Wounded Read Free

work. Hell, it’s not like it’s Phoenix.”
    “It was fine ten years ago.” I glanced at the fuel gauge and made a note to fill up. “It used to be a village, a real Western town. Now, now it’s working on being just like anyplace else.”
    “Get off your soapbox.”
    I shut up.
    “Did you remember to bring the list?”
    I felt my breast pocket and said I did. I was always forgetting lists. I was good at making them and, with the list in my pocket, I could take care of everything without looking at it. But my habit was to forget the list, and then I couldn’t recall a damn thing. “Are you sure you don’t want me to wait for you at the doctor’s office?”
    “I’m sure. When he’s done poking me, I’ll just want to grab a bite and head home.”
    I pulled into a diagonal space in front of the doctor’s office and watched the old man walk through the door. I then drove to the opposite side of town, not far, to the Broken Horn Feed Store.
    The doors of the store always sported some new, tacky novelty that the shop owner, Myra, hadn’t been able to resist. Today it was a pony-sized, stuffed horse with eyes that followed anyone who walked by and said, “Clippity-clop, cowpoke” in a John Wayne voice. I watched the eyeballs track me to the counter, then reset.
    “That’s real nice, Myra,” I said.
    “Ain’t it a hoot?”
    “That’s what it is, all right. What else does it do?” I asked.
    “Well, it doesn’t shit on the floor.” Myra flashed her wide, gap-toothed smile. “Around here that’s a pretty good trick.”
    “I reckon. Say, do you have my de-worming paste all packed up?”
    “Not yet. I was in the middle of doing that now.”
    “That’s fine,” I said. “I’ve got a whole list of stuff. I’ll get what I need while you wrap it up.”
    “How’s that ancient uncle of yours?” she asked as I stepped away.
    “He’s at the doc’s right now getting his oil checked,” I said. “He’s okay. He doesn’t say much about how he feels.”
    I walked over to the wall of bits and bridles. I always marveled at the wide array of shapes, weights, and materials of the bits. Many were beautiful. All were meant to cause possible discomfort. Some were harsher than others and served as a reminder of how cruel people could be. I picked up a bicycle chain mule bit and felt a chill creep over me. The only positive thing was that this bit had remained on the wall unsold for at least five years. I put it back and went on to collect my Betadyne, drawing salve, and other things. I piled the stuff on the counter.
    Myra came from the back with my box. “Hey, did you hear about that boy?”
    “I don’t think so. What boy?”
    “They found this college kid dead at the mouth of Damon Falls Canyon.” Myra shook her head. “I heard he was strung up like an elk with his throat slit.”
    “My god.” I looked outside at the road. The image made my stomach turn a bit and I swallowed hard. A gasoline truck rumbled by. “My god,” I said, again. “What the hell happened. Was he robbed?” I didn’t know why I was asking that question. I imagined I was just trying to have a senseless thing make sense. I stared at Myra.
    “I don’t know. It’s pretty awful, though. You know, people are just animals anymore.”
    “No, they’re people. That’s the problem. Did they catch who did it?”
    Myra shook her head. “I haven’t heard anything about that.” She totaled up the bill.
    I wrote out a check. I noticed my hand trembling a bit, then it stopped. “There you go, ma’am.”
    “You tell that uncle of yours I asked about him.”
    “I will, Myra.”
    I left the store, put my supplies in the back of the Jeep, then sat behind the wheel, staring through the glass at the empty bench on the deck by the front door. I glanced at my rearview mirror and caught sight of a flatbed loaded with hay pass by. I cranked the engine, backed out and pulled away; the crunching of the gravel gave me comfort.
    At the Lone