oo1: pistol whip
sundaysnuggles, [ here].
SUMMARY: IN A GUNFIGHT AGAINST THE THIEF JENNINGS, FLORIDA ACCIDENTALLY SHOOTS THE SHERIFF. TO MAKE IT RIGHT, HE GOES AND PICKS UP JENNINGS FOR HIM.
“Good god in hell, will you put me down, Florida!”
Florida, prone as he was to scarce a lick of talking, did as he was told with a silent nod, unloading Sheriff Duke into his desk chair like he was a bale of hay and doing a good job of ignoring the way the Sheriff puffed up at him, as a caught bird. He bent over to get one of the empty powder barrels up under Duke's leg, but Duke shoved his hands back and grunted to do it himself.
“First you shoot me when you mean to shoot that hellfire thief Jennings, and then I can't get a shot off for being nose to the dirt, and now- now you carry me around like I'm some whore in the saloon," Duke bellyached, canting the barrel up under his heel.
"With all due respect, Sheriff," Florida started, upper lip cut into a sneer, "you got in the way of my gun." He nudged the barrel further up Duke's leg with the tip of his boot, clear out of pity, scraping a match across his stubble for the cigar he'd just knuckled from one of the empty bullet cribs on his bandolier. He cupped his hand around the flame while he lit up.
"Best shot in the state of New Mexico my ass…"
Florida stubbed the match out on his tongue - maybe stubbed a retort out, too - and chased the sting with a few pulls of the cigar, bit in his teeth for safekeeping between drags. He turned to peer out over the jail's half-doors, whistling wet around the cigar at someone.
"Doc's coming."
It was no sooner said than old Theo Roman was fumbling through the doors and manhandling Florida aside to get at Duke. "I heard gunshots! Teresa said she saw Florida carrying you like a dead man down mainstreet. I says, I hope you weren't being dragged."
"Would've preferred it," Duke muttered, finding Florida's aimless stare over Doc putting down his bag to dig into it for antiseptic and tools. "Just a bullet to the hip is all, Doc. No coming apart."
Florida pinched the cigar out between his fingers, licked the taste around in his mouth for a beat with nothing much to add. Tipping his hat at the pair, he backed into the doors. "Go get that Jennings for you."
*
It was getting on midnight before Sheriff Duke heard a crash against the jail porch and spooked at Florida's face coming in over the doors.
"Have Jennings out here for you."
"He dead?"
"Barely." Florida threw a look over his shoulder. "Sleeping, more like it."
"Sleeping..."
"Get him locked up before he wakes up and crawls off."
"Now wait, hold it there." Duke gingerly lowered his leg from the barrel and made to stand, but was taken aback by a ruthless dig of pain up his bones. The lack of blood made him a little unsure on his feet, besides. Doc had done good patching him up, but he was, after all, still shot. "Don't I at least get a hand bringing his sorry hide in here? I'm a lame man now."
Florida regarded him loosely. "Figured you would want to do it all yourself."
"You brought him down. Bring him in here on your own account."
A hand to worry at his stubble, Florida took his hat off and leaned over the doors to hang it on the coat rack just inside the entranceway, furrowing his brow for the task ahead. He disappeared and was back in not but a few clockwatch ticks, with Jennings thrown over his shoulder, hog-tied and moaning like he was about to come to. Florida looked to buckle from the weight, though he soldiered into the jail and back toward the one cell they had. Duke got himself turned in his chair just in time to see him drop Jennings onto the dirty cot, void of all mercies. Jennings groaned into the mattress.
It was a small insult to watch Florida treat a common criminal with no less gentleness than he had treated Duke.
Florida came back out, kicking the cell door shut behind him and fishing out a match to work up another cigar. He scratched it on his chin, but put off lighting it a moment.
"How's that leg?"
"It'll come back, sooner or later." Duke shrugged off the thought and trundled out the top desk drawer for a convict registration.
"Good."
"He's got a fifty dollar ransom on his head. I checked earlier. I expect you'll want that before you leave." It took a bit of teeth-gritting and sweet-talking in his head, but Duke eventually had himself to his feet, feeling a shaky way over the furniture so that he could get at the safe in the far corner.
Wordless, Florida took ahold of him and offered himself as a crutch, pulling an arm over his shoulders and wedging in close to his side, before Duke had the sense to refuse. The thick of smoke and dirt made Duke feel caught, and he scowled to right himself.
"I'll collect another time," Florida said, sounding soured and impatient for seeing Duke suffer himself over it.
Duke twisted his arm, but Florida wouldn't let off him. "If I can't get you a few bucks, how am I to do the rest of my job?"
"I'll be outside tonight for the jackals that get wind of you hard up. But I said I don't want the payout now." He hauled Duke around and urged him back over into the seat of his chair, despite Duke stumbling and jerking to go for the safe, even if it ended him in a heap on the floor, howling like a dying wolf. But Florida wasn't much for backtalk when he had a mind to something, and Duke wasn't at a prime for trying right then, either.
Florida let Duke sit on his own, but he was quick to bend over and get a hold on Duke's ankle, hoisting his leg back up to the barrel such that Duke was sure it hurt more for him helping.
He set his jaw tight and nodded what little appreciation he could muster.
"Stay off that."
When Duke didn't acknowledge the sentiment, not even a halfway nod or scoff, Florida pawed his face up to look at him, close and intent. "You hear me? I'll take care of everything."
"I know, Florida," the words came strange out of his mouth because Florida hadn't let off of his chin, and he felt Florida's fingers move as his lips worked; he nudged them back, watched Florida put them sightless to the butt of his six-shooter.
"I'll be outside."
SUMMARY: IN A GUNFIGHT AGAINST THE THIEF JENNINGS, FLORIDA ACCIDENTALLY SHOOTS THE SHERIFF. TO MAKE IT RIGHT, HE GOES AND PICKS UP JENNINGS FOR HIM.
“Good god in hell, will you put me down, Florida!”
Florida, prone as he was to scarce a lick of talking, did as he was told with a silent nod, unloading Sheriff Duke into his desk chair like he was a bale of hay and doing a good job of ignoring the way the Sheriff puffed up at him, as a caught bird. He bent over to get one of the empty powder barrels up under Duke's leg, but Duke shoved his hands back and grunted to do it himself.
“First you shoot me when you mean to shoot that hellfire thief Jennings, and then I can't get a shot off for being nose to the dirt, and now- now you carry me around like I'm some whore in the saloon," Duke bellyached, canting the barrel up under his heel.
"With all due respect, Sheriff," Florida started, upper lip cut into a sneer, "you got in the way of my gun." He nudged the barrel further up Duke's leg with the tip of his boot, clear out of pity, scraping a match across his stubble for the cigar he'd just knuckled from one of the empty bullet cribs on his bandolier. He cupped his hand around the flame while he lit up.
"Best shot in the state of New Mexico my ass…"
Florida stubbed the match out on his tongue - maybe stubbed a retort out, too - and chased the sting with a few pulls of the cigar, bit in his teeth for safekeeping between drags. He turned to peer out over the jail's half-doors, whistling wet around the cigar at someone.
"Doc's coming."
It was no sooner said than old Theo Roman was fumbling through the doors and manhandling Florida aside to get at Duke. "I heard gunshots! Teresa said she saw Florida carrying you like a dead man down mainstreet. I says, I hope you weren't being dragged."
"Would've preferred it," Duke muttered, finding Florida's aimless stare over Doc putting down his bag to dig into it for antiseptic and tools. "Just a bullet to the hip is all, Doc. No coming apart."
Florida pinched the cigar out between his fingers, licked the taste around in his mouth for a beat with nothing much to add. Tipping his hat at the pair, he backed into the doors. "Go get that Jennings for you."
*
It was getting on midnight before Sheriff Duke heard a crash against the jail porch and spooked at Florida's face coming in over the doors.
"Have Jennings out here for you."
"He dead?"
"Barely." Florida threw a look over his shoulder. "Sleeping, more like it."
"Sleeping..."
"Get him locked up before he wakes up and crawls off."
"Now wait, hold it there." Duke gingerly lowered his leg from the barrel and made to stand, but was taken aback by a ruthless dig of pain up his bones. The lack of blood made him a little unsure on his feet, besides. Doc had done good patching him up, but he was, after all, still shot. "Don't I at least get a hand bringing his sorry hide in here? I'm a lame man now."
Florida regarded him loosely. "Figured you would want to do it all yourself."
"You brought him down. Bring him in here on your own account."
A hand to worry at his stubble, Florida took his hat off and leaned over the doors to hang it on the coat rack just inside the entranceway, furrowing his brow for the task ahead. He disappeared and was back in not but a few clockwatch ticks, with Jennings thrown over his shoulder, hog-tied and moaning like he was about to come to. Florida looked to buckle from the weight, though he soldiered into the jail and back toward the one cell they had. Duke got himself turned in his chair just in time to see him drop Jennings onto the dirty cot, void of all mercies. Jennings groaned into the mattress.
It was a small insult to watch Florida treat a common criminal with no less gentleness than he had treated Duke.
Florida came back out, kicking the cell door shut behind him and fishing out a match to work up another cigar. He scratched it on his chin, but put off lighting it a moment.
"How's that leg?"
"It'll come back, sooner or later." Duke shrugged off the thought and trundled out the top desk drawer for a convict registration.
"Good."
"He's got a fifty dollar ransom on his head. I checked earlier. I expect you'll want that before you leave." It took a bit of teeth-gritting and sweet-talking in his head, but Duke eventually had himself to his feet, feeling a shaky way over the furniture so that he could get at the safe in the far corner.
Wordless, Florida took ahold of him and offered himself as a crutch, pulling an arm over his shoulders and wedging in close to his side, before Duke had the sense to refuse. The thick of smoke and dirt made Duke feel caught, and he scowled to right himself.
"I'll collect another time," Florida said, sounding soured and impatient for seeing Duke suffer himself over it.
Duke twisted his arm, but Florida wouldn't let off him. "If I can't get you a few bucks, how am I to do the rest of my job?"
"I'll be outside tonight for the jackals that get wind of you hard up. But I said I don't want the payout now." He hauled Duke around and urged him back over into the seat of his chair, despite Duke stumbling and jerking to go for the safe, even if it ended him in a heap on the floor, howling like a dying wolf. But Florida wasn't much for backtalk when he had a mind to something, and Duke wasn't at a prime for trying right then, either.
Florida let Duke sit on his own, but he was quick to bend over and get a hold on Duke's ankle, hoisting his leg back up to the barrel such that Duke was sure it hurt more for him helping.
He set his jaw tight and nodded what little appreciation he could muster.
"Stay off that."
When Duke didn't acknowledge the sentiment, not even a halfway nod or scoff, Florida pawed his face up to look at him, close and intent. "You hear me? I'll take care of everything."
"I know, Florida," the words came strange out of his mouth because Florida hadn't let off of his chin, and he felt Florida's fingers move as his lips worked; he nudged them back, watched Florida put them sightless to the butt of his six-shooter.
"I'll be outside."