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.”“I’m not leaving you.It’s decided.”Pops closed his eyes, shook his head, and coughed again.I brought the packs to the protection of the rock and laid the contents out in front of me.I grouped all the unnecessary items to the side—bathing suits, extra underwear, some books, extra shirts and shorts—and packed one change of clothes for Buzzy and me, several for Pops.All the camp hardware—ropes, lines, hatchet, saw, extra crossbow arrows, waterproof matches, rain gear, flashlights, leftover turkey and rabbit, lighter, pocket knives—went into the side pockets of Pops’ backpack.The water came to a boil and I filled the canteens, then went back to the lake for more.I heard footsteps in the woods and raised the crossbow.Buzzy stepped from behind a tree and rushed to me, hunched over.“Did you see him anywhere?”He shook his head.“You?”“No.What did you find?”He unwrapped a T-shirt and placed a pile of roots and leaves on a rock.“These two are the goldenseal; they’ll help keep infection out.This one here is the cranesbill, which is for bleedin.The other is alumroot, which is also for bleedin.I couldn’t find no boxberry.”“Your grandma taught you well,” Pops said weakly.“Cranesbill and alumroot work better when used…” He coughed.“… together.”Buzzy had washed the dirt from the roots in a spring on the mountain and began peeling the outside layer with the bowie knife.I did the same with the pocket knife.We diced the roots and put them in the boiling water.“Jus til they’re soft; then we mash em into a poultice an plug up them holes.”“Feel like I been hit by a dump truck,” Pops whispered.“Don’t be talkin.You’re lung shot.Save your breath for breathin.”“Why would they be shooting at us anyway? It’s just a pot crop.”“It ain’t the pot guy,” Buzzy said.“How do you know? Did you see him?”“No, but it wasn’t enough pot to shoot us over.”“What about the booby trap?”“It was for animals, not humans; that’s why he set it so low.If it was the pot guy, he woulda jus scared us off an missed.This mutha is tryin to kill us.”“Buzzy’s right,” Pops breathed.“It isn’t the pot guy.”“Pops, don’t be talkin.”Pops brought up a shaky hand and waved Buzzy’s comment away.“Who was it, then?” I asked.“No earthly idea.”Buzzy tested one of the root cubes and pronounced it ready.He emptied most of the water into another pot and began mashing the roots with a fork.“Take that extra water an clean out the wound.Make sure you get all the dirt out.Especially out the back where he’s been layin in it.Put a clean shirt down there or somethin.”I opened Pops’ shirt.He looked at me with a wan smile.I poured a little bit of the hot liquid into the wound.He jumped at the pain, grabbing my arm and squeezing.“It’s hurting him too much.I can’t do it.”“You mash, then.We gotta get it cleaned out.” He handed me the fork and I started breaking the roots down.Buzzy sponged the exit wound, then poured more solution into the hole; Pops’ body tensed on the pain.The wound bubbled as he coughed.“Stop it! You’re hurting him!”Buzzy ignored me.“Pops, I’m gonna shift you on your side so’s I can clean the back.It’s gonna hurt.” He rolled him over and Pops grimaced.He washed out the entry hole.“You got the poultice done?”“I think so.”Buzzy washed his hands in the leftover root water, then began packing the entry wound with the poultice.“It’s a lung shot, so tape plastic over the exit hole,” Pops whispered.“Tape it on three sides and leave one open so air can get in and out.”Buzzy packed the entry wound, then covered it with gauze and tape.We carefully eased Pops onto his back.The exit wound was the size of two half dollars with tatters of flesh and lung and fractured bone.He carefully lifted bone splinters out of the wound with the blade of the pocket knife.“Don’t pack it too tight around my lung,” Pops said.Buzzy carefully placed some mashed root into the wound.I took a ziplock from the pack and split it with the pocket knife and handed a plastic square to Buzzy.He taped it on three sides and wrapped gauze around it.He placed the unused poultice in a ziplock bag with a sprinkle of root water.“How does that feel?”“Like some bastard lung shot me then a coupla striplings decided to play witch doctor.” He coughed.I took Buzzy aside.“Is he gonna die?” My voice cracked as all the fear, guilt, sadness, of before came racing back, but doubled up because it was Pops.“I dunno.The bullet went clean through an looks like it only took some lung with it.But we gotta get him to a hospital.”“I just can’t be having him die on me, Buzzy.Promise me he isn’t gonna die on me!”He looked away.“We gotta make a stretcher or somethin.You stay with him while I go get some poles an stuff.” He took Pops’ ax and handsaw and disappeared into the woods.With the wounds plugged and packaged, some of the color returned to Pops’ face.His breathing became steady and deep.I knelt beside him and wiped his forehead with a wet T-shirt.“Thank you, son.” He sounded weak, but his voice had lost the desperate rasp of before.I took a new shirt from his pack and helped him to a sitting position.I gingerly removed the bloody old shirt and threaded his arms through the clean one.He grunted and huffed from the pain.“Kevin, hand me my jug and prop me against this rock.”More grunting and huffing as I moved him.He kept his left arm at his side and pulled the cork out with his teeth and took a sip of mash, then coughed.Something heavy bounded through the trees.I took up the crossbow and crouched in front of him, shielding an attack [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.”“I’m not leaving you.It’s decided.”Pops closed his eyes, shook his head, and coughed again.I brought the packs to the protection of the rock and laid the contents out in front of me.I grouped all the unnecessary items to the side—bathing suits, extra underwear, some books, extra shirts and shorts—and packed one change of clothes for Buzzy and me, several for Pops.All the camp hardware—ropes, lines, hatchet, saw, extra crossbow arrows, waterproof matches, rain gear, flashlights, leftover turkey and rabbit, lighter, pocket knives—went into the side pockets of Pops’ backpack.The water came to a boil and I filled the canteens, then went back to the lake for more.I heard footsteps in the woods and raised the crossbow.Buzzy stepped from behind a tree and rushed to me, hunched over.“Did you see him anywhere?”He shook his head.“You?”“No.What did you find?”He unwrapped a T-shirt and placed a pile of roots and leaves on a rock.“These two are the goldenseal; they’ll help keep infection out.This one here is the cranesbill, which is for bleedin.The other is alumroot, which is also for bleedin.I couldn’t find no boxberry.”“Your grandma taught you well,” Pops said weakly.“Cranesbill and alumroot work better when used…” He coughed.“… together.”Buzzy had washed the dirt from the roots in a spring on the mountain and began peeling the outside layer with the bowie knife.I did the same with the pocket knife.We diced the roots and put them in the boiling water.“Jus til they’re soft; then we mash em into a poultice an plug up them holes.”“Feel like I been hit by a dump truck,” Pops whispered.“Don’t be talkin.You’re lung shot.Save your breath for breathin.”“Why would they be shooting at us anyway? It’s just a pot crop.”“It ain’t the pot guy,” Buzzy said.“How do you know? Did you see him?”“No, but it wasn’t enough pot to shoot us over.”“What about the booby trap?”“It was for animals, not humans; that’s why he set it so low.If it was the pot guy, he woulda jus scared us off an missed.This mutha is tryin to kill us.”“Buzzy’s right,” Pops breathed.“It isn’t the pot guy.”“Pops, don’t be talkin.”Pops brought up a shaky hand and waved Buzzy’s comment away.“Who was it, then?” I asked.“No earthly idea.”Buzzy tested one of the root cubes and pronounced it ready.He emptied most of the water into another pot and began mashing the roots with a fork.“Take that extra water an clean out the wound.Make sure you get all the dirt out.Especially out the back where he’s been layin in it.Put a clean shirt down there or somethin.”I opened Pops’ shirt.He looked at me with a wan smile.I poured a little bit of the hot liquid into the wound.He jumped at the pain, grabbing my arm and squeezing.“It’s hurting him too much.I can’t do it.”“You mash, then.We gotta get it cleaned out.” He handed me the fork and I started breaking the roots down.Buzzy sponged the exit wound, then poured more solution into the hole; Pops’ body tensed on the pain.The wound bubbled as he coughed.“Stop it! You’re hurting him!”Buzzy ignored me.“Pops, I’m gonna shift you on your side so’s I can clean the back.It’s gonna hurt.” He rolled him over and Pops grimaced.He washed out the entry hole.“You got the poultice done?”“I think so.”Buzzy washed his hands in the leftover root water, then began packing the entry wound with the poultice.“It’s a lung shot, so tape plastic over the exit hole,” Pops whispered.“Tape it on three sides and leave one open so air can get in and out.”Buzzy packed the entry wound, then covered it with gauze and tape.We carefully eased Pops onto his back.The exit wound was the size of two half dollars with tatters of flesh and lung and fractured bone.He carefully lifted bone splinters out of the wound with the blade of the pocket knife.“Don’t pack it too tight around my lung,” Pops said.Buzzy carefully placed some mashed root into the wound.I took a ziplock from the pack and split it with the pocket knife and handed a plastic square to Buzzy.He taped it on three sides and wrapped gauze around it.He placed the unused poultice in a ziplock bag with a sprinkle of root water.“How does that feel?”“Like some bastard lung shot me then a coupla striplings decided to play witch doctor.” He coughed.I took Buzzy aside.“Is he gonna die?” My voice cracked as all the fear, guilt, sadness, of before came racing back, but doubled up because it was Pops.“I dunno.The bullet went clean through an looks like it only took some lung with it.But we gotta get him to a hospital.”“I just can’t be having him die on me, Buzzy.Promise me he isn’t gonna die on me!”He looked away.“We gotta make a stretcher or somethin.You stay with him while I go get some poles an stuff.” He took Pops’ ax and handsaw and disappeared into the woods.With the wounds plugged and packaged, some of the color returned to Pops’ face.His breathing became steady and deep.I knelt beside him and wiped his forehead with a wet T-shirt.“Thank you, son.” He sounded weak, but his voice had lost the desperate rasp of before.I took a new shirt from his pack and helped him to a sitting position.I gingerly removed the bloody old shirt and threaded his arms through the clean one.He grunted and huffed from the pain.“Kevin, hand me my jug and prop me against this rock.”More grunting and huffing as I moved him.He kept his left arm at his side and pulled the cork out with his teeth and took a sip of mash, then coughed.Something heavy bounded through the trees.I took up the crossbow and crouched in front of him, shielding an attack [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]