Blue eyes peering over glasses. "Thanks for the hospitality, Jewel. Day I've had, I'd almost forgotten how it felt to have food in me." The week had led off with Johnny suffering a knife wound through the hand while tending bar; and his attacker suffering multiple cuts and bruises, a broken wrist and a dislocated shoulder while being escorted from the premises by Dan. Moreover, the mercury having fallen hard a few days previous, Deadwood had an extra barrage of chills and rheumatic attacks for Doc to see to. A half-dozen miners, recently arrived and very green, had suffered hypothermia; another two were actually green, having eaten badly-tinned food.
At Doc's weekly inspection of the Bella Union, Con Stapleton had presented with a worrying rash that had unexpectedly turned out to be poison oak. While trying to recall whether he'd ever even seen any poison oak growing in the Black Hills, Doc had given him some calamine lotion, shuddered, and made a mental note to keep an eye out for anyone with a corresponding rash.
"Now, by what remarkable chain of events do you suppose that could have happened? I must say I am relieved the gentleman was not worse hurt, though he did pay for his room in advance." The mayor of Deadwood and owner of the Hotel Grand Central had never been one of Doc Cochran's favourite people, but he was being more than usually irksome. Doc did his best to shut out Farnum's voice as bent over the guest who'd been found half-strangled in his room. The man was conscious but the bruising on his throat would leave him unable to talk for a few days. Farnum was evidently trying to cover the resultant shortfall in conversation:
"A traveller in hosiery accidentally loops one of his samples about his own neck, and the other end gets caught in the clasp of his case, which then falls off the end of his bed, strangling him. Why if Richardson hadn't taken curious when he didn't answer, the man might have met his doom. I would like to assure you," Farnum added to no one in particular, "that such a wondrous accident has never before to my knowledge occurred in this hotel." Doc made no answer, but when the mayor tried to direct the conversation towards his own health complaints he finally stood up and chased him bodily out of the room with curses. The hotel-keeper retreated as though he were used to inspiring this reaction in his fellow-man.
Returning to his patient, Doc drew up a chair by the bed and seating himself, contemplated the traveller for a few minutes. He was not an especially memorable individual; neither old nor young, neither thin nor fat, he had likely passed through a thousand hotels in the course of his business without exciting any particular attention.
"Mr. Calder. I know you can't talk right now. Probably hurts to move your head, too; so I'll ask you to look up for 'yes' and look down for 'no.' Do you understand me?" The commercial traveller rolled his eyes heavenward. Yes, then; possibly a rather sardonic yes.
"Now, I noticed that case of yours had your shoes and toiletries piled into it; also the inkstand from the desk. Was that to weight it?"
Yes.
"Did you set up this contraption on purpose to choke yourself?" Mr. Calder stared straight ahead for a while. Then his eyes flicked briefly upward.
Yes.
"Attend to my reasoning. This bedstead, though higher than most, is not a long drop; that silk stocking is not a rope; is harder to come by than rope. The material is soft and elastic. Suicide was therefore not your intention. Am I correct in my conclusion?" Another long pause.
Yes.
"You derive pleasure from the sensation of being choked, and on this occasion you miscalculated."
Yes. Doc gazed silently at his patient again.
"I don't know what to recommend to you," he said at last.