The Left Handed Gun Page #4

Oh, Ben. Ben, I'm sorry!

Where's the law?

Oh, Ben.

McSween?

- The boy?

- The floor caved in.

Hey, Billy.

Bucky wouldn't come.

He wouldn't listen.

None of them.

Your arm.

McSween's house.

I got some clothes in my pack roll.

I got two of them. I got two of them.

You lay still, now. I'll get

some grease for that burn.

Don't touch it, now.

It's stuck to your...

Stuck to your arm.

We got two of them.

We got two of them.

Just lay still.

We'll hide out for a couple of days, then

we'll head north for the farm country.

No. Get me to Saval.

- Who?

- Saval. He's a gunsmith down in Madero.

Charley's down in Madero.

I'll take you to Madero.

Garrett. Pat Garrett.

Bonney.

- Looks like you got nine lives.

- Got eight left.

You're hurt bad. Come on,

let me give you a hand.

- No, you get me to Saval.

- The gunsmith.

- We got a doctor.

- He don't want no doctor.

- He just wants Saval.

- I saw his wife around here a while ago.

- Celsa?

- Yeah, come on.

Saval.

Billy. Billy.

Your arm, your neck. What happened?

Celsa! Celsa!

Celsa! Celsa!

Celsa, come here.

Billy!

Be careful. His arm.

Look at him. Hey.

- Watch his arm.

- Easy, easy, easy.

You find Charley and get you a room.

You can stay at my place.

Let's go.

You don't kill a sheriff.

- You see anybody?

- Not yet.

You best keep him out of sight.

Best.

Two years, he run away.

Do you see his eyes?

He's old in two years.

He's in a bad way.

Run away, run back.

Sew his clothes, give

him food, he's gone again.

Look, his shirt is all burned.

I tried to take his gun belt.

He grabbed my hand.

It's under his pillow.

It's the same as

before, wherever he goes.

- What?

- Pain.

This here's Charley Boudre.

He's a friend of Billy's.

This lady takes care of Bill.

- Is he bad off?

- Well, he sleeps a lot.

Could we come in?

- lf you don't stay too long.

- Oh, we won't.

Hey, Billy?

Hey, Tom.

Look what crawled out

from underneath a rock.

What?

Hey, Charley, you old

horse's blanket. Come here.

Why, it's that poor boy

that got hisself killed.

Newspapers said that poor outlaw

youth was fried to a grease spot.

I'd like to lay this little

offering on that poor soul's grave.

Wait, what is that?

A little friend to keep him company.

A horny toad.

Oh, what a weeping shame

to die so young and so fair.

Why, the whole town of Lincoln

is draped in solid black.

All them red-eyed widow women...

...is weeping and throwing

their selves off the roofs.

The sight, I tell you.

- Oh, you'd say.

- Hold on, Tom.

Tom, my heart is near broke.

- Best thing we sing a little hymn.

- I reckon.

A flock of angels

Shall fly him up to heaven

Stop it now. Stop it! Stop it!

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