The '49 Indian

by Craig Moody

  Gauge moaned as I pushed him into the cabin, blood streaming over the cracked leather seats like rain water greeting the dry desert floor. Curling his legs beneath him, I slammed the door shut and ran to the driver’s side.

  “You’re going to hell, faggot!” I heard a woman scream, looking up just in time to see our waitress, Peg, shouting the angry words.

  Jumping into the cab, I fired up the engine and tossed the truck into reverse.

  I smashed the gas, the squeaking vehicle obeying the shriek of the rubber tires as they slipped and struggled to grip the gravel of the pavement.

  I turned my head as we reversed, watching the mixture of confused and hateful faces as the tailgate of the pickup neared where they stood.

  I never hit the brake as I kicked the gearshift into drive, watching the screaming crowd break and disperse like a swarm of cockroaches at the flick of a light switch.

  A dust-filled cloud of debris rumbled over them as I smashed the pedal, lurching the time- worn truck across the parking lot like a running bull. I guided the pickup onto the two-way county road and barreled toward home. I heard Gauge take one final staggered breath before fading into unconsciousness. Never in my life had I been so terrified. Never in my existence did I feel so dehumanized.

  ***

  “I’ll call the doctor,” Mr. Higgins stated after just one short glance at Gauge. “He can be hard to reach at times, but he’s good. He’s dependable.”

  “But I don’t have that much money,” I replied, my voice broken and hollow from constant crying. “I can pay with what’s left in our savings.

  It’s all we have, if he will take it.”

  Mr. Higgins stared at me a moment before shaking his head.

  “Don’t worry about that now,” he said. “We will figure out all that later.”

  I returned to the bed after Mr. Higgins left the room, a still breathing but heavily unconscious Gauge bloodied, bruised, and beaten in the center of the multicolored bedspread.

  I looked down at the pile of blood-soaked washcloths and towels I had used to clean him. Luckily, none of the thrash marks left by the chains seemed deep enough to produce a steady bleeding. Most of the damage appeared to be deep and internal, with the majority of the trauma suffered to the head.

  I began to carefully remove the bloodstained denim jacket, when I heard Mr. Higgins return to the room.

  “Lucky break, I caught him just as he was about to leave town for the night. He’s going to stop by on his way.”

  I stared at Mr. Higgins, grateful for his kindness but uncertain as to his motives. He had made it clear to me on more than one occasion that he was not a fan of Gauge’s, yet here he was, concerned and proactive as Gauge lay bleeding and unconscious all over his truck, towels, and bedspread.

  “Thank you, Mr. Higgins,” I sobbed, my endless stream of tears flowing as constant as Niagara Falls. “I didn’t know what else to do or where to take him. I didn’t even know where the nearest hospital was.”

  “You’re better off here,” he replied. “I trust this doc way more than I do any of those quacks down at the county hospital.”

  I nodded, relieved.

  “So what exactly happened?” Mr. Higgins asked, pulling up a chair so that he could sit. I suddenly realized that I had never seen this man move as quickly or as much in the entire span of months I knew him than I had in the last fifteen minutes. The demanding physical activity had obviously taken its toll, as I heard his breathing become labored and heavy. I watched in a tearful stare as he slowly and carefully lowered himself into the small wooden chair. Once on it, he looked like a circus bear trained to sit, the folds of fat and skin hanging over the quaint furniture, both impressive and comical.

  I detailed the events of the night quickly and solemnly. My voice remained calm and strong as I relived the attack, though my tears never ceased to flow.

  Mr. Higgins just looked at me, the echo of my words surrounding him like a swarm of angry hornets. I continued to remove Gauge’s jacket, when Mr. Higgins broke the silence.

  “You guys can’t stay here,” he declared, his voice tense and wavered.

  I turned to face him.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, my pulse now as speeded as my words.

  “I mean it isn’t safe for you boys here,” he said, a look of concern and worry now accenting his expression. “People like that…you just can’t stay around here now that people know of you.”

  I shook my head, my heart racing, my breathing rapid and shallow.

  “We have nowhere to go, Mr. Higgins,” I stated through a heavier flow of tears. “We have no one or no way to leave here.”

  “Take the truck,” he said without hesitation. “Load up the motorcycle and just get out of here.” My heart froze, and my lungs hollowed. Mr. Higgins’s words fell over me, weighted and meaningless. For what felt like hours, I could only stare.

  “I’ll give you some money. I’ll also pay the doctor. Just don’t worry about all that. Just take the truck and go…as soon as you can.”

  I watched as his eyes drifted toward Gauge, his worried expression fading into fear and disbelief.

  “Why are you doing this for us?” I choked through my tense throat.

  “I’m a Christian,” he announced, the declaration flashing me back to earlier in the night when the restaurant owner echoed the very same description of himself.

  “And one of the things I’ve learned in following Christ is that you help those less fortunate,” he continued, keeping his sad and wary gaze fixed on Gauge. “So, that is what I know is right.”

  He looked at me, his stare brimming with tears.

  “The right thing to do is to help you.

  Regardless of anything, we are all children of God, and none of us are perfect enough to judge.”

  I watched in my tearful silence as he wiped his eyes.

  “I ain’t here to judge ya, son,” he continued, replacing his glasses onto his face. “God just tells me to love my fellow man. Judge not lest ye be judged.”

  I stared at the man, his words and reaction a far cry from the others I had known who claimed belief and obedience to the same faith.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, closing my eyes as my crying became more physical and overbearing.

  I sat on the bed just as a blaring car horn trumpeted in the distance.

  “That’ll be the doc,” Mr. Higgins stated, struggling to lift himself from the chair. I moved to assist him, allowing him to press a portion of his enormous weight onto my skeleton as he slowly found his stance.

  I stood behind him as he shuffled out the door and into the alleyway. He returned several minutes later with a tall, bald, thin man trailing his movement.

  “Dustin, this is Dr. Marks,” Mr. Higgins announced as the two men entered the room.

  Dr. Marks smiled at me but did not wait for a response as he moved toward the bed.

  Quickly and fluidly, he examined Gauge’s head and body before reaching for the large black leather briefcase he had carried in with him.

  Mr. Higgins and I stood beside each other as the doctor pulled a barrage of medical materials from the case. In what seemed like mere seconds, the man stitched, bandaged, and gauzed Gauge like a character from an old Frankenstein film. He then stared long and hard into Gauge’s dramatically swollen eyes with a small flashlight, mumbling to himself as he observed.

  The doctor peered at his waiting audience as he returned to his bag, retrieving a small brown bottle before returning to the bedside.

  My stomach jumped as Gauge jolted awake after Dr. Marks shoved the open bottle top into one of his nostrils.

  “Good, good,” the doctor murmured as Gauge continued to stir on the bed.

  “Just stay put,” Dr. Marks commanded without looking at us. “The boy needs space to breathe.”

  A whirlwind of emotion stirred inside me as I watched Gauge turn and wiggle on the bed. I resisted the urge to move toward him, out of fear of somehow interfering with h
is recovery. I stayed put next to Mr. Higgins as Dr. Marks continued to examine Gauge, shining the flashlight repeatedly over each eye like a police helicopter pursuing an escaped convict.

  Gauge continued to animate to life over the next several minutes. Dr. Marks eventually briefed me on his condition, detailing a list of home care instructions and a hopeful prognosis.

  “Keep him awake for the next hour,” Dr. Marks instructed. “He has a concussion but will be fine.”

  He turned to face Gauge before returning his attention to me.

  “It is a miracle he didn’t sustain severe head trauma,” he continued, his voice stern yet soothing. “Most of the damage seems to have been done to his hands. He must have shielded his head with them during the attack. We need to get some X- rays. I have a feeling we have more than a few broken bones on our hands.”

  He lifted his eyes and chuckled.

  “That wasn’t an intentional pun,” he quirked, pausing for a response.

  When I failed to deliver one, he turned to Mr. Higgins and nodded.

  “Frank,” he said, “see these boys to Sandhill General. I’ll call in the X-rays. Let’s do what’s needed, and I’ll contact you later about the bill.”

  Dr. Marks kneeled to retrieve his case, took one final look at Gauge, and then turned to leave.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, smiling from the door. “The hospital will take care of the rest.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Marks,” I piped in meekly.

  “Thank you so much for coming here.”

  The doctor stared at me, clearly assessing my presence as he carefully scanned over my face with his birdlike eyes.

  “My pleasure, young man,” he smiled, turning the knob and disappearing into the night.

  Mr. Higgins and I carefully loaded Gauge into Mr. Higgins’s powder-blue Pontiac sedan. Gauge mumbled some words at me as we gently laid him in the massive backseat of the car. I kissed his hands before closing the door, the temporary break in my tears ending as I took in the sight of his bruised, swollen, and slightly mangled knuckles and fingers. It was obvious, even to the untrained eye, that both hands were badly injured and broken.

  I lowered myself carefully into the other side of the car, lifting Gauge’s head onto my lap as if it were made of tissue-thin crystal.

  His familiar dark eyes gleamed up at me, swallowed tight within the swollen mass of his skin.

  “Hey,” I whispered into his face. “You stay awake for me, okay?”

  He nodded, his battered lips slowly forming his signature crooked smile.

  He blinked as several of my teardrops splashed over his beaten face like a midnight rain.

  I wiped them away and kissed his brow as Mr. Higgins peeled into the night.

  ***

  Two weeks later, we were in New Mexico, just outside the small town of Cuervo. The hospital had only kept Gauge long enough to perform the x-rays, set and cast his broken bones, and complete the endless task of cleaning and bandaging the areas Dr. Marks had missed. Once complete, we were asked to leave, our lack of insurance or upfront payment a leading concern for the hospital.

  Between the generosity of Mr. Higgins and Dr. Marks, the entire visit was paid for, though only the bare minimum was approved, as we were back out on the street in less than three hours.

  Mr. Higgins brought us home, where I packed and situated our entire lives into the old Chevy pickup. Mr. Higgins handed me a small white envelope with four hundred dollars cash, along with a handwritten note stating that he authorized me to take the vehicle. I wasn’t sure if it was legal or not, but I was grateful for the gesture.

  Gauge slept for most of the first day of driving. The hospital allowed him a few days’ worth of painkillers, so I dispersed them to him sparingly. Both hands obtained severe fractures, perhaps nerve damage, along with a broken elbow and two bruised ribs. He looked so meek and helpless beneath the mass of plaster casts and gauze. It was obvious that he was not going to be able to work once we reached California, but I promised myself that I wouldn’t dwell on the dire circumstances until we arrived there. For now, I simply enjoyed the scenic trek across the country, taking in highways over landscapes I had only seen on television or in pictures. The desert was breathtaking and so alien to me. Having only known South Florida all my life, anything other than palm trees, golf courses, and mosquito- infested swamps was exotic.

  Along the way, we slept in the truck, the two of us crammed inside the tiny cabin like opossums in a den. I always made sure that the thickest and best blanket was wrapped tightly around Gauge, leaving myself with a collection of T-shirts and motel towels for covering.

  The desert was cold at night, something I was unaware of. Several times, I found myself waking to the rattling vibration of my teeth as they clattered inside my skull. I would press my body into Gauge’s, who seemed to always sleep soundly, ensuring that he was warm until the dawn.

  After two and a half days on the road, we reached New Mexico, our journey’s end. The Chevy provided its share of fits and trouble along the way, but we were always able to keep moving. Less than one hundred miles beyond the state line, the beat-up truck sputtered its dissatisfaction with its labor for the very last time. Miraculously, the final acceleration rolled us off the highway and into a gas station parking lot. Next to it, a cheap roadside motel.

  The Desert Star was no fancier than the dump we had just left behind, but it certainly provided a much warmer and secure night than the truck cabin.

  After paying for a two-nights’ stay, I unloaded Gauge and our belongings into the room, even wheeling in the Indian out of fear it would be stolen in the night.

  At this point, Gauge was more lucid, therefore, in far more pain. I divvied out his last remaining pain pills and watched him knock out for the night. I knew the days ahead were going to be difficult.

  Afraid to waste all our money on the motel stay, I immediately began searching for a way to have the truck repaired so that we could get back on the road. California was closer than ever, so I didn’t want to waste too much time or resources in a place like Cuervo.

  The motel manager recommended a nearby garage, which I walked to, three miles in the blistering New Mexico sun.

  A slow-talking Texan man agreed to stop by the motel to assess the truck, for a fee, of course. I handed him fifty dollars cash and made the journey back to the motel.

  When I got there, Gauge was awake, clumsily attempting to heat up a package of dry noodles on our electric hot plate. My heart sank at his apparent helplessness, but I was sure not to say or do anything that would seem like any form of pity. I knew he would despise that.

  “You got that?” I asked, the cool blast of the room’s air conditioning welcoming me like an eager puppy.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled, awkwardly smashing a fork into the tiny sauce pan with his rigid, casted hand.

  I could sense his annoyance, but I didn’t interfere. Instead, I began combining the bits of hidden cash I had stuffed in various hiding places, so that I could have an exact total of our overall funds.

  I felt Gauge eyeing me from the nearby counter where he was struggling to prepare his meal.

  “What did you find out?” he asked, keeping his attention on the boiling contents of the pan. “What is it gonna cost to get the truck up and running?”

  “I don’t know,” I sighed, counting and recounting the collection of bills. “The mechanic is going to stop by on his way home and take a look at it.”

  “For free?” he continued, poking at the hot plate, trying to switch it off.

  “I had to give him fifty.”

  “Shit,” he said, giving up on the plate’s switch and resorting to awkwardly pulling the plug from the wall.

  “We don’t have much choice, Gauge,” I replied, separating the cash and replacing it to the various hiding spots. “Unless we wanna stay here in New Mexico, we have to do what needs to be done to get back on the road.”

  I looked over at him, his appearance both comical and arou
sing. He wore nothing but a pair of white briefs, his collection of casts and bandages accenting his body like snow on a barren oak tree.

  “Yeah, I get it,” he grumbled, prodding the handle of the saucepan with both hand casts.

  “Gauge,” I said softly as I approached him,

  “let me help you.”

  He looked up at me, his face tired and pathetic. I knew it was killing him to be so helpless, but he agreed to let me at least pour the boiled noodles into a bowl.

  I tried not to stare as I watched him fumble and curse as he attempted to move the contents of the plain soup into his mouth. I said nothing until he finally requested my assistance.

  “Can you help me with this, babe?” he asked in a childlike tone. “I can’t do shit with these casts.”

  I smiled slightly as I moved toward him, lifting the bowl and twisting a small wad of noodles onto the fork. He closed his eyes as I fed him, his self-sufficiency and dignity forgotten.

  I didn’t speak until the meal was through, wiping the dribble from his chin and assisting him back beneath the blankets of the bed.

  “Thank you, babe,” he said quietly as I tucked him in. I kissed his head and went into the bathroom, turning the shower on full blast so that he could not hear me sobbing.

  ***

  The sun had nearly set beyond the endless desert horizon when the mechanic finally knocked on the door. I stood beside him as he tugged and jiggled various wires and tubes in the engine, murmuring to himself as he completed his diagnosis.

  “It’s a few things,” he announced, a toothpick clinging to the corner of his lips. “I can tow it to my shop and have it going in a day or two.”

  “For how much?” I asked, not interested in being swindled, prepared to firmly negotiate.

  “I can have you back on the road for three fifty,” he declared, wiping his grease-covered hands on a red rag that hung from one of his pockets.

  “You can’t cut me a break?” I asked, keeping my eyes gripped on his.