The Saga of Miles Forrest

Billington has never acted friendly in any way, sort, or manner.  I happened to remember that he was left-handed, and he was ten feet away, so when he put forth his hand, instead of reaching for it I lifted the Greener.  
    The impact hit me in the back knocking me forward.  As I was falling I saw Billington’s left hand come up with a pistol.  Things happened fast, too fast.  Billington fired, missing, and just before I hit the station floor I pulled the trigger on the Greener and heard Billington groan.  Because I fired the shotgun my arm was in no position to help catch my fall; I landed square on my face.  
    There came a scream.  “Miles!”  It was Molly.
    I was a little dazed, but I lifted my head and turned just as another shot was fired.  I saw Molly drop.  I was still groggy, but I rolled to my side and pulled my pistol snapping off a shot at the person fleeing the scene.  I recognized him as Billy Denton.
    My glance went back toward Billington.  He was laying on the station floor, crawling for his pistol that was dropped when he hit.  I turned to rest on my stomach, cocked my pistol pointing it at Billington.  He lifted his head looking at me, his eyes widened in fear and in desperation as he struggled to crawl to his pistol.  I shot him, hitting him in the shoulder.
    I tried to cry out, but all that I could hear from my voice was the whisper of her name, “Molly.”

Hmmmm, should I stop it here?

    I was still on my stomach when I woke up.  Trying to move the pain hit me, so I figured it was too much of an effort.  From my position I tried to lift my head and look around to get my surroundings.  This was a grand room with a bed that had a canopy.  “Oh, my mercy!” I thought; I’m in an undertaker’s parlor.  Folks think I’m dead.
    The door opened and I could see two pairs of legs come through the door; one wearing pants and the other a dress.  The undertaker and Molly, but, no, I saw Molly fall, she was shot.
    “Ah, our patient is awake.  Nurse, get him some water to drink, but make sure he drinks it slowly,” came the voice from the pants who I now assumed was a doctor.  “I want to check his wound.”
    “Here, Mr. Forrest, see if you can hold your head up to sip from this cup,” came a soft, mellow voice.  I took a few sips, but what I wanted was to guzzle it all down.
    The doctor was messing with the bandages.  Then he put something on me that made me go straight up from the bed, horizontally.  “Whoooee, Doc, that stings a mite!” I exclaimed.
    “Have to make sure there’s no infection,” he said as he began to wipe my wound.  “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Forrest.  I had to dig that bullet out; a little lower and it would have wound up in your lung.  I will say this, you’ve had your share of wounds and scars.
    “Don’t believe in luck,” I muttered, still trying to catch my breath from the burning sensation.  “I believe in divine Providence.”
    “Well, then,” said the Doc, “the gentleman that you shot was not so divinely providential.  He lost one of his legs, and a hunk from his hip.  He still might not make it as he lost a lot of blood.  A shotgun blast from ten feet away can do a sight of damage.”     Then it came to my mind, I saw Molly fall.  “My wife, where’s Molly?”
    There was quiet; the doc quit his work on my wound, and the nurse lifted the cup away from me.  I tried to get up, and was pushed back down.  “Where is Molly?”
    “Easy, easy, you’ll start bleeding,” the doctor remarked.  
    “Doc!  Where is she?”
    “She’s in the other room.  She’s…”
    I interrupted him, “I want to see her.”  
    I tried to get up when the pain hit me.  I could hear faintly his words as I passed out, “He’s hemorrhaging….”