Murray stood. Even through the head rush he felt his hand throb. The pain becoming increasingly intense. Not knowing what to do next he made up his mind to return to the boarding house. Surely someone was awake and could help.

He was sweating. Blood pooled then dripped from the makeshift bandage. He felt faint. Head spinning. He knew shock. With each step he fought the overwhelming desire to stop and lie down. Tunnel vision. Difficult to remember the way back to the boarding house. Taking slow, measured breaths to stay conscious. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

He felt a presence next to his shoulder. He smelled soap. Nice soap. Clean soap. Itd been a very long time. A voice from very far away telling him to come along.

He opened his eyes to see a candle on a bare table in the room. A light breeze through an open window. It was dark out. He had headache.

His hand itched. He went to scratch it and found a tight bandage covering it. A small dot of blood on the bottom. Then his hand began to hurt. Then he remembered the confrontation. The sheriff. The mare. The kid.

The kid, hollering, “We cant leave! Why cant we leave???”

A woman entered the room. A handsome woman, easy to look at. Dark hair but it was a dark room. Late 20s maybe? She carried fresh bandages.

“Oh, so you’re awake?”

He nodded.

“My name is Sarah. I own the livery. You’ve apparently shot yourself through your hand. You went into shock. You’ve been unconscious for about 12 hours.”

She sat next to the bed and gently unwrapped his hand.

While it was not open enough through which one could see light, it was clear the bullet went straight through. Bright red meat filled the hole. She dabbed it with antiseptic. It burned. He winced. She pursed her lips and blew on it.

She placed gauze pads soaked in iodine on either side of the wound, then wrapped clean linen firmly around the hand.

“It doesnt appear you hit anything vital, tho its possible you knicked a tendon or bone, maybe. At any rate, you wont be playing piano any time soon…” and she smiled a quiet smile at him.

“What if I play kazoo?”

She shook her head at him and placed a warm hand on his bicep.

“You’ll stay here tonight. You’ll have to go in the morning tho, before Jim, the veterinarian, gets here. He’ll ask lots of questions. Theres water, here, next to the bed. I’ll leave a basin on the table before I leave.

You’ll need to come see me at least once a day for fresh bandages. I think a few days should be enough. Be here just after dawn. Jim gets here after breakfast most days.”

With that she stood and walked to another room. His eyelids grew heavy. She brought him a glass of water.

His hand ached.

At dawn he was refreshed and ready when Sarah returned. She washed and dressed his wound. It stung a bit. A familiar pain.

He stood and she walked him to the door. She rubbed his back between his shoulders, then patted the small of his back, sending him on his way.

It was cooler that morning, but still damp. Only a few thousand cicadas were up.

He walked silently along the sidewalk, hands in coat pockets, toward town.

The smell of breakfast. A clergyman placing a letter in a mail box. The general store, the undertaker, a barber, legal offices.

He needed to find a place to stay. And soon. Very soon.