Ah, see you’re back among the living. How are you doing, my friend?” inquired Rev. Chapman of the patient. The man didn’t say anything, but just stared upward. Finally he moved his head some to meet the gaze of the preacher. “Providence sure took care of you this time.”
“If what you mean by ‘Providence’ is fate, I’ll agree with you,” came his quiet, yet tart reply.
“Oh no, God was involved. By rights you should be dead, either from the appendix bursting in the next few seconds, or a bullet by Marshal Forrest. No, God was involved in your destiny. You should accept that.”
The man, Fred Dover, started to move then moaned. “Be still! You don’t want to break open that wound,” commanded the preacher. “Would you like something to drink?”
A smile appeared on the man’s face. “Whiskey.”
Rev. Chapman let out a little laugh. “Sorry, this establishment does not carry such refreshments as, uh, whiskey. But there is a pitcher of water waiting to be poured for you when you woke.”
The preacher rose from where he was sitting and went to where the pitcher of water was located, picked up a glass and poured it half full. “Here, lift up your head some. Drink this. You lost a lot of blood, and you’ve been out for a little over four hours.”
He did as he was told, finishing the glass, then handing it back to the preacher. “Want more?”
Dover shook his head, “Not right now.” He then moved his eyes up and down the preacher. “You’ve been here the whole time?”
“I told you I wouldn’t leave your side,” stated Rev. Chapman, shaking his head. “The Lord surely must have something for you to do besides robbing hardworking women trying to make a living.”
The man didn’t say anything, just turned his gaze back toward the ceiling. “Was, was anyone hurt? I heard a shot.”
“Your friend, Clem stayed and helped Doctor Jones with the surgery. He’s sitting down in the jail right now. His brother? Lige? He shot, but fortunately the bullet didn’t hit anyone, after he fired, he ran out the door and rode away before anyone could go after him. We all helped take care of you,” informed the Rev. Chapman.
The man gave sort of a half moan and a sigh. “I’m tired, but I don’t hurt like before,” he said as his eyes were begging to close. Quickly they opened again, and with a half-smile he said, “You can go home now Preacher-man. I’m going to sleep.”
Patting him on the shoulder, Rev. Chapman said softly, “You rest. Tell Doctor Jones if you would like to see me.”
* * * * *
Sheriff Gold was sitting at the table having returned from Silverton. With him was Doc Jones, Mateo, and Molly. “Heard there was excitement while I was gone. I saw a prisoner in the jail. Anyone want to tell me what happened?”
He looked at each of us, finally I persuaded Doc to tell the story from beginning to end. Charlie sat and listened intently. When Doc was finished Charlie asked about the patient.
“Oh, he’s doing fine, Charlie, ask Molly,” I remarked pointing at her with my now empty cup.
She smiled the way she does with a slight laugh. “Emelda has taken a liking to him. Or maybe I should say that he had taken a liking to her enchiladas. If she keeps feeding him the way she is, the man will have to roll out of bed.”
Charlie turned his attention to Doc Jones. “So when can we move him down to the jail?”
“Tomorrow, maybe. If not, then the next day for sure. I just don’t want him breaking those stitches loose.”
I stood up to grab the coffeepot and fill everyone’s cup again. When I was pouring Charlie’s cup, he asked, “Think I should go looking for the other brother?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it right now. With Clem in jail, we’ll wait and see if he doesn’t come back to help him out. We’ll get him then,” I said while finishing pouring the coffee. “You’ve got your hands full with that situation up in Silverton.”
Charlie just had a sip, and was just getting ready to tell us what was happening when the Parson burst through the door. “He’s gone…”