The Dying Crapshooter's Blues by David Fulmer

or he won’t,” Nash said. He finished in silence, taking minimum care in fashioning the bandage as Martha looked on with disapproval. As soon as he left, she’d do it right. The doctor tossed his implements back into his bag and snapped it closed.
    Glancing between Joe and Willie, he said, “All right, then. Who’s paying?”
    Joe wanted to say,
paying for what?
Instead, he said, “How much?”
    â€œThree dollars.”
    Joe went into his pocket, took three bills, and held them up. “You sure you can’t do anything else for him?”
    Nash didn’t 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 Jesse’s 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, “That boy’s bound to die. There’s infection setting in. It’s just a matter of time ’fore it kills him.”
    â€œAnd you can’t stop it?”
    â€œNo, it’s too far gone,” Nash said. “Go ahead, carry him somewhere else if you want. I say he’s finished.”
    â€œHow long?”
    â€œHe might last a week. Not much more, though.”
    Joe grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t tell anybody about this,” he said. “You understand? Nobody.”
    â€œWho the hell am I gonna tell?” the doctor said. “Who the hell cares?” 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.
    â€œYou flush these days, Joe?” 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 “The St. James Infirmary” or maybe “The Streets of Laredo,” tunes everyone knew.
    It wasn’t either one. With a small smile, Willie half sang a line. “Little Jesse was a gambler, night and day . . .” Hearing the

words, the man on the bed stirred and opened his eyes. Willie played the chords over another time and sang, “Yes, he used crooked cards and dice.”
    Jesse’s 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 didn’t 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. “Sonofabitch didn’t fix me, did he?”
    Joe shook his head. “He said it would have killed you, Jesse.”
    â€œWell, I’m going to die anyway, ain’t I?” His voice was bitter.
    Willie was busy with his guitar, and the others in the room weren’t paying attention. Joe leaned close to Jesse’s sickly face.
    â€œWhy the hell did that copper shoot you?” he whispered. “What’d you do?”
    â€œDidn’t do nothin’.” Jesse sounded sulky