Enjoy what you have rather than desiring what you don’t have.  Just dreaming about nice things is meaningless; it is like chasing the wind.”  –Ecclesiastes 6:9 (NLT)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

     “It was a grand day!”  I announced solemnly.

     “Yes, it was, thank the good Lord,” agreed Pastor Chapman.  “Whenever we work for the kingdom it is a grand day.”

     There came a chuckle from Charlie, “Now don’t you go preachifying to us, Parson.  One sermon a week is enough.”  That brought a laugh from all of us around the table.  Our little group met after church on Sunday to eat the leftovers from Thanksgiving and to discuss how the day went.  No elk stew was left but there was enough venison chili to go around feeding all of Mateo’s family, Charlie’s, Doc and Edith, Preacher Chapman and his wife, along with Molly and myself.  Molly had a couple of mincemeat pies hidden that she had made yesterday, and of course, the coffee was on.

     I looked at the crew, and then my eyes went to one newcomer.  “Copper, you did a right fine job.  How’re you feelin’?”

     He smiled at the remark then answered, “Doin’ fine, a little tired, but, uh, Marshal, can I ask a favor?  Please call me Boyd, or Finegan.  Copper was part of my old life and as the Preacher-man said, old things have passed away, all things have become new.”

     Nodding at him, I held out the coffeepot, “Want a refill?”

     Copper, or now Finegan, willingly held out his cup.

     The group was growing, growing up.  There was no one in the jail, so Mateo locked it up so Lucas could be with us.  Why, just a few years ago, he was working around town doing odd jobs, and now, my land, he was a full-fledged deputy marshal.  There were smiles on everyone’s faces and I’m not sure that it was because of the pie, but from the joy of the Lord.

     Doc held out his cup, “Go ahead, give me some more of that hideous stuff.”

     I was in the midst of pouring when there came a banging on the door.  I stopped mid-pour to look at Molly who had gotten up to go answer.  “Hold on, let me get it!”  I didn’t want her to answer the door not knowing who it could be.  After all, from my experience there have been some mighty strange, rough, and evil people enter through that doorway.

     My hand was on my pistol, ready to pull it if need be.  I opened the door.  “My mercy, what in the world…”

All people spend their lives scratching for food, but they never seem to have enough.”  –Ecclesiastes 6:7 (NLT)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     “Finegan!  What are you doing up out bed? exclaimed Doc, flabbergasted upon seeing the two men come through the door.

     There was a big smile on Finegan, or Copper’s face as Rev. Chapman helped him walk over to the table.  “What’s the matter, Doc?” asked the Preacher, “Don’t you believe in miracles?”

     There was a mixture of anger and frustration on Doc’s face as he pulled out a chair for Finegan to sit on.  “Sit down, and now please tell me, Preacher, what gives you the right to bring one of my patients out?  One who is confined to his bed!”

     Rev. Chapman was just beaming as he helped Finegan to the chair.  “Easy Doc, don’t get yourself all ruffled.  Doc, Miles, Molly, I was you to meet a new brother in the Lord.  This here is a new believer, Boyd “Copper” Finegan, formerly of New York.”

     “Wonderful!” exclaimed Molly.

     “Well, if that don’t beat all,” huffed Doc as he began to look his patient over.

     “Why don’t you all sit down, and we’ll tell you what happened,” suggested the Parson, as he pulled out a chair for Molly to sit.  “It’s not all that spectacular and yet it is.  Anytime someone comes to the saving knowledge of the Lord it is a spectacular event, but why should we be surprised?”

     I hadn’t said a word, I was just listening and watching.  Watching Copper, or Finegan’s expression, and watching Doc begin to hover around him looking him over carefully.

     “You know, walking over here could have killed you!” snapped Doc, finally beginning to settle down.  His gaze went to the Preacher, “Why would you do such a thing?”

     “Doc, it was my fault.  After we prayed, and I accepted the Lord as my Savior, the preacher here touched my stomach, and put his other hand on my head.  Something hit me, no, more like something was jerked from me.  I told the Rev. Chapman that I wanted to get up and walk.  He found my clothes, and we walked on over here knowing that you all would be here,” explained Finegan, touching his stomach and then looking at Doc.

     “Honestly, doctor, I feel fine, just a little weak,” then he turned his attention to me.  “And Marshal, I want you to know I’m not holding any animosities towards you,” and he reached out his hand.

     As I shook it, the Preacher asked, “Are there any charges against Brother Boyd?”

     “Uh, as far as I’m concerned Mr. Slocum is doing well, and unless Deputy Ramos wants to press charges, I reckon his time recuperating should cover his jail sentence.”

     “Wonderful!  Say, Doc, could Brother Boyd stay at your place for a couple of days until I find him a place to live?  He was crawling into the stables at night,” the Preacher paused, then added, “He’s rather down and out right now.”

     Doc was still looking at Finegan, then all of a sudden he poked where I had hit him with the Greener.  He flinched some, but it didn’t seem to hurt him.  “Doc!” yelled the Parson, “what are you doing?”

     Doc scratched the side of his face, then went back to his chair and sat down.  “I won’t question the good Lord, and I do believe in miracles, even though I am somewhat skeptical at times.  Yes, yes, let him stay,” he scratched his face again.  “At least that way I can keep an eye on him.”

     The Preacher was beaming.  Finegan spoke up, “I’ve heard about your Thanksgiving festivities, I’d be proud if I could be of help.”

     It got quiet, then I spoke out, “No one can say that the Lord don’t work in mysterious ways…”  

He might live a thousand years twice over but not find contentment.  And since he must die like everyone else–well, what’s the use?”  –Ecclesiastes 6:6 (NLT)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     “Is he goin’ to make it?” I inquired of Doc Jones, who was sitting at the table with me enjoying pie and coffee.  

     He had just taken a bite of chocolate pie, so I waited until he swallowed for an answer.  “I still don’t know.  Everyday he lives makes the prognosis good.  I wish I had the means to see the inside workings of a man, but we just don’t have the knowledge; maybe someday.  I’m thinking that you didn’t split his spleen open.  May have cracked it some, but I didn’t see any sign of serious bleeding.  You sure bruised him good, though,” he chortled, then took another bite.

     I held my coffee cup in both hands, contemplating.  “You know, this is worse than actually shootin’ a man.  I’ve seen men suffer from the gut-shot, but the not knowin’ from one day to the next.”

     Doc stopped, the fork halfway to his mouth with a delicious piece of pie on it.  “Miles, you know as well as I do, that none of us know from one day to the next.  Why you could get up, take a deep breath, and keel over from a heart attack.  We just don’t know, that’s why we thank the good Lord for every breath we take,” he paused, then looked straight at me, “or at least we should.”

     He stuck the pie in his mouth, put up his hand with one finger outstretched.  After wiping his mouth, he said, “He can’t be moving around.  The inside of a man must heal, but every day is a good sign.”

     Nodding, I took a sip of the once hot coffee.  “Who’s with him now?”

     “The Preacher.  I think he’s done more for that man than I could have.  I heard them praying the other day, and if he doesn’t get better, I’m pretty sure that the Preacher has led him to the Lord,” he said, then gave a little cough.  “In reality a man couldn’t ask for more than that.  A sick soul made well is better than a broken body mended and the soul still sour and headed for Perdition.”

     I got up and went to the stove where the coffeepot was sitting.  My coffee was on the warm side, and whilst I’ll drink it that way if I have to I much prefer it hot.  I held the pot out to see if Doc wanted a refill but he shook his head.  After filling my cup, I took a drink while standing at the stove and smiled.  Much better.  

     After taking my chair, I asked, “Did you ever find out his name?  All I’ve heard was ‘Copper.'”

     “Reverend Chapman said it was Boyd Finegan, originally from New York.  Guess he had a hard life, his father used him for a punching bag, so he left, came West to try his luck in the mines.”

     “Which I took was not very good.”

     “No, and furthermore, it’s my notion that he’s beating these other folks up to take out on them what his father did to him.  Uh, that is until you gave him that good poke,” Doc stopped, pushed his empty plate toward the center of the table.  “One thing you did, Miles, you put him in a place where he needed to think of his eternal destiny, and thank the Lord the Preacher has been with him.”

     We quieted down and I took several sips of my coffee while it was hot.  “Doc, we just never know.”

     It had been quiet in the diner with only Doc and I sitting at the table, so when the door opened it broke the silence, and both Doc and I turned to look at who was coming in.

     Doc jumped to his feet, his chair falling over backward crashing to the floor.  He motioned, as he pulled out another chair.  I just sat there and watched…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

     “I hurt somethin’ fierce, Doc,” bellowed the man now doubled over in pain.

     “You just sit there!” ordered Doc.  “I need to tend the man you were kicking to death.”

     I was standing by the man that Fenny, the barkeep called “Copper,” when I noticed Marta and Molly come through the doors.  They went immediately to Lucas who was lying there with his eyes closed.

     “What were you thinkin’ Lucas?” she chastised him, then glared at me.

     “He was kickin’ that poor man to death.  I tried to stop him,” replied Lucas with honor in his voice.  “I am a deputy, you know.”

     “Uhhhh!” she exclaimed, standing to her feet.

     “Mi tia,” cried Lucas, now sitting up and looking at Marta.  Marta was standing, her arms crossed and looking away from Lucas.  “Help me, Senora Molly, por favor?” he asked looking at Molly who stooped down to help Lucas to his feet.

     “Doc!” came a loud moan.  I was close to the man and it startled me.

     Doc stood up after caring for the beaten man.  “Fenny, get some men to carry this man to my office.  I can tend to him better there.”  He then walked to Copper who was bent over in the chair.  “Put your hand over your head and straighten up.”  

     “Can’t, hurts too much,” groaned the man.

     “Miles, help me lay him on the table.  I can see better there.  Put him right under that light.”

     Between Doc and me, we put up with Copper’s moaning and groaning and got him laid back on the table.  “Hold his hand over his head, Miles.”  As I pulled his arms over his head Doc began unbuttoning his shirt.  His undershirt had holes in it, so Doc grabbed one and using his fingers ripped it down where he could examine the man.  It was easy to see where the Greener poked him as it was red and looked swollen.

     Doc began with his examination and when he pushed against the swollen area the man yelled out in pain.  Marta was now listening to Lucas explain so Molly came over to see if she could be of help.  Doc continued to poke and prod the man’s body, and it seemed that there was only that one area that seemed to be hurting him.

     “Mister, you just lay there.  Breathe now and easy, regular breaths,” said Doc, then with a nod motioned for me to follow him.

     “What’s wrong with him, Doc,” I inquired when we were standing alone by the bar.

     “I’m not sure, Miles, not sure, but he could have a ruptured spleen.”

     “Spleen!  What does that mean?”

     “They are saying, those who write the books, that a person can live without it, but I’m not capable of operating on it.”

     “Well, what happens if it is what you think?”

     “Most likely he’ll die.”

     “Then what will it hurt to try to operate?” I countered.

     Doc gave me an angry look.  “Because…well it would have been better if you’d thumped him on the head.”

     “Doc…”