Free The Weather and Women Treat Me Fair by Percival Everett Page A

water from his canteen.
    Cole drove off Route 9 over the desert. He would check the water holes and look for signs. He found one, two, and at the third he discovered a small mound of human feces. From where he stood he could see two big gatherings of rocks. He took his canteen, but left his rifle.
    It was about 105, 110 degrees. The afternoon sun was beginning to slow Cole. Not much was moving out there, except a couple of Gila woodpeckers flapping by on their black-and-white-striped wings. Cole climbed up into the rocks, scaring a few rock squirrels from the shade. He reached into a crack without looking. He felt the rope of a body before it struck, but he couldn’t pull back in time. The rattler hooked in and he sent the snake flying with the whipping of his hand. He fell. It was a bad spill. He believed his leg to be broken. He couldn’t walk, so he had to cut and suck the bite. He crawled into some shade and drank some water, tried to stay calm, slow his heart. He cursed himself for being so careless, stupid.
    Cole woke up to the pink-washed sunset sky. He was cold, he thought. Then he remembered the bite and figured he was having chills. He’d have to work his way back to the jeep. A bat’s wings whispered through the darkening sky. He tried to stand but fell back down. He scooted down some of the rocks on his butt. He smelled the thin fragrance of burning mesquite. He stood on one leg and hobbled across the rocks. There was the fire. There was the boy. He really needed the boy now. There was no way he could sneak down without spooking the kid. So he rolled himself down the rocks toward the fire.
    He rolled through the flames, scattering burning twigs, and onto the boy’s rifle. He slapped the flame out with his trouser leg as he raised the rifle and leveled it at the boy, who was now on his feet.
    “No se mueva,” Cole said.
    The boy froze.
    “Esteban Hireles?”
    The boy said nothing, but did respond to his name.
    “No se preocupe . I’m here to help.” He laughed at himself. That puzzled the boy and he leaned to move away. “Stay!” Cole said firmly. “Habla usted inglés?”
    The boy nodded.
    “Esteban, listen to me. A snake bit me on my hand.” He held his hand up for the boy to see. “I need a doctor. Sit down.”
    Esteban sat.
    “Where is your brother? Dónde…”
    “Dead. They killed him.” Esteban’s voice was thin and he was trying to keep it under control. His chest rose and fell with his breathing.
    “Lo siento . White men?”
    “Si.”
    “Look at me, Esteban. Am I a white man?”
    He shook his head.
    “You can trust me. I want to get the men who killed your brother.” A pain ran through his leg and he grabbed at it.
    “Dónde le duele?” Esteban asked where it hurt.
    “My leg. No puedo over el pierna. , I need a doctor. Listen, kid, I’m about to slip under any second now. Puedo usted un médico?”
    Esteban nodded slowly.
    A cool wind blew through the camp. It was darker now.
    “Hayviento,” Cole said, shivering, holding his arm tight to his body and clutching his shirt.
    Esteban tossed him a blanket.
    “Me llamo , Cole.” He passed the rifle butt-first to the boy. “My jeep is near the water hole. Just press the button and talk. Please.”
    The boy held the rifle and said nothing.
    Cole closed his eyes, felt consciousness slipping away.
    “Lo siento,” he heard the whispered words of the boy.

Turtle
     
    The boards of the house were gray like those of so many old barns. The overhang of the front porch was supported in part, if not whole by two four-by-fours which stood out because of their light brown freshness. The house sat off the ground on pillars of chipped brick. Chickens walked around under there.
    A dark man sat on the porch, his complexion highlighted by his white tractor cap. The cap was crisp and new. His name was Bubba Johnson. He scratched at his cheek while he watched me approach.
    “How’s it going, Bubba?” I asked.
    “Okay, Dan. How you