Page 12 of Sure as Shooting

Huntley handed him the implement. “Who the hell’d bother asking her name? I’m just lucky to escape without an arrow through my balls.”

She winced when Whit prodded into her muscle. He hoped the ball hadn’t shattered her humerus. It would be a shame to have to amputate such a lovely, elegant arm. “Ask her name.”

Huntley sputtered but said something to her in Digger lingo.

She wouldn’t look at Huntley, so she turned her doe’s eyes to Whit and said softly something that sounded like “Bel.”

“Bel.” Huntley needlessly translated for Whit.

Whit had found the ball, nestled right up against her humerus. Luckily she was an exceedingly thin gal with very long bones. He tried to distract her before inserting the tweezers an inch into her flesh and grabbing the ball. “Bel, my, what a beautiful name. Bel. Is that like the sound of a bell ringing? But you’ve probably never heard a bell…”

“Ow!” she yowled when he yanked out the lead ball. He deposited it into the closest receptacle, Huntley’s empty brandy tumbler, and prepared for the flow of blood by pressing on her artery.

“Huntley,” he commanded in his doctorly tone. “Pour more brandy into my glass and hand it to her.”

“Liquor for a Digger?” Huntley fumed but did as he was told. “Don’t you know that’s the worst sort of foolishness, giving liquor to Indians?”

Bel whipped the glass from Huntley’s hand and swallowed all the booze in about four gulps. Whit could see her eyes smarting and watering, but at least it took her mind off her arm. When he tentatively released his thumb on the artery, only a minimal amount of blood flowed, and he was encouraged. “Cut me off a length of bandage, about two feet.”

“Do you want Bud back as your assistant? I’ll try to find him.”

To Whit’s surprise, Bel uttered, “Bud?”

Both Huntley and Whit paused. They looked to her to repeat the word, but she just looked down at the ground, suddenly shy.

Huntley handed Whit the bandage. “Oh, that’s their word for deer. She’s probably hungry.”

“You haven’t fed her?”

“Why would I give her food? We don’t have any horseflesh around here, partner. And the battalion made sure to destroy all their acorn baskets.”

“You give her food because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do. That’s what the Indian Commission would do, anyway.” Whit didn’t like the way the bandage was going to be packing all the dirt inside her wound. “Hunt. Let me bathe her. She’s filthy. All this dirt will infect the wound.”

Huntley cocked his hips skeptically. “Where are you gonna bathe her? The creek is the closest, but then you’d have to leave your patients for awhile.”

Whit gazed at his friend evenly. “Why, who was bragging about having the grandest bathtub in town, not forty feet from this tent?”

Huntley gaped. “Bathe? Her? In my bathtub?”

Whit was about to become irritated with the trader. “She’s filthy, Hunt, and this dirt is only going to infect her wound. The wound caused by you, might I add. Besides. Once she’s cleaned up, I’m sure she’ll be mighty pretty. Don’t you have any need for a handy Indian servant girl? I certainly would. If I bathe her and train her, would you let me have her?” Was it Whit’s imagination, or did Bel gaze upon him fondly when he said this? Of course he imagined it. She was just responding to his kind, helpful tone of voice.

Huntley actually cringed into the canvas wall of the tent. “You can have her!” he cried. “If you want a troublesome, salty shrew who is liable to put a knife through your skull, that’s your business. But I don’t even let my own squaws into my house. I’ll have someone bring a washtub and you can bathe her in this tent.”

“Huntley,” Whit said pragmatically. “Bathing her in front of these patients? They might be injured, but they’re not dead.”

On his cot Bill Little had propped himself up on one elbow. “You got my permission, Doc. It’s been awhile since I seen a fully naked woman, even if she is just an Indian.”

Whit said, “You see what I mean, Hunt? This just isn’t right. Let me bathe her once in your bathtub—for medicinal purposes—and you stay here to ensure none of these—” Whit looked at the three American patients. Two of them looked about to ravish poor Bel, and the third had fainted dead away a long time ago. “These upstanding soldiers don’t keel over. Is your house unlocked?”

“Yes. My cook Lupe almost always has hot water going on the stove. But let me come with you. These…upstanding men can take care of themselves. Right, Bill?”

“I suppose.” Bill was clearly disappointed but couldn’t do much with an Indian arrowhead hole in his lung.

“Take your pistol.” Huntley even checked Bel’s fists for concealed weapons before they started on the short walk to his house.

Whit walked in between the two others. He knew Huntley didn’t want to be near the woman, who he estimated as being perhaps thirty years of age. She walked along smoothly like a silent deer, her unlined face betraying absolutely no emotion.

“Does it ever snow in the winter here, at this low elevation?” Whit asked, just to make conversation.