Jens had passed out before I could tell him more about Christ and the way to heaven. I didn’t think his wound was serious, but he did lose a lot of blood and then there was always the chance of infection.
“You need to get him off my counter!” snapped the telegraph clerk.
I was in no mood for his foolishness after the shootout and Jens wounded and passing out. The rush from the gunfight was wearing out. I already had one fool to deal with in the town marshal, so I barked at him in my reply. “How would you like a little thump alongside the head with the barrel of this Greener?”
In reaction he put his hand to the side of his head and backed away. When he was doing that the doctor, or someone who said he was a doctor appeared.
“Let me have a look at him,” he growled. He grabbed the pants and ripped them so that he could look at the wound. Hmm, so much for good bedside manners. Touching around the wound, he then dug in his bag pulling out a small pair of clamps.
“Hold his leg, I need to make sure there’s no cloth in the wound,” he ordered. I watched as he pulled the wound apart starting it to bleed again. Using the clamps he pulled out a piece of string, then some cloth the size of your little fingernail.
“Fitzer,” he barked looking at the telegraph operator, “give me that bottle of rye you keep hidden. I need to clean this so I can get a better look.”
“I don’t…” he began to say until I raised the Greener. “Just a minute.” He went to a cabinet in the corner of the room and produced a bottle of rye whiskey.
Handing it to the doctor he back off again. I turned to look at the marshal and he was standing in the doorway observing. “Sorry, but I’m going to make a mess on your counter, but it’ll clean up,” then he gave a little laugh, “most of it anyway.”
He poured the liquor into the wound. “Good thing he’s out, as this would smart some.” Then he wiped it with a towel. He pulled the wound apart, poured some more whiskey in it to wash it out. “Hand me that bandage in my bag,” he ordered. “No, not that one, the towel.” As I handed him a cloth. “Got to stop the bleeding again, then put a few stitches in it.”
“United States Marshals, huh?” he questioned upon seeing Jens’ badge. “Bet Marshal Abrams is happy you’re here,” he said with another little laugh. “Listen, I’ll finish up here, why don’t you go get him a room.”
I nodded and began to leave. “I don’t think there’s any room at the hotel,” stated Abrams as I walked by him. Try Ramon over at the cantina. He might have some rooms.”
It didn’t take long to reach the cantina. Ramon had been very courteous to me earlier, but now seemed extremely nervous. “Senor, I would like to help you, but,” he grimaced, “if I do they will come in and destroy my establishment. Por favor, please,” he paused then gave a deep sigh. “If you cannot find a place, I will help you.”
“Ramon, I think I understand. I won’t be a problem for you, but I surely want to talk with you later.”
Leaving I walked over to the two-story building that had the sign: Hotel. I didn’t for a moment believe it was full. I might have to use a little persuasion.
The clerk looked up as I entered and immediately spouted out, “We’re out of rooms!”
“Where’s your’s?” I asked and his eyes widened. “I’m commandeering it!”
I thought he was going to choke and then he began to reply…