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The crunch of the snow beneath Lou’s hooves was hypnotic, and Harley found it difficult to stay awake. Thankfully the snow had at least stopped falling in the past hour, and she had managed to brush most of the collection from her coat. Lou slowly made his way to the herbalist’s house in the clearing in the wild forest, stopping at the ivy covered fence surrounding the cottage.
The bullet wound had become warmer, the muscles stiff, and that morning she had decided she simply could not wait any longer. Dismounting, she almost fell flat as she was unable to use her left arm at all. She slouched against her horse for support, but through her fevered haziness, she still instinctually froze at the sound of a gun cocking behind her.
“Hold it right there. Who are you?”
“Quinzel, Kyle sent me, said you could help me.”
“I ain’t a nun, and this ain’t a charity. You got money?”
“Yes, but only for services rendered. I may be hurt, but I can still hit a tick off a dog from twenty feet if you try anything funny.”
“Put your hands up and turn around real slow,” the voice commanded. Harley tried to comply, but her left arm was locked into her side.
“As I said, I’m hurt.” She turned and waivered with the effort, knees giving away, and her vision darkened. The wound agitated, red drops fell from under her coat sleeves, sullying the untouched snow. Looking up, the herbalist was in front of her now, opening her fence and no longer pointing the shot gun at her. Harley felt like she was floating now, only slightly aware that the larger auburn woman was supporting her as they made their way into the cottage.
“Was it a knife or a bullet?”
“I cut it on some fencing when I was out feeding—“
“Don’t lie. Kyle wouldn’t have sent you to me if what you’d been doing was on the up and up if you were on the up and up.” Harley swallowed but her mouth was dry.
“Bullet graze… thought it would be fine with just some cabbage on it. But past few days it’s…” The woman gently removed Harley’s lambskin coat and hissed at seeing the thin fabric of her dress crusted with rust colored stains.
“Come here by the fire, we need to get this off so I can see the wound.”
“I can’t get it off, been wearing it since the heist,” Harley offered. Without hesitation, the herbalist took the knife from her table, sliding it under Harley’s collar and slashed the seams at her shoulders and the fabric crumpled to her hips, her corset and chemise the only things covering her now.
“You’ve just been putting cabbage down your collar?”
“My mother would put it on our cuts when we were little.”
“This ain’t a cut, and you’re supposed to remove the old leaves before adding a new one, and you should,” she admonished while pealing the wilted rotting greens from the puss-caked wound, “wash it between each.”
The herbalist went to her cabinet of jars, bottles, and envelopes, all organized with writing Harley couldn’t make out.
“It’s gonna be ten dollars.”
“TEN DOLLARS?! I could buy a new arm with that much!”
“Well, go over to Zsasz in the mountain's pass. He’ll cut your arm off for two dollars. May even give you a discount if you scream pretty enough for him.” Harley paled at the thought and pulled the bills from the pocket sewn in her chemise. The herbalist then pulled three bottles, an envelope, and cut some leaves from a potted plant by the window, setting them all on the table. She snatched and inspected the bills before tucking them down her cleavage.
“You should have come to me sooner.”
“Snow was comin’ too fast. Lou gets confused in the storms, and I thought I had it under control.”
“Well, you didn’t. What have you been eating? Who’s been looking after you?”
“No one else from the gang returned to our hideout after the train. I think it’s just the storm. I only had some hardtack.”
“I figured as much.” The herbalist presented one small bottle uncorked, the liquid clear with a sprig floating in it. “Drink, it’ll fight the infection in your blood.”
The tonic burned more than the hooch Oswald distilled, and Harley cried out as another bottle of it was poured over her arm. The herbalist took the leaves and pressed them into the cut, then wrapped a cotton strip around the arm to keep them there. The burn was unbearable, and Harley pulled away.
“Ya know, I usually know the name of the person who’s hurting me,” Harley whined. The herbalist smiled and tied the wrap off.
“I’m curing you, not hurting you.”
“Well, it still hurts like hell.”
“Said like a person who’s never been.”
“You don’t know my life.”
“Well, if you have, then this should just be a cake walk. Drink this now.” Harley drank the syrup, warm and sweet like honey. Almost immediately, the pain started to retreat.
“Thanks, Red. So is this enough or do I take a couple of bottles for the road?”
“You aren’t going anywhere.” The herbalist took out a clean night dress from her bureau by the bed.
“What?” Harley felt even more tired suddenly, like all her muscles were undone.
“You need to be looked after. The ten dollars covers room and board.” Harley then realized the other woman was loosening the ties of her corset, completely undressing her. Then the softest shift Harley had ever felt went over her head, and for the first time in days she could move her arm.
“I don’t know your name,” Harley mumbled into the feather pillow that was some how under her head.
“It’s Pamela,” the woman whispered as she pulled the quilt up to the blonde’s shoulders.