweet. But how strong and fast and stubborn, too. I thought of Ezra Bishop whipping her, because she wouldn’t leave me behind.

  “You are the best horse in the whole world,” I whispered into her mane. “The very best.” Her breathing was ragged and broken. I squeezed her neck in a hug, like I could hold her tight enough to keep her there with me, among the living. “I love you.”

  I was sure enough saying good-bye to that horse. I was squeezing her tight, but at the same time I was sure enough letting her go.

  I thought of sunsets and leaves and how they’re even more beautiful when they’re dying.

  Through my shirt, through the rain and her blood, I felt my Sarah’s heart beating.

  But it didn’t really feel like a whole beat.

  It only felt like half a heartbeat.

  I felt the other half, in my own chest.

  Our two hearts beat together—ba-pum, ba-pum, ba-pum—a deeper rhythm under the tapping of the raindrops on leaves and dirt and hat brims and horses.

  We lay there, our hearts beating together, her blood on both of us.

  I felt her heart, felt my Sarah’s heart, beating between us.

  And it didn’t feel like it was dying.

  It didn’t feel like that at all.

  I leaned back and looked into her eyes. There was trust in those eyes. And love. And there was a calmness there, too, and a steady strength.

  “All right,” I whispered to her.

  I sat back on my heels.

  “Out of the way now, son. You can look away if you want to.”

  “No,” I said. “I was ready to say good-bye, sir, if I had to. But she ain’t ready. She ain’t ready yet. She’s still got more living to do.”

  “Now, son, she’s got a bullet in her neck and—”

  “Is there a horse doctor in Yakima?” I interrupted.

  “Well, yeah, of course. But Doc Stevens ain’t gonna come all the way out here to see a horse that’s just short of already dead.”

  “But if I took Sarah to him, he’d see her?”

  “Sure he would, but, hell, boy, look at her. She won’t make it to Yakima. She won’t even make it to standing up.”

  “Yes. She will. If I ask her to.”

  I crouched down by her head, and we looked into each other’s eyes again.

  “You ready, girl?” I asked. She blinked.

  I rubbed my hand up the bridge of her long nose and then grabbed hold of her bridle.

  “Let’s get up, Sarah. Come on.”

  She lifted her head off the ground. Then her neck. I rose with her, staying close, keeping my hands and my eyes on her. She brought her front legs up under her. Then she sat there, breathing hard.

  “Good girl,” I said. “That’s my girl.”

  Then, with a grunt and a heave and probably with the help of an angel or two, my Sarah stood up with all four hooves in the mud.

  She stood there, breathing hard and with her head down, but sure enough standing up.

  “Well, I’ll be,” the man said behind me.

  “Doc Stevens, you said his name was?” I asked. “In Yakima?”

  “Yeah. Does people, mostly, but horses when he needs to.”

  “Thank you, sir. You are the posse, right, lawfully appointed?”

  “Yes, we are. I am Sheriff McLeary, and I’ve deputized these men here in the pursuit of the wanted outlaw Caleb Fawney.”

  I pulled the sack of money out from my satchel and handed it up to him.

  “Here’s the
money he stole from Mr. Campbell. This gray here is also Mr. Campbell’s.” I nodded toward the stallion. “I’d appreciate you seeing he gets back to him.” Next I pulled Mr. Fawney’s pistol out, and handed that up, too. “And this here’s Mr. Fawney’s gun.” The sheriff took the sack and pistol without saying a word, his eyebrows raised. “You’ll find Mr. Fawney up the trail a ways, ’bout two hundred yards up the draw. He’s badly wounded, but not yet dead when I left him.”

  The sheriff whistled, low and surprised.

  “He fall off his horse or something?”

  “No, sir. I shot him.”

  The sheriff’s mouth dropped open, but it seemed he was out of words. He just sat there looking at me.

  “Now I best be getting this horse to the doctor,” I said. I picked up Mr. Fawney’s hat from where it lay in the mud and put it on my head, then walked away through the posse still up on their horses, leading my wounded Sarah behind me.

  When we got to Yakima, the doctor said that there was nothing he could do.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, pursing his lips and shaking his head.

  “Sir,” I replied, “I walked this horse five miles through the rain and the mud to get her to you. She’s got strength in her. She’ll live, if you treat her.”

  “There’s a bullet in her neck! She can barely stand!” he protested. “I’m sorry, son, but there’s just no way. I’d have to get that bullet out. And clean the wound. And stitch it up. Ain’t no horse gonna put up with that. Ain’t enough whiskey or morphine in the world to keep a horse calm enough to get through all that.”

  “I’ll keep her calm for you, doctor. And I’ll keep her standing. Please, sir.”

  “She’ll have to be still. She’ll have to be still through it all. Ain’t no way she’s gonna stand still if I’m digging a bullet out and putting in stitches.”

  “She’ll stay still, sir. If I ask her to. She’ll do it for me. Please.”

  Doc Stevens had been home, eating his lunch, when I’d come a-knocking. We were standing just outside his front door. Sarah was standing, head bowed, in his little front yard. She was a sure enough sorry-looking sight. One side of her was covered all in mud from where she’d been lying. The other was caked in dried blood from her bullet wound.

  The doctor shook his head, looking at her. He looked back at me. He blew out his breath.

  “Fine. I’ll do what I can, if you can keep her standing, and standing still.”

  “Thank you, sir! Thank you!”

  He held up a hand.

  “Don’t thank me, son. I’m telling you, she ain’t gonna make it. She’s lost a lot of blood, and she’s about to lose even more. But we’ll do what we can. Bring her on around to the stable in the back. I’ll get my things.”

  The stable was dark and musty and smelled like it was seldom used. The doctor brought a flickering lantern in with him and hung it from a hook, casting a yellow light into the cramped space.

  “All right,” he said, zipping open a black leather bag and pulling out a variety of metal tools. “Let’s get to it. I’ll work just as long as she can stay still. When she gets to bucking and stomping, I’m putting her down. It’d be cruel not to.”

  I swallowed. My broken heart quivered at his words, but I kept my voice as strong as I could.

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  I stood right in front of my Sarah, right square in front of her. I put both my hands on her cheeks and bent in close, locking my eyes on hers, big and brown. Her breathing calmed, and we both stood, each looking at the other.

  “Stay with me, Sarah,” I whispered right down into her heart. “Stay right here with me.”

  The doctor moved around over by her neck, over by that bleeding bullet hole. His hands came up, each holding metal. He paused, and from the corners of my eyes I could see him look up at me.

  “You ready, son?”

  I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead up against Sarah’s. I held her head tight in my hands. I touched my lips to the coarse fur of her nose. I said every prayer I’ve ever said or am ever gonna say, without saying a word. I felt for her heartbeat through my hands and found it and held it and added my own into it, so we were together.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “We are ready.”

  And with a sigh and a breath, the doctor went to work.

  Sarah tightened under my hands. Her muscles went all taut and her head started to pull back but I held it tight. I opened my eyes and looked right into hers and I held her tight, and strong, and steady.

  “Easy,” I whispered. “Easy, girl. Stay with me, Sarah.”

  Her eyes rolled and her nostrils flared and her breath came hot and fast but she stayed with me. She held steady with me. Her lips curled and her mouth opened but she stayed with me.

  “That’s it. That’s it.” I scratched at her jaw with my fingernails and kept my palms tight and warm against her.

  “All right,” the doctor said, stepping back and wiping at his forehead with his sleeve. “The bullet’s out. Now I’ll have to clean it. That’ll sting something awful. Then it’s stitches.”

  “Go, sir. We’re ready.”

  He cracked his knuckles and reached for more tools and a little bottle.

  “Here we go,” he said.

  Sarah stomped and her head reared back, but I caught her and held her. She let out a whinny, high and hurting, but I held her and she stayed still for me. I blinked away the tears that sprang to my eyes.

  “It’s all right, Sarah. It’s all right.” I squeezed my eyes shut and my head dropped down against hers and I let the tears seep through my lashes and down my cheeks. “It’s all right, girl.”

  I could hear Doc Stevens working, could hear him bustling and breathing and licking his lips. He was hurrying as best he could, I could tell, and I was grateful.

  “Almost there,” he said. I let go my hard grip on Sarah’s head. I rubbed my hands in slow, soft circles on her neck, her jaw, her cheeks. I whispered words to her, words of comfort and words of memory and words of promise. I blinked into her eyes and she blinked back into mine and we stayed together. We stayed together, Sarah and me, amidst all the world around us.

  “Done,” the doctor said, and a weepy, almost-crying kind of smile came to my face. I half laughed, half sobbed, and wiped my tears off on Sarah’s nose. The doctor took a step back and mopped his brow. His arms hung slack at his sides and he looked at me, shaking his head.

  “Son,” he said, “I declare I have never seen anything like that in all my days. A horse, standing still for stitches like that. And not bucking or kicking or nothing. Never seen anything like it.”

  “Well, you ain’t never seen nothing like my Sarah,” I said.

  “I have,” he answered. “I have seen plenty of horses in my day, all kinds. What I have never seen the likes of is you and that horse, together.”

  He sat back on a stool against the wall. Sweat was dripping down his neck and showing through on his shirt. I rested my cheek on Sarah’s head and smiled.

  “Now, son. We got the bullet out. And she’s still standing. But that’s about it. If I was a bettin’ man, I wouldn’t put my money on her making it through the night. I don’t want your hopes up, is what I’m saying. Your horse is still more than likely gonna die.”

  “No,” I said, calm. “She’s not.”

  The doctor shrugged.

  “Well. We’ll see. Come on inside, son. I’ll get you something to eat.”

  “No, thank you, sir. I’ll stay with her, if that’s all right.”

  He shrugged again.

  “Suit yourself. There’s oats in the bin there and the well’s out back. If you can get anything in her, that’d be good. I’ll check on you both this evening.”

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome.” He patted Sarah on her back. “Good luck, horse.”

  * * *

  I did not leave Sarah’s stall the rest of that whole day. Or the night that followed, cold as
it was. The good doctor brought me a blanket and some food and I slept right there on the stable floor, in a pile of straw, with my horse. I remembered Papa, never leaving Mama and Katie’s side. And Ah-Kee never leaving Mrs. Davidson. Taking care is what we do, I s’pose. It’s all we can do, really. All we can do is be there. And sometimes that’s enough.

  I kept waking all night long, jumping up with a start and feeling for Sarah in the darkness, reaching for her to make sure she was still standing, still with me. And she was, every time.

  At some point I must have finally fallen into a sure enough deep sleep, because I awoke to the doctor creaking open the stable door and letting in the light of full-on morning. I jumped right up to my feet.

  Sarah was there, still standing, but with her head low and her mouth open, breathing ragged.

  “Well, I’ll be,” the doctor said, slapping Sarah lightly on the rump. “Look who’s still here. Glad to see I was wrong about you again, horse.” He looked over at me, rubbing my eyes and yawning the sleep out of my head. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  The sheriff walked in and nodded at me. His tall frame filled up the shadowy stable.

  “Morning, son,” he said, holding out his hand. I shook it and nodded back.

  “Good morning, sir.” He cocked an eyebrow at Sarah and shook his head. “I see this horse of yours is still breathing,” he said, with a half smile hiding under his bushy mustache. “She’s making me look pretty foolish.”

  “No, sir.” I grinned back. “But I s’pose she’s making me look pretty smart.”

  He chuckled and held an envelope out to me.

  I took it, then looked inside. I gasped. In the envelope was money. And plenty of it.

  “What’s this, sir?”

  “That there is your reward, paid by the U.S. Marshal and the State of Washington. For the capture of one Caleb A. Fawney. Two hundred and fifty dollars, paid in full. Doc here is my witness.”

  I blinked and swallowed and looked up at him.

  He frowned.

  “I kinda thought you’d be pleased. That’s a nice little sum of money.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s just … well, how I got it, I s’pose. I never thought I’d kill a man, is all. And I certainly never thought I’d get paid for it.”