The few first aid items I carried in my daypack were not intended for treating shooting victims, but there was enough clean gauze and tape to make a pressure bandage for the leg wound.
He moaned. I moved nearer his face and called his name again. Say the injured person’s name often — I remembered that this was one of the rules. He opened his eyes, stared up at me.
“Ben? Can you understand me?”
He closed his eyes.
“Ben!”
He looked up at me. Bingle barked. Ben slowly turned his head toward the dog, groaned, and closed his eyes again. “Raining,” he said thickly, hardly more than a whisper.
“No,” I said. “It was raining, but it has stopped now.”
He made no response.
“Ben! Ben!”
“Go away.”
“Ben. Wake up!”
He didn’t respond.
“Ben Sheridan, listen to me — I don’t want to get shot just because I’m out here with you. So wake up!”
Nothing.
“Bingle needs you, all right? What would David say if he knew you didn’t take care of his dog?”
“David,” he said miserably, but opened his eyes.
“Are you hurt anywhere besides your head and leg?”
He frowned. “Don’t know. Can’t think.” He lifted his head, tried to move. “Dizzy,” he said, closing his eyes.
“Does your neck or back hurt?”
“No — my head. My leg — broken, I think.”
I picked up his right hand. “Squeeze my hand.”
He did. Weak, but a grasp. I tried the same thing with the left.
“You passed test number one with flying colors.” I moved to his boots. “Try moving your right foot, Ben.”
He moved it.
“Your left.”
Nothing, but the attempt made him cry out.
“Can’t,” he whispered. “Can’t.”
“Don’t worry about that now. We need to get out of this field, then you can sleep if you want to — but not now. Stay awake.”
“Okay,” he said, then added, “for Bingle.”
“Suit yourself, asshole. Just stay awake.”
I saw a small, fleeting smile. I had to admire that — in the amount of pain he must have been in, I don’t know many people who could have managed it.
“I can’t leave you in this field,” I said. “Parrish may be back.”
He rolled to his right side, as if he was going to try to move to his feet, and promptly threw up.
“Christ,” he said.
“It’s probably because you hit your head,” I said, taking my neckcloth off and wiping his face. I helped him rinse his mouth. “At the very least, you’ve probably got a concussion. And if you’re going to be sick, it’s much better for you to be lying on your side. Dangerous to be lying on your back.”
I helped him lift his head a little, to offer him water. He seemed thirsty, but soon closed his eyes. “Go away.”
“Stay awake, Ben.”
“Go away.”
“Bingle, remember?”
“Damned dog,” he said, but opened his eyes again.
I tried to make him comfortable, to do what I could to keep him from going into shock. But nothing I needed was at hand, and more than anything, I wanted to get us the hell out of that meadow.
I kept looking back at the ridge. No sign of Parrish. Not yet.
“Bingle,” I said, “
The dog moved closer to Ben.
“What?” Ben said groggily. “What did you say?”
