Рита Браун - A Hiss Before Dying

Looking up at John, he said, “Thank you and forgive me.” He hoarsely continued, “I cannot stop these tears.”

John took his other hand as he had remained on his knees. “I have seen generals weep, Yancy. No need for forgiveness.”

“Then forgive me for being,” he paused, “an ass. I caused such an uproar at Ewing’s celebration.”

John smiled at him. “No one was bored.”

“I will never ride in a race again.” The tears continued.

“No, but you will always be a horseman and you will breed animals that can run. I pray for your recovery.” John stood up.

Yancy stifled a groan as Dr. Downey cut away another piece of torn cartilage.

“I must do this, Sir, else as you heal it will sometimes entangle what remains of your knee. This won’t take much longer,” he said consolingly.

“Do what you must.” Yancy repeated the phrase, then said to John, “Is Mr. Holloway wounded?”

“Upper arm. He will be fine.”

“I am glad.” Yancy breathed deeply as more cartilage and bone bits were removed.

Dr. Downey, young eyes, worked quickly and carefully. He dabbed at the blood. Fortunately, there wasn’t a great deal at the knee. Noticing this, John wished he had been the surgeon to his old regiment.

“Dr. Downey, we will wait until you have completed your work on Mr. Grant,” John said.

“Ah, thank you. Better Mr. Grant not be in his carriage bounced around longer than necessary.” He looked at Henry. “It won’t be much longer.” Then he looked directly into Yancy’s eyes. “In time, some of your bone may grow a bit but this knee will never be able to support weight. You will need a brace and a crutch.”

Yancy tried to smile. “At least I am alive.”

“I will return to Mr. Holloway,” John informed them all, then thought perhaps another kind of healing might take place. “Although wounded himself, Mr. Holloway insisted that Dr. Downey attend to you first, Yancy. I sincerely hope you two can find a way to reach an accord.”

“I’ll never like him, never.” Yancy sighed, then took a ragged intake of breath as more cartilage was cleaned up as well as a bit of flapping flesh now sewed around the shattered knee. “But I will do my best to be,” he paused “civilized.”

John slightly bowed, then returned to the carriage where DoRe, down from his driving seat, had cut away Jeffrey’s shirt. Jeffrey was bleeding more than Yancy.

“Do you think the bullet hit your bone?” John inquired.

“No.” Jeffrey removed his hand from the hole in his arm.

“You are most fortunate. Dr. Downey can fix you up. He said he wouldn’t be long with Yancy.”

“What is his wound?”

“You blew apart his kneecap,” John stated.

“Ah.” The young man exhaled.

—

Three hours later, DoRe drove down the long Big Rawly drive as Maureen flew out of the house.

“You’re alive! Oh, thank God, you are alive!” She went to hug and kiss him, she couldn’t contain herself, and then noticed the torn shirt and the blood. “What happened? How bad is it? Oh, get out of this carriage and into the house.”

John stepped out, smiled up at DoRe. “He will be fine, Mrs. Holloway, fine.”

She never asked about Yancy, shepherded Jeffrey into the house, calling orders to all and sundry as she did so.

John climbed up next to DoRe as they drove to the stables. One of the young men brought out his horse, all groomed, relaxed and happy. John tipped the man, mounted up, and was at Cloverfields within forty minutes since he walked most of the way. The entire episode had exhausted him.

Catherine, down at the stables, hearing the slow hoofbeats, dashed out to see her handsome husband nearing the stable.

“How so?” She reached him.

“Both alive. Jeffrey’s hit in the arm. He’ll be fine. Yancy, on the other hand, has a shot-up kneecap. I suppose he will walk eventually with a cane or crutches but I doubt he will ride again.”

“I do hope this is the end of it.”

“I think it is. Neither one flinched. Let us hope this is a new day.”

November 29, 2016 Tuesday

I n the hayloft, Harry, after opening the back high double doors, stood at the edge throwing out rich fragrant hay bales. The two cats watched this work, grateful they didn’t have to throw hay.

“Alfalfa bales can weigh up to sixty pounds,” Mrs. Murphy noted.

“Orchard grass and clover is heavy enough.” Pewter saw Tucker, on the ground below, observing the pitched hay. “She thinks she’s helping.”

“Keeps her happy. The grass hasn’t totally browned out yet, there’s green. Our human is fanatical about nutrition for all of us.” Mrs. Murphy admired Harry’s sense of responsibility.

“In that case, I’m in the mood for fried chicken.”

“What, no tuna?” Mrs. Murphy wondered.

“Fried chicken, and if she makes greens with fatback I can pick out all the fatback. Humans need to learn to cook for cats. Our palates are more developed than theirs. They eat tomatoes, remember?” Pewter’s silky eyebrows raised.

“Odd. How about cauliflower?” The tiger grimaced.

“I’ll eat it if she’s melted cheese on those little white things,” Pewter confessed.

Tucker, ears up, barked, “ Cooper.”

“Let’s go.” Mrs. Murphy dashed for the ladder, climbing down backward.

Harry, hearing the car, threw out two more bales, shut the doors, latched them from the inside, and slid down the ladder. She liked, when wearing gloves, to put her hands outside the ladder, hold on, and slide down with her feet also on the outside.

“Show off.” Pewter turned up her nose.

“Looks like fun,” Tucker, inside now, remarked. “You’re jealous because you can’t do it.”

“At least I can climb up to the hayloft,” the gray animal fired back.

“Coop, let me toss the hay into the pastures. Won’t take a minute,” Harry informed her friend.

“I’ll help you.”

The two women walked behind the barn, each picking up a hay bale by the string, chucking it over the fence. Harry then climbed over that pasture fence, fished a pocketknife out of her pocket, cut the string, rolled it up, stuffed it in her old Carhart jacket pocket.

This task consumed maybe ten minutes. Finished, Harry headed for the kitchen.

“Harry, I’m fine. You don’t need to feed me.”

“I can eat!” Pewter instantly refuted Cooper’s comment.

“Well, I’m hungry and I have these poor starving animals. Got up at five-thirty and I just now finished the last of the chores.”

Once in the kitchen, coats on the Shaker pegs, Harry warmed up the morning’s coffee she’d made for Fair, put on the teapot for herself. Then she opened the refrigerator, cut up some leftover chicken, put it down for the animals, who raced for their bowls.

“Hey. I have liver pâté, fresh French bread, and farm butter. Also have jams.”

“Liver pâté?”

“Coop, my husband now evidences an interest in more elegant foods than my succotash.” Harry smiled. “It really is good although I always feel bad for the goose.”

“Omnivore.”

“Sure, we’ll eat anything.”

The tall deputy waited for Harry to sit down before buttering bread.

“Not much of a Thanksgiving for you, was it?” Harry commiserated.