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bandages and medical equipment stood against the opposite wall. It wasn’t much of a doctor’s office, but it would have to do; too much depended on his surviving for him to die in such a filthy place.
“The bitches!” Chester hissed under his breath.
A little more than a day had passed since his very life had been torn asunder, and Chester still struggled to contain the fury that roiled through his body and mind. Still, there was a part of him that
didn’t
struggle, that embraced the anger; after all, it was the anger that had kept him alive.
As he had watched Mary stagger off in the company of those two whores, the fury that raged in his gut made the gunshot wound in his leg little more than an annoyance. He kept his tear- and sweat-streaked gaze locked on the three women for as long as he could, certain that Mary, who was
rightfully
his, would come to her senses and return to him, where she belonged. He diligently watched for hours, but she didn’t return.
Through grunts and curses, he managed to crawl his way back to the dark interior of the cabin and set about cleaning the wound. Where the bullet had penetrated the skin, the hole was small but tender to the touch. Blood had steadily seeped out, coloring his trouser leg a deep and ugly crimson. Even though he feared losing consciousness, he somehow managed to make a tourniquet out of one of Mary’s blouses that he gleefully shredded.
Even then, as darkness fell and the pain in his leg throbbed with the intensity of the absent sun, Chester did not think of going for help. On the contrary, he resigned himself to wallowing in his anger, his only solace the bottle of whiskey he somehow managed to retrieve from the table. As the moon rose and then fell, he refused the embrace of sleep, choosing instead to drink steadily, his mind racing and contemplating with relish all the things he would do to those two bitches when he finally laid hands on them. Even Mary did not escape his wrath; the last beating he gave her would seem mild compared to what she’d get for leaving him.
“Mary,” he mumbled and cursed her loud and long.
When the morning sun cracked the horizon, Chester knew he needed to act if he wanted to live. With every beat of his heart, his wound throbbed in agony, and he knew that getting to a doctor soon was the only way to keep his leg from being cut off. He’d somehow found the strength to crawl from the cabin to the small barn at the edge of the property, hoist himself atop his mangy horse, and amble on it to Whiskey Bend. Every jostle and jolt of the ride hurt nearly as badly as being shot. He passed out in front of the saloon and was dragged inside.
“I ain’t kiddin’ here, Doc,” he said through clenched teeth as another wave of pain washed over him. “Ya gonna get to this or are ya just gonna let the damn thing kill me?”
Munroe Jenkins had been Whiskey Bend’s doctor for the past ten years. The job was his not out of respect for his educational background or bedside manner but by default; there simply wasn’t anyone else for miles around who had any medical experience. Dr. Jenkins had been a field surgeon during the Civil War, a time when a patient was more apt to die at his surgeon’s hands than because of the injury that had brought him there in the first place.
The doctor’s unkempt snow-white hair, bloodshot eyes that danced behind pince-nez, sagging jowls, and nervous tics and twitches did little to inspire a patient’s confidence. Chester swallowed hard. He felt as if he had brought himself to the undertaker by mistake.
“Quit yer goddamn bellyachin’,” Doc Jenkins cackled, releasing breath that stank sourly of whiskey. “You keep on like that, and I’m a-gonna stitch yer mouth up fer my own peace a mind!”
“Just get on with it,” Chester snarled.
“Medicine ain’t nothin’ to be rushed, boy.”
The old man busied himself, gathering a mixture of knives, strange-colored liquids in jars, and other
“The bitches!” Chester hissed under his breath.
A little more than a day had passed since his very life had been torn asunder, and Chester still struggled to contain the fury that roiled through his body and mind. Still, there was a part of him that
didn’t
struggle, that embraced the anger; after all, it was the anger that had kept him alive.
As he had watched Mary stagger off in the company of those two whores, the fury that raged in his gut made the gunshot wound in his leg little more than an annoyance. He kept his tear- and sweat-streaked gaze locked on the three women for as long as he could, certain that Mary, who was
rightfully
his, would come to her senses and return to him, where she belonged. He diligently watched for hours, but she didn’t return.
Through grunts and curses, he managed to crawl his way back to the dark interior of the cabin and set about cleaning the wound. Where the bullet had penetrated the skin, the hole was small but tender to the touch. Blood had steadily seeped out, coloring his trouser leg a deep and ugly crimson. Even though he feared losing consciousness, he somehow managed to make a tourniquet out of one of Mary’s blouses that he gleefully shredded.
Even then, as darkness fell and the pain in his leg throbbed with the intensity of the absent sun, Chester did not think of going for help. On the contrary, he resigned himself to wallowing in his anger, his only solace the bottle of whiskey he somehow managed to retrieve from the table. As the moon rose and then fell, he refused the embrace of sleep, choosing instead to drink steadily, his mind racing and contemplating with relish all the things he would do to those two bitches when he finally laid hands on them. Even Mary did not escape his wrath; the last beating he gave her would seem mild compared to what she’d get for leaving him.
“Mary,” he mumbled and cursed her loud and long.
When the morning sun cracked the horizon, Chester knew he needed to act if he wanted to live. With every beat of his heart, his wound throbbed in agony, and he knew that getting to a doctor soon was the only way to keep his leg from being cut off. He’d somehow found the strength to crawl from the cabin to the small barn at the edge of the property, hoist himself atop his mangy horse, and amble on it to Whiskey Bend. Every jostle and jolt of the ride hurt nearly as badly as being shot. He passed out in front of the saloon and was dragged inside.
“I ain’t kiddin’ here, Doc,” he said through clenched teeth as another wave of pain washed over him. “Ya gonna get to this or are ya just gonna let the damn thing kill me?”
Munroe Jenkins had been Whiskey Bend’s doctor for the past ten years. The job was his not out of respect for his educational background or bedside manner but by default; there simply wasn’t anyone else for miles around who had any medical experience. Dr. Jenkins had been a field surgeon during the Civil War, a time when a patient was more apt to die at his surgeon’s hands than because of the injury that had brought him there in the first place.
The doctor’s unkempt snow-white hair, bloodshot eyes that danced behind pince-nez, sagging jowls, and nervous tics and twitches did little to inspire a patient’s confidence. Chester swallowed hard. He felt as if he had brought himself to the undertaker by mistake.
“Quit yer goddamn bellyachin’,” Doc Jenkins cackled, releasing breath that stank sourly of whiskey. “You keep on like that, and I’m a-gonna stitch yer mouth up fer my own peace a mind!”
“Just get on with it,” Chester snarled.
“Medicine ain’t nothin’ to be rushed, boy.”
The old man busied himself, gathering a mixture of knives, strange-colored liquids in jars, and other
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