The Dying Crapshooter's Blues by David Fulmer Read Free Book Online Page B

face, florid pink with exertion, featured eyes webbed red behind tarnished spectacles and, in spite of the morning chill, his few remaining strands of hair were plastered with sweat to his pink skull. He came in huffing and snorting through his nose like a horse that had been run too hard. When he stopped in the kitchen and opened his black bag, Martha stepped forward and offered to boil the implements.
    Willie caught Dr. Nash’s odor before he even reached the room: a small cloud of sweat, old cologne, and something ranker. Who knew into what sort of fluids those unsteady hands had plunged lately?
    The doctor dropped his bag on the mattress and pulled down the bedsheet to examine the bandage that Martha had fashioned. With a nod of bleary approval, he pulled it away from the wound. Little Jesse grunted over the rough treatment.
    Nash pushed his spectacles up his nose, peered close for a few seconds, then straightened. “All right, now,” he said. “All of y’all get on out and leave us be.”
    Jesse said, “Joe and Willie can stay,” and the two of them sat back down while the others shuffled out into the kitchen to drink and smoke until they could come back and resume the watch.
    Nash eyed Jesse. “Guess you want a shot,” he said.
    â€œHell, yes, I want a shot!” Jesse said. Joe and Willie laughed.
    The doctor fished in his bag for a brass syringe and a vial. As Joe watched and Willie listened, he opened the bottle and used the syringe to draw off half the liquid, then jabbed it into Jesse’s thigh without bothering to disinfect the spot. He hesitated before putting the solution back in the bag, as if thinking about helping himself.
    Within a few seconds, Jesse’s eyes went dim again and a lazy smile curved his lips. “That’s better,” he said. “And you can leave the rest.” He closed his eyes and dropped into a black well.
    â€œAll right, I’m ready in here!” Nash called out.
    Martha brought the shining implements on a dish towel that looked none too clean. Nash nodded for her to lay it out at the foot of the bed. Martha stared in dismay at Jesse’s exposed wound before backing away.
    â€œNow what?” Joe asked.
    â€œNow I’m going to go in and see if I can get the damn slug out,” the doctor groused as he selected a scalpel. “Ain’t that what I’m here for?”
    â€œWhat if you can’t?” Joe asked him.
    â€œThen I can’t,” he said. He wiggled the blade in Joe’s direction. “You want to give it a try?”
    â€œJust don’t make him worse,” Joe told him.
    The doctor gave him a cold glance. “Or what?”
    Joe smiled without humor. “Or I’ll throw you down the fucking steps,
doctor.
”
    â€œAnother hard case,” Nash said, and bent to his work.
    Willie was just as glad he couldn’t see what was going on. He heard Joe grunt in revulsion, the sound of a knife insulting flesh and the suck and slurp of visceral fluids. Nash’s huffs of exertion weren’t a good sign; the man was working too hard. Presently, he felt someone’s gaze resting on his face as Joe, unable to watch anymore, turned away. After several more minutes of this butchery, the doctor let out a blunt curse.
    â€œIt’s too deep,” he muttered. “Can’t get at it without cutting him to pieces. He wouldn’t last the afternoon. Ain’t worth it.”
    â€œSo?” Joe said.
    â€œSo now I’ll patch him up. S’all I can do.” Nash dug out a needle and suture and went to sewing Jesse’s gut. Joe watched for a few seconds, then looked away again. He’d seen Christmas turkeys get better treatment. The sound of their voices brought Martha into the doorway. She crossed her thin arms, insulted by the messes men made.
    â€œWhat’s going to happen now?” Willie said.
    â€œHe’ll either live with that bullet in him