Saddle Dust

Chapter 5

"Philip...Philip? PHILIP!"
Victor jolts awake and looks desperately about the room, bleary-eyed from his night's unrestful sleep.
"Oh Dad above, PHILIP!"
He staggers to his feet and walks over to where Philip lies twisted against the wall of the cabin. His chest is barely stirring the blanket and, for a moment, Victor is convinced that he has died in the night. But Philip coughs and his eyes flicker open. Victor finds he can breathe again. Philip's cracked and dried lips form a small smile.
"H-hey, Vic. I made it to morning, didn't I?"
Victor's shoulders relax, and he lets a sigh of relief slide between his teeth.
"You sure did, partner. But you look to be in worse shape than before, if I do say so."
"Hey, take a look at it an' see what you think then. Maybe it's alright?"
Speaking leaves Philip breathless and the question left hanging shakily in the air does nothing to assuage Victor's concern.
"Well, I guess we gotta look at it anyways..."
Victor trails off, and the two stay silent. Neither one wants to unwrap the old soiled bandage and break the spell of cellophane hope clinging to the roof of the small cabin. Philip moves first. Grunting, he pulls himself up from the corner of the bed he wedged himself into in his fever-dream state and inches his head back onto the pillow. Victor reaches over and helps lift his shoulders the rest of the way.
Philip is now partially sitting up, his shoulders cradled in the shallow valley between the pillow and the rough newspaper and grass stuffed mattress. His injured arm flops languidly against his heaving chest causing him to inhale sharp needles of cold air.
Victor lifts the empty bucket, and carries it outside. The thin metal handle bites into his calloused hands as he walks back with it swinging full of water. A thin layer of sweat already glazes the crown of his forehead. It's going to be a hot day out.
He places the bucket on the small iron stovetop, and turns the rusted handle to open the grate. Some of the coals are still warm, and it isn't long before the fire is quickly eating up twigs and small branches again.
The water sits, untouched by the fire's angry heat, and Victor leaves the stove to turn his attention to The Bandage.
The Bandage has grayed from some strange liquid that has oozed out of Philip's stump-arm overnight. Victor tastes bile, and takes the safety pin out of the first layer of wrappings. Philip bites down on a corner of the blanket, and squints his eyes shut.
"You gonna be ok with me doing this or would you rather have Mrs. Hartford or a proper doctor take care of it for you?"
Philip manages to open one eye to look at Victor sideways.
"What? You too...chicken to see a little gunshot wound?"
Victor swallows back the bile, and begins to peel The Bandage off of the limb of flesh that once supported a man's hand. Philip cries out several times as the layers are peeled away, and Victor stops whenever he does this. It gives both him and Phillip a break from the task at hand.
The water begins to hiss softly against the battered sides of the bucket, and during one of Philip's longer complaints, Victor takes a break to get the water off of the stove and twist the grate shut, choking it of oxygen. He returns to Philip with bucket in hand and sets it down quickly on the wooden floor. Some of the hot water sloshes out, and Victor wipes his burning palm on his filthy jeans. Philip cranes his neck to see a slight welt forming from a burn given to Victor from the metal handle of the bucket. Victor hides his burnt hand behind his back by pretending to adjust his belt. He clears his throat.
"So, you...you ready for the main event?"
Victor tries a lighthearted laugh, but the joke comes out flat. There is only one more layer of The Bandage to unravel before the wound is exposed to the air.
Philip bares his teeth down on the blanket, and grips the wooden frame of the bed with his remaining hand. He nods, eyes squinted shut. Beads of sweat form and run down his forehead.
"Alright then..."
Victor quickly pulls back the final layer of The Bandage, and a thin, filmy layer of new skin, bacteria, and crusted blood peels off with it. The wound begins to weep again, and fresh blood starts to stripe Philip's already gore-covered arm. Victor can actually smell the bacteria eating away at the flesh.
He turns around to the bucket sitting at his knees and vomits up the rest of his stomach into the water. It hisses on contact with the hot water, and chunks of ham dance to the bottom.
The smell of vomit and rotting flesh makes Victor wretch a few more times before he is able to get a grip on his stomach. Philip is looking at him. Eyes glazed, but he is smiling. Showing yellowed teeth and almost laughing at Victor.
"You...you city-livered chicken...I knew you couldn' handle it..."
Philip laughs and coughs again. He lets his head fall back on the sweat-soaked pillow, and closes his eyes. His chest is heaving and his cheeks have lost their usual glow, but his smile remains intact. Victor recovers enough to get his feet under him and stands shakily. He slowly walks over to one of the cabin walls, and hastily removes the fence nails from a large sheet of old newspaper without looking at the headline.