Common House Magazine

It’s been thirty-one days. Bruno broke his leg four days in. I warned myself not to let him carry that much, but I was supposed to scout ahead for the rest of the party. We had road markers, stakes to drive into the ground – s’posed to be one every two miles. That's almost two hundred markers in total, but I, fool though I am, thought he and I could carry ‘em. He’s always been so dang strong. A workhorse, thoroughbred. Muscles big enough he barely fit through a barn door. I thought he could take it. I was wrong.

I first saw Bruno eleven years ago, 1862, at a rodeo show in my old hometown. He could pull more than any horse there, fresh cut on his mane, friendly. He and I hit it off right away. Couple of sugarcubes and the promise of a good roof over his head and soon enough he was with me on the ranch. We’d work long, hot days driving my family’s cattle, and I’d pick the flies and ticks off him at the end of the day. Life was so much simpler, then. Before we were dying. 

I’ve lived under the sun all my life, with the freckles to prove it. But this heat is boiling my brain and blood worse than I could ever imagine. I know it’s gettin’ to Bruno too, layin’ there twitching and whining. It kills me to see him like this, but I’m not in much better a state. Haven’t had a drop to drink in nearly two days. My sight’s goin’ fuzzy now, and I keep hearin’ things I don’t think are real. Yesterday I swear I heard Bruno talkin, mumbling something about his leg, and I nearly fainted. He can’t talk. Horses don’t talk. It’s heat madness, is all it is.

And we haven’t eaten.

Damned fool I was, I packed enough food to keep us goin’ for exactly ten days. That’s how long this was s’posed to take. Ten days, 400 some odd miles, one hell of a trek, but doable. Bruno and I had done it before. We were gonna get to the next townpost, get the lay of the land, set up a camp. My father had work there, at the bank, but he’s gettin’ on in years and didn’t wanna make the trip without an advanced scout. He and the rest of the family were s’posed to follow us a month later, give us time to get our bearings, find a place to stay, and enough time to get back and tell ‘em not to bother if we didn’t think the place was safe. My two little siblings have never been off the ranch, and my mama doesn’t want us stayin’ anywhere that ain’t a bit friendly with kids. It was gonna be so simple. Just the two of us, troddin’ along, but then Bruno had to go and break his goddamned leg – I went white when I realised I’d only packed food for ten goddamned days. 

It’s infected. Of course it is. I’m no medicine woman at the best of times, at home, with tools and well water. Out here, where the dirt is our mattress and the bugs get in every nook and cranny, even less so. I tried to wrap it up, but it’s just about the worst break I’ve ever seen in my life. Femur poking out of the skin and all, I just about puked when it happened. I laid him down quick and we got off the path, but he’d lost so much blood by then already. Even the best tourniquet I could make, using those stakes and a bit of canvas, wasn’t good enough that he could keep walkin’, not by a long shot. So I found us some shade and we sat there. I practically chewed a hole in my sleeves the first few days. I sat there for hours, nibblin’ and rockin’ with my knees on my chest like when I was a little girl scared of shadows on the wall. There are three shadows here now. Mine, Bruno’s, and the tree we’re set up under. It’s not big enough for a grown woman and a horse, it’s just not. I know that, and I think Bruno knows that too, even through the haze he must be in. An infection like that gets in your blood and kills you slow, and it hurts the whole time you’re dyin’. I’m almost glad he can’t talk, ‘cause lord knows he’d be wailin’ day in and day out. 

Thirty-one days. A month, if I’ve counted right, and I know I have, cause I’ve been carvin’ tally marks into the tree bark with my pocket knife. My family was supposed to be comin’ up the trail in a month. Bruno broke his leg on the fourth day. So my family is supposed to be here in four days, if all goes well. And my mother would find us here, layin’ about and bakin’, our eyes glued shut ‘cause there ain’t no moisture left to keep ‘em open, Bruno in a patch of sand stained a nasty rust brown, and she’d say, “Adeline, pick yourself up now. We taught you better than to not pack extra rations. Back on the trail we get, and we’ll see about gettin’ Bruno some help in town.” My father would shake his head and say “There ain’t no point. It’s cruel to drag him there. Ranchers know the mercy of putting a bullet between a limpin’ horse’s eyes.” I do. We did it to two horses growin’ up, but I can’t do that to Bruno – he and I have a bond. 

Besides, I ain’t got a gun.

My hands have started to crack and bleed, almost lookin’ like the cracks and ravines we passed along the way. Dry, brittle, covered in sand, devoid of movement. Well, not entirely. I can move my fingers a little, with some concentration. But I can feel the blood shootin’ out to reach ‘em every time I do. It feels like my body is keepin’ all the life close to my heart, close to my stomach. Oh, lord, I can’t think about my stomach. It’s not just empty, it’s like it has a soul and claws and teeth and it’s gnashin’ at every other part of me, eatin’ me from the inside out. I haven’t eaten anything of substance since day fifteen. That’s as far as I could stretch the rations, between the two of us. Bruno’s so much bigger than me, I’m surprised the hunger hasn’t taken him out before the infection does. I hope he can’t tell I’m thinking these things when our eyes meet. He looks so sad. His big brown eyes are gettin’ veiny, and he barely moves ‘em anymore. I can tell he still knows I’m here. When we still had water, he’d just barely move his head to have his lips meet the canteen I’d bring to them. But we don’t have water anymore, so now he keeps his head mostly still, fixed at me. 

I don’t want to hate him. It wasn’t his fault he broke his leg. These things happen. I can’t hate him for that, I shouldn’t hate him for that. He’s been a damn good horse, a good partner, hell, even a good friend. But the things I hear, the things that aren’t real, are tellin’ me to hate him. He stranded us here. He’s killin’ us. I’m gonna die because of him. We’re starving, I’m starving, ‘cause of him. 

Nasty. Nasty things. I don’t wanna hear it, but when I plug my ears, it doesn’t go away.

I move my tongue around in my mouth a bit to get some moisture in it so I can talk. I look up at him and ask, “Bruno, do you think the others are comin’ soon?”

He doesn’t respond, of course. But he looks at me. 

“I think they might. They said they would, so they will. I believe it. Only four days, I reckon. Just four more days, partner.”

He gives a deep sigh, almost a grumble, and his eyes flit to his stomach. He winces. 

“I’m hungry too. We’re both hungry. But there’s no food.”

We sleep, eventually. Night always comes and the stars got less interesting after the first two weeks. Sleep is a welcome reprieve from the never–ending pangs and aches that waking life brings, and sometimes I dream that I’m not stuck here. Tonight I dream that I’m in town, in a saloon, drinking cool water and gettin’ fresh clothes put on me. I’m safe and in the shade and the water on my tongue feels like salvation even as it almost burns. My cracked lips suckle the canteen the townsfolk give me like I’m a newborn baby, and if I had enough fluid in me to cry, I would. They ask me what happened. I tell ‘em about Bruno the stakes, the trek, Bruno breakin’ his leg. Us starving. Where is Bruno? I think it, but they don’t ask it. This isn’t real, so I don;t remember what happened to him, or where he is. The townsfolk don’t care. They’re amazed I didn’t starve. A horse can get left behind easier than a person, I guess. I eat a bit of stew and some fresh bread, and somewhere, my real body shivers in envy. I don’t ask what’s in the stew, the meat fills me with vigour and warmth and I do cry, this time. The night can’t last forever, though. I wake up at dawn and my real body laughs at me for being so foolish. There’s no stew. There’s just me, the tree, and Bruno. And the flies on my toes. And the maggots on his leg. 

He’s still asleep. I think to myself, it’s my only entertainment, and I get to thinkin’ some outlandish things. I think about what Bruno would say if he could talk. I’d tell him about the dream I had. I’d tell him how scared I am that we won’t make it till my family comes. I’d ask him if he needs his tourniquet tightened or loosened, cause I can’t tell. I think about his answers to these questions. He’d tell me how swell my dream sounds, he’d tell me I’m strong and I can make it, he’d tell me I tied the tourniquet just right, but his leg’s too bad to be saved. 

Maybe he can’t be saved at all.

My family will be here in three days. They have to be. I need them to be here now, though. Bruno would tell me I’m strong, but he’s a stupid horse. I’m gonna starve here under this tree. We’re gonna starve, if the infection doesn’t take him out soon. Either way, we both die. Soon. We both die soon. Sooner than three days. He’s injured – I am not – but no food and no water make that meaningless. He’s older than me.

And he’s a workhorse. He’s gotten a lot of work done already. 

It’s my family that’s coming, not his. I don’t even know if he has a family. He wouldn't tell me. How could he? It’s my family that has to see their baby girl dead and rotting on the sand, not a scratch or bruise on her bad enough to do her in. 

I’m a rancher. I wrangle cows. We kill the cows and we eat the cows and sell what’s left. We milk ‘em too, but the meat’s the good stuff. Meat fuels life better than milk. Like that stew. Meat is warmth and vigour. It’s strange to think about it, really. Meat is just muscle. We all have muscles: cows, horses, people. I s’pose it’s all made of the same stuff. 

Bruno has such strong muscles. He could pull more than any horse at that rodeo. 

I could live. I could wait for my family. Maybe even walk backwards and meet them sooner. But not like this. Not without food. I could hold my little sister again if I had some food. I could get us to town, I could teach my little brother to tie knots the rest of the way. I could show him how to use my pocket knife to open up the rations. 

Because I have one, and I know how to use it. 

Bruno is still asleep, so it won’t hurt. Not that bad. It’ll be over quick. Merciful. What you do to a horse that limps. 

The sand under him stains my jacket as I crawl to his torso. 

His eyes jump open as I sink the knife into his neck. He doesn’t make a sound. His brow furrows and then softens, and I watch the life drain from him. I want to cry, but I’m not dreaming, and I don’t have the fluids. 

He’s dead. When I’m sure of that fact, I carve up the pieces that map best from a cow to him. Different shapes, same stuff. Meat. 

There is no fire so I eat what I can raw. I keep my eyes fixed on the ground, away from heaven. If the tree shades me and God and I don’t lock eyes, maybe he’ll turn a blind one. 

My stomach rewards me with an instant wave of relief and a feeling of strength I haven’t known in weeks. Strength that compels me to make my way back to the tree’s base with handfuls of Bruno, to prop my back against its base and eat there. I do. 

Now that he’s dead, I don’t feel so bad about taking his hat and placing it on my own head. 

The tree shade was never good enough, and he doesn’t need it anymore. 

Tomorrow I’ll see if his jacket keeps the heat off better than mine.