Red Thunder

~Chapter Three: Part IV~

"I'm back," I murmured softly to him. "I am cleaning the wound first, so just try to relax."

I felt him take a deep, shuddering breath under my hands, and he nodded slightly. I worked swiftly and carefully. After the wound was mostly clean, I reached into my bag again, drawing out the leather wrap that housed my sharp tools. Opening it up, I selected a long set of tweezers, and my scalpel. The later I hoped I would not have to use, but bullets could be stubborn.

I also brought out my large flask of good whiskey; only about a fourth of the amber colored liquid remained. It was one of my most-used items. I used alcohol not only for sterilization, as I found that men, and even women, faced doctoring better upon sipping some. Patients often clutched it tightly while I worked, like a child holding their stuffed toy or blanket for comfort.

"Would you like to drink some of this to dull the pain?" I asked Red Thunder, showing him the whiskey I held.

His gaze abruptly darkened, glaring at the bottle with pure hatred. "I will not drink the wašíčus' evil firewater!" he growled out through clenched jaw.

Startled, I quickly slipped the flask back in my bag with a trembling hand. I had heard that alcohol and Indians didn't mix well, but I wasn't prepared for that kind of response! "Oh- okay, but it may hurt quite a bit without it," I stuttered out.

Red Thunder's face softened and he told me in a soothing tone, "I am a warrior. Warriors heed no pain. It is only of the body, and can reach the mind only if we let it. But wóphila, thank you, my wíŋyaŋ wašté, for all that you do for me."

I blushed and smiled under his warm appraisal. And what was that he called me? Whatever it may mean, it gave me a warm fluttering in my belly. "Don't thank me just yet!"

Sterilizing both my tools with the alcohol, I leaned in over the open bullet hole to get a look. I smiled with relief when I caught sight of the shine of metal peeking out of bloody tissue. It had been stopped from exiting the body by his shoulder blade, but as I gently dabbed the area with some cotton, I could see that the bone had miraculously remained intact. And thankfully, there would be no exploratory digging around for the bullet. I was capable of doing so, I had done it before, but the amount of pain it brought a person was not something I was sure I could bear seeing my Indian go through.

"You were very lucky. The bone is not broken, and I can see the bullet. Now I'm just going to reach in with my tweezers and pull it out. This may be a little painful, but try to hold still. I promise it will be over with in no time," I reassured Red Thunder.

He nodded against the pillow. "I will be still, my wíŋyaŋ wašté."

I smiled, not sure what it was he called me, but liking it nonetheless.

Dousing the tweezers with my rubbing alcohol, I pressed my hand around the ragged opening of my patient's wound, trying not to let the warm, soft feel of Red Thunder's skin distract me from my task. Bringing my face close to his back, I carefully dipped the tweezers into the raw, fleshy hole, careful not to touch any of the surrounding tissue as I made contact with the long, metal intruder. It was very delicate work.

Twisting the tweezers slightly, I closed around the butt of the bullet, wiggling it slightly to get a good grip. My Indian bravely remained silent, stoic as ever.

Satisfied I had a hold on the bullet, I began to gently pull. I felt a slight resistance before the metal came free of the flesh, inciting a muffled groan from Red Thunder and an oozing of fresh blood. Quickly I pressed a clean rag firmly against the wound, setting the tweezers and bullet aside.