Percival Everett - Wounded

“Having a drink?” Gus said, sarcastically.

“No, actually, he’s preparing to leave,” Howard said from the doorway.

Gus turned to the counter and ran the grinder for several seconds, then a couple more seconds.

“I’m sorry all this happened,” I said. It was an expression of dismay and not an apology.

“Yeah, me, too,” Howard said, softly. Neither was he apologizing. He had settled into anger; his jaw was fixed. He tossed a glance back to Pamela who hovered at his shoulder.

“Have a good trip,” Gus said. “The roads can be slippery.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Morgan said, seeming to suck the statement back in once it was out.

Howard didn’t say anything. What could he say? I followed them to the front door where they had already placed their bags. I reached out to shake Howard’s hand and he reluctantly took it.

“We’ll talk soon,” I lied.

DAVID’S LIMPwas still noticeable, but he claimed to feel little pain. He had stopped taking the pain medication prescribed by the doctor and after a few trips into town to have his toes examined, he was satisfied or at least convinced that he was fine, however repulsed he was by his toes’ appearance, the missing nails and the off color. He was well enough to have a few more lessons on horseback and in all seemed in good spirits. We hadn’t again talked about that night in the cave and nearly three weeks had gone by.

Gus had taken to sleeping late regularly. He’d appear at about eight-thirty, sit with Morgan, and have coffee and toast. I was glad Morgan was there for him.

I’d managed to get myself back on my training schedule. A couple of young colts and a filly had been dropped off. Felony was almost ready for pick up. After giving Duncan Camp’s daughter a couple of lessons on him, I was feeling confident about letting him go. And finally, I’d taken to riding Pest, the mule. He was a good ride, if a tad small for me, but he was stout and smart, good on the steep and liked the activity. When I rode him, he was likely to stay put in his stall or a paddock longer.

Morgan and I rode every day at midday, leaving David to muck the stalls and have lunch with Gus. One day we rode out past the cave and looked down at the desert. The weather had turned unseasonably warm, as Weather Wally liked to say, and we had taken off our jackets. Morgan, sitting on her horse Square, was slightly above me on Pest.

“I could get used to this,” Morgan said.

“Used to what?” We were crossing the high meadow on way back.

“Being above you like this.”

“Well, when you put it like that.”

“John, do you think David likes me?”

“Sure,” I said. “Why do you ask that?”

“He’s always been quiet around me, but lately, I don’t know. He’s even been different around you.”

I nodded. “That whole thing with his father must have been plenty embarrassing.”

“Yeah. And I suppose all his toes do is remind him.”

As we rode back, I thought about David. It was stupid that his kissing me while delirious should have made either of us feel strange, but of course it did. I tried to convince myself that I was not bothered by having been kissed by a man. Maybe I tried too hard, as my trying made me feel as weird as the kiss. I cared for David. I might have said like a son, but he wasn’t my son. Before the kiss, I might have admitted to someone who asked that I loved him. Now, that word, that sentiment, was muddied. The part about the kiss that bothered me was that it did not feel bad, it was an expression of affection and I could feel affection. But it also was not that, as it was offered in blindness, in the dark of the cave and in the confusion of David’s disorienting condition.

“What are you thinking about?” Morgan asked.

“Nothing,” I said. I was glad I was not sitting on Felony at that moment. I’d have been halfway to town.

“You were thinking something.”

“I was thinking that I’d be a little lost without you here,” I said, which was true, but it wasn’t what I was thinking. “I never thought I’d need anyone again, but I need you. Is that okay?”

“That’s wonderful, John Hunt,” she said.

At dinner that night we discussed the goings-on near the reservation. Morgan was rightly worried and I was trying to play it down without playing it down. Gus pushed his plate of nearly untouched salad to the center and leaned back.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said. “I don’t blame White Buffalo for not trusting the sheriff. What’s his name? Fucky?”

“Gus,” Morgan said. “Such language. Why the hell would you say some shit like that?”

Gus roared. David laughed as well and that was good to see.

“Why don’t you trust him?” I asked.

“He’s a cop for one thing.” He looked down at the floor, scratched the coyote’s ear. “And he wears that holster with no thumb-break snap.”

“What’s that?” David asked.

“It’s a piece of leather that wraps over the trigger and keeps the pistol in the holster,” I said.

“He thinks he’s a damn cowboy riding the range looking for desperadoes. He’s gonna mess around and shoot his own foot off.”

I nodded. I’d always considered Bucky to be all right, but I trusted Gus’s instincts and I couldn’t dismiss them out of hand.

“I’ve never shot a gun,” David said.

“That’s not a bad thing,” I said. “Nothing will get somebody shot faster than a gun.”

Gus drank some water and cleared his throat. “Guns ain’t evil,” he said. “They’re bad, but they’re not evil. The problem is that guns are easy. Any idiot can use one and any idiot can feel tough with one. I suppose guns are fine for hunting.”

“I don’t think I would be able to kill an animal,” David said.

“Somebody’s got to do it,” Gus said. “Killing isn’t hard. It only takes a second. It’s what comes after that’s hard.” He paused. “Sometimes.”

We sat around in a silent stew for a bit. Then I said, “Well, I say we go into the other room and play Scrabble and exercise some of those killer instincts.”

“You bet,” Morgan said.

“Right after David and I go move a couple hundred pounds of horseshit.”

In the barn, David and I set to work in different areas. The clear night had become chilly and we wanted to get back inside. I stopped as I wheeled a cart of manure past the stall David was cleaning. I silently watched.

David knew I was there, but said nothing as he forked the last of the droppings into the bucket. Then he stood straight and said, “Gus really doesn’t like the sheriff.”

“No, he really doesn’t,” I said.

“Does this stuff make you nervous? The dead cows and everything.”

“Of course it does.”

“You don’t seem nervous,” he said.

I shrugged. “Seeming nervous and being nervous are different things.”

“To tell the truth, I’m scared.”

“So is Morgan,” I said. “So am I. I don’t know about Gus. He’s seen a lot. I still don’t know what scares him.”

“Is that it?” David asked. He was talking about what there was to do with the horses.

“I suppose it is.”

The next morning, after chores and breakfast, David and I were in the flatbed truck on our way into town for hay and people food. We made the big curve and I noted that the sky was beginning to threaten again. I glanced over at David. He was looking out the window.

“You know, we haven’t talked about it,” I said.

“About what?”

“That night in the cave. You think we ought to try?” I down shifted as we headed down the grade.

“I don’t know what there is to say.”