Merkabah Rider: The Mensch With No Name Read Online Free PDF

burn after bein’ shot by you,” said
another, a yellow bearded freighter in a threadbare sack coat.
    “That’s
right,” the Colonel said. “Just what’re you packin’ in that pistol of yours,
mister? Some kinda s’plosive bullets? I heard about
such things bein’ developed for the war, but I never seen ‘em myself.”
    “Explosive
hell,” said the man in the sack coat. “Their clothes weren’t even singed.”
    “You
said these ones comin’ would be like them others,” said the black man. “You
mean….strong like them others?”
    “That’s
what I mean,” said the Rider.
    “What
are you goin’ on about, Purdee?” the Colonel said to the black man.
    “They wasn’t natural strong, them men, Colonel,” said
Purdee. “That big Chinaman threw two grown men cross’t the bar, and nearly tore
Trib’s arm off with his fingers. I don’t think the way they died had to do with
his bullets so much as it had to do with the type of men they was.”
    “I
never figured you for one of them superstitious coloreds, Purdee,” said the
Colonel.
    “You
know I ain’t,” he said. “But I don’t discount what I seen with my own two eyes
neither. That gets a man killed. And I seen that Chinaman squeeze Trib’s arm
and put his fingers right in his flesh. Trib wasn’t no soft man.”
    “How
is he, the one who had his arm hurt?” the Rider asked.
    “Not
good,” said Purdee. “In a lotta pain, like he been snake bit.”
    Gersh
nudged Hashknife with his elbow, nearly knocking the smaller man over.
    “Will
you let me see him?”
    After
a short discussion, they led the Rider out of the tent. He stopped by the
onager to retrieve his saddlebags, then they led him
to one of the picket shacks, where he found a Mexican man sweating and moaning
on a pallet on the floor. The woman he had seen earlier at the tanks was dabbing
at his forehead with a damp rag. Her son was fidgeting in the far corner. The
Mexican’s arm was swathed in bandages, but four red circular stains showed.
    “His
bleedin’ slows, but it don’t stop,” said Purdee.
    The
Rider knelt at the Mexican’s side and reached into his saddle bag.
    “I
need these bandages off.”
    “He
goin’ bleed all over,” Purdee said.
    “I
can stop it,” the Rider said.
    “You
a doctor?” the Colonel said from the doorway. “We got a doctor here and he
couldn’t stop it.”
    “All
I said is I can stop it,” the Rider snapped. Then, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m…a little banged up. Yes, I can stop it.”
    The
Colonel said something in Spanish to the woman, who shook her head. But when he
pressed her, she relented and began to unravel the tight bandage.
    The
Mexican man looked at the Rider.
    “What’s
your name?” the Rider asked him, taking a pouch from his bag.
    “Triburcio
Perez,” the man said weakly.
    “Triburcio,”
the Rider said, opening the pouch to reveal a packet of salt. “This is going to
hurt a lot.”
    “What
is that?” Purdee asked.
    “It’s
salt,” the Rider said, licking his finger and dabbing it in there.
    “You
gonna rub salt in a man’s wound?” the Colonel exclaimed, horrified. “Get that
sonofabitch outta there.”
    The
men stirred to grab him, but the Rider pulled away, causing his tender shoulder
to sing. He nearly swooned.
    “I
know how it looks, but listen a minute. There’s poison in the wounds. It was
probably under his fingernails when they went in. Salt’s the
only thing that will burn it out.”
    “I
never heard of no such treatment,” the Colonel said.
    “You’ve
never seen this kind of poison. The salt will kill it.”
    “You
ain’t gonna let him are you, Coronel?” Triburcio pleaded.
    “Just
hang on, Trib,” said Purdee. “Let the man take a look.”
    The
woman finished unwrapping the arm. It was swollen
badly, but did not have the appearance of gangrene. The skin around the four
neat holes was puffy and raised like large insect
stings, and the blood spilled out in four steady rivulets.