Silver City Massacre by Charles G. West

notice the stink if he comes in here again,” referring to Lige’s original remarks that had caused the altercation. Lige was about to retort when Doc Calley walked in.
    â€œI thought your boy said he was shot,” Doc remarked to Bowers as he went over to examine the injured man. His tone was almost one of disappointment. There were many in town who considered Lige Tolbert a bully the town would be better off without.
    â€œI think it’s broke,” Lige said.
    â€œI think you’re right,” Doc replied sarcastically as he tilted Lige’s head back and peered at the results of Joel’s rifle butt. “He damn sure flattened it.” He continued to study it for a few minutes, then told him there was very little he could do to fix it. “I can push some of the bone back to where it was, but you’re gonna have a flat nose from now on. I’ll try to fix it so you can breathe a little easier through it.”
    â€œJust be quick about it,” Lige said. “I’ve gotta ride.”
    â€œI don’t expect you’ll feel much like riding by the time I’m through,” Doc told him. “You’ve already got a lot of swelling starting up and pretty soon your eyes are gonna puff up like toadstools. But I’ll do what I can.”
    â€œHurry up, Doc. I ain’t got time to sit around here all day,” Lige said, with as much bluster as he could manage through his aching head. He had a reputation as a bully that he was forced to defend, and he was already aware of the look of amusement in the faces of some of the spectators. “Tommy,” he said to Bowers’s boy, “go down to the stable and tell Buck to saddle my horse. I’m goin’ huntin’ for a damn Rebel.”
    â€œAll right,” Doc sighed patiently, and went to work on him. “But my advice is to take it easy and let it heal.” He turned to see Sheriff Jack Suggs coming in the door.
    â€œTook you long enough,” Lige complained.
    Suggs was another man Lige didn’t get along with. He was only the acting sheriff, until the elected sheriff came back from Cheyenne, but Lige was still sore over the town’s decision to give Suggs the job instead of him.
    â€œI was eatin’ my dinner,” Suggs said. “Who got shot?”
    â€œAnsil’s carnival glass lamp,” one of the spectators replied with a chuckle.
    Suggs turned to him and asked what had happened, and listened while he watched Doc work on Lige’s face. When he had heard what the man had to say about the altercation, and his story was confirmed by the head nodding and agreeing grunts from the other witnesses, Suggs shook his head impatiently at Lige.
    â€œSounds to me like you stuck that nose into somethin’ that it’da been best kept out of. He flattened the hell out of it, all right.”
    Already tired of hearing how flat his nose now was, Lige demanded, “Ain’t you goin’ after him? He cut loose with a damn carbine in here.”
    â€œNo, I ain’t,” Suggs said. “From what I hear, it warn’t nothin’ but a barroom brawl and you come out on the bottom. And I ain’t got time to chase after somebody in a bar fight.” Finished with the issue then, he turned to Bowers. “Might as well pour me a drink, long as I’m here.” He walked back to the bar, leaving Lige to seethe, well aware of the injured man’s hatred for him, but smug in his thinking that Lige was helpless to do anything about it. When Bowers poured his drink, Suggs asked, “Who started this thing, Ansil?”
    Bowers shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. “Lige,” he answered. “He was rawhidin’ a friend of that feller. They were both wearin’ Confederate uniforms.”
    â€œThat’s what I figured,” Suggs said, and tossed his drink back. Satisfied that he had an accurate account of the disturbance, he felt there