punchers say to Ma Prather: “He’s in a bad way, ma’am. Unless somebody cuts that rotten arm off’n him, I don’t reckon he’ll make it much past the day after tomorrow.”
The hell you won’t cut off my arm, I yelled. But I must have only thought it, because nobody paid me any mind.
I woke to find myself looking into the whiskery, whiskey-reddened face of Charlie Fullerton, and this second time was no more pleasant than the first.
“How you feeling, boy?” Charlie asked.
“How . . . how long . . .”
“Best part of two weeks. You’ve been out of your mind, tossing and turning and raving. Been up the trail with Mr. Prather a time or two and refought old battles, lost and won. And you’ve been calling out for Lila, and saying other things about her as well.”
“Mr. Fullerton,” I heard Ma say, “that’s quite enough.”
My arm!
I turned and saw a fat bandage around my shoulder—but the arm was still there!
“Saved it for you, boy,” Charlie said, his face beaming. “Dang me, if’n I didn’t.”
He turned to Ma, who suddenly swam into my line of vision. “Mrs. Prather here, sent a fast rider all the way to Sweetwater for a doctor. When the man arrived, he unlimbered his saw and was all set to cut your arm off.”
“Mr. Fullerton stopped him, Dusty,” Ma said. She sat on the edge of the bed and took my hand. “For a spell there, we thought we’d lost you.”
I turned to Charlie. “But how did . . . ?”
“Well, first off,” Charlie said, stopping me as he warmed up to the conversation, “I put the muzzle of my old Remington against that sawbone’s head and tole him: ‘Mister, you let that boy’s arm be. I ain’t never shot a medical man yet, but there’s a first time for everything.’ Well, that doc taken out of here like a buckshot coyote and I went to work.”
My head was clearing and I struggled to a sitting position on the bed. “How did you save my arm, Mr. Fullerton?”
“Maggots, boy, maggots, hundreds an’ hundreds of them.”
Ma shook her head. “It was just horrible, Dusty. I’m glad you were out of your head and didn’t know what was happening.”
“Maggots?”
“Maggots, boy,” Charlie answered. “See, I was a medical orderly during the War Between the States, and I always noticed how the wounds of soldiers who’d lain out in the field for days never got gangrenous. But the wounds of the poor boys laid up in the hospital most always did. So, I ask you, what made the difference?”
I shook my head in bafflement.
“Maggots, boy. Them soldiers who’d been lying hurt between the lines day and night always had maggots in their wounds. Maggots feed on rotten meat, and that’s why they cured the gangrene. They ate it, boy, they ate it.”
“Mr. Fullerton, that’s horrible,” Ma said, her nose wrinkling.
“Maybe so, but they saved the boy’s arm, and his life.”
“Mr. Fullerton,” I asked, not really knowing if I wanted the answer, “where did you get the maggots?”
“Easy,” Charlie beamed, “rode around until I found me a dead critter and then collected them. I put five hundred on your arm, Dusty, and covered them up with a bandage. Let them do their work for a week, then washed them off. That tommyhawk wound came up clean as a hound’s tooth.
“After that, I put on some healing salves of my own invention”—he gave Ma a sidelong look—“the secrets of which I plan to keep to myself, no matter who’s doing the coaxing.”
Ma sniffed, and Charlie continued: “ ’Course, you ain’t going to be using the arm for a spell and you’ll have a scar big enough to store hay in, but you still got your gun hand an’ that’s the main thing.”
I shook my head at the cook. “No more guns. I’ve had enough of shooting and killing to last me a lifetime.”
Charlie opened his mouth to object, but Ma interrupted him. “Dusty, there’s someone outside who’s been waiting patiently to see you.”
“Lila?”
Ma smiled. “Lila. I’ll get her.” She gave Charlie a nod. “Let’s go, Mr. Fullerton. These two young people need to be alone.”
I licked my fingers and was still running them through my hair in a vain attempt to smooth it down when the door opened. Lila stepped inside and quietly closed the door after her.
She was wearing a simple gray dress and her hair was unbound, falling over her shoulders and my heart skipped a beat, me just lying there, thinking her the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen.
Lila crossed the room and sat on the bed. “How do you feel, Dusty?” she asked, her smile something a man would be willing to die for.
“I’m just fine,” I said. “And I could ask the same thing of you. How is the shoulder?”
“I’m on the mend, thanks to Mr. Fullerton.”
We sat in silence for a few moments. Then Lila said: “Dusty, the day after you got back, Ma and me drove the buckboard over to the Coleman place for Sally’s funeral. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the straw bonnet you bought for her and put it on her grave.”
I nodded. “You did just fine. Sally would have liked that.”
Another silence passed between us. Then I said: “Lila, I want to ask you something.”
“Ask away, Dusty. I’m listening.”
After a few false starts, I finally managed: “Lila, will you marry me?”
Her smile grew wider. “Of course we’ll be married. I knew that the first time I ever set eyes on you.”
“Soon,” I said.
Lila nodded. “Soon as you’re able to stand on your own two feet and say I do.”
“There’s one thing though,” I said. “When we’re on our own place, I won’t be able to walk behind a plow. At least not for a while with this arm.”
Lila stiffened. “Mr. Hannah, this is cow country.” So Ma had finally worn her down!
I held Lila close with my good arm, and she whispered. “There’s just one thing I want, Dusty.”
“Anything.”
“Will you clear me a space for a vegetable garden?”
“Of course I will. I’ll make you the best vegetable garden this side of El Paso.”
Outside the shadows were lengthening, but I saw no shadow of a future parting for Lila and me, now or ever, for as long as we’d live.
I kissed her then, hard and long.
When it was over, Lila rubbed her finger across her top lip.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“It’s your mustache, Dusty. It tickles.”
I touched my upper lip with the tips of my fingers and among the fuzz felt stiff, wiry bristles—the beginnings, I fancied, of a fine dragoon mustache. A man’s mustache.
I threw back my head and laughed.
Me, I was eighteen years old that summer of 1880.
And my happiness was complete.
