Chris Offutt - The Good Brother

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?”