Pinecrest was a mining town that had survived the fever of the big strikes to settle into a quiet prosperity. Several operating mines in the nearby mountains, aided by enough good farming land in local meadows, had created a population of farmers, miners and a few ranchers. The town had a church, a school, a sheriff and even a doctor.
Heath knew his horse was tired. It hadn't been an awfully long ride, but he'd spent much of the ride only semi-conscious with Gal constantly having to move to keep under him and make sure he didn't fall out of the saddle. She was a good mare. Always looking out for him he thought tiredly as he tried to decide what to do. He was sure he couldn't walk from the livery to doctor's. He would have to try and find someone to take Gal to the livery. He thought if he hadn't been alone, if he'd been riding in with his brother then there would have been someone to look out for Gal. "Needs must do though."
He rode slowly down the main and only street in Pinecrest. The doctor lived in a small clapboard house on the east side of town as he recalled. There were several houses out that way. He hoped he would recognize the right one.
As it was, he had no trouble. The doctor had a sign out in front of his picket fence and the noise of the sign blowing in the wind caught his attention when he might have ridden past. He sat Gal in front of that blowing sign for a couple of minutes and planned out his next move.
The hand he'd kept tucked against the hole in his side was stuck there now by dried blood. He feared to move his hand lest he start the bleeding again. He didn't think he could dismount, about all he figured he could do was fall off his horse. That would surely start the bleeding and he would never get back up again. He was sure enough in a mess here. He tried calling out, but if he could barely hear his own voice, they surely wouldn't hear him in the house.
He decided to ride around to the back of the house. Most picket fences were for show. It wouldn't go around to the back and he could ride up close to the backdoor. He turned Gal's head and took her around back. A lamp was lit in what must have been the kitchen. He thought it wasn't too late, maybe 6:00. It still got dark early this time of the spring. Folks were still maybe eating.
He brought Gal as close to the porch as he could, hoping his body would make more noise hitting the porch then it would hitting the ground. People were more likely to investigate a noise if it was right at their door. Once he had Gal as close as he could get her, which her being such a good horse was pretty close, he wrapped both arms around his middle, kicked his feet free of the stirrups and tried to roll as much as he could to try and land on his back as he came out the saddle.
He thought he had been pretty successful when he landed on the porch on his right side and rolled onto his back. Hurt like perdition, but he lived through it. Not a minute after he landed, the back door opened and a man he could only see silhouetted against the kitchen lamp stood in the opening.
"Howdy." Heath tried for the greeting but wasn't sure any noise actually came out.
"Mary, get a light out here."
The man was kneeling now near his head. "What's wrong there, cowboy?"
"My horse needs tending." He wasn't sure the man heard that either. He wasn't sure he was really there. Maybe he was still on the trail? It was awful dark and he was real cold. Maybe he was still lying on the ground, shot dead? It just didn't seem to matter. He closed his eyes. It just wasn't all that important, except he wished someone would look out for Gal.
He was lost in time and space. He didn't know where he was or when he was. "Hey there, cowboy. Now don't you be moving around too much and tear out all my good work." The hands holding him down on the bed were firm and uncompromising. "You lay back down. You aren't going anywhere for a while. Here, take a little drink of water."
'Water' sounded like the most wonderful word he'd ever heard. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. His stomach hurt so much he thought that was all that mattered but now water seemed all fired important.
After a couple of sips of the water though, he was back to thinking his stomach was way more important than any water. It felt like someone had lit a fire in his belly that was burning right through him. A hot fire, like a blacksmith would use. Stoked and built hot for melting iron or flesh. He tried to wrap himself around his stomach, to grab a hold of the fire with his hands.
"Stay still, boy, you aren't going any where, now. Here, open your mouth, this will help the pain."
He could hear someone talking at him but he couldn't understand the words, just the fire. He knew he was panting now with the pain, he could hear his own breath. He felt the spoon in his mouth, banging on his teeth. When the foul, bitter liquid hit his tongue, he swallowed convulsively he couldn't seem to get that bitter medicine all the way down his throat. He feared he might be sick, not that he thought if he vomited surely the pain would kill him.
Someone put a wet rag on the back of his neck. The hands continued to fight with him, holding him, restraining him as he tried to move away from the pain. When he felt himself falling, he was glad, thinking he must be finally dying.
First he was aware of the pain. He could hear someone groaning. Then he knew it was him making that noise. He stopped the noise. He kept his eyes closed against the light and the pain and the confusion. Where was he? Why did he hurt so much?
"Boy, you got a name?" The voice was familiar. The question was said kindly. He knew he was the boy being addressed. He was always the Boy when someone asked a question. "Boy, you got a name?" That was a question he'd heard a lot. "What you doing there, Boy?" and "Boy, you got a name?" Must be the two most common questions in the world. Sometime around the age of nine or ten he had stopped answering both questions.
He had learned people didn't ask those questions because they wanted an answer. They didn't care what he was doing or who he was. They just wanted him to know they had nothing but scorn for him. That he was in a place he didn't belong and they wanted him to git. So he stopped answering those questions. That was easy. Then he just stopped answering all the questions. Now he just looked and waited and thought about things. If he needed to answer the question, he answered it. But he was done answering questions people asked just so they could feel better than him. He was done being the bastard people got their joy out of spitting their questions on. He just went through the world and let folks talk all they wanted at him.
"You want a drink?" the familiar voice asked.
This was a question he wanted to answer. Yes, he wanted a drink. He had never wanted anything in his life as much as he wanted a drink of water just now.
He opened his eyes and met the eyes of a young man not much older than himself. "Welcome back to the land of the living. Let me help you up and give you that drink."
Hands he couldn't see raised his head and put a cup to his lips. Fresh cold water tasted wonderful as he swallowed it. Good water was a thing he had learned to appreciate the hard way. If a man went long enough without a drink of water, it got so he could remember to be thankful for water every time he drank. He was such a man.
"My horse," he said, surprising himself with how soft and weak his voice was. He was almost whispering.
"I turned your little mare out with my saddle horse, she's fine there."
"Thanks."
The voice kept talking, but he stopped listening. The quiet and dark were kind and he slept.
The next time he woke he knew where he was, doctor's office, Pinecrest. "So, looks like someone shot you in the back here." The voice receded as the doctor, assumed he was the doctor, walked away.
"Here, swallow this." He started away from the hand on the back of his head. He must have dozed again; he hadn't heard anything, suddenly there was just the hand on his head.
"Easy there, fella, no one's gonna hurt you. Just open your mouth. This will help with the pain." The voice was kind and familiar. He didn't bother to open his eyes. He just opened his mouth and swallowed the bitter liquid.
"Here's some water. Helps wash the taste away."
The water tasted wonderful, but the bitter taste remained.
"My horse?" he managed.
"She's still fine, turned out with mine in the back here. You sleep some more."
He slept, ate the soup he was offered and drank the sweet water. Somewhere in the sleeping and drinking, he realized he was alive and likely to stay that way. He guessed that was just as well. Be a shame to die after so much effort to stay alive.