A while later, one of Beever's wives stepped out into the bar. She talked rapidly in Spanish, pointing repeatedly at me.
"Kid's askin' after you," said Beever through the cigar clamped between his teeth.
Beever's wife got behind me and shoved me through the curtain that separated the bar from the parlor. There Billy lay, on a bed fashioned from coats and an old sheet.
"Are you my guardian angel?" Billy asked me.
I didn't need the salty odor of sweat to tell me he was out of his mind from fever; I could see it in his eyes. I looked around for some water to cool him down with, but there was none in the parlor. Didn't those damn women know better?
"You must be an angel," Billy continued. "Ain't never seen a real woman pretty as you. Am I in heaven?"
"Not quite," I said.
"I'm thirsty. I need some whiskey."
I walked back through the curtain, went back behind the bar, and grabbed a glass. I went out to the well and filled it with water. Whiskey was the last thing Billy needed in his current state. He spilled a good portion of the water on himself when he grabbed the glass from me, but gave me a betrayed look as he realized it wasn't whiskey.
I checked Father's medicine pouch for some more of that mysterious healing powder. There was less than half a dose left, but I needed to try anyway. I gave in to Billy's demand for a small shot of whiskey, figuring that was the only way to make him take it. Billy didn't put too much faith in medicine, wouldn't even take laudanum for a toothache.
I quickly discovered mixing Father's powder with whiskey wasn't a smart thing to do. Billy stayed up half the night, moaning that his belly hurt and accusing me of poisoning him. In the morning, Beever's wives came to change his bandage and Billy threw up all over the smallest one. He still looked like he had one foot in the grave.
I escaped to the hallway. "Goddamn it," I muttered angrily to myself. "Goddamn it. I'm so fargin' stupid." If Billy died because I had mixed up his medicine with something I shouldn't have, I could never forgive myself.
A very tense three days followed. Billy kept drifting in and out of both consciousness and sanity, and his stomach continued to bother him. On the fourth morning, Billy's fever broke and his stomachache finally went away. I was enjoying a hot breakfast with Chavez when Beever's wife Juanita delivered the news. She added that Billy was looking for me again.
I was relieved that Billy was all right, but at the same time, I worried that he'd be angry with me. He might not realize I hadn't been trying to make him sick. I grasped Chavez's hand so he could come with me, hopefully to ease my anxiety. Juanita shook her head.
"Just you," she said to me. "Chivato was very e-specific."
In some trepidation, I entered the private parlor. Billy was sitting at the tiny table, deeply immersed in his own breakfast.
'Juanita must be a damn fast cook to get it to him this quick,' I thought.
Billy noticed my presence. Slowly, he finished what was in his mouth and wiped his face on his napkin. "'Lo, 'Rena," was all he said before returning his attention to his plate.
"I'm so sorry," I said suddenly, my voice wavering out of control. "I swear I didn't know. I wasn't trying to make you sick."
"I was sick?" Billy said, looking genuinely puzzled. "I don't remember bein' sick. All I know is my back's killin' me. Musta woke up on the wrong side of Consuela's bed." He giggled.
How much of that was true and how much he made up to ease my guilt, I'll never know. The most important thing was that good old Billy was back.
