When Lita gives him an instruction, Rodeo obeys quickly and efficiently. He might not know the terms for all the instruments she's brought, but he does think fast on his feet. His quick mind constantly churns behind his eyes, analyzing and evaluating everything around him. By the time she starts asking for tools, he's already studied everything on the table so thoroughly that he doesn't have much trouble figuring out what she's asking for. He doesn't look away as she cuts into the wound, despite the pus that leaks out when her fingers apply pressure near the site. Still, it is pretty grody. He's had some nasty side-effects from his chosen method of wound treatment, but this is some straight-up next level nightmare shit. Though his camp is pretty much superior in all things-- if you're asking him, anyway-- he has to admit that maybe this is something he needs to work on. Having an actual doctor on site might be a good start, but generally doctors who are willing to hang in a dustbowl full of men of ill repute are not very easy to come by. Maybe he can start by learning a couple of things himself about how a wound ought to be treated.
Because he has to be honest with himself here. If Wheeler dies, he won't be the first Dog to fall because of an infected wound.
It's been a rough road, as far as medical care at his camp goes. The men he runs with are the stubborn sort, the kind to insist that a back full of shotgun shrapnel ain't nothin' but a scratch. But for Rodeo, it's not just a macho mentality that keeps him away from stitches and salves. It's paranoia. Nobody in their camp knows how to deal with serious injuries, and in order to be treated for any of his wounds he'd have to bring in an outsider to do it. That's just too risky a proposition for him. He was only stitched up after that Ghoul attack because he'd lost too much blood to know it was happening. There's no way to know an outsider's true agenda, and letting a stranger take to him with needles and scalpels and unknown medications is just too big of a risk for someone in his position. His life is always on the line, and there are many in the city who would like to see the Dog King dead. It's the same paranoia that has him wearing the bulletproof vest under his clothes, even when he's in his own camp. But it's also the same paranoia that has kept him alive well past his expiration date, because if it weren't for the kevlar the same bullets that hit Wheeler would have left more than just fading welts on his chest.
Rodeo listens to her prognosis with a frown pulling at his mouth. It doesn't sound great, but he likes that she doesn't try to sugar-coat it. Lita has a way of doing things that makes sense to him. She's logical and straightforward, and Rodeo knows those are rare qualities to possess. Most folks want to coddle and be coddled. They say the shit that'll cause the least tension, not what's true. They come at life soft and get bruised on any hard edges. Rodeo has no patience for that. He's guessing she doesn't, either. What a woman.
"I told you. That ain't a problem," Rodeo says when she tells him that he'll have to take care of Wheeler after this. "I'll get him what he needs, and I'll do what needs to be done. Long as you give me instructions, I'll follow 'em. I ain't tryin' to lose any men."
And then Wheeler starts to fight against the probing of her forceps. Rodeo's jaw clenches and he presses down, bracing his arm against the man's uninjured shoulder to pin him down against the table. Those muscles do flex, arms exposed by the fabric of his comfortably worn old Slayer t-shirt as he holds down his buddy. "Damn, cut it with the retard strength," Rodeo growls at Wheeler. Suddenly, he moves fast-- Wheeler's arm flies up, fist swinging towards Lita. Rodeo grabs his wrist before he can land the punch, wrenching the man's arm back down. "Shit, asshole, you got any idea how pretty the face you almost just socked is?"