Poor Billy

“Billy!”

Randall Geets rapped his knuckles on the worn door of the little shack. Mark stood beside him, a few paces back. He had a plate of scrambled eggs in one hand, with his thumb hooked precariously around a cup of coffee while the other held his handkerchief over his mouth and nose. Even outside the shack, the stench of Billy’s affliction clung to the air.

“Billy!” said Randall again and pounded on the door, “We got you some breakfast here, Billy.”

A voice croaked from inside, weaker than it had been the day before.

“Don’t come in,” said Billy.

“We ain’t comin in,” said Randall, “We got some breakfast here for you.”

“Don’t want none.”

“Aw, come on, Billy,” Randall looked back at Mark who only shrugged and kept his handkerchief pulled tight over his face, “You gotta eat something. Keep your strength up.”

Silence.

“We got some coffee here, too. Made it fresh.”

“Don’t want none,” Billy croaked.

“It’ll make you feel better you eat somethin.”

“He said he don’t want it, Randall,” said Mark, his voice coming muffled from under his checkered red handkerchief. Randall shot him an irritated look. Mark, like most of the rest of their drover outfit was scared to death to come too near poor, afflicted Billy. It wasn’t that Randall blamed them, every cowhand was rightfully fearful of a septic death by disease like the one besetting Billy, but he considered the aversion to help a fallen comrade akin to something like cowardice. It rubbed Randall wrong. Man or beast, he hated to see one of God’s creatures in misery.

“How about we leave it for you, Bill?” he said, “We could set it just inside the door there-”

“Don’t come in!” said Billy, some volume creeping back into his voice in obvious alarm, “Don’t you open that door. No use you getting sick, too.”

“He’s right,” said Mark with far more enthusiasm than Randall approved of, “Best not open that door at all. No sense in that, I’ll say.”

Randall scowled at him. Mark’s eyes fell sheepishly and he dug a toe of his boot into the dirt. Randall reached for the latch and it screeched on its rusty hinges.

“Don’t come in here!” Billy half-way screamed. As much a scream as his weary lungs could manage.

Randall’s hand retreated from the door. He sighed and turned away, defeated. Mark took a step forward.

“We will leave it outside the door for you, then,” he said, hoping the compromise would buy him back some of Randall’s good graces, “It’ll be right here for you if you want it later. When you’re feeling better.”

He added the last part without much conviction. Billy didn’t answer.

“That be alright for you, Billy?”

Still no answer. Mark shrugged at Randall, his diplomatic efforts expended. He set the plate and mug on the ground just outside the shack, reaching distance from the door, and ground them into the dirt a little so they would stay upright then retreated from the shack and the stink that emanated from within.

“Come on, Randall,” he said, “We’ve done all we can.”

“We’ll be back later to check on you, Billy,” said Randall, still watching the door with a forlorn helplessness, “Talk to you tonight, okay?”

Billy didn’t answer.

With grave reluctance, Randall finally gave up the fight and turned to follow Mark back into the drover’s camp.

“Poor BIlly,” said Mark, “Hell of a thing to get sick on a drive like this.”

“There a good time to get sick?”

“Well, no,” conceded Mark, “But there’s got to be a better time.”

“There’s not,” said Randall, “There ain’t no better time to die likg here…