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New Friends, Old Problems
May. 13th, 2012 06:25 pmThe light came first, an early afternoon brightness that stirred him from his slumber.
The pain came second, a dull ache in his side as he returned to consciousness and took a look at his surroundings. He was lying on a bed in a modest shack – a cowskin was mounted on the wall and a rope by the door, and various bottles and medical instruments rested on a nightstand next to the bed.
Oh, right. He’d been shot.
Funny, the tricks an unconscious mind could play on you.
The door creaked open, and a woman peeked inside.
“Well, you’re alive,” she said.
John flexed his hands, held them up to the light. “So it would seem.”
She was in the room now, leaning against the open door. “So, how do you feel?”
“I don’t know the polite word for it.”
“I do. ‘Stupid’ is the word we use around here. What were you doing?”
“I was –” he started to sit up and bit back a grunt as his right side flared up “– I was doin’ somethin’ stupid,” he finished, swinging his legs out over the side of the bed.
A smirk played at the corners of her mouth. “Well, you’ll be okay. Once you didn’t die the doctor said you’d be fine. He got the bullets out a couple days ago.”
“Good.”
“It cost us fifteen dollars.”
Ah, shit.
“I’m sorry, madam. You should’ve left me there to die.”
“Did you wanna die? I mean, was that it? Was that why you went straight out to Fort Mercer and picked a fight with the worst bandit in the county? To die, Mister, uh…”
“Mister Marston. John Marston.”
She smiled, stepping toward the bed. “Bonnie MacFarlane. Miss Bonnie MacFarlane.”
“Well, you may be right, Miss MacFarlane. I don’t know.”
“Huh."
“So what were you doin’?” she asked.
“I was tryin’ to give Mister Williamson a chance. For old time’s sake.”
“You know Bill Williamson?” Her squint leaked into the question.
“Knew him. Long time ago.”
“Well, what was he like?”
He stood up slowly, hands on his knees. “Dumb.”
“Just like you.”
Damn she was good.
“Thank you, miss,” he said, reaching for the brim of his hat but feeling air.
“Seen my hat?”
“I have,” she said, pointing to the corner of the room it rested in. He walked over, picked it up, and donned it, the lining familiar and comfortable.
“So, ah…what will you do now?” she asked.
“Now I’m gonna – take my time and go after him the less kind way.”
“Well, that sounds very fun, Mister Marston. Quite heroic, just like in those penny dreadfuls my brother used to read. Meanwhile, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a ranch to run,” she said, turning and walking out the door.
“Of course,” she said, stopping halfway and turning back to him, “if you’re feeling better, why not take a ride with me later and help me patrol the perimeter? You can earn back some of that money we wasted on doctor’s bills.”
“Of course,” he said, picking his gunbelt up. “And thank you. For saving my life, I mean.”
She cocked her head and smiled. “Next time, Mister Marston, I strongly recommend you don’t try to lose it quite so earnestly.” She turned and walked off.
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
The pain came second, a dull ache in his side as he returned to consciousness and took a look at his surroundings. He was lying on a bed in a modest shack – a cowskin was mounted on the wall and a rope by the door, and various bottles and medical instruments rested on a nightstand next to the bed.
Oh, right. He’d been shot.
Funny, the tricks an unconscious mind could play on you.
The door creaked open, and a woman peeked inside.
“Well, you’re alive,” she said.
John flexed his hands, held them up to the light. “So it would seem.”
She was in the room now, leaning against the open door. “So, how do you feel?”
“I don’t know the polite word for it.”
“I do. ‘Stupid’ is the word we use around here. What were you doing?”
“I was –” he started to sit up and bit back a grunt as his right side flared up “– I was doin’ somethin’ stupid,” he finished, swinging his legs out over the side of the bed.
A smirk played at the corners of her mouth. “Well, you’ll be okay. Once you didn’t die the doctor said you’d be fine. He got the bullets out a couple days ago.”
“Good.”
“It cost us fifteen dollars.”
Ah, shit.
“I’m sorry, madam. You should’ve left me there to die.”
“Did you wanna die? I mean, was that it? Was that why you went straight out to Fort Mercer and picked a fight with the worst bandit in the county? To die, Mister, uh…”
“Mister Marston. John Marston.”
She smiled, stepping toward the bed. “Bonnie MacFarlane. Miss Bonnie MacFarlane.”
“Well, you may be right, Miss MacFarlane. I don’t know.”
“Huh."
“So what were you doin’?” she asked.
“I was tryin’ to give Mister Williamson a chance. For old time’s sake.”
“You know Bill Williamson?” Her squint leaked into the question.
“Knew him. Long time ago.”
“Well, what was he like?”
He stood up slowly, hands on his knees. “Dumb.”
“Just like you.”
Damn she was good.
“Thank you, miss,” he said, reaching for the brim of his hat but feeling air.
“Seen my hat?”
“I have,” she said, pointing to the corner of the room it rested in. He walked over, picked it up, and donned it, the lining familiar and comfortable.
“So, ah…what will you do now?” she asked.
“Now I’m gonna – take my time and go after him the less kind way.”
“Well, that sounds very fun, Mister Marston. Quite heroic, just like in those penny dreadfuls my brother used to read. Meanwhile, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a ranch to run,” she said, turning and walking out the door.
“Of course,” she said, stopping halfway and turning back to him, “if you’re feeling better, why not take a ride with me later and help me patrol the perimeter? You can earn back some of that money we wasted on doctor’s bills.”
“Of course,” he said, picking his gunbelt up. “And thank you. For saving my life, I mean.”
She cocked her head and smiled. “Next time, Mister Marston, I strongly recommend you don’t try to lose it quite so earnestly.” She turned and walked off.
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
