orangetoughguy | log post II

No, no you're not a ghost.

[Freddy repeats like doing so, making it some kind of chant, will help him believe it better. Hell he's holding the guy's hand, he sure feels fucking real. God bless him.]

I don't wanna be no ghost, Larry. [He whispers.]

Hey, cowboy. You're not gonna be done in by this. Looks real bad, I know it does. Hold on. From the looks of it we'll be there in an hour or so.

[What did they do before horses? Fastest way to get around.

He rubs the back of the kid's hand with his thumb...to calm him down.]

It feels real bad too.

[He nods twice but there's a brief smile on his face as if making light of this situation were possible. Could be the way that thumb is working its magic. Who knew it would come to this. If Freddy had any idea he might have said something--or done something--to Lawrence Dimick the way he wanted to. Wants to. Too late now.]

I know. [He couldn't believe it turned out like this. An apology starts forming on his lips, but it isn't his fault or the kids. The plan was perfect, perfect. Not some hair-brained train robbery.] You're real fucking tough.

[As if he didn't have an idea when he saw him. Something about how he approached in that leather he was wearing. Well, he got his wish in spending more time with him.]

[Oh God why'd he have to go and say that? The kid grimaces then coughs.]

No I'm not, Larry.

[He shakes his head, ready to start spinning again. Being tough is about more than just taking a bullet like a trooper. Freddy's not tough. Tough guys don't shot innocent women and lie through their teeth to men who give him their names.]

You are.

[He grips that hand tighter shakes it a little as though it'll affirm something. Now is not the time for modesty. That's got to be the pain starting. Or was that his first kill? Oh fuck. Green through and through, this shouldn't be happening.]

Tough guys go down but they're not out. You, my friend are not out.

I'm gettin' there, I'm so fucking gettin' there.

[He groans like he's out of breath, sick from all that bloodloss and perhaps close to passing out. Freddy doesn't want to pass out. What if he doesn't wake up? The shaking to his hand helps in that respect, it reminds the kid he's still alive.

Yeah, well, we're on our way. We'll get to the rendezvous and it'll all get sorted out. No dying today, not you.

[Since when the fuck did he get so sure of that? It's a blow to the gut. Where the hell is Joe or that shit for brains son of his? Shit, shit, shit. For all this cool, calm talk he's got going on White's palms are getting sweaty. The kid needs him more than before, no backing down or ducking out.]

So...uh... [think think think] you don't even need to sing that lone prairie song.

I dunno no prairie songs, Larry.

[He shakes his head sadly like this is an even more devastating blow, cause cowboys ought to know a tune or two.]

Don't gimme that. Sure you do.

[He turns back to look at the man. Goddamn does he look a fright, red as an Arizona sunset and growing more pale by the minute.]

You know? Bury me not on the lone prairie.

[Again he's shaking his head like it's such a disappointment to them both but at least the kid's quieting down. A decent distraction, this song business.]

Somethin'...roll on, roll on, roll on little doggies...

[Good God Freddy sounds terrible trying to sing while shot but who wouldn't right? It fucking hurt just to get that much out.]

That's the one. You got it.

[Dimick is no doctor by anyone's measure. If he can get some hot metal or something to cauterize the wound though he'd stop bleeding from the outside. Hell, could do good until they were able to get him some help. For now he'll offer up songs and bullshit to keep him awake, thinking less on expiring.]

You said you didn't know any. Know the one that starts out like I lay on the prairie and looked at the stars in the sky? Heard that one sometime ago.

I just--I just heard stuff. [He nods, green green eyes looking over at Lawrence Dimick.]

No, no...just what I know--shit.

[He feels a twisting pain again and the kid groans, curling like he might just ball up around Larry's fist.]

Listen. Listen okay?

[Fuck. He's having a hard time thinking of the exact words. The man is in agony, there's nothing he can do but get them there as fast as he can with that horse that's already getting tuckered out. There must be a bad moon rising.

The old man puts his lips together and whistles out the tune, light and none as enthusiastically as it is called for. He feels like an idiot, but it's better than allowing the squirming to continue uninterrupted. Letting go of Mr. Orange's hand is not an option.

For a second he thinks to haul him up beside him but then anyone riding past too closely would get suspicious.]

Okay okay, I'm listening, Larry...

[He swallows and rolls tightly towards the back of Larry's seat. Freddy tries to keep his groans down so as not to drown out the whistling. He's making an effort to listen, to memorize that melody, as if it's really gonna save him. If anything it's almost comforting...comforting enough that the kid tries to whistle it back, but his mouth is too parched and his body too weak.

So weak he starts losing consciousness.]

Melody first and--[he swallows watching words like if or any other indicator that the end to this day is uncertain] we'll work on the words later.

[Like they're important at all. The old man hauls at the reins to pull the horse to a stop so he can turn completely to try and get him more comfortable. Even though he's seen blood before it still is a shock. So much of it and all coming out of that body. And a shame. Larry was hoping they'd get closer but not like this. No how.]

Think I got a drop or two in my canteen.

[What? What? He wakes up a little too suddenly like for Freddy the moment of shutting his eyes didn't last as long as it did.]

No keep it--keep it for yourself, man. No canteen's gonna [Swallow.] save me.

Come on. Just a bit. [He's already pulling it out and stepping over his own seat to be near where the kid lays.]

Wet your lips. [If there was more water he'd be cleaning the man's forehead with his handkerchief. For now he'll dab the sweat there.]

[A little frustration creeps in for Larry's insistence. Why is he being so kind? Doesn't he know what Freddy is? Regardless, he does lick his lips, but it's more than just for wetting them. It's his anxiety.]

Keep it for yourself, Larry.

log post II

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