Part 58 (2/2)

”Well, I reckon I'll live. I'll tend to it. You go on ahead and load up.”

My hands shook so frightfully that I had a rather difficult time of it. Also, I kept an eye out for Whittle and watched Jesse while I worked at emptying out the used sh.e.l.ls and plugging fresh rounds into my cylinders.

What Jesse did was to sit down among the dead folks' clothes and pull the knife from her boot. Using that, she cut the leg off her dungarees. It put me in mind of the time she'd cut off the German's trouser leg to wear on her head. She'd gashed him some, but she didn't gash herself. Her hand was just as steady as you please.

Seeing the hole in her thigh, I dropped a couple of cartridges.

She turned her leg. It had a second hole on the outer side of the thigh, about three inches from the one in front. Blood was running out of both.

”It ain't still in me,” she said.

”That's good, isn't it?” I asked, feeling awful trembly and weak.

”Well, I'd a sight rather have one hole than two.” Looking up at me, she smiled.

I found the cartridges that I'd dropped, stuffed them into the cylinder, checked both guns to be sure they were fully loaded, then slipped them into my holsters and stepped over Jesse's legs. I crouched down beside the shot one.

”Does it hurt awfully?”

”Well, it don't feel good.”

”Watch for Whittle, and I'll bandage you.”

Nodding, she gave her knife to me. Then she leaned back. Braced up on one elbow, she lifted her revolver and rested it on her belly. She turned her head to keep a lookout.

”We near had him,” she said.

”I took a piece out of his face.”

”Too bad that's all.”

I snagged up a calico dress with faded flowers on it. After some cutting and ripping, I had it in pieces. I folded one into a thick patch and pressed it gently against her wounds. It was large enough to cover both of them. I held it there for a bit.

She'd taken off the leg of her dungarees quite high up. Our positions were such that I couldn't help but view a region, overhung by fabric but plainly visible, that took out my breath. A flood of heat rushed through me.

I looked away quick and lifted my hand off the pad. It had a pair of red dots, but wasn't soaked.

”You don't seem to be bleeding terribly,” I muttered.

”Reckon he'll ride off and leave us?”

”I doubt it.”

”Hope you're right. I'd hate to see him get away.”

”I just hope we we get away.” get away.”

With a long strip from the dress, I commenced to wrap the pad into place. Jesse eased her other leg aside so it wouldn't be in my way. That pretty much bared her center entirely. I tried not to look, but couldn't help myself. I did manage not to touch her there, though my hands got mighty close while I worked at winding the cloth around her.

She must've known what I could see, but she didn't complain or try to cover herself.

I felt lowdown for looking. But not so lowdown as to quit it. We were trapped inside a cave and surrounded by women in the most awful states of dismemberment and rot, Whittle was likely fixing to kill us, and Jesse was gunshot. Yet there I knelt, sneaking peeks and feeling like I might just explode with the thrill and wonder of it all.

After giving the strip of dress several turns around her thigh, I tied it secure with another piece.

”All set,” I said, and found Jesse staring at me.

The torches gave off plenty of light for me to see she had the old gleam in her eyes. ”You'd best take your mind off my southern parts and put it on Whittle.”

I blushed so fierce my skin near caught fire.

I stammered something, trying for a denial.

Jesse sat up. ”No call to fret about it. Give me back my knife.”

I handed it to her. She leaned forward, hitched up the cuff of her remaining pantsleg, and slipped the blade into her boot.

”Perhaps you should carry it in the other boot,” I suggested.

”The other boot ain't got a sheath sewed inside.”

”Still, it would be easier to retrieve.”

”That leg's ruined enough without getting knifed.”

”Will you be able to walk?”

”Reckon we'll find out soon enough.”

I got to my feet and held out a hand to her. When she took it, I hoisted her upright. She gasped and cringed. But she didn't go down.

”You can let go of me,” she said.

I did so, and stepped back. After a quick check to be sure that Whittle wasn't lurking at the front of the chamber, I turned my eyes to Jesse. She took a couple of steps. Though she winced with each of them, she stayed up.

I stared at her. She was sure a sight. Standing there with a six-gun in her hand. Her hair all a mess but golden in the torchlight. Her left arm and leg both bare (except for the bandage around her thigh). Her skin moist and s.h.i.+ny. Her s.h.i.+rttails hanging out. The one leg of her dungarees. .h.i.tched up over the top of her boot with the handle of the knife sticking out.

”Whatcha staring at now?” she asked.

”You look glorious.”

She reached down and touched the bandage. ”Well, you got me into a dress. Reckon now I'm a regular Becky Thatcher.”

”Becky Thatcher?” I asked, surprised and pleased.

”Ain't you never read about her and Tom Sawyer? They ended up in a cave, same as us.”

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