or he wonât,â Nash said. He finished in silence, taking minimum care in fashioning the bandage as Martha looked on with disapproval. As soon as he left, sheâd do it right. The doctor tossed his implements back into his bag and snapped it closed.
Glancing between Joe and Willie, he said, âAll right, then. Whoâs paying?â
Joe wanted to say,
paying for what?
Instead, he said, âHow much?â
âThree dollars.â
Joe went into his pocket, took three bills, and held them up. âYou sure you canât do anything else for him?â
Nash didnât bother to answer. He snatched the money, grabbed his bag, and stalked out of the room as if he had another appointment, which if he did would be with a needle or pipe. Joe got up to catch him just as he reached the kitchen door. One gambler he knew slightly and another of Jesseâs whores were at the table drinking coffee laced with whiskey and studiously ignoring the two men.
Before Joe could say anything, Nash jerked his head toward the bedroom and said, âThat boyâs bound to die. Thereâs infection setting in. Itâs just a matter of time âfore it kills him.â
âAnd you canât stop it?â
âNo, itâs too far gone,â Nash said. âGo ahead, carry him somewhere else if you want. I say heâs finished.â
âHow long?â
âHe might last a week. Not much more, though.â
Joe grabbed him by the arm. âDonât tell anybody about this,â he said. âYou understand? Nobody.â
âWho the hell am I gonna tell?â the doctor said. âWho the hell cares?â With a rude shrug, he walked out, closing the door behind him.
When Joe stepped back into the bedroom, he found that Willie now had his guitar in his lap and was strumming soft chords on the twelve strings. Jesse had dropped off again.
âYou flush these days, Joe?â the blind man said.
Joe stopped, then shook his head, bemused. Willie had heard him fan his roll and could likely tell him how much was there. The blind man went back to his guitar. Joe sat down to listen, and after hearing a few bars, picked up a pattern that sounded sort of familiar. He thought Willie was about to play âThe St. James Infirmaryâ or maybe âThe Streets of Laredo,â tunes everyone knew.
It wasnât either one. With a small smile, Willie half sang a line. âLittle Jesse was a gambler, night and day . . .â Hearing the
words, the man on the bed stirred and opened his eyes. Willie played the chords over another time and sang, âYes, he used crooked cards and dice.â
Jesseâs pained face broke open as Willie went to humming a melody without lyrics. At the sound of the guitar, the couple who had been at the kitchen table got up and stepped into the doorway to listen. Willie had a sweet voice, especially when he sang a lament in a minor key, the kind of dirge played for the dead.
Â
Over the next hour, Jesse went in and out of his stupor three times. The last time, he came up and gazed around blearily to see Willie in the corner with a woman and a man and some character he didnât know. Joe slouched in the chair next to the head of the bed.
Jesse listened to Willie playing and singing little snatches of lyrics for a few moments, then looked down at the bandage that swathed his midsection. He tamped it gently with the fingers of his right hand. âSonofabitch didnât fix me, did he?â
Joe shook his head. âHe said it would have killed you, Jesse.â
âWell, Iâm going to die anyway, ainât I?â His voice was bitter.
Willie was busy with his guitar, and the others in the room werenât paying attention. Joe leaned close to Jesseâs sickly face.
âWhy the hell did that copper shoot you?â he whispered. âWhatâd you do?â
âDidnât do nothinâ.â Jesse sounded sulky
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