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The air still has an element of sharpness to it as you leave the safety of town, right at the crack of dawn, following a worn dirt path that leads down to the lower parts of the valley. A breeze kicks up a bit of dust around your feet, your nose beginning to feel a tad numb from the chill, though you know in just a few hours you will wish for the coolness of morning again. You press your hand up against your knapsack, double checking that it’s still there, then shift the empty basket you’re carrying to the other arm, picking up your pace.
Every wild prickly pear plant nearest to the village are almost entirely picked clean, save for some of the smallest, most unripe fruits, so you have to go out a long way before you start seeing something edible. Today, though, you had decided to go out farther than you have before in the hopes of finding completely untouched prickly pear plants for jams and preserves. Though, you will have to venture pretty far out from civilization, and this is the outskirts of mountain lion territory, so you might be unlucky enough to come face to face with some of nature’s more dangerous surprises.
Down the valley you go, careful to not stray from the path, eyes flickering around the plants you see in the hopes you will find a prickly pear bush bursting at the seams with ripened fruit. Soon, the sounds of gurgling water add to the calls of birds and the humming of bugs as you get closer to your town’s lifeline; the San Miguel River. If you follow it downstream, you should get to a canyon, where, theoretically, you will find more prickly pears. A thin trail splits from the main road, not nearly as well-worn, but still visible in the sunlight. Sharp bits of grass poke through your clothes, poking at your skin without a shred of mercy.
The shadows are still long, so you don’t have to hug the bottom edge of a short cliff while you walk to keep out of the sun. If you had been focused on staying close to the rocky face, you don’t think you would have seen him, the hide of his flank blending in with the chalky red-brown mud that half buries his body. A thrill of alarm runs through you as you spot a stream of blood dripping from open wounds on his chest, drops flowing down into San Miguel, turning the water scarlet before dissipating with the current.
The basket falls from your grasp, the wicker bouncing against a scraggly bush as you walk closer, trying to come up with a plausible scenario of how a centaur would end up almost drowning in the soupy banks of a river. The slashes across his flank are jagged but not terribly deep, and to your unprofessional opinion, they look very much like the claw marks of one pissed off and hungry mountain lion. And, you notice, creeping up closer, there’s something else. A hole, on the shoulder that isn’t submerged in mud, bleeding even worse than the slashes.
You place the back of your hand against his forehead, noting that his splotchy brown skin is burning up. Glancing down at his wounds again, you try to think about what exactly you could do. There is absolutely no way in hell you can move him, and there is no guarantee he can move himself, or even wake up… You bite your lip, going through your satchel just to have something to do. There is nothing on you that could possibly serve as some kind of bandage, nor any kind of tools you might use to- you don’t know.
Maybe you aren’t exactly thinking straight as you rip part of your sleeve away, but there is little else you can do with what you have and you need to try something. The water isn’t what you call clean, but he has already been soaking in it for probably a long while, so might as well use it to rinse the makeshift cloth off as you try to scrape the caked mud away from his skin. You focus mostly on the wounded areas, painstakingly trying to erase the grime with the silty water. Barely managing it by the time to sun peaks out from behind the rocks, the heat bringing out beads of sweat along your forehead as you work.
The heat isn’t going to do him any favors, you think as a drop of wet rolls down your nose. Though any not mortally wounded person might be roused from their sleep if they were vigorously scrubbed with a patchy bit of fabric, the centaur is still lying limp, eyes not even fluttering as you accidentally swipe against the puss-filled skin. Without an ounce of confidence that it will work, you try waking him by gently shaking his head back and forth, your bloody hand cupping his chin. Nothing happens, and something inside your chest begins to sink.
It hadn’t even occurred to that he might not be alive until now. You hadn’t taken the time to slow your near frenzied scrubbing to check his breathing, and so with bated breath, you cease all movement. After what feels like an eternity, you see it, the steady rise and fall of both the man and horse’s chest areas, and though faint, numb relief flows through you. Then, as though it’s a simple delayed response to your earlier movements, the centaur gasps, a loud shluck echoing against the small canyon wall as he yanks his shoulder out from the mud.
Once the legs kick up, you realize that you are in deep trouble. Everyone knows a horse’s leg can deliver a death blow with a single swift kick, and with the centaur scrambles to stand, slipping against the slickness of the river’s bank, lungs wheezing with the injuries and effort, you are in dangerous proximity to those hooves. He can’t seem to stand, only able to kneel, each leg in a more awkward angle than the next, his torso doubling over as he realizes just how severe those injuries are.
You don’t move, especially after one of the hooves comes close enough to blow a bit of wind onto your face, eyes widening with fear. Every cell obeys your plea not to move, shoulders raised around your neck on instinct, mouth slightly puckered in anticipation of pain. The centaur’s amber eyes flicker down to the torn sleeve gripped tightly in your hand, knuckles pale from the stress.
“What were you doing.” It isn’t phrased as a question, but a demand. Even though you can tell he is trying his best to sound hard and threatening, a heavy rasp underlies his speech.
“You- uhm, the gashes around the chest, top chest? I tried cleaning them but…” You swallow thickly. “I think you’re going to need bandages.”
He regards you, only for a moment, before trying once more to stand, back turned to you in a dismissal. Long, black hair is caked onto his back, flecks of drying clay flicking off as he shakes his entire body in another futile attempt to leave. His jaw strain as it sets, firmly, frustration rippling through the tawny, strangely patterned flank.
Though you sense that his anger is not directed at you, specifically, it doesn’t make you anymore relaxed. You get off the ground, trying your best not to make any threatening motions, then take a significant step away.
“I’ll be back,” you promise, knowing that he isn’t in a position to move, “with bandages, herbs… and food?” The last bit is more hesitant, because you aren’t sure what exactly he eats, and if you can scrounge up enough of it, but you still intend to try.
“Don’t bother,” he snaps, voice gruff with pain, “I will be gone before you even reach the village.”
Not with those wounds, you think as you grab for your basket, not wanting to say it out loud and anger him any further. In contrast to the leisurely pace you had taken to walk earlier, you decide to half jog, half run in whatever sequences your gasping lungs can handle. It takes far too long to get back to the railroad town, the hustle and bustle of people milling about as you try to stay close to the buildings. Some of them give you odd looks, and you suppose with your ragged appearance, torn sleeve still muddy in your hand, you look like a wildling.
You slip into the Apothecary’s, an overwhelming smell of greens and salves almost strong enough to give you a migraine. Even with the sense of urgency looming over your figure like a spinning cloud about to touch down to the earth, you do your best to take the time to figure out which medicinal herbs would work best for his horsy parts, and in what doses. After much deliberation, you leave, the basket full of neatly packaged medicine and the clerk’s eyebrows about to pop off his head in bewilderment. There are no words you can offer up in a believable excuse, so you elect not to say anything at all and let them wonder.
Bandages next, and while you have some muslin strips at home, there’s no way it will be enough. You need to somehow procure even more, and while you have a vague idea of where to go, you don’t know if you can sneak into the doctor’s tent over in the railroad builders temporary camps. It might be easier to tear up one of your sheets now and then scrounge up the money for another later. You don’t want any of the big, muscly workers of the railroad to start wondering what you are doing with enough bandages to mummify someone.
All you can scrounge up for food is bread, and not a particularly large amount. Hopefully, it will be enough, but you know it probably won’t be. Maybe he can eat… grass? Your knowledge of centaur diets is, least to say, minimal, but perhaps he can. You don’t think you can afford to feed him on your own, so if worse comes to worst, you suppose, Jedidiah Oakson’s wheat field is just about ripe enough for harvest, maybe you can skim some of that? You’d only be digging yourself a hole if you get caught, though, there aren’t a lot of easy explanations for stealing someone’s raw wheat.
With your supplies overflowing in your basket, you start back onto the path. The sun is now entirely in the cloudless sky, the wide-brimmed hat on your head keeping the blinding light out of your eyes. As if to spite the morning’s coolness, the heat of the day smothers the air and ground. Though you jump from path to cliffside to desperately keep in the shade, a heated breeze blows onto your face to remind you every so often that, yes, it’s still sweltering. The water in your drinking skin is practically boiling, so taking a sip offers no relief.
True to the centaur’s word, he isn’t in the spot where you left him. Surprisingly, he had managed to go a few paces downstream, stopping against the stone face of the small valley’s wall, though doesn’t bother with trying to prop himself up from his lounging position as he hears your footsteps approaching. You stop just outside of his kicking reach, setting down the basket to the side on a decently flat rock, before taking a medium sized tin pot you snagged and filling it with the river water. The centaur doesn’t move as you advance towards him, a placing a raggedy washcloth to soak in the tin.
Out of your pocket, you pull a flask of something hard and robust, kneeling down in the semi-dried mud, and offering a single warning. “This is going to sting a bit.”
“Do your worst,” the centaur grinds out, eyeing you with a hawklike gaze as though he expects you to pull out a knife and attempt to gut him.
You pour the cold water over the wound of his flank, getting rid of any extra grime and dust that had accumulated while he tried leaving. Once you are satisfied with the relative cleanliness of the wounds, you unscrew the cap to the flask, the smell unique of the honey-colored liquid pungent enough that the centaur wrinkles his nose. You dab some of the whiskey onto a rag, then begin to wipe at the bloodied mess of skin and muscle as gently as can be managed under the present circumstances.
The centaur does his best to act like your actions are not affecting him in the slightest, biting the bottom of his lip in grim concentration. Eventually, you get to a point where you don’t think any more alcohol will help counter infection, you begin smearing a poultice onto his wounds. A soft hiss blows out from his gritted teeth, so you offer him the flask.
“Just a small sip, though,” you warn, picking up your rough bedsheet and tearing a long strip from it. “I still need to look at your shoulder.”
He scoffs at your offer, lifting a muddied hand up to push it away. “I don’t need that filth.”
“Suit yourself.” You don’t feel like arguing, but he is definitely going to regret that if there is a bullet still lodged in that shoulder. There’s no exit wound, so it’s a pretty safe bet that something is in there. Your back cracks in several places as you shift, trying to figure out the logistics of wrapping a bandage around his gigantic body, deciding that you probably just can’t and will have to make do. You lay a square over the main injury, pressing down lightly until you can feel the liquid seeping in from the pumice, then scoot over to where his torso lays in the dirt.
Now that you’re this close, you can see something glinting in the sunlight, barely buried in his flesh. At least it’s not deep, you muse, placing your hands flat on either side of the bullet hole. Squeezing the skin towards the wound might be an unorthodox way to remove a bullet, but one that works in this specific scenario. It pops out after a bit of teasing, the small, domed bit of lead dripping with thickened blood. The centaur is remarkably lucky that it took so little effort to remove the bullet, you muse while pouring some more whiskey over the hole, anything more would have just increased his risk of infection.
You rinse it, dunking to bullet into the pan of water you have set to the side, then offer it to him, like a trophy. With hesitant hands, he takes it between two fingers, holding it up to his face to get a better look. After smearing a bit of pumice against the fleshy mess, you stand, brushing some of the dusty dirt from your front, and begin looking for some decently sized sticks. Not a lot of trees out in these parts, most people have to travel north a couple miles to find much more than some sharply branched bushes. Occasionally, though, things get swept down along with the current of the San Miguel.
There’s one, about half your height, and another that comes just below your chin. The bark has been long stripped away, the surface of the wood almost smoother than what a well-seasoned carver can achieve on their own, and they are perfect for what you want to do. You dig a little hole in the ground with your hands, pebbles and dead grass roots poking at your fingers, and set the bigger stick at the center. You fill the hole to the brim with thick mud and wait just for a minute until the makeshift cement sets, then do the same with the other stick on the opposite side of the centaur. With whatever is left of your sheet, you drape over the rods, balancing the edge onto a ledge poking out from the cliff face, weighing it down with stones and mud.
Well… it’s no palace, but it will do, so long as the weather doesn’t bring any of nature’s rougher storms.
Grimy dirt covers your forearms, stopping just short of your elbows, so you begin scrubbing them over the pot. “Tell me,” you say while washing a particularly caked bit of mud on your wrist, “what is a centaur doing out in these parts?”
He scowls. “If I refuse to tell you, will you take your witchcraft away and leave me to die?”
“The poultice?” You toss the rusty tin towards him. “No, keep it.”
Only after you pack your things together in preparation to leave, the sun beginning its descent from high noon, does he speak again. “Wait.”
You hold the basket, wiping a bit of sweat from your forehead. “Yes?”
“Will you be back?”
After a pause, you offer a sharp nod, then turn your heel and head back to the town. Your heart is pounding as you step back to the road, milling between rush hour traffic. Hundreds of people return from their day’s work on the railroad or town shops, almost all of them willing to kill the centaur if they find out where he is. While you know most of them, you don’t know-know them, what they are like behind closed doors, what they would do while drunk, or angry, or both. So you keep your mouth tightly shut, even as you pass someone that you might call a friend aside to offer a passing greeting and flimsy excuse for your appearance.
Centaurs are majestic creatures, but also volatile, dangerous. At least, that’s what you’ve been told, as second-hand accounts have been, up until recently, the most exposure to them you possessed. This centaur, face pale with blood loss, cheek pressed up against the earth, body strewn in odd and almost alarming angles, isn’t what you would call majestic, though with the wild and deadly glare he offers as you walk up the next day, you certainly believe the latter. “Hello.” It’s an awkward start, there aren’t a lot of ways to greet someone lying in the dirt.
“So you have returned.” He says it with a hint of surprise, but filled more with suspicion than anything else. “Have you brought a cavalry to kill me?”
You squint your eyes at him. “Boy, all that would take to kill you is a sharpshooter with a pistol. You aren’t in an advantageous position to escape.”
The side of his mouth flickers up, in the barest hint of a… smile? Grimace? “It would seem I am at a disturbing disadvantage.”
“Yes, you are,” you don’t bother denying, unpacking the food you brought in the basket. He’s eaten the bread already, since the bit of muslin you left it in is decidedly empty. You managed to snag a few more chunks of an almost burnt loaf, along with a single carrot you swiped off a vendor on the way.
He doesn’t eat, not yet, only picks at the food you placed on the makeshift napkin with an impassive gaze.
“Do you have a name?” You ask, trying to make conversation.
There’s a pause, as though he is quietly battling whether or not to tell you, before relenting. “Raúl.”
“Raul,” you repeat slowly, running over the syllables.
“No,” he says impatiently, “Rah-ool. Raúl.”
“Raúl.” This time it’s correct, but you still feel a bit sheepish. “Do you want to tell me what you were doing on this side of the canyon, or is that still a secret?”
He tries tucking a piece of matted hair behind his ear, but it’s crusted to his skin with dried mud. “I suppose that if you were to turn me in, you would have done so already.”
You shrug. “Probably.”
“I was scouting.”
That sinks in after a minute. “Scouting? For who, why?”
“My people just want to make sure your governor is keeping his end of the bargain.”
You know of the pact Raúl speaks of, no one would shut up about it for weeks. One of those fancy pants journalists from the big city came over to do a paper on it, and from what you hear, it put that drunk excuse of a public servant in some pretty hot water. You can’t say you are a fan of Governor Trent specifically, but the Western Front Deal has been the most rational thing he’s managed to do in all his time in office. “Is he?”
Raúl lets out a dry laugh, though it sounds more like a wheeze. “That man is a liar and a thief. What do you think?”
“He’s pushing the railroad into your sacred lands?” There are very few of your people who would care enough to even voice their protests.
“No, nothing official. But there’s something else happening, something worse. I couldn’t get close enough to look.”
“I’m sorry that Governor Trent is a lying bastard.” You fold your hands in your lap, eyeing your dirty cuticles, so you don’t have to look at him. “I haven’t told anyone about you, by the way, and I won’t. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I know.” He says it quietly, but with more confidence than you feel.
It hits you like a lightning strike, the position and length of the shadows are beginning to look like a great deal of time has passed. “I have to go,” you say, quickly rising to your feet like a gunshot. “I have a job, people are going to start wondering where I am, so….” You awkwardly shrug. “I’ll be back tomorrow, though. With a hairbrush.”
One of his hands snakes forward, pressing up against yours for a brief moment. “Goodbye.”
You feel a little shiver run through your body at his touch. “Um, yeah. Bye.”
The job you work isn’t anything special, but it brings money to the table, and that’s all that matters for now. No one you know is in today, all new hires flooding in from the east. Most of the people cycle through in a few weeks, this isn’t exactly a town where people settle. Everyone who arrives ends up leaving, and with the new railroad station, even more so. But with new faces and hard work, no one tries talking to you, which is precisely how you want it at the moment. When you get home, exhausted, covered in sweat from the day’s heat, you sleep as hard as a rock and don’t wake up until almost midday.
Raúl is standing when you return, makeshift bandage off his flank, knee deep in the calmer part of the San Miguel. Hearing your approach, he turns to greet you, and it could just be your imagination, but his eyes look like they brighten up.
“You should be resting!” You scold once you are in earshot.
“I am just rinsing my hooves,” Raúl raises only one of his hands in a placating gesture, careful not to shift the affected shoulder.
“You’ll be rinsing the blood off your body if you reopen your wounds.” You smack the hairbrush against the tin pot for emphasis. “Don’t make me go in there to get you, I will drag you by the ear if I have to.”
“I have little doubt of that,” Raúl concedes, limping out of the water. He sits just outside the shelter, though still in the shade, back straight, and hands folded in his front.
After filling the pot with water, you have Raúl tilt his head forward, then begin the long process of rinsing the dried mud out of his hair. It’s a grueling process, the knots that have accumulated are exceptionally gnarly, and you are partially surprised that he doesn’t snatch the brush from your hands and do it himself in a huff. Instead, he waits patiently as you painstakingly untangle a nest of locks near the back of his head.
“It might be easier,” Raúl offers quietly, “for you to get up on my back.”
You eye the horse flank. If you stuck near to his torso, you wouldn’t brush up against the claw marks, and you are kind of sick of angling yourself in weird directions. One wide step is all it takes before you’re straddling him, legs around his body. It feels a tad bit more strange, intimate, maybe, to brush Raúl’s hair out now that you are pressed up against him, but you try not to read too much into it. After all, he was right, it is much more comfortable to brush his hair out like this.
It might just be your imagination, but you are almost certain that his breath quickens as your fingers brush against his neck to gather more strands to brush.
Raúl’s hair, or mane, you aren’t sure what he would call it, is glorious. Or, really, it will be glorious, once you manage to get rid every trace of grit and grime. You undo most of the knots in his hair until the brush runs through the thick black without a bit of resistance. Satisfied, you stand, flexing your fingers to stretch them out, and take a step back to admire your work.
“I need to be going,” you say, setting the brush back into the tin.
“But you will be back?” Raúl asks, hope in his voice.
Something inside you warms with his question. “Of course, and I’ll brush on your tail, tomorrow, too.”
A brief pause. Then Raúl smiles. “I’ll look forward to it.”