When the Legends Die (25 page)

“Leave that shade alone! Where are you from?”

“Massachusetts.” She came back to his bedside.

“That’s New England, isn’t it.” It was an accusation.

“About as New England as you can get.” She put the thermometer into his mouth and counted his pulse. When she took the thermometer again he said, “I used to have a mealy-mouthed school teacher who looked a little like you, and talked like you. She was from New England.”

She laughed. “You’re talkative this morning. You must be feeling better.” She began making his bed. When she had finished and folded the blanket across the foot of the bed she asked, “Where did you know this charming school teacher from New England?”

“In Colorado, on the reservation.”

“Oh?” She went to get him a fresh glass of water.

When she came back he repeated sharply, “On the reservation.”

“ I heard you the first time.”

“Well?”

“Look, Chief, you’d just as well put away your tomahawk and take the feathers out of your hair. This is a hospital, not a reservation, and you’re just another man to me… . Anything else I can do for you?”

“No. Leave me alone.”

That afternoon Dr. Ferguson, the surgeon, came in to see him. Dr. Ferguson was a tall, lean man with a lean face and a clipped voice that Tom remembered vaguely, but this was the first time he had been well enough to ask questions. While the surgeon was taking his pulse Tom asked, “Ribs?”

The surgeon nodded.

“How many?”

“Several… . Follow my hand.” He moved his hand from side to side in front of Tom’s face. Tom followed it with his eyes for a moment, then closed them, dizzy.

“How’s the nausea? Thrown up today?”

“No… . What else besides the ribs?”

The surgeon watched him for a moment, then said, “A lung puncture, a deep concussion, a broken femur and a broken pelvis.”

“Is that all?”

“Isn’t that enough? Do you want a broken back too?”

“How long will I be laid up?”

“Till your pelvis knits. Six weeks or so. We’ve pinned your femur—that’s the big bone in your thigh. You can walk again as soon as your pelvis knits.”

“How soon can I ride again?”

“Never, if you take my advice.”

“I didn’t ask for advice.”

“Well, you got it. As far as the injuries go, the lung puncture is healing properly. You’re almost over the effects of the concussion. But broken bones don’t knit overnight, as you must know. I see from the X rays that you’ve had quite a few in the past. But you seem to heal fast and your bones probably knit fast.”

“They do.”

“Well, in another six weeks you should be able to walk out of here. Beyond that, it’s up to you.”

“I’ll walk out and I’ll ride again.”

Dr. Ferguson shrugged and left the room.

That night Tom had the dreams and nightmares again. He wakened and tried to remember that last ride. All he could remember was right there in the nightmare, being trapped in the saddle and the big roan falling, falling, never coming down.

W
HEN
M
ARY
R
EDMOND CAME
in the next morning, cheerful as always, he watched her with rising resentment. She was the most skillful of the nurses, the most solicitous and helpful, the most friendly. But her very efficiency and gentleness emphasized his helplessness, his need for care. She represented this whole infuriating situation, the fact that he was trapped in the hospital, unable even to get out of bed, let alone stand on his feet and walk. And the fact that her voice reminded him of Rowena Ellis brought back all the bitterness of his memories of the reservation and the school.

Finally she said, “So you’re from Colorado. I hear it’s beautiful out there.”

“You wouldn’t like it. Where I came from it’s all mountains and trees and rocks.”

“I like mountains and trees.”

But he wasn’t talking. The other nurses had told her that he was grumpy as an old bear and didn’t appreciate anything you did for him. But most men were that way when they were sick. Then they began to get well and they saw how much you were doing for them. Some of them appreciated it, or seemed to, even though they did forget you as soon as they left the hospital. She filled his water glass, made his bed, fluffed his pillow, humming softly to herself. She adjusted the ventilator in the window and came back to the bed and asked, “Now, what more can I do for you?”

“Get me a glass of fresh water.”

“I just filled your glass. See?”

He reached for the glass, drank the water and held out the empty glass. “I said I wanted fresh water.” His voice was testy.

She took the glass, filled it again and set it on his bedside table. “There you are. Anything else?”

“Don’t you know who I am?” he demanded.

“Of course I do. You’re the man who rode ten horses to death.” She made a face. “But you aren’t proud of being cruel, are you?”

“Why not?” Then he asked, “So they say it’s ten now?”

“Yes, ten, counting the one you killed in the Garden, the one that put you in here. That’s what the papers say, anyway.”

“So that one’s dead too? I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you know.” She said it sharply. He didn’t seem to be sorry at all, and suddenly she was angry at him, not only for his callousness about the horse but because he didn’t appreciate anything that was being done for him, by her or anyone else. “Now,” she said, “you can cut another notch in your saddle, or whatever you do to keep score!”

But he wasn’t listening. He was thinking about the big roan bronc, the one they said brought his score up to ten. Even with that one, the tally was only seven, really, and all but one or two of those seven had killed themselves. Seven or ten, though, what did it matter? He didn’t want to think about them, put the thought away from him.

But that night he had the nightmare again and wakened in the cold sweat. Lying there in the darkness, for the first time he remembered the ride from the moment the chute gate opened right through to the end. He remembered the bronc’s pattern, how he shifted his weight, how the stab of pain in his knee numbed his whole leg. He remembered his anger, then his fear, the fear that made him so desperate he yanked the roans head around and jerked it off balance. He remembered the fall, the crushing blow on his hips, the agony just before his head struck, just before the knockout.

And now he knew why he hadn’t been able to remember anything of the ride but that sensation of falling. He had refused to face the fact that he had panicked, that he had forced the fall. Now he faced it, and the nightmare came at last to its conclusion. Coldly analyzing it, he knew his own fear had forced him to fall. And there it was. Fear. Facing it, admitting it, he could start from that point and think straight. But he had to start there because, according to the code of the arena, a bronc rider wasn’t afraid of man, beast or devil. Especially Tom Black, Killer Tom Black. But you don’t ride as long as he had ridden without knowing a few times when fear does share the saddle. You don’t admit it, even to yourself. You get up off the ground and back in the saddle, and you ride the bronc to a standstill, and the fear with it.

Well, now he would go back and ride again. He would be better than ever, with all his skills and experience and with the knowledge that he had panicked in the saddle, forced the fall that almost killed him. Knowing that, he would never do it again. It was as simple as that. He had known he had to go back and ride again, but until now he hadn’t known why, hadn’t admitted it. Now he did.

He slept, free of the nightmare at last.

Mary Redmond did not appear the next day, or the next. He wondered why, but he didn’t ask. It wasn’t important, and he had plans to make. He had to heal himself and get back on his feet. He had to get out of here. He would go somewhere for a while, take it easy, rest up, get himself back in shape. Then catch up with the circuit. It would take a while, he knew that, but he would be back in the saddle by the end of the summer.

He thought of the place on the San Juan. If the cabin was still there, that’s where he would go. But that was out. The cabin was gone and some sheepman probably had moved in by now and taken over the whole canyon. He wondered how Red and Meo found it in the first place, if Meo went there to recover and rest up after his smashup, planning to go back to the arena. He never went back. He stayed there, puttering in his garden, talking to his beans and chilies, even to himself, an old man with a hump on his broken back who once was a rodeo rider.

Red’s words came to him now: “Meo was a hero once. Now look at him! Just another broken-down old chili-eater.” And then Red’s comment: “Heroes wind up broke. Especially if they are Mexes or Indians.”

Tom hadn’t tried to figure it before, and even now he could only guess, but he wouldn’t have much left when he got out of here and paid his bills. He had never saved his money. He lived it up when he had it, spent it on hotels and clothes and expensive cars. And these past few years a good deal of it had gone for doctors and hospitals. He wouldn’t be flat broke, but he knew there wouldn’t be much left this time.

Then he had a wry thought. Red, who had called Meo a hero who wound up broke, was the one who died penniless. Meo paid for his burial. Meo, who rolled Red every time he came home drunk, accumulated enough not only to give Red a decent burial but eventually to shrive and bury old Meo himself.

Life plays strange tricks. Tom, too, was a hero of a sort. Not the kind the crowds come to cheer, but the kind they watch with morbid fascination, hoping to see him kill a horse—or a horse kill him. A dark-souled hero. He knew that. And after this brush with death the crowds would be more than ever fascinated, more morbidly curious. That was another reason to go back. To defy the cruelty and the death wish of the crowd. After all, he was Killer Tom Black, wasn’t he, the devil-hero?

But first he had to get back on his feet, get out of here.

Mary Redmond was there again the third morning. She came in with her ready smile and asked, “How are we this fine morning?”

He wasn’t in a fine morning mood. “Where have you been?” he demanded.

“Why, Chief!” she exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you missed me. The last time I saw you, you hated everybody in sight.”

“I still do.”

“Then we can start right where we left off.” She put the thermometer into his mouth. “Maybe if patients had two days off each week, like nurses, it would improve their disposition.” She took his pulse, then read the thermometer. “I guess,” she said with a smile, “you’re going to get well after all. You’re looking better.”

“What do you do on your days off? Go around patting little kids on the head, just to keep in practice?”

“Some folks,” she said as she began to make the bed, “are just too mean to die. On that basis you’ll live a long, long time.”

Now she knew who he reminded her of—Bart Huntley. Bart was taller and slimmer, but he had the same dark, resentful eyes. Maybe the fear of never being able to walk again had something to do with it. Women were afraid of being disfigured, but men were afraid of being crippled, dependent. Bart was terribly mangled in the auto accident, but they saved both his legs. And it was her massaging that got him walking again. She could have got him off the crutches, too, in time. But she saw him only twice after he left the hospital, once when he took her out to dinner, once when she asked him up to her apartment and cooked dinner for him. He was arrogant and defensive at the restaurant, and at her apartment he was bitter and resentful. She finally came right out and told him what she could do for him, and he accused her of wanting to marry him for his money. That was the thanks she got. She never saw him again, never even heard from him.

She decided Tom didn’t look like Bart Huntley at all, except for his eyes. He had a crooked nose and high cheekbones and a broad, square jaw.
He’s mad at life,
she thought,
not at me.
She finished making the bed and said, “If I had time I’d give you a massage. But this is one of those days. Maybe tomorrow.”

He didn’t answer.

“A massage will do your legs a world of good.”

Then he looked at her, frowning. “Massage? No, I don’t want a massage. Leave me alone.”

“You didn’t hear a word I said.” She laughed at him. “I said I didn’t have time to give you a massage today… . Well, ring if you need anything. I’ve got to run. We’re shorthanded today.”

The next morning she gave him the massage. Her hands were firm but gentle and knew instinctively where the deep aches lay and how to ease the bed-stiff muscles. He made no comment, but she knew from the way he relaxed that it did him good.

That afternoon, Dr. Ferguson came in with a strange nurse and took the stitches from the incision they had made to insert the intermedullary nail in Tom’s femur. When the nurse had left, Dr. Ferguson said, “You’re healing nicely. In a few more weeks you can go back home and rest a while. I understand you’re from Colorado.”

“I was born there.”

“Nice country. I’d like to retire there myself some day.”

“Retire? I’m not retiring!”

The surgeon smiled at Tom’s resentful tone. “Still got a lot of gravel in your craw, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, maybe that’s to the good, too. The will to get well. Keep on at this rate and we’ll have you up in a wheel chair by the end of the week. Then, after you’ve toned up your muscles a bit in the chair, we’ll let you try the walker. Get your legs under you and see how you manage. I said we’d get you out of here on your own two feet. You didn’t believe it, did you?

“I told you I’d walk out of here,” Tom snapped.

“That’s right, you did.”

“And I said I’d ride again!”

The surgeon slowly shook his head. “Damned and determined, aren’t you?” Then he chuckled. “A lot of
rough
gravel in your craw,” he said, and he left the room.

L
OOKING FORWARD TO THE
wheel chair, to something beyond the imprisoning bed and the confines of the room, eased the next few days. Then the morning came when Mary Redmond triumphantly brought the chair and said he was going for a ride. She helped him out of bed, gentle as with a child, settled him in the chair and took him down the long corridor to the sun porch, deserted at that time of day. She showed him how to manage the chair, and he wheeled himself up and down the room for ten minutes, rested and did it again. She said he learned faster than any other patient she ever had. Finally, aching from the unaccustomed exercise, he let her take him back to his room. She helped him into bed and massaged his complaining, unused muscles and told him again what a wonderful patient he was.