The Stake

leading to the street. He would either have to lug Pete all the way around the end of town or take him through a window. His legs were already straining and shaky under the weight. It would have to be a window.

Might as well be the one they’d climbed through when they went after Uriah.

Suddenly imagining Uriah rushing at him from the rear, he swung around and looked back.

Nobody there.

Probably still at the bottom of the slope, Larry told himself, and continued trudging toward the window.

He wondered if he hadkilled the man. The first bullet, he was pretty sure, had gone in one cheek and out the other. Certainly not fatal. The second bullet had buried itself in the crucifix or ricocheted off it. But the gun had discharged when he pounded Uriah with it. The bullet from that shot had struck the man’s head. No telling what kind of damage it might’ve done. Maybe it only sliced across his scalp. Or it might’ve gone into his head. That one could’ve killed him.

At least I didn’t finish him off, Larry told himself. If the guy died from that last shot, it was an accident. And self-defense.

Not that the cops are going to find out about any of this, he thought. Not if I can help it.

He was nearly to the window when Pete moaned and squirmed a little. He took another step, another.

“Uhhh. Put me down,” Pete mumbled.

“Hang on.” Larry staggered the final distance to the wall. Crouching, he pressed his friend against it.

“Look out, man.” Pete shoved him away, sank to his knees, hunched over and heaved bloody vomit. Then he hocked and spit out gobs of red mucus. When he finished, he stayed down, his head hanging. “Fuckin‘ A,” he mumbled.

“Are you all right?”

“Ohhh shit. You gotta be kidding.” With one hand he fingered his face. “What happened?”

“Uriah clobbered you with a rock.”

“I think my fuckin‘ nose is busted.”

“Yeah.”

“Feel like my head’s split open.”

“You hit a rock when you fell, too.”

He moaned again. He touched the back of his head. Larry didn’t see any blood in the hair.

“We’d better get you to a doctor.”

“Fuck that. Take me to an undertaker.” He pushed himself up and leaned against the wall. Holding the sides of his head, he squeezed his swollen eyes shut. “So what happened to Uriah?”

“He’s down in the stream bed.”

“Did one of us get him?”

“Sort of.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a long story. Let’s get to the car. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Yeah, but is he dead, or what?”

“He might be. I don’t know. Think you can get through the window okay?”

“Sure,” he muttered.

Larry climbed into the building. There, he clutched Pete’s arm and held him steady while he clambered over the sill. Keeping his grip, he led Pete through the shadowy room and out to the street.

The car was still resting on its jack.

The feathered shaft of an arrow jutted from the wall of the flat tire.

“Good thing we hadn’t finished changing it,” Larry said.

“Our lucky day,” Pete muttered.

“It hasbeen lucky.”

“Trade heads, you won’t think so.”

“Could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Yeah, sure. Get the trunk open, huh? Get me a beer.”

“I’m not sure you should drink any alcohol. A head injury like that...”

“Who died and made you a neurologist?” Pete slapped the trunk. “Come on!”

Larry opened it, removed the lid from the cooler and took out two cans of beer. He popped their tops and gave one to Pete. Instead of drinking, Pete poured beer onto his handkerchief and started cleaning the blood off his face.

Larry stepped to the front of the car. The can was wet in his hand. He took a drink. The beer was cold and good. Squatting, he yanked the arrow from the tire.

“Let’s see it,” Pete said, tossing the sodden handkerchief to the pavement.

Larry gave the arrow to him.

“Just like I thought, Apache.”

“Right.” “Nice souvenir.”

“Good thing it didn’t end up in one of us.” Larry drank some more beer. “We’re out here playing cowboy and a lunatic starts shooting arrows at us.”

“Why don’t you take off my hat? You look like a dork. If I laugh, it’s gonna hurt.”

He plucked Pete’s hat off the crown of his own and held it out.

“On this head? You’ve gotta be kidding. Just toss it in the car.”

He sailed it through the open window. It landed on the passenger seat. Taking another drink of beer, he squatted down and started pumping the jack handle.

“You sure we don’t have to worry about that bozo jumping us again?”

“I shot him three times,” Larry said.

“Holy shit.”

While he worked on changing the tire, he told Pete about rushing down the embankment after Uriah had thrown the rock, being unable to find him, returning to the top just as the old man was about to hammer a stake into Pete’s chest, and putting a bullet through his face. He told about Uriah yelling “Vampire!” and attacking him with the stake. About the bullet that was stopped by the crucifix, about the accidental shot and throwing Uriah down the slope.

When he finished, he looked around. Pete blew softly through pursed lips and muttered, “Are you shitting me?”

“Nope,” Larry said. “It got pretty wild there for a minute.”

“And I missed it.”

“Sorry about that.”

“The bastard was really gonna do a Van Helsing on me?”

“That’s right.”

“Sure glad you’re good with that shootin‘ iron, old hoss.”

“Me, too.”

Pete tipped his can high and emptied it into his mouth. “I’m having another. How about you?”

Though Larry’s can was still half full, he said, “Yeah.” He used the lug wrench to tighten the nuts while Pete went for the beers.

Pete set the fresh one down beside him.

Larry started lowering the car.

“Sounds to me like the old buzzard might still be alive,” Pete said.

“If he is, he’s not feeling too spry. And his bow’s busted, so he can’t do us any harm.”

“Wish you’d polished him off, though.”

“I thought about it.”

Pulling the jack out from under the car, he waited for Pete to suggest they go back and finish the job.

It didn’t happen.

Instead Pete said, “What’ll we do about him?”