Free Border Town Girl by John D. MacDonald Page B

tore through the top of Christy’s right shoulder, just above the collarbone. As an after-echo of the shot he heard it smack into the wall behind him. A warmth and wetness ran down his chest and his back under the dark wool suit coat. It drove him back a half-step. His right arm was still functioning. He snatched up the revolver from beside Vance’s hand and stuffed it inside his belt. He had never carried or used a gun. It always made him feel weak and sick even to look at one.
    He opened the door and ran out into the hall. He was halfway down to the second floor when he heard steps coming along the second floor to the stairway—running steps.
    Christy turned and stared up at the third floor. As the steps came up behind him he said excitedly, “I heard a shot up there!”
    The ranger ran by him without a word. Christy turned and went down to the second floor, then down the next flight. He slowed as he reached the lobby. He walked out the front door onto the sidewalk. A state police car was parked near the entrance. It was empty and the door was open.
    Christy walked steadily down toward the bridge. The midmorning sun was hot on the back of his neck. He could feel his shirt sticking to him.
    He made himself smile and nod at the U.S. officials. “Just going over for a coupla hours,” he called.
    The man waved him on. He paid the pedestrian toll to the Mexican guard in the middle of the bridge. The sun was a hot weight behind him, pushing him along. He touched his shirt pocket and felt the crispness of the bills he had taken from Shaymen’s billfold. Not much, but maybe it would be enough.
    The guards at the Mexican end were checking cars as he walked by. They paid no attention to him. Barefooted women sat on the sidewalk, their backs against the wall, little piles of fruit and eggs in front of them. Christy felt weak. The blood soaked his right side at the waistline. A half-block from the public square on the opposite side from the bridge he saw the sign. He climbed the dark stairway. There was one man in the waiting room. The nurse was a cute little thing in starched white. She spoke to him in rapid Spanish.
    Christy sighed and took the revolver out. The waiting patient’s eyes widened and he crossed himself. The nurse gave a little cry of fear. He motioned them both toward the other door. The nurse opened it and backed in. The man slipped around her. The doctor looked up with sharp annoyance from the boy whose infected leg he was treating. His eyes narrowed as he saw the gun but the expression of annoyance remained on his slim olive face.
    “What do you want?” the doctor snapped.
    “I’m shot. I want help.”
    “Put the gun away.”
    “Nuts. Tell the kid and the man and your nurse to go over into that corner and face the wall and keep their mouths shut. Hurry it up.”
    The doctor spoke to the three. They meekly did as they were told. Christy put the gun in his left hand, shrugged his right arm out of the coat. He unbuttoned his shirt, pulled the cloth away from the wound and got his right arm out of the sleeve. Then he transferred the gun to his right hand and got his left arm out of the coat and shirt. He dropped them to the floor. The doctor watched him calmly.
    Christy said, “Now fix me up, Doc. That’s a pretty little nurse. You try anything funny with me and I shoot her right in the small of the back.”
    “You are a stupid man, señor. I can work easier if you sit down. There.”
    “Is it bad?”
    “No. It tore the muscle very little. Hit no bone. Hold still.”
    Antiseptic burned through the wound. Christy sucked in his breath sharply. The doctor applied folded bandages to the entrance wound and the exit wound and bound them tightly in place with gauze, wrapping it over the shoulder, under the armpit and around the great chest. He anchored the bandages more securely in place with wide strips of adhesive.
    “Done,” the doctor said.
    “Now have the girl wash out my shirt in that sink over there