Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

He yelled, “I’m shot!”

Thatcher squatted down and took a look. “It would be spurting if it had clipped an artery. You have a handkerchief?”

The man nodded.

“Use it as a tourniquet. Tie it tight. You’ll be all right.”

“I’m dead,” he wailed.

“You’re not going to die.”

“Hell I ain’t. My wife’s gonna kill me.”

Thatcher left him and moved to another person lying motionless nearby. He was on his side, facing away from Thatcher. Fresh blood was spreading a dark blotch on the back of his shirt.

There was no mistaking the bald pate, as round and shiny as a cue ball, fringed by wiry gray hair. Thatcher knelt and eased Irv Plummer onto his back.

His eyelids fluttered open, but when he saw Thatcher, he scowled. “Did you shoot me?”

“Where’re you shot?”

“Under my arm.” He raised his left arm, or tried to. But pain drained his face of color and he gnashed his teeth. “Hurts like a son of a bitch.”

“Put your right arm around my neck.”

“I can make it my ownself.”

Thatcher swore at him, then hooked Irv’s right arm around his neck, put his shoulder to Irv’s middle, and stood up with Irv draped over him. He felt the old man go limp. He’d fainted.

Thatcher wove his way through the overturned tables and chairs toward the door, but it was slow going. The floor was littered with broken glass, and slick with spilled liquor and blood. He’d almost reached the exit when, “Thatcher!”

He turned to face Bill Amos, who asked, “Irv Plummer? Is he dead?”

“No, but he’s been shot.”

“How bad?”

“I don’t know. I’ll take him to a doctor.”

“Put him in my car.”

“His truck is outside. I’ll drive him in that. Can’t leave it here, it’s his livelihood.”

“Thatcher, he—”

“I’m driving him.” He turned to go, but Bill caught his sleeve.

“When you told me that this wasn’t your fight and that you were staying out of it, I knew better.”

Thatcher didn’t waste time arguing with him. He pulled himself loose and left through the door. Most everyone had cleared the area. Only a few stragglers remained. He carried Irv over the rough ground with as little jostling as possible.

When he reached the truck, he opened the tailgate and eased Irv off his shoulder and into the bed of it. Thatcher shook him slightly. “Where’s your key?”

Irv groaned, but he’d understood the question and patted his right pants pocket. Thatcher fished out the key, then adjusted Irv’s legs and feet to clear the tailgate.

“I saw you sittin’ with the sheriff.”

Thatcher turned quickly. Standing behind him was the young prostitute in the arm sling. She said, “You law?”

“No.”

“Gert said you prob’ly was.”

“She’s wrong.” The badge in his breast pocket seemed to be branding him through his shirt.

With a tip of her head the girl indicated Irv, who was moaning and muttering incoherently. “Is he gonna die?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you’ll take me away from here, I’ll help you with him.”

“No thanks.”

“I’m a good helper.”

“Thanks, but—”

“Don’t make me go back to Gert, mister. Please.”

Thatcher took in her misshapen jaw and the damaged eye. He mouthed a vulgarity used frequently in the trenches. “Get in.”





Twenty-Nine



Laurel was accustomed to Irv’s truck clanking into the drive at all hours of the night, so when it did now, her subconscious registered that he had made it home, but she didn’t fully wake up until there was thunderous knocking on the back door.

She threw off the sheet, grabbed her housecoat, and pulled it on as she rushed downstairs. She didn’t even bother to turn on the kitchen light before running to the back door and yanking it open.

Even having been certain that the knocking didn’t bode well, she still wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted her. Thatcher Hutton stood on the other side of the threshold. He was wearing the familiar black fedora, a bloodstained Henley undershirt, and dark trousers with a pistol stuck in the waistband. He was carrying Irv over his shoulder.

“Your father-in-law has been hurt.”

Laurel stepped around him to better see Irv, who hung limply, his arms dangling lifelessly. “Irv?” She turned his face toward her and repeated his name. When he didn’t respond, she cried out in alarm.

“He’s not dead, just unconscious.”

“He’s bleeding!”

“He was. I stanched the wound.”

“What wound?”

“He was shot.”

Aghast, Laurel looked down at the pistol in his waistband.

“Not by me,” he said. “Let’s get him inside, see how bad it is.”

“We already know it’s bad. He needs a doctor.”

“He refused a doctor.”

“Refused? How could he refuse if he’s unconscious?”

“Where should I put him?”