Read Online Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden by J. Lee Butts - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. Lee Butts
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on a cane. Weâll know for sure by tomorrow morning just how bad it really is. Gonna be sore as hell no matter what, but I think youâll most likely survive. Still and all, probably ought to get your bony behind back to civilization and to a doctor quick as we can.â
He grunted and nodded as though heavily drugged.
âNeed to plug this ugly sucker up first, Nate. Best flush it out with some whiskey âfore we go and do that though.â
Used the rifle as a crutch. Yanked myself erect. Hobbled back to the Staine boysâ bullet- and shot-riddled table. Single, half-filled bottle of hundred-fifty-proof scamper juice had managed to survive all the gunfire. Canât imagine how half a dozen of Nateâs buckshot pellets hadnât rendered it to smithereens, but as often happens during catastrophic gun work, something as delicate as a whiskey bottle had managed to survive the deadly onslaught.
Leg had begun to hurt pretty good when I limped my way back over to where a wild-eyed, bloody-fisted Nate Swords still sat. Groaned when I knelt, then pushed him onto his back. Grabbed a dirty pillow off the piano bench and stuffed it beneath his head.
âHave to trust me on this one, Nate. Seen it done a time or two. Even used it myself once, or twice. Works pretty good, if we manage to do it right. But be aware, this is gonna burn a bit no matter how we go about it.â
Turned the bottle up and poured the amber-colored liquid directly into the hole in his side. âCourse, Iâm certain it hurt him a lot worse than I had let on it might. He screeched like a trapped panther. Sat bolt upright. Then passed right out and flopped back down. Poured a second round in him. Shoved the bottle neck into the hole. Kept an eye on the opening in his back. Soon as the whiskey-tinted blood started flowing onto the floor, I jerked the bottle out of the wound and set to plugging him up as best I could.
Know it only amounted to a bit less than a week, but the time we spent in Lone Pine felt like a month. Nate was on his back in what went for a hotel in the unpleasant burg for most of those long, dreary days.
While he rested, I made all the necessary arrangements to bury the Staine brothers. Hired a couple of local boys to dig the holes. Gave the bartender at Blackâs the Staine boysâ horses and gear in payment for building some coarse coffins and supervising their burial. Pretty rough stuff all the way around.
We finally set out for Fort Smith on the eighth or ninth day, as I recall.
Being as Nate was still pretty tender, took our time getting back to a spot where we could flag down a northbound M.K. & T. passenger train. Neither of us felt worth a damn, tell the pure truth. Got to admit, by the time we finally made it home, the pair of us were still in right sorry shape. At first Nate was worse off than me. But he cured up mighty fast. Couple of days and he got to hopping around like a cornered rabbit. Amazing what youth and a good dose of piss and vinegar can accomplish.
Elizabeth insisted that we put him up at our place. She fixed him a room and fussed over him like he was a small child. Glad we kept him over. âCause, as time dragged by, he proved mighty fine company and provided way more of a helping hand than we had any right to have expected.
5
â. . . SKULLS STOVE IN WITH A DOUBLE-BIT AX.â
OVER THE MANIFOLD and turbulent years I spent riding for Judge Parker, figure as how bad men, and a few bad women, too, managed to put half a dozen or so bullets in my leathery hide. Canât recall a single one of those wounds that proved as problematic as the patch of splinters Dolphus Staine gouged out of the floor of Blackâs roadhouse that ended up in my leg, as a consequence of a wild pistol shot.
All the way back to Fort Smith, I conscientiously treated the lesion with a daily whiskey and carbolic bath. Picked all the timber out of the wound. Leastways, all I could see. Just
He grunted and nodded as though heavily drugged.
âNeed to plug this ugly sucker up first, Nate. Best flush it out with some whiskey âfore we go and do that though.â
Used the rifle as a crutch. Yanked myself erect. Hobbled back to the Staine boysâ bullet- and shot-riddled table. Single, half-filled bottle of hundred-fifty-proof scamper juice had managed to survive all the gunfire. Canât imagine how half a dozen of Nateâs buckshot pellets hadnât rendered it to smithereens, but as often happens during catastrophic gun work, something as delicate as a whiskey bottle had managed to survive the deadly onslaught.
Leg had begun to hurt pretty good when I limped my way back over to where a wild-eyed, bloody-fisted Nate Swords still sat. Groaned when I knelt, then pushed him onto his back. Grabbed a dirty pillow off the piano bench and stuffed it beneath his head.
âHave to trust me on this one, Nate. Seen it done a time or two. Even used it myself once, or twice. Works pretty good, if we manage to do it right. But be aware, this is gonna burn a bit no matter how we go about it.â
Turned the bottle up and poured the amber-colored liquid directly into the hole in his side. âCourse, Iâm certain it hurt him a lot worse than I had let on it might. He screeched like a trapped panther. Sat bolt upright. Then passed right out and flopped back down. Poured a second round in him. Shoved the bottle neck into the hole. Kept an eye on the opening in his back. Soon as the whiskey-tinted blood started flowing onto the floor, I jerked the bottle out of the wound and set to plugging him up as best I could.
Know it only amounted to a bit less than a week, but the time we spent in Lone Pine felt like a month. Nate was on his back in what went for a hotel in the unpleasant burg for most of those long, dreary days.
While he rested, I made all the necessary arrangements to bury the Staine brothers. Hired a couple of local boys to dig the holes. Gave the bartender at Blackâs the Staine boysâ horses and gear in payment for building some coarse coffins and supervising their burial. Pretty rough stuff all the way around.
We finally set out for Fort Smith on the eighth or ninth day, as I recall.
Being as Nate was still pretty tender, took our time getting back to a spot where we could flag down a northbound M.K. & T. passenger train. Neither of us felt worth a damn, tell the pure truth. Got to admit, by the time we finally made it home, the pair of us were still in right sorry shape. At first Nate was worse off than me. But he cured up mighty fast. Couple of days and he got to hopping around like a cornered rabbit. Amazing what youth and a good dose of piss and vinegar can accomplish.
Elizabeth insisted that we put him up at our place. She fixed him a room and fussed over him like he was a small child. Glad we kept him over. âCause, as time dragged by, he proved mighty fine company and provided way more of a helping hand than we had any right to have expected.
5
â. . . SKULLS STOVE IN WITH A DOUBLE-BIT AX.â
OVER THE MANIFOLD and turbulent years I spent riding for Judge Parker, figure as how bad men, and a few bad women, too, managed to put half a dozen or so bullets in my leathery hide. Canât recall a single one of those wounds that proved as problematic as the patch of splinters Dolphus Staine gouged out of the floor of Blackâs roadhouse that ended up in my leg, as a consequence of a wild pistol shot.
All the way back to Fort Smith, I conscientiously treated the lesion with a daily whiskey and carbolic bath. Picked all the timber out of the wound. Leastways, all I could see. Just
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