Ridin' Queasy

Clark was a good man, which made betraying him that much harder. A week of travel on horseback had left Bucky saddlesore, with a chaff that he’d happily swear off drinking for a month to get rid of, which made him more bitter as he examined his friend’s casual riding posture beside him. Clark had always been a natural rider. It seemed he shifted and moved with the horse’s pace, free to think as deep and long as he pleased about whatever fancied him without distraction, and thinking was mostly what he did. Clark was never one to say anything unless it was necessary, which suited Bucky, because he didn’t care much for idle talk himself. 

The road to north Texas had been an easy one so far. Bucky didn’t like long rides, but staying in Mexico City wasn’t much of an option after killing a man. Now, Bucky hadn’t meant to kill him. All he wanted to do was play a few good card games in the local saloon. But Juan Ramirez showed up and whenever Ramirez came trouble surely wasn’t too far behind. Clark had been looking around town for wares while Bucky was in the saloon. Ramirez walked in the doors, stumbling over himself drunk in the middle of the day, and had demanded that all the Texans had to leave or else. Bucky had never been much for entertaining drunks, especially Mexican drunks. He ignored him and tried to coerce the boys around the table to continue their game. But Juan Ramirez had a reputation for an obstinate and nasty temper. The other cow hands knew if they got involved it wouldn't be only Texans getting thrown out. He walked up to Bucky and rapped the muzzle of his gun on his shoulder.

“Git, you dern Americano.” He rasped. Bucky could smell the liquor on his breath. He didn’t much like altercations himself, although in a pinch he could hold himself well in fisticuffs. But this wasn’t the first time Ramirez had tried to force Bucky out of a good card game, and Bucky didn’t feel up to caving in to a bully today. 

“Come on, Juan. Why don’t you sit down and join us? I’ll have your money along with these other fine gents here and I’ll be on my way.” 

“Git. Now” Ramirez grunted. It was good that he was keeping speech simple, because Bucky could barely understand the few words he had spoken, he was slurring them so badly. Bucky knew he would persist and decided to take the upper hand. Without hesitation, while Ramiriez’s breath was still hot on his neck, he pushed his chair out into Ramirez’s knees, causing him to let out a cry in pain and start to fall backwards. But he never quite got his breath back because as his body was still falling, Bucky stood up, spun around, and gave him a good punch in the forehead to hasten his fall. Bucky started walking out of the saloon, figuring Ramirez wouldn’t get back up for a while in his stupor, when he heard a shriek. The shriek came from one of the sporting ladies who had been observing the interaction from the safety of the balcony upstairs. 

Bucky turned around and saw the source of the new commotion. Ramirez lay right where Bucky had left him, looking unconscious. But something didn’t look quite right. Blood had begun to pool around him, spreading a velvet canvas to frame his head. One of the cow hands lifted up Ramirez’s head and Bucky saw what had happened. An old spur someone had lost had somehow been sticking upright on the floor, and when Bucky lay him down, it stuck in the back of his head. That explained why his neck looked awkward. 

About that time, some of Juan’s boys pushed the doors of the saloon open looking for him, and seeing him on the floor in his own mess, rushed over to try and help him in his last moments. Being a ranger, this wasn’t Bucky’s first run in with death, and he knew it was time to high tail it out of there. He got his horse and found Clark on the edge of town in the barber shop, halfway through a haircut, which would also explain part of the silence on the ride today. He was an orderly man and was unhappy about having half a trimmed head. But really, it wasn’t the hair that he was really thinking about that evening, it was Bucky. 

He had known Bucky from 12 years on the frontier in Texas, rangering the borders of Mexico from bandits and smugglers. It was dangerous work, but Clark liked dangerous work because it took his mind off the troubles that always seemed to haunt him when he had a lot of time to think. And thinking was exactly what he had a lot of time to do now that they had been on the run. The first few nights had been hell, but he wasn’t really worried anymore. Juan Ramirez was the head honcho of his crew, and most of his other men were cowards, hiding behind their boss’ bad temper. After a few hard nights of riding and exchanging bullets they had all peeled off. It didn’t seem likely that they would resume their hunt. 

“Man, my groin is rubbed raw.” Bucky mumbled, mostly to himself. He was wishing he had had time to grab some powder from the store before they left. But if they didn’t have time to finish Clark’s haircut, they definitely didn’t have time to buy chafing powder. Clark didn’t reply, but kept on with the easy trot they had been riding in. Bucky was prone to griping, but Clark had learned to live with it. There were plenty of other things that could make worse company than the occasional whining fit from Bucky. He may have been prone to grumbling, but deep in his heart Clark had a lot of respect for Bucky. He had his back many times on border patrols and there was hardly a man west of the Arkansas River who could handle a rifle like him, maybe not even Clark. Clark was grateful to have Bucky stay by his side after the days of rangering were over and all the bandits hung. They hadn’t had much work to do since then, so they often moved from town to town, Bucky playing cards and Clark looking for a good new horse. His horse was getting older and both him and the horse knew there weren’t too many more days of hard riding ahead. 

“We can take a longer rest tonight to let it heal. I'm sure Ramirez’s boys are long gone by now. We ain’t heard nothin from them in days.” Bucky was glad Clark was sure, because he wasn’t. He had run in with Juan Ramirez a few more times than Clark, and thought Clark underestimated Juan’s men. They might be cowards, but they were persistent cowards. 

The sun was setting fair over the barren hills nearby. For all the dust and bleakness of south Texas, the early morning and late evening sure were a sight to behold. The rays of light stretched and spread over the patches of bramble and mesquite, sending little golden orange rays onto whatever they were able to reach. 

They considered themselves lucky when they came on a small stream and decided that was a good place to stop for the night. They got their sleeping packs unrolled, and, after they had a fire going, Clark took his rifle and went out for a walk, whistling as he went. Clark was the prettiest whistler Bucky had ever heard. Good whistlers could mimic most birds. Clark could convince you there was a whole tree full of them. 

As Clark walked away Bucky sulked a little. After all this time together it pained him to think of betrayal. Clark had never done anything to offend Bucky, unless you count the time Bucky lost a gambling wager against him and had to wear women's clothes into San Antonio for a day. He was red as a hot iron that whole day. Clark didn’t know a man’s face could get that red without steam coming out of the ears. After that Bucky didn’t complain about Clark not frequenting the card games. 

Thinking back on that memory now even he had to chuckle. Then he remembered what he had to do and his good feelings soured. That dern Sam Smith, he thought to himself. If it hadn’t been for Sam Smith, he would be riding easy right now with Clark. But a few days ago when they stopped for the night it felt like a heavy stone was sitting in Bucky’s gut. And it just got heavier with each passing night. Bucky was a good gambler, but he had just met Sam and didn’t know his reputation as an apt card cutter. Bucky figured he was just another stupid cow hand, about to have his money cleaned out. Boy had he been wrong. Bucky had been cleaning the boys out all night, Sam included, when Sam made a crazy wager. 

“One last hand.” Sam had said. “If you win, I’ll give you my Henry.” Sam’s Henry rifle was a beauty. Gold plated and accurate as a snake bite. He even bragged that the metal work was done by Mr. Henry himself. Of course, no one could verify that, because no one actually knew Mr. Henry, or even if that was his real name. 

“And if you win?” Bucky asked. He could already feel that wood grain handle in his hands. 

“If I win I get Clark’s shootin finger.” 

Bucky looked up in surprise. He had heard that Sam and Clark had a hard run in, back in the day, but what kind of crazy man would want someone’s finger? And from a ranger’s hand, at that. It was a bad deal, but Bucky was hot headed and really wanted that gun, plus the liquor had just started to fog us his thinking. Besides, Sam hadn’t done anything remotely intellectual all night with the cards. Why should he expect anything else to happen? But that was Sam Smith’s game. The old bait and switch. He played bad hands for a while until he decided there was something he really wanted, and then he cut the cards. Well, Sam had cut the cards and won the game, and his 4 day for Clark’s finger was coming to a close. Bucky had tried to persuade him and bride him out of the deal a few times, but Sam wouldn’t have it. Clark’s finger or your life, he had told him. While Bucky hadn’t heard of his card cutting skills, he had heard of Sam Smith’s reputation for violence from Clark occasionally. If Clark feared a man, that man should be taken seriously. 

And now Bucky was sitting by a fire with a week to cut his friend’s finger off and give it to Sam Smith, and no Henry rifle to boot. What rotten luck. He loathed himself for making such a terrible deal. As he wrestled with himself the wind picked up and blew the smoke from the fire into his face, choking him. After a coughing fit the wind died down and he was left there again to his thoughts, annoyed. He let out a sigh, and heard a bird in the distance. But of course, no bird would be calling at this time. Clark was out somewhere not too far, enjoying his time alone, his melodic whistle carried back to camp between the small gusts of wind.

Bucky contemplated his situation as he stared into the dancing flames. He knew he couldn't do it. Sure, Clark could probably get by without the finger, as many men had. In fact, Bucky’s uncle Reed lost his finger to a sawmill and still managed to have a reputation for being a sure shot with a pistol, using his middle finger to trigger instead. He figured he would just have to tell Clark about the deal and they would figure out a way to deal with Sam together. 

Just as he was feeling a little better about his decision, he heard footsteps running into the camp, and looked up to see Clark, pale, sweaty, and breathing heavy.

“What’s gotten into you?” He said.

“Mesquite thorns...got me...my hand.” Clark said between ragged breaths. 

Bucky looked down and saw his hand, swollen and purple. The poison from the thorns could get bad if not treated in time. He had seen friends lose whole limbs over a mesquite needle.  Clark looked haggard, stumbled by the fire, and fell over onto the ground. Bucky knew what to do. If you could get the thorns out cleanly, you might save whatever had been stuck. He heated his knife in the fire, let it cool, then got to work. It took a good hour fishing for the spikes, but he managed to get most of them out by the time Clark woke up, yelling from the pain in his hand. 

“What the heck did you do to my dern hand?” Clark grabbed his hand, his face contorting in pain.

“If I left those thorns in there you’d been dead by sunup.” Bucky replied.

“I might be dead either way, with your handiwork.” 

Bucky looked again at Clark’s hand and scowled. There was a little thorn that he hadn’t been able to get yet. Every time he took a go at it, it wiggled around the knife and buried itself in the mutilated flesh, hiding in the shadows the firelight cast. It was right in the center of his finger. His trigger finger to be exact. A dubious thought flashed in Bucky’s mind for a second, but he pushed it aside. He had made up his mind, and he wasn’t going to give his friends finger to anyone, especially not Sam Smith. 

Clark looked down and whimpered. 

“My finger.” He said. “It’s turned plum white.”

Bucky looked at the finger again and noticed it was indeed white. Not pale, like Clark’s face had been when he rushed back into the camp, but white like dying flesh. Keeping the hand seemed possible. Keeping the finger did not. But with Bucky’s guilty conscience, he refused to be the one to suggest losing the finger. Luckily, he didn’t have to. 

“Cut it off.” Clark said, turning his face away from his hand. Bucky couldn't believe his luck.

“What was that?” He asked him, just to be sure.

“The dern finger, cut it off! It ain’t gonna survive and it might spread down further.” Clark was already bracing for the pain as he handed Bucky his knife. Bucky felt guilty for secretly benefiting from his friend's misfortune, but knew it had to be done. He ignored the knife and went and grabbed the little hatchet he carried, which he had gotten off a indian. He set the finger alone on one of the big rocks by the fire, and gave Clark a towel to put in his mouth and bite down on. Bucky heated the axe in the fire, and took one good swing while it was still hot. Clark gave a little groan, but it was done. Cut and sealed in the same stroke.

Clark held his hand up looking haggard. He picked the severed digit of the ground where it had fallen and was about to throw it in the fire when Bucky stopped him. 

“Now wait, ain’t you gonna keep it?” He asked.

“Why in the world would I want to keep it? There’s no way it can be reattached.”

“Well, if you don’t then i’ll take it.” Bucky said. Clark started to protest but Bucky quickly opened his hand, took the little bloody finger, and wrapped it in some cloth.

“You never know what kind of things people may trade for these days.” Bucky replied. He walked over, and as he was putting the wrapped finger in a little pouch on his saddle, he chuckled to himself.