Free Forty-Four Caliber Justice by Donald L. Robertson

nodded. Mad Dog raced back into the house and got a lamp full of kerosene and doused your pa with it. He pulled out a store-bought match and struck it, stuck it up to your pa’s leg, and cackled like a hen when your pa started burning. That’s about it, boy. I told you true. The least you could do is get me some water.”
    Clay walked to Blue and untied the canteen. He turned back to Hayes. As he neared him, something didn’t look right. What was wrong, what had he missed? His hands. They were above his head.
    Hayes struck like a viper. He whipped the knife out of the holster hanging between his shoulder blades and threw it with all of his remaining strength. The blade buried to the hilt in Clay’s neck, the point sticking out below and behind his right ear.
    Clay’s hands flew up to the knife, but he couldn’t pull it out. It was tight and he was bleeding—bleeding bad. He felt his legs going and he crumpled to his knees. He tried desperately to get out his gun, but his hands weren’t working. Clay watched as Hayes stood up, his face covered with an evil smirk.
    Hayes sauntered over to Clay, looked down at him for a moment, and kicked him as hard as he could in the chest. Clay sprawled back on the grass under the big oak trees. He looked up at the blue sky. The sun was up, and the woods were busy, birds singing, squirrels barking, and armadillos rooting. A beautiful Texas day. But I’m dying. I’m sorry, Ma. I promised, but I’m dying.
    “How’s it feel, kid? Tide’s turned, hasn’t it?” Hayes stripped the guns from Clay, then reached up to pull his knife out of Clay’s neck. He pulled and tugged. The knife wouldn’t budge. He put his heel against Clay’s throat and pulled. No knife. “Boy, I’m gonna make a trade with you. All your gear for my knife. I’ll just leave it there while you bleed to death. Ain’t life great? I just knew it’d work out good for me. It always does.” He searched Clay’s pocket and found his twenty-five dollars. “Yes, sir, it always works out for me.”
    Hayes picked up the knife Clay had found and slipped it into his neck scabbard. “Boy, you’re just too green. You should’ve searched me better. Good for me you didn’t.” He slipped his sock and his boot on, gathered up the reins, and pulled himself up into the saddle. “You had me going, boy. I’ve got to tell you, I knew you were going to split my foot from toe to ankle. But you didn’t, and I win. I always win, boy. I always win.”
    Clay watched him cross the creek. He hated to lose Blue. Blue was a good horse and friend. They’d been together for a long time. But it didn’t matter, he thought. Time for him was about to end. He could feel the blood coursing from his neck. He wondered how long it would take him to die. It was getting darker, but he knew it still wasn’t noon yet. Why was it getting dark?
    The last thing he remembered was the coyote sitting on his haunches, watching him, waiting.
    *
    “Boy, can you hear me? If you can hear me, don ’ t try to talk, just blink.”
    Who was talking? Was he in heaven? No, if he was in heaven, they’d know his name. His eyelids were so heavy. He worked hard to open them. They wouldn’t move.
    “Son, open your eyes. I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. Open your eyes and blink.”
    Clay could feel himself getting mad. How does he know I can hear him? But I can. Wait, I can hear him! Clay gradually came back to consciousness. His first sight was the captain he had run into when he tried to get into the infirmary, the doctor. He was sitting next to him, in a chair.
    “Good. I knew you could do it. You’re way too determined to die from a little knife cut. You had us worried, but you’re doing better. You lost quite a bit of blood, so you’ll be weak for a while.”
    Clay tried to ask how long he’d been there, but all that came out was a croak.
    “Listen to me. Don’t try to talk. You’re very lucky. The knife missed everything vital. It