Rough Country

punched him in the kidneys a couple of times, best he could, but Slibe got over him on one of the rolls, and hit Virgil in the face with an elbow and Virgil felt his nose break.
    Then Virgil was on top, bleeding, and really pissed, and he gave Slibe a shot in the eye, and they rolled again. Slibe twisted, so they were facing each other, Slibe on top, and Virgil got an arm around Slibe’s neck and squeezed the other man close, with Slibe flailing away at Virgil’s ribs and trying to pull free.
    If he pulled free, he’d be on top with both fists loose, and in a position to really pound Virgil; and his head was slippery, and he was pulling out of Virgil’s hold. But Slibe’s ear was right there, and Virgil bit into it, hard as he could, and squeezed with his arms. Slibe started screaming and thrashing, and Virgil bit harder and they rolled around again, Slibe on top and then Virgil, and Virgil was thinking that the cops had to be close, and his eyes were full of blood and he couldn’t see. . . .
    And the deputies landed on Slibe, a couple of big Scandinavian kids, and yanked him loose and Slibe screamed again, and Virgil realized that while Slibe was over there, being pinned to the ground, most of his ear was still in Virgil’s mouth.
    Virgil spit it out and groaned, and one of the cops screamed, “You been shot?”
    Virgil said, “Ah, man,” and sat up. He was covered with mud and grass and maybe, if his nose was still working right, a little dog shit.
    Slibe was sitting on the ground, his hands cuffed behind him, blood pouring down the right side of his head. He said to Virgil, “Kicked your ass.”
    Virgil said, “Tell your ear that, motherfucker.” He looked around on the ground, couldn’t see it; crawled around for a minute, blood streaming out of his face, spotted it in a wet footprint. He picked it up, and held it up so Slibe could see it.
    “It was worth it,” Slibe said.
    Sanders arrived, looked at Virgil, and said, “Your nose is bent.”
    “Ah, it’s busted,” Virgil said.
    “Does it hurt?” Virgil looked at him, and Sanders held up his hands and grinned and said, “Sorry.”
     
     
     
    A COP with a medical kit gave Virgil a gauze pad to hold to his nose. He retrieved the shotgun and pointed the deputies to the spot where Slibe’s rifle was. Waited until one of them came up with it, then staggered over to his truck. Slibe was put in the back of a cop car, and they all rolled slowly up the pasture back to the house.
    Virgil got out, head tipped back, still pressing the bandage to his nose. Wendy was there, and said, “You didn’t kill him.”
    “No, but I beat the shit out of him,” Virgil said.
    She looked at the blood running down Virgil’s face and chin, and said, “Yeah. You look like it was pretty one-sided.” She could see Slibe through the side window of the cop car, looking out at them. “Can I say good-bye?”
    “I don’t care,” Virgil said. Still bleeding. “Yeah, why not?”
    One of the cops popped the back door of the car, at Virgil’s request, and Wendy bent over and said, “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
    Slibe, soaked, muddy, bleeding, looked at her and said, “All I wanted to do was love you women. That’s all I ever wanted,” and Wendy began bawling again.
    Virgil thought he saw a flicker of satisfaction cross Slibe’s face, as he watched his weeping daughter; and Virgil slammed the door again.

27
    VIRGIL GOT OUT of the hospital with an aluminum splint holding his nose straight, and a crisscross splotch of tape holding the splint in place. His face hurt, his neck hurt, his ribs hurt, and he’d pulled a muscle in his groin, he thought. He sat in his car and called Davenport, and filled him in.
    Davenport said, “Uh-huh,” about six times, and then, “So how soon can you get back here? We’ve got some serious shit going on.”
    “I’m going fishing,” Virgil said. “I’ve got my vacation and I’m taking it, and not only that, I’m putting in for time-and-a-half, for all my overtime. I’m putting in for thirty hours of overtime, goddamnit. You guys are gonna pay for a trip to the Bahamas.”
    “I’ve been to the Bahamas,” Davenport said. “They’re really . . . flat. And hot. Flat and hot. You won’t like it. I recommend a quick trip to Mille Lacs, catch some walleyes, you know, have a couple of margaritas. Get wild with some of those outstate women.”
    “Bullshit. I’m going to the Bahamas,” Virgil said. “But first, I’m going to