His Feet Were Cold
My feet are cold. Why are my feet cold?
It was only a moment before that thought became overwhelmed by what had happened, the reality of what had happened, the reality of where he was and what had happened. The reality that he was alone now, lying on the ground in only his pants and his socks. Boots and shirt were gone and he was face down, his chest pressed against an old, dead tree trunk and the ground, and his back –
Oh, God, it hurts.
He wanted to get up but he couldn't roll onto his back and his legs did not want to move in a way to get him up on his knees. It was too dark to see what all the damage was. His back hurt and burned like slashes of fire criss-crossed it. His chest hurt like something had scraped the skin off of it. His face hurt like someone had slugged him. And his feet were cold.
And he remembered. Vaguely, like it had all been a dream. Dragged out of a sound sleep, punched in the face, hauled out here in the night and tied face down across the trunk of that dead tree and bullwhipped. Over and over, maybe six or eight times or maybe ten. And that was why his back hurt. And they cut him loose and he was too weak to stand and slid down the tree and that was why his chest was scraped raw. He didn't have his boots and that was why his feet were cold.
How did they do it? How did they get him out of his hotel room, out of town? Why didn't one of the townspeople stop it? Why didn't the hotel clerk stop it? It was the Basque who took him and tied him to this tree and bullwhipped him. Why didn't one of the townspeople stop it?
He tried to get to his knees again and failed again. Because the townspeople wanted this to happen to him, too. The Basque wanted him to give up and go away. The townspeople didn't care if the Basque killed him out here. Maybe they'd prosecute and hang a couple more Basque, but about him they didn't care. They just wanted him gone too.
He was alone out here, utterly alone, and his back burned and his chest hurt and his face hurt and his feet were cold. And he was alone.
He tried and finally got up onto his hands and knees. He tried to look around but it was so dark. But no, behind him, there was light. The town. It wasn't far away. The townspeople – at least those who were awake – saw the Basque take him and they did nothing. No one was coming to help him. They all wanted him gone. He was alone.
He used the tree to help himself get to his feet, but he had no boots on and the ground was full of small splinters and rocks and debris. He made it to the road, falling once, getting up on his hands and knees and ready to crawl back to town if he had to, but he managed to get up onto his feet again and limp.
He limped toward the light. He staggered toward the light. His back burned and his chest hurt and his face hurt and his feet were cold, but he kept staggering toward the light. It wasn't that far away.
The Basque had done this to him. He saw the rope-soled shoes and the sheepdog before he completely passed out. The Basque had done this to him, but the townspeople had let them. Probably the only thing the townspeople and the Basque had ever agreed on, that he should be gone, one way or another.
His back burned, his chest hurt, his face hurt and his feet were cold, but he kept moving. He was finally at the edge of town, at the edge of the light. He saw someone at a building of some sort. The person saw him and went back into the building. They weren't going to kill him. They weren't going to help him, either. If anyone else saw, they looked away too.
The hotel was only a couple blocks ahead. He limped, he staggered, he started up to the door and had to catch himself on one of the posts holding the roof up. He opened the door and went in.
The night desk clerk was there behind the desk. He looked up, idly. The night clerk knew and didn't care. "You want a doctor?" the clerk asked as casually as if he were asking if he wanted a sandwich.
He ignored him. He climbed the stairs to his room, almost falling once or twice, but he got to his room. The door was unlocked. The lock had never mattered anyway.
His back burned. His chest hurt. His face hurt. His feet were cold.
He lit a lamp. He sat down on the bed. He couldn't lie down without hurting his back or his chest more. He could put on his boots and make his feet warmer, but bending over made both his back and chest hurt more.
No, I'm not going away. They're not gonna get rid of me this easily, none of them.
He pulled his boots on slowly, painfully. He got up and found water still in the pitcher on the dresser, and he poured it into the basin and got a washcloth. He pressed the wet washcloth against the wound on his face. He looked at his chest in the mirror and cleaned it. Not too bad, actually, just some scraped skin, both places.
He was waking up more now. He understood more now. He understood he was going to have to tell Paulino that the Basque had done this to him. Paulino wasn't going to believe him.
His chest didn't hurt anymore, his face didn't hurt much and his feet weren't cold anymore, but he didn't know what to do about his back. He couldn't reach the slashed skin, torn by the bullwhip. He did the next best thing. He put the towel in the water, got it wet, took it to the bed and spread it out there on the sheet. He lay down on top of it on his back, the cool water easing the sting of the whiplashes a bit but only after it made them feel worse. He kept his boots and pants on but pulled the blanket over his chest. He left the lamp lit.
He sighed. His chest didn't hurt anymore. His face didn't hurt anymore. His feet weren't cold anymore, and in a little while his back didn't burn as badly anymore.
My gun.
He thought of his gun. He had put his gun in the drawer of the nightstand, to the right of his head. He just hadn't had time to reach it when they took him, but he reached it now. It hurt his back and chest to roll on his side a bit, open the drawer and get the gun out, but he took it out and brought it down under the blanket, laying it by his side, holding onto it.
Nobody would bother him again tonight, but if they tried, he would threaten them with the gun. If he had to, he would shoot them. They would probably throw him in jail and threaten to hang him too for that, but he would shoot them anyway.
He sighed. His chest didn't hurt anymore. His face didn't hurt anymore. His back didn't burn anymore. His feet weren't cold.
I'm all right.
He fell asleep.
The End