Page 87 of Ransom
"Of course you got a cave," I said.
"He's got several."
Coyote came out of the cave mouth before we got to it, barefoot and shirtless with Nimue draped across his shoulders the way another man might wear a scarf. He looked us over, clocked the blood on us, and frowned.
"You look much worse than she said you did," he said.
"Who?" Ransom asked, but Coyote didn't answer. He only waved us inside.
Ransom walked me through the entrance into a drop of ten degrees and most of the light. There was a fire pit with coals banked low at one side, a pallet against the back wall with a folded wool blanket on it, shelves cut into the rock with jars and bundles and things I didn't have names for. It looked exactly like the kind of place a man like Coyote ought to live, and that bothered me on a level I didn't have time to think about.
Ransom got me to the pallet and lowered me down slowly. He kept a hand behind my head until my head was on the blanket, then he took it back, and I immediately missed it.
"Eyes open," he said.
I opened them.
"Stay open."
"Workin' on it."
Coyote knelt beside me and started probing my ribs. He hit the third one on the left side, and I sucked air through my teeth.
"That one speaks," he said.
"That one hurts."
"And this one too?"
"That one too. Damn, Coyote."
"Sorry, Ranger." He didn't sound sorry. He sounded interested.
He moved to the arm, took my cuff in both hands and tore the shirt open up the seam to my shoulder. The cloth came away from the cut, and I sucked in a breath through my teeth. Coyote tipped his head sideways too far. "Shallow," he said.
"Told him that."
"He didn't believe you. He's like that."
"Startin' to figure that out."
Coyote glanced at Ransom and held the look, then turned back to me.
"I'm going to clean this. It's going to burn. Then I'm going to stitch it. That'll burn more. Then we'll do the nose. It'll hurt, but I'll be quick. The ribs will be slower and hurt less, but longer."
"Sounds like a hell of an evening."
"I'll make tea."
He laid out his tools on a square of leather: a needle, already threaded, a small dark bottle, a roll of cloth, and a brown jar with a wax seal.
"Ransom. The jar."
Ransom crouched at my head, thumbed the wax off, and set the jar where Coyote could reach it. Then he stayed there, on his heels, and put his hand flat against the side of my face, fingers spread wide. The weight of it settled me by maybe ten percent, and I'd take ten percent.
"There are four of them on the road," Ransom said.
"Which road?" Coyote asked.
