Savage

by Richard Laymon

  “He’ll draw scavengers.”

  “Then let’s get shut of him.”

  After finishing our smokes, we went over to the German and dragged him by his heels to the river. We waded out a few paces, then let him go. The current sailed him off.

  We washed our hands and returned to the buckboard. We hefted it up on its side. All the cargo was gone, but that came as no surprise.

  We gave the wagon a shove. It crashed down on its wheels. One wheel was busted before we started and another gave out when it fell. They were both at the rear, so the wagon had quite a slant. But it was dandy for our purpose. We crawled into the shade underneath it and stretched out.

  Me and Jesse, side by side.

  We lay there and looked at each other for a spell. She eased an arm over and took hold of my hand.

  We were safe. We were together. I figured we had some tough times ahead of us, but everything seemed just fine right then.

  I drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Mule

  Waking up, I was all hot and groggy and felt like I’d been asleep for a month. Jesse wasn’t beside me any more. That worried me and cleared my head. I rolled over and crawled out into the blazing sunlight.

  Not only had Jesse gone missing, but so had the Henry rifle.

  I figured she might’ve wandered over to cool off at the river. General was there, taking a drink. But I couldn’t see hide nor hair of Jesse.

  At the shore, I looked up and down the river.

  No Jesse.

  Nobody else was in sight, either, which came as a relief. We sure didn’t need any more trouble, not after all we’d been through.

  More than likely, she’d taken the rifle to do herself some hunting.

  I got shed of my hat, gunbelt and boots, but kept my shirt and pants on so they’d get wet and keep me cool for a while afterward. Besides, I didn’t fancy being naked on account of Jesse might come back and see me that way.

  Then I waded into the water. It wasn’t racing along furious any more, and had shrunk down considerable to where it was only about three times as wide as it had been before the storm. Nothing dead appeared to be drifting my way, so I had a drink. After that, I swam and floated about, enjoying the coolness.

  I’d just climbed onto a rock, figuring it was time to go searching for Jesse, when the bray of a mule caught my ears.

  It came from downstream.

  The mule wasn’t in sight yet, but the sound made me think it must be hidden by the outcropping about fifty yards south of me. Fearing there might be more than a mule, I ran for my gunbelt. No sooner was it buckled around my waist than the mule hobbled into view. Behind it walked Jesse, prodding it along with her rifle.

  The mule was having a rough time, grunting and braying as it struggled forward on three legs. It kept its left foreleg off the ground. The way the hoof wobbled, I judged the poor mule’s leg was broken at the knee.

  I got into my boots and hat while Jesse nudged the mule closer along the shore.

  “Look what I found us,” she called.

  “He won’t do us much good, being lame,” I said.

  “I don’t aim to ride him,” she said. “This old boy, he’ll keep us in meat for a week.”

  “You want to eat him?”

  “Gotta put the thing out of his misery, anyhow. No use letting him go to waste.”

  I couldn’t come up with any good argument against that.

  We stood him close to the water’s edge. Then Jesse shot him in the head. I was glad she didn’t ask me to do it. I’d plugged my share of men, but they’d all been fixing to kill me or my friends. This mule hadn’t done any harm. I felt sorry for it. From the look on Jesse’s face when the mule dropped, she wasn’t too happy, herself, about shooting it.

  After setting the rifle down, she commenced to roll up her sleeves. “You go on and build us a fire.”

  She pulled the Bowie knife out of her boot and knelt down beside the carcass.

  I hurried off, glad to get away. Instead of scrounging about for bits of wood, I broke up some of the buckboard. Jesse still had the German’s tobacco pouch with the matches. She was up to her elbows in blood, though, so I fetched matches out of my saddlebag. I found Snooker’s big knife in there, too, and used it to split some kindling.

  I made a neat pile of wood, and fired it up.

  The notion of eating mule didn’t set well with me. But meat was meat. While I watched the flames rise, I recollected that General Forrest had told me how the Apaches were more inclined to eat horses than ride them. They had an appetite for mules, too. According to him, though, they weren’t above eating rats. He sometimes called the Apaches “gut-eaters.” That didn’t speak well for their taste in vittles, but I allowed as how I’d rather eat mule than rat just about anytime at all.

  With such thoughts in my head about the Apaches, I suddenly recalled their trick of using horse guts for storing water.

  The flood had taken our water pouch.

  We couldn’t leave the creek behind if we didn’t have us a way to carry water. It ran from north to south, so following it wouldn’t get us any closer to Tombstone.

  We might head upstream, find the trail and wait for strangers. Somebody was sure to come along, by and by. Then we’d need to borrow, buy or steal a container.

  It seemed a mighty roundabout and dicey way to handle the problem. Better, by a far sight, to avail ourselves of the mule’s innards.

  I picked up my knife and went on over to where Jesse was busy carving. She’d already cut us a couple of steaks off the critter’s flank, and was slicing long, thin strips off the thigh.

  “We’ll have us these tonight,” she said, prodding one of the steaks with her knife, “and jerk the rest.” She nodded, quite pleased with herself. She had a smear of blood across her brow. I reckon she’d rubbed a hand there to deal with an itch.

  Not being any too eager to commence my task, I helped her cut some more strips.

  When we had quite a passel of them, we carried all the meat on over to the fire. We ripped a plank from the buckboard, cut it into a few long poles, and fashioned them into a rack. With that in place, we draped the strips rather high over the fire to let them smoke.

  Back at the creek, we washed up. Jesse didn’t seem aware of the blood on her forehead, so I dampened the front of my shirt and wiped it off.

  Looking me in the eyes, she reached up a wet hand and smoothed some stray hair across my brow. Then she curled the hand behind my neck, eased me closer to her, and kissed me on the cheek. My face heated up. I felt myself go all mushy inside.

  I had a good notion to take her in my arms and have a go at kissing her mouth, but she stepped away quick and said, “Reckon we oughta float the mule down the stream before it ripens on us.”

  My wits were still rattled. I just gaped at her.

  She swung out a hip and tipped her head sideways and studied me. She had a frown on her face, but her eyes gave it away that she was amused, not annoyed. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Not a thing, actually.”

  “You never been kissed before?”

  “Not by you.”

  “Well, don’t let it spoil your day. Come on, now, let’s send the mule off to join the German. Then we’ll cook up them steaks and…”

  “I’d prefer to eat first. We’ve already washed our hands, after all.”

  “Won’t take a minute. Then we’ll be shut of the thing.”

  “I’m afraid there’s a rather messy job that needs to be done before we dispose of the mule. It’s likely to ruin my appetite.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “We can fashion a water bag out of the guts.”

  She only just stared at me, scowling.

  “I know it’s rather appalling, but if we clean the intestine properly…”

  “Where’d you ever come up with such a notion?”

  “The General once told me about it.”

  “Your ho
rse?”

  “No, certainly not. General Matthew Forrest, an old Indian fighter. It was a trick the Apaches used.”

  “Sure wish I’d thought of it.”

  She was just full of surprises. “You think it’s a good idea, then?” I asked.

  “It’s just bully, that’s what I think. You’re right, though. We oughta eat before we settle down to meddle with the thing’s innards.”

  With that, we headed on back to the fire. The strips hanging in the smoke had already darkened some. Their drippings fell into the flames, popped and sizzled. Mule or not, the aroma set my mouth to watering.

  I added some wood to the fire. Then we cut a couple of sticks from the side of the buckboard, whittled points on the end of each one, and poked our steaks onto them. Jesse held both the steaks over the flames while I removed the whiskey bottle from my saddlebag.

  It was about half full.

  I held it up for Jesse, sloshed the whiskey around, and watched her smile.

  “This should help the steaks go down a spot better,” I said.

  Then I sat on the ground and took over my own share of the cooking. It wasn’t long before the slabs of meat were good and crispy on the outside. We swung them away from the flames, waited till they quit smoking, plucked them off their sticks, and commenced to rip into them with our teeth.

  If I hadn’t known my steak was mule, I would’ve known anyhow that it sure wasn’t beef. It was tough and stringy and had an ornery flavor.

  After a couple of mouthfuls, I was mighty appreciative of the whiskey.

  I took a swallow and offered the bottle to Jesse.

  She used one hand to take the steak away from her mouth. With the other, she wiped the grease and soot off her lips and chin. Looking at the bottle, she chewed real hard for a spell. She rolled her eyes upward, and kept on chewing.

  I grinned. “How’s supper?”

  “I’ve eaten worse,” she judged, her voice a bit muffled. After a grimace and a swallow, she took hold of the bottle.

  “This is better than rattlesnake?” I asked her.

  She had herself a sip, and gave the bottle back to me. “Didn’t say that.”

  We both took to laughing. Then we ate more mule and drank more whiskey. The more whiskey I drank, the better the mule tasted. Not that the critter ever did quite reach the stage where it gave me any great pleasure in the eating.

  I was glad to swallow the last of it and be done.

  “What we should’ve done,” I allowed, “was spare the mule and eat the German.”

  Jesse laughed so sudden and hard that it sprayed her last mouthful into the fire. I looked on, mighty pleased with myself till she commenced to choke. Then I pounded on her back. She took turns coughing and laughing for a while. When she finally got herself under control, her eyes were teary, her nose running. I fetched the bandanna out of my pocket. It was still moist from my swim in the creek. She used it to clean herself, then stuffed it into a pocket of her dungarees.

  “Didn’t want it back, did you?”

  “Consider it yours,” I told her.

  “You dang near killed me.”

  “I’m bound to kill you sooner or later,” I said. “I gave you fair warning yesterday, didn’t I?”

  When I said that, it took some of the fun out of matters. Not just for me, but for Jesse as well.

  She looked at me somber. “You’re a good man, Trevor Bentley. Don’t go running yourself down that way. Now let’s go and gut ourselves a mule.”

  “Let’s finish the whiskey first.”

  We passed it back and forth a couple of times. When it was empty, I held it up and said, “I don’t suppose this will hold enough water to suffice us on the trail.”

  “If you’ve got a few more like it.”

  “Only the one, I’m afraid. Though I did have an opportunity to purchase ten bottles of Glory Elixir a couple of days back.”

  “Glory Elixir?” she asked, getting to her feet.

  “Good for what ails you.”

  Then I told her about my encounter with Dr. Lazarus and Ely while we went over and got to work on the mule. She seemed to enjoy the tale, and telling it helped take my mind off our ghastly task.

  Not that it was all that ghastly for me.

  Jesse took it upon herself to slit open the mule’s belly and haul out the guts. Mostly, I stood guard. I wasn’t exactly worried that intruders might come along, but keeping watch gave me a reason to avert my eyes from the mess.

  The few times I did look, it put me in mind of poor Mary in her Whitchapel digs and poor Trudy the way she’d been the last time I saw her on the yacht. What with all my other troubles, it had been some time since I’d given much thought to Whittle.

  I wondered how many more women he’d butchered since those luckless ladies in Tombstone. And where was he now? And how was I to go about tracking him down?

  It wouldn’t be an easy trick, but I judged there was no advantage to worrying about it. For now, what mattered was to take care of a day at a time and get us safe to Tombstone.

  “How much of this do we want?” Jesse asked.

  I figured it was time to join in. We cut off two sections of intestine, each about a yard long, and stretched them out along the ground. They looked like a pair of slimy fire hoses.

  We mashed them flat to empty them, then laid them across a rock by the creek.

  After shucking off our boots and socks and rolling up our trouser legs, we picked up the guts and waded in.

  We held them under the surface so water flowed in one end and out the other. Kept them under for a long time. When we judged they were as washed out as they were likely to get, we tied a knot at one end of each and filled them up till they were swollen and heavy. Then we twisted them shut at the other end and lugged them back to the fire. With short pieces of the rope that the German had used to tie Jesse, we bound the twisted ends.

  We hefted the bloated tubes onto the buckboard, stepped back, and grinned at each other.

  “Looks like we got us traveling water,” Jesse said.

  “I’m quite surprised it worked, actually.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  No Rain, Storms Aplenty

  The sun went down while we packed some innards back inside the mule and dragged it to the water. We watched it float off toward the south, then washed ourselves and the knives. We carried our things back to the fire.

  We added some more wood and sat there, warming our bare feet.

  “It’s a shame we drank up all the whiskey,” I said.

  “We can have us a smoke.”

  So we rolled cigarettes and used a brand from the fire to light them up.

  “Hope it don’t rain,” Jesse said.

  Rain seemed mighty unlikely, so we had us a small laugh about her quip. Then we just sat quiet for a spell, enjoying our smokes. When our feet were dry, we got into our socks and boots. I broke some more wood off the buckboard to keep the fire going. Jesse took the whiskey bottle over to the creek and came back with it full. We passed it back and forth.

  I watched as she unwrapped the turban from around her head. She folded it, then rubbed her scalp and fluffed up her hair, which shone all golden in the firelight. “You never got to tell me about that feller you knifed in the alley,” she said. Then she pulled the hat off my head. She stuffed her cloth inside, and set my hat aside. “Let’s hear all about it.”

  It seemed like days ago that I’d commenced the tale of my adventures, only to get stopped by the downpour. It seemed like years ago that I’d been led by Sue into that East End alley. I spent a few moments collecting my memories, then took up the story where I’d left it off last night.

  This time, we didn’t have any storm or flashflood. Nothing interrupted. We sat by the fire, sometimes adding wood to it and sometimes having a sip of water, while I talked and talked. I didn’t stop with the fight in the alley, but went on and told about taking refuge in Mary’s digs, about Whittle and the ocean voyage and my escape from him at Gra
vesend Bay. I gave Jesse pretty much the same version as what I’d told McSween and the boys around the campfire that time I drank myself into a stupor and fell down. I went easy, though, telling about the murders. I only said Whittle’d cut the women’s throats, and didn’t let on about the way he’d butchered them.

  She asked questions now and again. Mostly, she just listened. About the time I had me and Sarah on the train heading west (of course, I didn’t tell her that we’d been more than friends), Jesse stretched herself out along the ground and rested her head on my lap.

  “Shall I quit now?” I asked.

  “Nope. Just getting comfortable.”

  So I plugged on, lying considerable about the trouble with Briggs, but coming back to the truth once he’d pitched me off the train. I told how I’d met up with the gang and got pulled into the robbery, all about “buying” General and the shootout at Bailey’s Corner, how we’d led the posse into a bushwhack, and finally about the attack on our camp.

  “Nothing much happened after that,” I finished, “until you came along and brained me.”

  “I sure am sorry about all your friends,” she said. “That was a mighty hard thing. But you oughta not go blaming yourself. McSween’s the feller that took General.”

  “Only on account of my needing a horse. If I hadn’t chosen to ride with the gang…”

  “Blame Briggs, then. He’s the snake that chucked you off the train. Or put the blame on Whittle. You got no call to be ashamed of anything you done, Trevor. Why, you’d still be home in England and wouldn’t none of it have happened except you took on Whittle to save that gal. The one he was fixing to kill on the street there. That’s how I see it, leastwise.”

  “I see it that way myself, sometimes,” I told her.

  “It ain’t rightly your fault Whittle killed them folks on the boat. Nor even that you shot up the posse. Those boys aimed to kill you, plain and simple. Wasn’t no better than murder, how they rode in and shot up the gang. The wonder’s that you lived through such a passel of close shaves.”

  “I just wish none of it had happened at all.”

  That was sure the wrong thing to tell Jesse.