Street Boys Read Online Free PDF

to the dog. “Same as we’re doing with you.”
    Connors turned to Willis. “What do you need?” he asked.
    “Get me some water from out of that stream,” Willis said.
    Connors walked over to a small stream, pith helmet in his right hand. He lowered the helmet into the still waters and brought it back to the surface, thin lines slipping down its sides and onto his wrists. He came up behind the dog, still holding his place, and kneeled in front of the wound, pith helmet cradled between his legs. “Okay,” he said to Willis. “Now what?”
    “I’ll get my pack and bring back the supplies I need,” Willis said. “You run water over the cut. Do it about two or three times if you have to, just enough to wash off the dried blood. Then I’m going to dab at it with some wet gauze, clean up the area around the wound. Then I’ll either tape him up or stitch him.”
    “You ever have a dog, Willis?” Connors asked, watching the mastiff flinch as the water fell down the sides of his wound, turning the dirt around his back paws into small puddles of red soil.
    “Grew up on a farm,” Willis said. “Don’t think there was an animal we
didn’t
have. How about you?”
    “Always wanted one,” Connors said. “But my folks didn’t need another mouth to feed.”
    Connors made four trips to the meadow and back, clearing enough blood away for Willis to get a good look at the cut. “He took a hit of shrapnel,” the medic said. “Nothing too heavy, just enough to slice him. I’ll put some medicine on it and then bandage it up. And if he can stop chasing rabbits for a few days, he should be good as new.”
    Connors stood in front of the dog, watching Willis work on his wounds, his back to Taylor’s rifle. “What was the plan?” he asked Taylor. “Shoot me and then the dog?”
    “Only if I had to,” Taylor said. “And believe me, I wouldn’t lose much sleep over either of you.”
    “He for real?” Willis asked, gazing over Connors’s shoulder at Taylor.
    “We run into trouble, we’ll be glad he’s with us,” Connors said. “The rest of the time he’s like having a rotting tooth.”
    Connors watched Willis work on the mastiff’s wound for the better part of the next hour. He was careful not to hurt the animal, dabbing at the cut, never pushing or prodding. He ripped open a powder pack and poured its contents over the cut, patting the thicker parts into the open edge with a palm full of wadded-up Waldorf toilet paper. Then he triple-wrapped thin slabs of gauze around the edges of the cut and tied them into place under the dog’s stomach. For his part, the dog never barked nor growled, content to let the young stranger go about his business. The overhead sun was hot and bright, the branches of the trees wilting under its steady gaze.
    When he was finished, Willis paused to wipe his forehead and take a long drink from his canteen. He passed a hand across his mouth and looked over at the dog. “He’s probably thirsty, too,” he said to Connors.
    Connors nodded, bent down and patted the dog’s head. “I suppose we could be rubes and have you drink from the stream over there, but you’ve been pretty good about all this, so some fresh water isn’t all that much to ask in return.” Connors bent down, cupped his hand, poured canteen water into it and held it up to the mastiff’s mouth. He smiled as the dog lapped up four handfuls, the large tongue slurping his fingers dry each time. “Okay, bud,” Connors said, capping his canteen. “That’ll do you until your next fight.”
    Connors walked back toward the tree, folded his newspaper and shoved it into his pack, picked up his gear and rifle and then headed for the parked jeep. He turned to look at the dog, the animal’s eyes aware of his every move. Willis stood across from him, his gear already on his back. Behind them, Taylor, his rifle at ease, sat back down in the front of the jeep, wiping the sweat from his face and neck with a white cloth. “You