Bad Medicine by Paul Bagdon Page B

work on my face ’fore I bleed to death. Hear? You don’t, I’ll gun you as dead as them bodies out in the street.”
    â€œI don’t need coffee. I can stitch you up just fine. Thing is, it’ll hurt like a bitch. How about you take a few sucks on my pipe—relax a bit, kill the pain?”
    â€œNo. Jus’ do your sewin’.”
    â€œMaybe some booze? Like I said, this is gonna hurt bad.”
    â€œGoddammit . . .”
    â€œOK, OK—no need to get feisty an’ outta sorts.” He fetched a leather kit box such as surgeons used during the War of Northern Aggression and selected a hooked needle and a long length of suture material. “Too bad I don’t have some chloroform, but I don’t. See, chloroform will put a man to sleep an’ he’ll—”
    â€œDo your work an’ shut the hell up,” Will interrupted.
    â€œYessir.”
    The suturing was an ordeal that had Will digging his fingernails into his palms until they bled. After an eternity the barber placed the last of thirty-sevenstitches and tied off his handiwork. “Gonna leave a scar, but what the hell,” he commented. “You wasn’t all that pretty to begin with. Now—here’s what you gotta do. Go over to the mercantile an’ pick up a quart of redeye an’ a clean bandanna. Every mornin’ you soak the bandanna in booze and wash down the wound.
    â€œTake a nip if you want—the cleanin’ is gonna sting some. After maybe twelve, fourteen days, cut the first suture an’ pull the whole length out. Don’t yank—kinda use steady pressure an’ she should come right on out, slick as can be.”
    Will stood up from the chair woozily, but quickly regained his balance. The side of his face felt like a mule had kicked him. He handed the barber a gold eagle. “Thanks. You quit burnin’ that weed an’ you might could make a good sawbones.”
    The barber pocketed the coin and mumbled something that ended with “. . . an’ the horse you rode in on.”
    Will strolled on over to the mercantile, weaving slightly but walking fairly well. It was the messiest, most poorly kept store he’d ever been in. The storekeeper was a large—very large—woman who quickly brought the image of a Brahma bull to Will’s mind. He wandered the aisles until he came to an uneven pile of bandannas and pulled one out from the bottom of the pile. He went to the counter. “I need a quart of decent whiskey,” he said, “an’ this bandanna.”
    â€œWhat happened to your puss?” the woman asked. There was no sympathy in her whiskey-and-gravel voice, only mild curiosity.
    â€œI bit myself,” Will said. “How much for the booze an’ the bandanna?”
    â€œSay—ain’t you the gunman who put an’ end to them three this morning?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYes ya are—I seen it from my window right here. Ornery sumbitch, ain’t you?” She turned and plucked a bottle from under the counter. “This here’s a good sippin’ bourbon,” she said. “Aged.”
    Will looked over the bottle. The label was slightly crooked, and the print on it was fuzzy and next to impossible to read. “Old . . . old what?” he asked. “I can’t read this.”
    â€œSays Ol’ Kaintuck Home—brung here all the way from Kaintucky.”
    â€œBrung all the way from the barrel of this crap you got in the cellar—right? Aged maybe part of a day?”
    â€œBuy it or don’t buy it—makes no nevermind to me. You ain’t gonna git a chance to drink it ’fore One Dog rips yer guts out, anyways.”
    â€œYou pretty sure of that?”
    â€œDamn right. You pissant gunsels don’t scare Dog none.”
    Will dropped some coins on the counter. “You talk to One Dog, do you? Tell him he doesn’t have long to live.”
    The