found nothing. The words were just coming out of my mouth when I noticed a small tear in his full-zip pants. “Shit…” I pulled off my glove and ran it over the black fabric; it was coated with his blood. “Shit.”
“He is hit?”
“Yep.” I tore the pants open to reveal an entry and exit wound at the front of his thigh. “Subcutaneous damage, possibly the thigh muscles. Missed the bone and major arteries though.”
“Can you stop the bleeding?”
I sighed. “Maybe, but he’s not gonna to be able to walk.” I took one of my gloves, turned it inside out, placed the fleece-covered leather over both holes, and looked around for something with which to tie the glove in place. The small pack was still attached to my middle, so I stripped the water bottles off and emptied it out, wrapping it around his leg. I raised his head up and peeled back an eyelid. What showed was mostly white; he gave no sign of coming to. I had seen his chest rise and fall, but I felt his wrist just to make sure I hadn’t killed him. The pulse was strong, but he remained still. I checked George’s leg again and then scooped up a small. 38 caliber Smith and Wesson Detectives’ Special. I thumbed open the cylinders and looked at the two spent cartridges and at the two that remained. I removed the two empties, readjusted the wheel forward of an empty chamber, and snapped the cylinder back with the firing pin resting on the hollow chamber. I pushed it into my pocket, picked up the water, and climbed the hill to my friend who still sat on the trail.
As I got to the path, I had a clearer picture of him and saw that drifts of snow had begun building up against his outstretched legs. The Bear’s arms were wrapped around his middle, and the hood on his jacket dipped low as if he were trying to sleep. The Remington 870 lay across his lap. I knelt down and looked up into his eyes; they were pinched. “Let me see.” He slowly dropped his hands to the edges of his jacket, and it was only then that I noticed the dark red stains that had soaked through his woolen gloves. The jacket slowly opened to reveal a bloody mess at his abdomen, just above the navel and slightly to the right. The blood had saturated the lower part of his shirt and thermal underwear and was now leaking into his lap. I swallowed, and the word was out before I could stop it. “Shit.”
He laughed but quickly stopped as the movement in the trunk of his body caused him who knew how much pain. “Please, you are overwhelming me with your optimism.”
We had no idea where the bullet was or what damage it might have done on its merry little way. With abdominal injuries, there’s always the possibility of traumatic tear in one of the vascular organs, which could easily lead to massive hemorrhaging into the abdomen. Percentages for gunshot mortality rates flashed through my head: liver, 30 percent; kidney, 22 percent; stomach, 18 percent; and bowels, 12 percent. These numbers geometrically progressed the more I concentrated on how far we were from a formal paracentesis, or peritoneal lavage, and computerized tomography, or CT scan. I also thought about how much time I had spent standing in emergency rooms developing an unwanted education, and how badly I wished my friend and I were in one of those very rooms right now. “We have to stop the bleeding.”
He continued to smile. “Yes, we do.”
I turned my other glove inside out and placed it over the wound. “Is the pain high or low?”
He grunted as I held the glove in place. “In the sense of tolerance or location?”
My eyes met his. “Where does it hurt?”
He chuckled very lightly. “No higher than the wound.”
“Right, left?”
He thought, concentrating on the pain. “It appears to have stayed to the right.”
I sighed and looked at his torn pack. I started unbuckling my belt, trying to remember if Henry still had his appendix. “You know, if one thing would go right in this case…”
I pulled my belt around him and cinched the notches through; there were, of course, no holes where I needed them. “You got a pocket knife?” He began fumbling at one of his pant pockets, but I carefully took his hands away and placed them over the now saturated glove. “Hold this.” I fished the knife from his pocket and pulled out a bone-handled stiletto with a five-inch switchblade. I shook my head as I flipped it open and gauged a hole in the spot I had indented with the belt’s tang. He grunted when I finally buckled it over the glove. “Too tight?”
“No.”
I pulled the radio from the clip at the small of my back, amazed that it was still there after all the acrobatics. I rolled the small dial on the side, listened to the static, and keyed the handheld. “Absaroka County Sheriff ’s Department, this is Unit One, come in Base? Unit Two?” I released the button and listened to the static some more. “Come in. Anybody out there?” Nothing. I looked around at the mountains that surrounded us and were covered in the visual static that was also taking its toll on our reception. I thought I heard a ghosting of some voice in the cover of radio frequency. “Come in anybody? I’ve got an emergency here. Anybody?” I listened, but the ghosting didn’t repeat itself. “I’ve got two men down in the draw of Lost Twin, just past Mirror Lake?” Still nothing. I turned and looked at Henry. “What happened? The abridged version.”
He cleared his throat. “He was standing on the trail when I looked up, so I stopped, and he fired.”
“He say anything?”
“No.”
“You?”
“I believe I may have gasped before clutching my stomach and falling to the ground, but that is all.”
I punched the button on the radio. “Come in, this is Unit One of the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department, anybody out there?” I waited again. “If anybody can hear me, I’ve got two men down and need assistance on the trail of Lost Twin. I need backup and medical. If anybody can hear me, your assistance would be greatly appreciated.”
“That would be an understatement.”
I sighed. “Think you surprised him?”
“Yes, but all things considered I think he surprised me more.” He glanced past me to George who was starting to gather his commensurate amount of snow. “He is out?”
I looked back over my shoulder. “Yep.”
He raised a bloodstained hand to my arm. “You better get going.”
I turned and knelt down to check George’s pupils for any dilation or constriction; they appeared normal for now. I was concentrating, so it took a moment for me to process what he had said. “What?”
He gestured toward the prone George Esper. “You have to get him out of here.”
It hit me all at once what it was he was saying. “I’m not leaving you.”
He continued to slowly shake his head. “You do not have any choice. He is smaller, and you can make it out with him.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
He smiled. “Do not be mistaken, I have no intentions of dying. I will wait for you, here.”
“It’ll be after dark, in a blizzard. We won’t find you.”
“Then I will have to find you.”
My shoulders sagged a little, but I kept my eyes on him. “All right, knock it off with the mystical horseshit. You are gut shot, and the chances of your surviving are narrow enough without you crawling around out here.” His smile saddened a little. “What?”
“It is the mystical horseshit that is going to save my life.”
I looked away and sighed. “Sorry.”
“Do me a favor?”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m not putting you out of your misery.”
“I have a small bag in my front pocket. If you would please get it out for me?” I reached for the front pocket of his coat, unbuttoned the flap, and pulled out a small, green velvet satchel with a ledger horse and warrior stitched across the front. There were beads and feathers attached to the opening at the top, and there were a number of items under the soft fabric, some discernible, some a mystery. I handed the medicine bag to him, and we didn’t mention it again. “You have to take him.” His smile brightened again. “Who knows, perhaps the weather will cooperate.” He grimaced and shifted his weight.
“Pain?”
“No, I have plenty, thank you.”
I wanted to punch him.
In spite of our hopes, the wind had increased and, with an introduction of ground fog, visibility had dropped to
