He didn't know where he was, or why. All he knew was the soft warmth of the
wet cloth over where his eyes had once been, and of the smell of leather
and gunsmoke, and the faint tinge of sanded wood.
Someone moved in the room, tending to him in a very businesslike way. He knew that smell.
"El Mariachi?"
The smell of roasted pork wafted up suddenly in front of him; a warm plate pressed into his hands. "Si."
Sands paused for a moment, disinterested in the food, though he knew it was his favourite that had been brought to him.
"Why are you helping me?" The question came from dry lips; a dry mouth. He could smell beer somewhere off to his right. A cold glass was pressed into his hand and he brought it to his mouth, thirsty, and found it not to be beer but water.
"I don't know for certain," El said in his soft voice. "Pity, I imagine."
Sands snorted despite himself. "I get a lot of that these days. Pity." He spat out the word and felt for a place to put his water. He felt the wood of a table next to him; he set the glass down. "I don't need pity."
"It is hard not to feel pity when you see a man you knew once stumbling down the streets, my friend. The past is forgotten; it is only the present that we must deal with."
"Deal with?" Sands was disgusted. "Is that what your doing? Dealing with me? I don't need your help."
"You can shoot a gun as well as you did before they took your eyes, it is true," El said, unoffended, "but I find you starving and thirsty, and your wounds festering. You cannot find your way around anymore, senor. Your little boy has gone home to his family, and left you to the streets. No one stayed to help you. That is why I feel pity."
Sands was silent. He could deny nothing, and for once he had nothing to say. He felt the cloth removed from his face and a new one placed there, and he could feel the pull of medical tape on his hips and arm where the bullets had hit him. His chair was soft and comfortable.
"Eat," El said, but Sands shook his head. He doubted that he would be able to keep food down at the moment, and he thrust the plate out in front of him and waited until it was removed from his hands. Strong arms were suddenly under his own, and he was half carried, half guided a little ways to the left, where El helped him lie down on a bed.
"If you cannot eat, then sleep. You will heal faster if you sleep. I will watch over you."
Sands felt his entire bravado seeping from him onto the soft linen, and before he realised that it was happening it was too late; dry sobs racked his throat. El let him be for a moment or two, and then there was a rustle of movement to his left, and the glass of water was placed to his lips. He drank, finding it easier to swallow the sobs with water, and when he was through he let a great sigh shudder through him, and before he could stop them the words had already left his lips.
"Thank you."
He could hear El Mariachi's smile. "You're welcome."
The sun warmed Sands to sleep.
Someone moved in the room, tending to him in a very businesslike way. He knew that smell.
"El Mariachi?"
The smell of roasted pork wafted up suddenly in front of him; a warm plate pressed into his hands. "Si."
Sands paused for a moment, disinterested in the food, though he knew it was his favourite that had been brought to him.
"Why are you helping me?" The question came from dry lips; a dry mouth. He could smell beer somewhere off to his right. A cold glass was pressed into his hand and he brought it to his mouth, thirsty, and found it not to be beer but water.
"I don't know for certain," El said in his soft voice. "Pity, I imagine."
Sands snorted despite himself. "I get a lot of that these days. Pity." He spat out the word and felt for a place to put his water. He felt the wood of a table next to him; he set the glass down. "I don't need pity."
"It is hard not to feel pity when you see a man you knew once stumbling down the streets, my friend. The past is forgotten; it is only the present that we must deal with."
"Deal with?" Sands was disgusted. "Is that what your doing? Dealing with me? I don't need your help."
"You can shoot a gun as well as you did before they took your eyes, it is true," El said, unoffended, "but I find you starving and thirsty, and your wounds festering. You cannot find your way around anymore, senor. Your little boy has gone home to his family, and left you to the streets. No one stayed to help you. That is why I feel pity."
Sands was silent. He could deny nothing, and for once he had nothing to say. He felt the cloth removed from his face and a new one placed there, and he could feel the pull of medical tape on his hips and arm where the bullets had hit him. His chair was soft and comfortable.
"Eat," El said, but Sands shook his head. He doubted that he would be able to keep food down at the moment, and he thrust the plate out in front of him and waited until it was removed from his hands. Strong arms were suddenly under his own, and he was half carried, half guided a little ways to the left, where El helped him lie down on a bed.
"If you cannot eat, then sleep. You will heal faster if you sleep. I will watch over you."
Sands felt his entire bravado seeping from him onto the soft linen, and before he realised that it was happening it was too late; dry sobs racked his throat. El let him be for a moment or two, and then there was a rustle of movement to his left, and the glass of water was placed to his lips. He drank, finding it easier to swallow the sobs with water, and when he was through he let a great sigh shudder through him, and before he could stop them the words had already left his lips.
"Thank you."
He could hear El Mariachi's smile. "You're welcome."
The sun warmed Sands to sleep.
