100 Tales: Red
This is a reworking of one of my fanfiction pieces, done (better, I hope) with Kye and the Kid.
Blood is not red. It's brown and ugly. And when the brown, ugly fluid is seeping from your best friend, blood is terrifying.
The Sweetwater Kid wasn't sure how it had happened. They'd been so careful -- he'd been sure he'd gotten all the weapons, that none of the passengers on the stagecoach had posed any threat! They'd all filed out obediently enough.
The names Devon Day and the Sweetwater Kid had become recognized west of the Mississippi -- when people heard the names, they knew the stage was going to be robbed. They also knew that the duo was not known to harm innocent passengers. None of the passengers should have put up any fuss, as it wasn't their money being taken. Dev and Sweet didn't bother robbing the little guy -- they only stole from those who could afford it. And people should know that from reading the papers.
Dev had stayed on his horse, training his rifle on the little clump of passengers, while Sweet had climbed up to collect the payroll from the mailbag. It had taken only a few minutes to locate the fat package. The passengers had seemed docile, standing in the shade of the cliff with hands raised. Devon Day and the Sweetwater Kid would no sooner make their marks stand in the hot sun than they'd steal more than they'd come for. The rest of the mail Sweet had packed back into the bag.
Then, just as they'd spurred their horses, a single pistol had barked.
Sweet had reined in, glancing back. It had been a little surprising that Dev hadn't returned fire, but Sweet had thought it was good his partner saw the logic of a quick getaway. Returning fire meant they could get pinned down in a shootout. The stage was due into North Fork in under an hour. They couldn't afford to get hung up until a posse formed and rode out to see what was wrong.
It was only now, when they were several miles across country that he saw the brown stain spreading across the ribs of Dev's horse.
He turned, thinking the pinto was hit, but then he saw Dev's face. His skin was the color of snow, and sweat beaded his forehead. His teeth were clenched tighter than the jaws of a bear trap. Devon Day barely glanced at his partner, but stared straight ahead at nothing. And the ugly, brown flood just kept spreading.
Sweet jerked Smoke sideways and reached for the pinto's reins. Dev sucked in a breath as the horse skidded to a stop. He clung to the saddle horn as Sweet leaned over. The Sweetwater Kid felt his stomach drop. Dev's left leg was soaked with blood. He'd clapped one hand over a hole that looked about the size of Montana -- and was still oozing enough blood to stain his fingers red.
He looked up at Sweet, his eyes wide. Sweet's own eyes felt as big as dinner plates. Dev swallowed hard and tried to straighten up in the saddle. He listed to one side and slumped over again. His hat had slipped off, and dangled by the stampede strings. His blonde mop was plastered to his head with sweat.
For the first time in his life. Sweet could think of nothing to say. He whipped off his bandana and gestured for his partner to do the same. Dev flinched as Sweet wrapped the ugly wound. His teeth were clenched. Sweet tightened the makeshift bandage and peered up into his face.
"You think you can make it into Never Sweat?" They'd planned to pass the oddly-named little town by, it being a little too close to North Fork for comfort. Now, Sweet wondered if they'd get that far.
Dev flashed him a tiny smile. "I'm already sweatin'."
The Sweetwater Kid tried to grin back, but his lips wouldn't stretch that far. Dev's eyes were glazed. Sweet could see his jaw muscles pop as he ground his teeth on the pain. The bandanas were already soaked through.
Sweet kneed Smoke, but kept him reined in, letting Dev set the pace. Neither of them spoke. Dev hung onto the saddle horn as if barely awake. And Sweet was thinking too hard to say anything. Thanks to his father, the doctor, Sweet knew far too much about bullet wounds. He didn't think the artery had been hit, or Dev would have bled dry already. But losing that much blood was dangerous, even if they could avoid infection. He couldn't stop looking at the wound, checking to see how far that stain had spread through the bandage. He watched his partner sway in the saddle. His mind churned round and round.
There was nothing either of them could do. They rode on, Sweet trying not to scream at the creeping pace -- and the creeping stain on the pinto's side.
By the time they got to the outskirts of Never Sweat, Dev was barely conscious. His hands were clenched on the saddle horn, and he swayed loosely in the saddle, flopping back and forth as the pinto moved. Sweet swung alongside, ready to grab his partner if he did pass out. They'd made it to town. All they had to do was find the doctor and Dev would be OK.
Because he had to be OK. He had to be fine, in spite of that ugly, terrifying stream of brown that soaked his pants from thigh to boots. In spite of the brown flood coloring the white patches of the pinto's ribs. Because the Sweetwater Kid could not come up with a plan for a future without Devon Day.
He thought about trying to get Dev off his horse. What if that just made things worse? His partner was so much bigger than he was, now he'd had his growth spurt. What if Sweet couldn't hold him up? Dev wasn't going to be able to walk to the doctor's!
In the end, he just kneed Smoke, grabbed the pinto's reins and led him straight down Main Street. Sweet flagged down the first people he saw -- a group of boys playing marbles.
"Doctor," he yelled. The youngsters pointed, and Sweet pulled the horses around. He had to force himself not to urge them into a gallop. The doctor's place was two streets up, behind the grocer's. Sweet flung himself out of the saddle, thundered up the flight of stairs, and threw open the door.
"M'friend got shot!" he gasped. The fear in his own voice nearly had his legs folding up under him. He felt his eyes watering, and shook his head in irritation. The doctor, blessedly, wasted no time asking questions, but darted outside.
Together, they got Devon Day down off his horse - he passed out completely during the process -and onto the doctor's table. The Sweetwater Kid had averted his eyes from the horse with the brown stripe along its side, but he couldn't do the same as the doctor sliced open Dev's trousers and reached for his surgical implements.
Sweet put his hands on his partner's shoulders, in case Dev roused during the surgery. He could see the ribcage moving up and down. The heartbeat beneath his palms felt much too slow, too soft. He watched the doctor swab the wound with carbolic acid and start digging for the bullet.
The Sweetwater Kid felt every cut of the scalpel, every dig of the forceps. His body trembled until he felt the table shake. Several days elapsed before the doctor gave a short, satisfied grunt and tossed a heavy metal lump onto the tray. Sweet glanced at the wall clock and noticed it had been fifteen minutes since they'd arrived.
He kept his eyes on the doctor's hands as the man expertly put a line of stitches along the wound, and then wrapped the entire thigh in bandages. The doctor glanced up. Something in Sweet's face brought a look of exasperated concern to his, and he shoved a chair across the floor.
"Son, sit down before you fall down!"
Without waiting to see if Sweet obeyed, the doctor strode to the washbasin. The brown stains on the his hands and forearms spread across the water in a cloud - a red cloud! The Sweetwater Kid felt the strength drain from his body. His own blood left his face. His belly shivered, then his legs just folded up. He barely managed to thump into the chair instead of sprawling across the floor. He thought he was going to throw up.
"Put your head between your knees and breath deep," the doctor commanded. Sweet did so without thinking, though later he would kick himself for not even wondering if the doctor might be an enemy, much less checking to be sure the place was safe. What man in his right mind wouldn't be suspicious when a gunshot was involved?
God must look after fools, for the doctor did nothing but clean up the horrid brown and check the Kid's pulse.
When his muscles stopped quivering, the Sweetwater Kid sat back up and stared at his partner. Dev was so still. His face was pasty white, and he didn't move -- didn't move at all! Sweet had to stand up on wobbly legs, had to put a hand on the chest to feel his partner breathing in and out.
"Is he ... will ... "
"He should be fine, son." The doctor's voice was deep and soothing. Sweet spared the man a glance, and decided to take the chance and trust him.
The doctor leaned over Devon Day and pulled one eyelid back, peering into the blue eye. Whatever he saw made him nod, a satisfied smile on his face. "He's lost a lot of blood, but he's young enough to bounce right back."
Sweet sucked in a deep breath. He swallowed -- then swallowed again. Dev stirred, just a little, and tears sprang to Sweet's eyes.
"How long?" he whispered. He couldn't take his eyes off Devon Day, in case he woke and looked for his partner.
The doctor stepped close, and clapped a heavy hand on Sweet's shoulder. "I want him to stay here for a few days at least," he said. "He needs rest. He may need more stitches if that wound starts bleeding again. And I want to make sure he gets enough liquid into him to replace some of that blood."
He leaned down to stare into Sweet's face. "I'm not going to ask what you were doing, son," he said. "But I hope you learned that it's not going to pay."
Sweet widened his eyes. This time, he didn't have to fake the tears for the Contrite Youngster Face. His mind seemed to be working again, or at least enough to come up with an explanation that didn't sound totally preposterous. "Doc, we'll never do it again, I swear! We was just having a little fun with them cowboys is all. We didn't know they'd get that riled over a little bottom dealing!"
The doctor grunted, and turned to clean his instruments.
It was at that moment that the Sweetwater Kid realized he'd run inside and left their saddlebags on the horses. Of all the greenhorn, tenderfoot moves a professional thief could make! His heart somewhere around his socks, he thudded downstairs. Smoke gave a soft whicker and nosed his hair. God really must take care of fools, because the saddlebags were untouched. Sweet slung both over his shoulder, staggering a little at the weight. He'd have to see about stabling the horses. They deserved some pampering.
But not right now. Right now he was needed upstairs. He was puffing as he reached the doctor's rooms. The red was cleaned away now, the room tidied. The doctor had even put Dev's ruined trousers into a bucket of water to soak the stain out.
Sweet dropped the saddlebags beside the chair and himself into it. He watched his partner breathe in and out. He was barely aware of the doctor moving quietly about the room. The hours passed like days.
Then, Dev gave a soft sigh. The Sweetwater Kid shoved to his feet and leaned over the table. The blue eyes opened and looked blearily around the room. A crease formed between the brows.
"I'm right here, partner," Sweet murmured.
Devon Day moved his head, and looked up at Sweet. The Sweetwater Kid knew he must look nearly as bad as his partner -- covered with sweat and trail dust, his eyes probably still as big as Smoke's hooves, his face pale from worry. He took a deep breath and tried to look reassuring.
"You're going to be all right, old man. Doc says you're too ornery to worry about."
Dev stared at him for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. He had that expression on his face, the one that said he'd seen through whatever yarn Sweet was spinning. A tiny smile creased the corners of his mouth. "Damn if we ain't both sweatin' in Never Sweat," he whispered.
Blood is not red. It's brown and ugly. And when the brown, ugly fluid is seeping from your best friend, blood is terrifying.
The Sweetwater Kid wasn't sure how it had happened. They'd been so careful -- he'd been sure he'd gotten all the weapons, that none of the passengers on the stagecoach had posed any threat! They'd all filed out obediently enough.
The names Devon Day and the Sweetwater Kid had become recognized west of the Mississippi -- when people heard the names, they knew the stage was going to be robbed. They also knew that the duo was not known to harm innocent passengers. None of the passengers should have put up any fuss, as it wasn't their money being taken. Dev and Sweet didn't bother robbing the little guy -- they only stole from those who could afford it. And people should know that from reading the papers.
Dev had stayed on his horse, training his rifle on the little clump of passengers, while Sweet had climbed up to collect the payroll from the mailbag. It had taken only a few minutes to locate the fat package. The passengers had seemed docile, standing in the shade of the cliff with hands raised. Devon Day and the Sweetwater Kid would no sooner make their marks stand in the hot sun than they'd steal more than they'd come for. The rest of the mail Sweet had packed back into the bag.
Then, just as they'd spurred their horses, a single pistol had barked.
Sweet had reined in, glancing back. It had been a little surprising that Dev hadn't returned fire, but Sweet had thought it was good his partner saw the logic of a quick getaway. Returning fire meant they could get pinned down in a shootout. The stage was due into North Fork in under an hour. They couldn't afford to get hung up until a posse formed and rode out to see what was wrong.
It was only now, when they were several miles across country that he saw the brown stain spreading across the ribs of Dev's horse.
He turned, thinking the pinto was hit, but then he saw Dev's face. His skin was the color of snow, and sweat beaded his forehead. His teeth were clenched tighter than the jaws of a bear trap. Devon Day barely glanced at his partner, but stared straight ahead at nothing. And the ugly, brown flood just kept spreading.
Sweet jerked Smoke sideways and reached for the pinto's reins. Dev sucked in a breath as the horse skidded to a stop. He clung to the saddle horn as Sweet leaned over. The Sweetwater Kid felt his stomach drop. Dev's left leg was soaked with blood. He'd clapped one hand over a hole that looked about the size of Montana -- and was still oozing enough blood to stain his fingers red.
He looked up at Sweet, his eyes wide. Sweet's own eyes felt as big as dinner plates. Dev swallowed hard and tried to straighten up in the saddle. He listed to one side and slumped over again. His hat had slipped off, and dangled by the stampede strings. His blonde mop was plastered to his head with sweat.
For the first time in his life. Sweet could think of nothing to say. He whipped off his bandana and gestured for his partner to do the same. Dev flinched as Sweet wrapped the ugly wound. His teeth were clenched. Sweet tightened the makeshift bandage and peered up into his face.
"You think you can make it into Never Sweat?" They'd planned to pass the oddly-named little town by, it being a little too close to North Fork for comfort. Now, Sweet wondered if they'd get that far.
Dev flashed him a tiny smile. "I'm already sweatin'."
The Sweetwater Kid tried to grin back, but his lips wouldn't stretch that far. Dev's eyes were glazed. Sweet could see his jaw muscles pop as he ground his teeth on the pain. The bandanas were already soaked through.
Sweet kneed Smoke, but kept him reined in, letting Dev set the pace. Neither of them spoke. Dev hung onto the saddle horn as if barely awake. And Sweet was thinking too hard to say anything. Thanks to his father, the doctor, Sweet knew far too much about bullet wounds. He didn't think the artery had been hit, or Dev would have bled dry already. But losing that much blood was dangerous, even if they could avoid infection. He couldn't stop looking at the wound, checking to see how far that stain had spread through the bandage. He watched his partner sway in the saddle. His mind churned round and round.
There was nothing either of them could do. They rode on, Sweet trying not to scream at the creeping pace -- and the creeping stain on the pinto's side.
By the time they got to the outskirts of Never Sweat, Dev was barely conscious. His hands were clenched on the saddle horn, and he swayed loosely in the saddle, flopping back and forth as the pinto moved. Sweet swung alongside, ready to grab his partner if he did pass out. They'd made it to town. All they had to do was find the doctor and Dev would be OK.
Because he had to be OK. He had to be fine, in spite of that ugly, terrifying stream of brown that soaked his pants from thigh to boots. In spite of the brown flood coloring the white patches of the pinto's ribs. Because the Sweetwater Kid could not come up with a plan for a future without Devon Day.
He thought about trying to get Dev off his horse. What if that just made things worse? His partner was so much bigger than he was, now he'd had his growth spurt. What if Sweet couldn't hold him up? Dev wasn't going to be able to walk to the doctor's!
In the end, he just kneed Smoke, grabbed the pinto's reins and led him straight down Main Street. Sweet flagged down the first people he saw -- a group of boys playing marbles.
"Doctor," he yelled. The youngsters pointed, and Sweet pulled the horses around. He had to force himself not to urge them into a gallop. The doctor's place was two streets up, behind the grocer's. Sweet flung himself out of the saddle, thundered up the flight of stairs, and threw open the door.
"M'friend got shot!" he gasped. The fear in his own voice nearly had his legs folding up under him. He felt his eyes watering, and shook his head in irritation. The doctor, blessedly, wasted no time asking questions, but darted outside.
Together, they got Devon Day down off his horse - he passed out completely during the process -and onto the doctor's table. The Sweetwater Kid had averted his eyes from the horse with the brown stripe along its side, but he couldn't do the same as the doctor sliced open Dev's trousers and reached for his surgical implements.
Sweet put his hands on his partner's shoulders, in case Dev roused during the surgery. He could see the ribcage moving up and down. The heartbeat beneath his palms felt much too slow, too soft. He watched the doctor swab the wound with carbolic acid and start digging for the bullet.
The Sweetwater Kid felt every cut of the scalpel, every dig of the forceps. His body trembled until he felt the table shake. Several days elapsed before the doctor gave a short, satisfied grunt and tossed a heavy metal lump onto the tray. Sweet glanced at the wall clock and noticed it had been fifteen minutes since they'd arrived.
He kept his eyes on the doctor's hands as the man expertly put a line of stitches along the wound, and then wrapped the entire thigh in bandages. The doctor glanced up. Something in Sweet's face brought a look of exasperated concern to his, and he shoved a chair across the floor.
"Son, sit down before you fall down!"
Without waiting to see if Sweet obeyed, the doctor strode to the washbasin. The brown stains on the his hands and forearms spread across the water in a cloud - a red cloud! The Sweetwater Kid felt the strength drain from his body. His own blood left his face. His belly shivered, then his legs just folded up. He barely managed to thump into the chair instead of sprawling across the floor. He thought he was going to throw up.
"Put your head between your knees and breath deep," the doctor commanded. Sweet did so without thinking, though later he would kick himself for not even wondering if the doctor might be an enemy, much less checking to be sure the place was safe. What man in his right mind wouldn't be suspicious when a gunshot was involved?
God must look after fools, for the doctor did nothing but clean up the horrid brown and check the Kid's pulse.
When his muscles stopped quivering, the Sweetwater Kid sat back up and stared at his partner. Dev was so still. His face was pasty white, and he didn't move -- didn't move at all! Sweet had to stand up on wobbly legs, had to put a hand on the chest to feel his partner breathing in and out.
"Is he ... will ... "
"He should be fine, son." The doctor's voice was deep and soothing. Sweet spared the man a glance, and decided to take the chance and trust him.
The doctor leaned over Devon Day and pulled one eyelid back, peering into the blue eye. Whatever he saw made him nod, a satisfied smile on his face. "He's lost a lot of blood, but he's young enough to bounce right back."
Sweet sucked in a deep breath. He swallowed -- then swallowed again. Dev stirred, just a little, and tears sprang to Sweet's eyes.
"How long?" he whispered. He couldn't take his eyes off Devon Day, in case he woke and looked for his partner.
The doctor stepped close, and clapped a heavy hand on Sweet's shoulder. "I want him to stay here for a few days at least," he said. "He needs rest. He may need more stitches if that wound starts bleeding again. And I want to make sure he gets enough liquid into him to replace some of that blood."
He leaned down to stare into Sweet's face. "I'm not going to ask what you were doing, son," he said. "But I hope you learned that it's not going to pay."
Sweet widened his eyes. This time, he didn't have to fake the tears for the Contrite Youngster Face. His mind seemed to be working again, or at least enough to come up with an explanation that didn't sound totally preposterous. "Doc, we'll never do it again, I swear! We was just having a little fun with them cowboys is all. We didn't know they'd get that riled over a little bottom dealing!"
The doctor grunted, and turned to clean his instruments.
It was at that moment that the Sweetwater Kid realized he'd run inside and left their saddlebags on the horses. Of all the greenhorn, tenderfoot moves a professional thief could make! His heart somewhere around his socks, he thudded downstairs. Smoke gave a soft whicker and nosed his hair. God really must take care of fools, because the saddlebags were untouched. Sweet slung both over his shoulder, staggering a little at the weight. He'd have to see about stabling the horses. They deserved some pampering.
But not right now. Right now he was needed upstairs. He was puffing as he reached the doctor's rooms. The red was cleaned away now, the room tidied. The doctor had even put Dev's ruined trousers into a bucket of water to soak the stain out.
Sweet dropped the saddlebags beside the chair and himself into it. He watched his partner breathe in and out. He was barely aware of the doctor moving quietly about the room. The hours passed like days.
Then, Dev gave a soft sigh. The Sweetwater Kid shoved to his feet and leaned over the table. The blue eyes opened and looked blearily around the room. A crease formed between the brows.
"I'm right here, partner," Sweet murmured.
Devon Day moved his head, and looked up at Sweet. The Sweetwater Kid knew he must look nearly as bad as his partner -- covered with sweat and trail dust, his eyes probably still as big as Smoke's hooves, his face pale from worry. He took a deep breath and tried to look reassuring.
"You're going to be all right, old man. Doc says you're too ornery to worry about."
Dev stared at him for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. He had that expression on his face, the one that said he'd seen through whatever yarn Sweet was spinning. A tiny smile creased the corners of his mouth. "Damn if we ain't both sweatin' in Never Sweat," he whispered.