252 | John W. Warner IV her neck. Squeeze as if yer lovers manhood, ye randy square-pusher, he moaned. .. .seven hundred! Got him. Reticle on target, Bea gently touched off the hair trigger, the Springfields butt recoiling hard into her already sore shoulder. The bullet spiraled and arced, finally lodging in the small of the mans back. He plowed into the earth like a sack of anvils. Heart pumping, Alice kissed her filthy cheek and whispered a loving: Nice shot, Beans. Gwafa helped Bernie onto the horse. Lets take a look at our marauders, said Bernie, lying almost prone. Alice had tended to his wound with the med kit; the bullet had gone through but hadnt hit the bone. He bled despite the stitching. Alice covered both holes with gauze. I need to sew you up better with I think we missed one! What was your count Bernie? asked Bea, nervous. Im pretty sure there were fourteen, but… The mules!yelled Gwafa on the run. After a hundred steep yards uphill, he came upon the five wood stakes in the ground. Merdel Panting, Bea came to a stop and fell to her knees. Oh hell… Gwafa examined the tracks. To the west. Alice led the horse with Bernie. AH of them? she asked. ‘This is all my fault. Dammit! Just plain dammit, yelled Bernie, caressing the long neck and inhaling the potent horse aroma that suddenly made him very homesick. He stroked its mane lovingly. My fault… Inside a stone house, Bakhtiyari villagers helped Alice sew up Bernies wounded backside proper, then sealed both wounds with a hot iron; Bernie screamed. The elderly Khalifeh gave Bernie sips of mild opium tea for the pain; he spoke in a fluid tongue, but Gwafa shook his head at Bernie, the language unfamiliar. I do not understand the Chief, Bernard. Gwafa spoke in Berber using hand gestures, but had no luck. Nomads, perhaps Lori dialect, its Persian. Theyre patriarchal Shia I think, but may practice some Sufism, moaned Bernie. Like the Kurds up north. Theyre heading south for the winter months, better pickings for the sheep and goats. People of the wind.