by Chris Offutt
He was lying on his back, but it seemed impossible that he could fall from a standing position. His leg began to hurt and he touched it and found blood. He figured he’d walked into a bear trap. The pain grew, occupying his entire consciousness, and when it receded he understood that he’d gotten himself into a bad spot. Night would soon arrive. He knew he could not walk.
Brush scuffed behind him. “You stay lay there,” a voice said. “Well just wait, you son of a bitch.”
Joe didn’t move. He wondered how crazy the man was, and what he was waiting for. The weight of the little .32 towed Joe’s jacket pocket to the side and he hoped the man didn’t notice. Grass pricked the back of his neck. It felt rougher than grass at home, but he banished that thought; he was home. This was where he lived. Now this was where he’d die.
Clouds moved like tumbleweeds across the sky. He flexed his leg muscle and the pain raced through him like electricity. He closed his eyes. Hurried bootsteps pounded the earth. A man knelt beside him.
“You bad hurt?”
“Leg,” Joe said.
Two more men stepped into view. Joe recognized Owen from the tavern, Coop’s grandson. Beside him, with an expression of triumph on his face, stood Owen’s brother Johnny. He wore camouflage and held a small pistol, Joe couldn’t believe that in a state this big, he’d been shot by someone he’d met.
“I’m going to lift your leg,” the stranger said to Joe. “It might hurt, but I have to see where the bullet came out,”
The man probed the wound and a jolt of pain ran from Joe’s leg to his brain.
“We’re fucked twice and lucky once,” the man said. “Once by Johnny shooting him, and second by no exit wound. Bullet’s still in his leg.”
“What’s the lucky part?” Owen said, “Missed the artery.”
“Knocked him down with one shot,” Johnny said.
“You shouldn’t have shot him,” the man said.
“I thought he had a rifle, Frank.”
“Great,” Owen said. “You used his name.”
“It’s not a rifle,” Frank said. “It’s a fucking tool handle.”
“He’s probably a Fed.” Johnny said.
“That’s even more reason not to shoot him,” Frank said.
“Listen, Johnny,” Owen said. “You can’t just go around shooting people on account of who you think they are.”
“You don’t want to wind up like me,” Frank said.
Joe chuckled. They were discussing his fate and he’d just buried himself. He didn’t care what happened.
“All right,” Frank said. “We got to get him off the mountain and into a hospital.”
“No,” Joe said.
“What?”
“No hospital.”
Owen leaned close to Joe. “You got a bullet in you. Do you understand that?”
Joe nodded.
“We have to take you to the hospital.”
“No hospital.”
“You got a job?”
Joe shook his head.
“They’ll take care of you for free, then. Don’t worry about the money.”
“That ain’t it,” Joe said.
“This might work out,” Frank said. “If he don’t want a hospital, he probably won’t want the law either.”
“That right?” Owen said to Joe.
Joe nodded.
“That don’t leave a lot of outs.”
“One in his head’ll fix him,” Johnny said.
“Don’t say another damn word,” Owen said.
“What about Rodney?” Frank said.
“What about him,” Owen said.
“He’s got tools and medicine. He can dig a bullet out.”
“His wife won’t like it.”
“It’s not something she has to know.”
“Rodney’s a damn horse doc!” Johnny said.
“I thought I told you not to talk,” Owen said.
“Well, he is.”
“Give me your gun.”
Johnny handed him the pistol butt-first. Owen checked the safety and released the cylinder. He removed the remaining bullets and handed his brother the gun.
“Shit fire,” Johnny said. “I can’t do nothing with this.”
“That’s the idea, buckethead.”
Frank opened his pocketknife and cut Joe’s pants from the cuff to the wound. The fabric fell to the earth, heavy with blood.
“Leg’s not broke at least. Blood’s trying to clot already so we’ll help it along. Johnny, take off your jacket and give me your shirt.”
“Why me?”
“Listen, Johnny. You’re not catching on here. You just shot a man armed with a shovel handle. You’d best help us out of this tangle before it takes a bad turn.”
Johnny removed his jacket and flannel shirt and passed Frank his T-shirt. It was white, with the emblem of the Buffalo Bills on it. Frank sliced it into strips, made a compress bandage, and tied it tightly to Joe’s leg.
“You’ll have to walk a ways,” he said. “We got a rig parked on a fire road over there.”
Joe thought of the soldiers casting lots for Jesus’ robe and wondered if the robe cared who won. He’d probably feel better if Johnny went ahead and shot him in the head.
Owen and Frank squatted behind Joe, gripped his shoulders, and lifted. His leg fired a shot of pain up his body that exploded in his head. He leaned between the two men until he was able to put his weight on the good leg. Frank and Owen moved across the grassy basin with Joe swaying between them, swinging his good leg forward and back. The other one hung straight down, streaked with blood. He watched his boot pass large rocks rolled from their sockets in the earth.
“Bear sign,” he muttered.
“Don’t worry,” Owen said. “We got Johnny.”
“He’ll shoot or talk him to death,” Frank said. “How’s the leg?”
“Shot.”
They circled the basin’s rim to a faint trail up the slope. Frank and Owen laced their arms behind Joe’s back and tucked their hands in his armpits, making a sling. They moved uphill slowly, all three grunting when Joe leaned his full weight on them to bring his good leg forward. He felt oddly close to them.
They reached a rise and stepped through a dense stand of fir. The boughs tore at Joe’s face. They stood on a rough dirt road beside a truck that appeared to be outfitted for everything but the sea. There was a winch on each bumper. The tires were jacked high for two feet of clearance. The bed was covered with tin that rose to a peaked roof, and the exterior carried drums of water and gasoline lashed to eye-bolts. Every surface was painted flat shades of green and black.
Owen opened the rear and folded down two metal steps. He climbed inside. Joe sat on the steps and leaned backwards, Frank lifted his legs as Owen dragged him inside. Joe’s pants were red and wet, the wound having bled through the T-shirt. He lay on a thin mattress.
Beside him were shelves of canned food, cookware, rope, weapons, and tools. A propane lantern hung from the ceiling. Several metal ammo boxes sat in a row, It was a Conestoga wagon crossed with a tank. Frank opened an elaborate first-aid kit and passed Joe four aspirin and water. He removed the makeshift bandage, squeezed ointment onto the wound, and applied a sanitary bandage.
“You’re doing good,” Frank said.
“Track’s high enough, ain’t it.”
“That Owen, he likes to ride over a dogfight and not hit the dogs.”
A hatch opened between the cab and the rear of the truck. Owen spoke through the gap.
“You all right?” he said.
“Good to go,” Frank said.
“It’ll be rough the first quarter mile.”
“He’s already over the rough part.”
“Maybe,” Owen said. “I’d like it better if that bullet had gone on out.”
“My fault.”
Owen closed the hatch and put the truck in gear.
“It ain’t your fault,” Joe said.
“Yes it is, I was in a bar once and
two bikers got in an argument. One pulled a .25 and emptied the clip. The other guy was wearing a leather jacket and it stopped every bullet. Took six rounds. That’s why I gave Johnny a .25, and that’s why the bullet stayed in your leg. It ain’t much of a weapon. My fault,”
“Next time give him a pellet gun.”
“There won’t be a next time,”
“I ain’t saying nothing against him, but maybe he’s a guy who wants a next time.”
“No, Johnny doesn’t think that way. He lives right now all the time.”
The big engine rumbled, and the track jerked forward. Joe clenched his teeth at the vibration. His leg bounced jolts of pain along his body. The lantern swayed above his head.
“Johnny’s not somebody you need to worry about,” Frank said. “He’s just Johnny. Kind of twitchy and kind of mouthy. But I’m sorry you got hit.”
“What was I, trespassing or something?”
“Not exactly. It’s federal land.”
“Then we all own it.”
“That’s how I look at it,” Frank said.
“Land’s land.”
“You pay taxes and the government still tells you what you can and can’t do on your own spread.”
“I don’t own nothing,” Joe said.
“That’s one way.”
“What’s another?”
“Were you in the service?”
Joe didn’t answer, although without the distraction of talk, his leg hurt more. He felt weak. He realized that he might die, and was surprised that he didn’t want that. Getting shot on the mountain was one thing, but bleeding to death in a truck was another.
“How far’s the vet?” he said.
“Not far.”
“Tell Johnny I don’t hold it against him.”
“You can tell him.”
“I mean if I don’t get a chance to.”
“You’ll come out of this,” Frank said. “You got the right spirit. I seen it in Asia—the right and the wrong. It’s all in your attitude toward Mr. Death.”
“Fuck him.”
“Exactly,” Frank said. “You got it.”
“I’m starting to get light-headed.”
“You lost blood.”
“It hurts some, too.”
“Fucking Johnny.”
“It don’t matter.”
The track hit a pothole, and Joe’s leg lashed him with pain.
“What were you doing up there?” Frank said.
“Trying to dig. The shovel broke.”
“It would against that rock.”
“It ain’t even my shovel.”
“You got bigger worries than that.”
“I guess.”
“This vet we’re taking you to, he mostly works on horses. You know what they do to a horse in your shape.”
“Well, don’t let Johnny do it. He might miss.”
“What’s your name?”
“Joe.”
“You talk pretty big for a man with a bullet in him, Joe.”
“I deserve it.”
“You got something against your leg?”
“That ain’t what I meant.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing. Just that I was due for a bullet. You think Johnny was aiming for my leg?”
“No telling.”
“I heard about a blind man back home left a bar with his girlfriend. Somebody tried to rob him in the parking lot. He pulled a pistol and started firing. Shot the robber. Shot his girlfriend. Shot himself in the foot.”
Frank laughed. “Where’d this happen?”
Joe didn’t answer. He was from. Montana now. He had a private graveyard and he was building history. For the first time in six months, he didn’t feel alone.
The track left the fire road for gravel. The rattle of objects dulled to a steady murmur of metal and wood. Joe closed his eyes. He heard Frank’s voice moving through the dimness in the truck.
“Breathe in long and slow,” he said. “Take it deep in your body. Send the clean air to your leg. Now breathe out slowly. Take the bad air out. Bring the good air back. Long breaths slow.”
The truck was roiling on blacktop now, and Joe was getting cold. He wanted to sleep. The truck jolted to a stop and Owen opened the rear door. Light spread through the interior, washing shadows, glinting on metal. Briefly, Joe thought he was in Kentucky, camping with Boyd. He lifted his head and saw his leg glistening in the sun. It hurt. He lay back.
Owen brought a tall man who looked inside and shook his head.
“Not in the office,” he said. “The old lady’s in there. Go around to the barn and I’ll bring a bag. This is fucked, by the way.”
“I know it,” Frank said. “But it’s where we’re at right now.”
Owen and Frank helped Joe outside. He was very weak. His leg felt like a heavy weight. They walked him across a barn’s dirt floor and laid him on a makeshift examining table. The tall man entered, carrying a satchel. He snipped away the bandages on Joe’s leg, administered a local anesthetic, and cleaned the wound. He checked Joe’s temperature and listened to his chest.
“He’s lost plenty of blood,” he said. “But it looks worse than it is. He’s not in shock yet.”
“What about the bullet?” Frank said.
“I’ll have to probe but it’s close to the bone, I can tell you that right now,”
The tall man leaned to Joe’s face.
“I’m Rodney,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Joe Tiller. This is where I live,”
“Sure, Joe. I’m going to look inside the wound. It’s going to hurt, but not much. Mainly you’ll feel the instruments. If it hurts too bad, we’ll give you more anesthetic.”
Joe felt the instrument pushing his flesh, and bursts of pain that were dull and distant. He smelled hay and horse manure, a comforting scent. The rafters overhead were bare.
“Hell’s fire,” Rodney said, stepping away from Joe.
“What,” Owen said.
“The bullet’s right against the bone.”
“So.”
“I can’t get it out.”
“You have to.”
“I’ve done what I can,” Rodney said. “He’s stable. There’s no danger of infection for twelve hours. It needs to be X-rayed and removed at the hospital.”
“He doesn’t want to go.”
“He doesn’t, or you don’t want him to,”
“Both.”
Rodney switched his attention to Joe.
“Joe, this bullet’s hung up in there, and I’m not able to get it out.”
Joe remained silent.
“Do you hear what I’m saying,” Rodney said.
“Help me sit,” Joe said.
Rodney lifted him into a sitting position. Joe slipped his hand into his coat pocket. The small .32 was cold to his touch. He swiveled his body until he was able to dangle his bad leg off the table. It didn’t hurt so bad. He pulled the pistol from his pocket and everyone became still. He gestured to Rodney.
“Back away a little.”
Rodney moved to the wall. He was calm and slow, and Joe knew that he was probably very good with animals. He waved the gun at the knot of men.
“Son of a bitch,” Owen said. “At least now we know he ain’t no Fed.”
“What do you mean?” Johnny said.
“Look at that little gun,” Owen said. “Our sister carries a bigger one than that.”
“You can’t shoot us all before we get you,” Frank said.
“Hush now,” Joe said.
He was having trouble thinking clearly. Owen and Frank were the chief threats. He aimed the pistol at Johnny.
“Owen, you and Frank get out of here.”
“He’s bluffing,” Owen said.
“I don’t think so,” Frank said. “Me and him had quite the talk in back. He don’t much give a shit right now. I don’t blame you either, Joe. Tell me what you want.”
“I want you two out. Then Rodney. Then Johnny.”
Owen moved sideways to the doorway and stepped through it, Frank followed him.
“Stay where I can see you,” Joe said. “Now you, Rodney.”
Rodney slowly joined the men in the barn. Johnny’s forehead was wet with sweat. His camouflage pants quivered at the knees.
“I’m not going to shoot you,” Joe said. “Just back on out there with them.”
Johnny didn’t move. His eyes were wide and his face was very white. He moved his mouth but couldn’t talk.
“Help him, Rodney,” Joe said. “But do it easy.”
Rodney took Johnny’s arm in a gentle grasp and tugged him backwards.
“Everything’s got to go real slow,” Joe said.
Owen glanced at a pitchfork and Joe shook his head.
“No,” Joe said. “It’s not what you think. I can’t go to a hospital. None of us want the law involved. I’m sorry about scaring your brother.”
Joe gathered a deep breath. He lowered the pistol to his bad leg and pressed the barrel into the wound. It felt the same as when Rodney had probed. He held the gun at an angle that matched the entry channel. He caught a sweet scent on the breeze and wondered what grass the horses had been eating.
“Rodney,” Joe said. “I have to trust you to help me afterwards.”
He took another breath. He began a long slow exhalation, and at the end, just as he’d been taught by his father, he slowly squeezed the trigger. There was a terrible roar in the small space. He felt as if someone had struck his leg with a crowbar. He was briefly aware of falling from the table when his perception grew dark at the edges and closed in on itself.
17
* * *
He felt nothing. His mind and body were gone, leaving only the faintest sense of space and time. A light was a speck in the vast darkness. Joe willed himself toward it. The light became bright and turned into a rectangle, its edges shimmering. He strained to see it and as weakness took him, he understood that it was a window holding sunlight within its frame.
Later he became aware of a coolness on his face, of someone near him. His leg hurt. He was thirsty.