Page 62 of Runaway Hucow

The hucow was sitting on a chair at the end of the table, next to his wounded leg. Beside her, a second chair held an assortment of items she had found in a doctoring kit Peyton kept out in the barn. There was a bottle of disinfectant, a pair of long metal forceps, a nasty-looking screw-tipped instrument called a bullet extractor, and a few white linen rags, plus a needle and thread for sutures.

And of course, there was the probe which the hucow was currently using to explore his wound. It was a narrow metal rod with an opening on one end, rather like the eye of a needle, but she was currently using the other, solid end to search for the bullet.

Roscoe felt a funny click as metal found metal inside him.

“There it is,” the hucow said. “Damn, it’s pretty deep.”

She extracted the probe. Then she stood up and started unbuckling Roscoe’s belt. Instantly, his cock was as hard as iron again. He started to sit up.

“What in the Sam Hell do you think you’re doing, woman?”

The hucow placed one tiny hand against Roscoe’s chest to keep him from sitting all the way up. She was a weak little creature, and her strength was no match for his own, yet something in her touch stilled him. Meanwhile, her other hand skillfully slipped the leather strap of his belt out from the loops of his britches.

“This next part will hurt, I don’t care how tough you are.” She handed him the belt. “Here, bite down on this.”

Roscoe obeyed.

Before the hucow could remove the bullet, she needed to clean the wound, and to do that, she used the other end of the probe. She threaded a piece of linen through the eye and twisted it around the end, forming a swab. She then doused the whole thing with disinfectant and plunged it into the wound, giving it a few good twists to clear out the clotted blood. Roscoe dug his teeth into the leather strap so hard it was a wonder he didn’t bite the damn thing in two.

“The wound hasn’t started to swell yet,” the hucow said. “That’s good. I should be able to get the bullet out with the forceps. That will be a lot less painful than the extractor.”

Great, Roscoe thought. Wonderful. Tears were streaming out of his eyes.

The extraction was less painful than the cleaning. The hucow skillfully captured the bullet with the ends of the forceps and carefully pulled it back through the wound channel. When it finally came out, the sensation of relief was overwhelming. Roscoe felt as if he had just taken the biggest shit of his entire life. The hucow asked him if he wanted to see the bullet, and he nodded. She dropped the little lump of lead into his open palm. It had become deformed, and now it looked more like a mushroom than a bullet.

Amazing how something so small could cause so much pain.

Roscoe had to endure a second cleansing of the wound, then the little hucow set to work with a curved needle and linen thread, suturing the bullet hole shut. Roscoe propped himself up on his elbows and watched her work.

“Where did you learn how to do that?”

“You should ask Spike,” the hucow said, not looking up from her stitching. “He can explain it to you.”

Normally Roscoe wouldn’t have ignored that kind of sass, but the little hucow was holding a needle, so he decided to let it slide.

“Spike’s not here,” he said softly. “I’m asking you.”

This time, the hucow looked at him. After a moment, she shook her head and turned her attention back to her needle and thread.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be snippy with you. I guess removing bullets just sort of puts me on edge. Anyway, if you really want to know—”

“I do,” Roscoe said.

“Then shut up and listen.”

More sass, but this time it didn’t make Roscoe angry. As a matter of fact, it almost made him smile. Luckily, the hucow was so focused on what she was doing, she didn’t see that.

“My father was a doctor,” she said. “Not my real father, of course. I never met him. I’m talking about my human father, Dr. Jeremiah Bradford…”

Roscoe listened to the hucow’s tale. This Jeremiah Bradford, the man she called her father, had come west with a sick daughter, hoping the dry climate would cure the child’s consumption. He worked as a doctor and a telegraph operator. He purchased Tess as a calf as a way to secure his daughter’s finances, but the human child had perished soon after. The doctor had kept Tess and raised her like his own child.

Roscoe had mixed feelings about the story. He despised the buying and selling of hucows that took place in the outside world, but this doctor sounded different from the usual hudairy farmer. It sounded like he had loved Tess. He had cared for her and treated her with the same dignity as a human being. If the world had more men like this Jeremiah Bradford, maybe it wouldn’t be necessary to keep the valley hidden. Unfortunately, such men were a dying breed.

The hucow finished her tale and the sutures at the same time.

“So, that’s my story,” she said as she began to wrap a linen bandage over the wound to protect it. “Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn? I already told you my story a couple days ago.”