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)
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“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…