Part 47 (2/2)

The mule was having a rough time, grunting and braying as it struggled forward on three legs. It kept its left foreleg off the ground. The way the hoof wobbled, I judged the poor mule's leg was broken at the knee.

I got into my boots and hat while Jesse nudged the mule closer along the sh.o.r.e.

”Look what I found us,” she called.

”He won't do us much good, being lame,” I said.

”I don't aim to ride him,” she said. ”This old boy, he'll keep us in meat for a week.”

”You want to eat eat him?” him?”

”Gotta put the thing out of his misery, anyhow. No use letting him go to waste.”

I couldn't come up with any good argument against that.

We stood him close to the water's edge. Then Jesse shot him in the head. I was glad she didn't ask me to do it. I'd plugged my share of men, but they'd all been fixing to kill me or my friends. This mule hadn't done any harm. I felt sorry for it. From the look on Jesse's face when the mule dropped, she wasn't too happy, herself, about shooting it.

After setting the rifle down, she commenced to roll up her sleeves. ”You go on and build us a fire.”

She pulled the Bowie knife out of her boot and knelt down beside the carca.s.s.

I hurried off, glad to get away. Instead of scrounging about for bits of wood, I broke up some of the buckboard. Jesse still had the German's tobacco pouch with the matches. She was up to her elbows in blood, though, so I fetched matches out of my saddlebag. I found Snooker's big knife in there, too, and used it to split some kindling.

I made a neat pile of wood, and fired it up.

The notion of eating mule didn't set well with me. But meat was meat. While I watched the flames rise, I recollected that General Forrest had told me how the Apaches were more inclined to eat horses than ride them. They had an appet.i.te for mules, too. According to him, though, they weren't above eating rats. He sometimes called the Apaches ”gut-eaters.” That didn't speak well for their taste in vittles, but I allowed as how I'd rather eat mule than rat just about anytime at all.

With such thoughts in my head about the Apaches, I suddenly recalled their trick of using horse guts for storing water.

The flood had taken our water pouch.

We couldn't leave the creek behind if we didn't have us a way to carry water. It ran from north to south, so following it wouldn't get us any closer to Tombstone.

We might head upstream, find the trail and wait for strangers. Somebody was sure to come along, by and by. Then we'd need to borrow, buy or steal a container.

It seemed a mighty roundabout and dicey way to handle the problem. Better, by a far sight, to avail ourselves of the mule's innards.

I picked up my knife and went on over to where Jesse was busy carving. She'd already cut us a couple of steaks off the critter's flank, and was slicing long, thin strips off the thigh.

”We'll have us these tonight,” she said, prodding one of the steaks with her knife, ”and jerk the rest.” She nodded, quite pleased with herself. She had a smear of blood across her brow. I reckon she'd rubbed a hand there to deal with an itch.

Not being any too eager to commence my task, I helped her cut some more strips.

When we had quite a pa.s.sel of them, we carried all the meat on over to the fire. We ripped a plank from the buckboard, cut it into a few long poles, and fas.h.i.+oned them into a rack. With that in place, we draped the strips rather high over the fire to let them smoke.

Back at the creek, we washed up. Jesse didn't seem aware of the blood on her forehead, so I dampened the front of my s.h.i.+rt and wiped it off.

Looking me in the eyes, she reached up a wet hand and smoothed some stray hair across my brow. Then she curled the hand behind my neck, eased me closer to her, and kissed me on the cheek. My face heated up. I felt myself go all mushy inside.

I had a good notion to take her in my arms and have a go at kissing her mouth, but she stepped away quick and said, ”Reckon we oughta float the mule down the stream before it ripens on us.”

My wits were still rattled. I just gaped at her.

She swung out a hip and tipped her head sideways and studied me. She had a frown on her face, but her eyes gave it away that she was amused, not annoyed. ”What's the matter with you you?”

”Not a thing, actually.”

”You never been kissed before?”

”Not by you.”

”Well, don't let it spoil your day. Come on, now, let's send the mule off to join the German. Then we'll cook up them steaks and...”

”I'd prefer to eat first. We've already washed our hands, after all.”

”Won't take a minute. Then we'll be shut of the thing.”

”I'm afraid there's a rather messy job that needs to be done before we dispose of the mule. It's likely to ruin my appet.i.te.”

”What're you talking about?”

”We can fas.h.i.+on a water bag out of the guts.”

She only just stared at me, scowling.

”I know it's rather appalling, but if we clean the intestine properly...”

”Where'd you ever come up with such a notion?”

”The General once told me about it.”

”Your horse horse?”

”No, certainly not. General Matthew Forrest, an old Indian fighter. It was a trick the Apaches used.”

”Sure wish I'd I'd thought of it.” thought of it.”

She was just full of surprises. ”You think it's a good idea, then?” I asked.

”It's just bully, that's what I think. You're right, though. We oughta eat before we settle down to meddle with the thing's innards.”

With that, we headed on back to the fire. The strips hanging in the smoke had already darkened some. Their drippings fell into the flames, popped and sizzled. Mule or not, the aroma set my mouth to watering.

I added some wood to the fire. Then we cut a couple of sticks from the side of the buckboard, whittled points on the end of each one, and poked our steaks onto them. Jesse held both the steaks over the flames while I removed the whiskey bottle from my saddlebag.

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