Realistic or Modern Wild Wild Wyoming—Season 1

[Nebaros]

Connor put on a smile as a man approached his stall to look over his furs, “Yessir it’s a little quiet today, I’m hoping it’ll pick up tomorrow once everyone’s settled.” Several more people from the train had wandered past, but this man didn’t seem to be one of them and Connor thought he’d seen him the night before. “Five dollars for that one, sir, should keep some of the cold off for sure.”

He gave the man a look when he asked about where he’d caught them, “I came in from the North East,” he said, laughing and nodding at the mention of all the city slickers, “I’m with you there, I wouldn’t have come down to town so soon except for the rain. I’m thinking of building a cabin around somewhere so I can stay out there longer, but then I’d be tied to one spot a lot more…” he paused and tugged his moustache in thought.

The land around here was nice, he liked the cold and the mountains, and there was lots of game to be caught, but the main concern was still the gang. He’d have to build a decent way from town to ensure he was out of harm’s way, which would make things harder but would be preferable in many ways.

idalie

 

[idalie]

Thomas K. Bishop​

"I think five dollars issa fair price," Thomas remarked, keeping in his budget of what he'd saved for necessities. A good fur could last you decades if you kept it in good condition. Whilst handing over the well-earned notes, Bishop took note of the trapper's old territory and seemed more or less engaged with a likewise opinion. It was hit or miss with some fellas. Occasionally they'd just decide one day it was time to settle and embrace the new Western world, sticking around to sell odds and ends without venturing too far from comfort. "Ah, fuckin' rain, you tellin' me. Try cuttin' wood in a downpour, at the end our bosses called it off. Caused some havoc for a handfulla the folks with mouths to feed. Rightly so."

Thomas threw the fur over a shoulder and shook his head. "Hey, do what you gots to. Few months is nothin' if you keep yer head down." Pinching the cigarette and pulling it from his mouth to speak clearly now, flicking ash from the end onto the sodden ground he arched his brow. "You know, you should drink with the lumber boys sometime. Seem like a guy with plenty tales. But, 'bout that cabin, might wan' get it built before the weather turns. Ground'll be froze solid, 'specially since the water."

Bishop lifted a hand in goodbye and moved from the stall a few steps to the saloon, just as Henry was coming up behind. Both men vanished with a clatter through the doors, one on the inside of the gate-like swinging which was used to keep the cold out in winter and open for a breeze in the summer. Been that way since Irene had the place. Not that Thomas would know, but to Henry, well those summers were ingrained in him.

Mentioned: N/A
Interaction: Nebaros

 

[supertoastgirl]

Wesley D. Vernon and Eloise M. Scott​

Wesley was relieved to find that Miss Bonney had room for a long stay. Her services sounded more than fine, and a small part of Wesley was grateful that he wouldn't have to come home from a long day to Eloise's cooking. The woman's ability to put together edible portions was appalling, to be frank. Wesley loved her dearly, but Eloise's hand was not trained in the art of cooking yet. Perhaps, if Miss Bonney's meals turned out well, he could convince her to teach Eloise's some tricks. Even the basics would be a good start. "Fifty cents a day," Wesley said with confidence, "We'll pay ahead of time for now," he said. Wesley absolutely hated to be in debt of anyone. "A whole month's ret will be delivered this evening, along with our things." Wesley glanced over at Eloise, she was now in conversation with what looked like the mothers of the children. "It was a pleasure," Dr. Vernon said as Miss Bonney left, he head and hat tilted downward.

"My love," Wesley cooed, approaching Eloise and the women. "We must take leave. I'm sure these fine ladies understand that we've tasks to attend to." Eloise said her goodbyes and exchanged a time to go and visit with a woman named Miriam Hastings. Wesley then paid a pair of trustworthy chaps to take their luggage to Miss Bonney's inn. The larger crates were to be delivered to their plot of land and stored in a stable that had been previously erected.

Their first visit would be to the current town doctor, Dr. Alfenheimer. Wesley had tried to contact the man via letter, to introduce himself, but received no response. Wesley figured the man was busy, seeing as he was the only physician for miles. Dr. Vernon and Eloise walked in a confident stride together, seeing the Doctor's sign at the end of the road. "I do hope that Dr. Alfenheimer knows that you are comings," Eloise worried. She knew that doctors were rather fickle creatures, and that they didn't like their territory being crowded. Wesley shrugged his shoulders. He could care less if the old man knew he was arriving today. After all, Dr. Vernon's main goal was to provide modern medicine to these fine citizens. These were dangerous parts, and a good doctor was part of the equation of survival.

As the two passed by the Sheriff's office a large, stocky man brushed past them quickly. Dr. Vernon noticed the man's bloodied fists. At first this just seemed like an odd sighting, then Wesley put the pieces together. The sheriff was not in his office. In fact, the three of them had a brief conversation before coming this way. Wesley stopped. "Wait here a moment," with those words Wesley abandoned his wife on the sunny street and went inside.

On the ground lay a slight man, beaten beyond recognition. Sobs vibrated through the man's frame. Seeing a grown man cry often made people uncomfortable, but Wesley was no stranger to the sounds of human despair. As an apprentice, Wesley had worked for six months in a Union hospital during the American Civil War. Deformities, gun shot wounds, and amputations were three of his most practiced surgeries. Assessing the damage, this man was lucky to be alive.

"My name is Dr. Vernon," Wesley stated, stepping closer to the man. "Can you speak?" Wesley opened his bag, he needed to stop the excessive bleeding from the man's head. "If so," Wesley began again with authority, "Only tell me your name." It was vital that if there was damage to the man's facial structure, he do as little talking as possible. However, Wesley needed to know if his jaw was broken before moving him. "Eloise!" Wesley called. Without much thought, Eloise burst into the office. At the sight of man so disfigured the blonde woman gasped in fright. "Run for the luggage at the inn," Wesley commanded, "Bring a bag marked 'surgery,' it doesn't have everything, but it will be good enough to save his life." Eloise stared at the blood that seeped out of the man's head. "Eloise," Wesley said, trying to bring her out of it. He feared that she might faint from the sight. "Elle!" he growled. With a shake of the head and a weak "Yes" Eloise flew off.

rebirth , idalie

 

[rebirth]

Tacitus was unaware of the man at first. He was laying on his side, facing the wall, and his ears were filled with horrible noises, mostly ringing from the incident less than two minutes ago. As he realized there was another human in there with him, he quieted himself to the best of his abilities, although it wasn't very successful, and listened to the question.

"Lock... Lockheart... Lockheart..." He mumbled, repeating his name. It hurt so much, and all Tacitus wanted to do was kill that coward of a man who did this to him. His hands, warm with blood, clutched his own face. He let out a few short groans involuntarily, not trying to show emotion in front of someone else. He could not stop thinking about his father, and how if he were here, he would have beat the devil out of that child and tossed his body into the lake.

 

[jones573]

Missus Jacobs was good people, and Mags had been surprised that she’d been asked to attend the birth, after the last time. (The girl had been so early and weak, Mags had been surprised she’d lived as long as she had.) But Mister Jacobs was still out on a cattle drive, and his wife had three boys under ten and a house far out of town and only her husband’s fretful sister Jennie to help her, so.



It had been a nice week, Mags thought. Jennie was clearly adjusting to life out in the sticks much better than she first had when Mags had initially brought her out from Omaha to join the Jacobs family, and the boys were rowdy but well-meaning. They’d shown her their best fishing spots in the creeks on their land, and Mags had subtlety taught them how they might start catching more, even with the ice across the water.



The birth had gone well, with hardly a hiccup, even though Mags had Jennie hovering with worry and the oldest boy prepared to take a horse into town to fetch more help at the slightest sign of trouble. Prepare for the worst, Mags supposed, and it lost its interest in showing up.



She hadn’t quite made it back in time to see the train, but she’d be around this evening, the way the sheriff had wanted. There might be all sorts of new folks in town to cause trouble he’d reasoned, and of course, an occasion for the whole town to celebrate. Mags suspected the sheriff wanted to enjoy a few drinks himself, which would be much harder to justify if Mags wasn’t around to keep the peace in his place.



She wasn’t anticipating it would be too hard. Celebratory drunks were much more cooperative than the miserable kind, and might actually go home to sleep it off when she suggested, instead of continuing to abuse their liver and their neighbors until she had to try and wrangle them out of whatever public place they were disturbing. If folks seemed inclined to be agreeable maybe she might even have a drink herself, to celebrate Missus Jacobs’ fourth son and Mags’ own feat of delivering an actual, goddamn living breathing infant.



She tied Mister up around the back of the jail, patting the mare behind ears in fondness before pulling off one of the saddle bags. She didn’t really need to carry her medical kit with her all the time, and she’d prefer it stayed locked in her small cabinet if she wasn’t using it.



Then she ought to find the Father and have him record the birth, and tell the Sheriff she was back in town, and maybe see if Miss Bonney would be interested in trading half a dozen trout for whatever bed she might have available for the night. The Jacobs’ place had been warm and quiet, and Mags wasn’t too keen to return to a cold and lumpy cot in the jail. Especially if the other cells might have inebriated occupants.



A pretty blonde woman was running from the door, which…. Wasn’t good, probably. Anything faster than a brisk walk going to or from the Sheriff’s, usually meant trouble, so Mags steeled herself as she went into the open doorway and knocked her hat back to hang from its cord around her neck.



“Sheriff, where the hell was that girl off to that sh- Well. Shit,” Mags swore as she took in the scene. She hadn’t been sure what she’d been expecting but it wasn’t… This. “What the hell-”



Answers later, action first. She dropped her saddle bag from her shoulder and strode across the small space to grab the basin- But the water in it was already stained red. As was the cuffs on the jacket, left in a heap on the floor.



“Shit, son,” Mags said, somewhat pitying. “Take your hands away from your face, now, your fingers can’t do a thing but get in the doctor’s way,” she pointed out, grabbing her canteen from her belt and offering the clean water to the other man.



At least, she assumed this was the new doctor- Even with all the blood, his hands looked clean and smooth, and not like they were caked with dirt and callouses. He hopefully had some idea what he was doing, because this was not really Mags’ preferred type of work.



“Your pa do this to you, boy?,” she asked gently, though she realized that made little sense almost as soon as she said it. The blood made it hard to determine if she knew the young man, but she couldn’t think of any youth in town his size, with fathers the size of the coat in the corner. Or any fathers who would bring their sons to the sheriff’s office, just to beat him.



He’d likely been here overnight on the sheriff’s hospitality, but she doubted he’d landed his cell by whatever act of violence had caused his current state- The blood was too fresh to be anything but recent. Which was another problem altogether that Mags would have to reckon with. Strictly speaking, there were only a few individuals in town who had liberty to beat a prisoner.



“Got some carbolic solution,” she offered the doctor, rooting through her saddle bag to find the medical kit she’d been intending to put away for the time being. “Heavily diluted, though.” And fresh linens, she had plenty of those, pulling them out as well. The absorbent cloths smelled of Missus Jacobs’ strongest lye and seemed cold to the touch, even though they’d been dried overnight next to the stove after Mags had rinsed the blood from the birth out in the cold stream.



She used one of the smaller rags and gingerly used it to pick up the remains of the nose. It didn’t look like an even break worth trying to salvage.



“I could grab ice, if you wan’a try an’ save it,” she told the doctor quietly, thinking of the bucket she’d packed with chunks of the frozen stream to keep the fish cold on her ride back from the Jacobs’ place. “But I reckon he’ll look just as poor with it as without,” she admitted.



Unless this new doctor had miracle hands, and needle and threads made of far finer stuff than she had ever seen, she really doubted the ragged edges could be reattached to the boy’s face with any semblance of form, much less function. “And it smells of fish.”



The ice did, not the nose. The nose, Mags figured as she wrapped it in cloth out of sight of its owner, would not be smelling much of anything ever again.

 

[supertoastgirl]

Wesley D. Vernon​

Wesley nodded his head at the boy's response. "Good," he said softly. "Now don't speak anymore." Dr. Vernon rolled up his sleeves before gentle moving Lockhart onto his back, careful of his windpipe. Once it was determined that he would not chock on blood in this position, Wesley began distracted by the door opening. It was far too early for Elle's return, but to his relief, another woman entered. One who seemed at least well versed in the sight of blood. Impressed by her quick commitment, Wesley nodded his head as she had Lockhart pull his hands away from his face.

At the mention of the carbolic acid, Wesley shook his head. "Not yet," he said frankly. This young man was going to need extensive surgery done to his face if he was going to survive. Otherwise, he was liable to starve to death just by the lack of jaw function alone. Not to mention the loss of sight he could experience, and the impacted airway. Wesley pressed his lips together, thinking quickly and silently. "Yes," he said suddenly. "The ice. Get the ice." It was unlikely that Wesley would be able to save the nose, but he could always try. If anything, the nose would feel nothing but the boy wouldn't look like a monster in the end.

Wesley grabbed the clothes that the woman revealed and began applying pressure to the head wounds. If these deeper wounds were not cared for, the boy would surely die from blood loss before Dr. Vernon could do another another the superficial damage. Thinking of his next move, Wesley realized that they were going to need plenty more light. They could move the boy to the doctor's office. Wesley could only assume that Dr. Alfenheimer had a surgery room. "Does the doctor here have a surgery room?" Wesley asked, continuing the wrap and press wounds. Surely Elle would be back soon. A room wasn't as important as the light. If anything, Wesley could work on Lockhart here than transport him. But this mangy floor was dark and damp, and though Wesley had a basic understanding of germ theory, if he had enough light Dr. Vernon would operate.

With a clattering, Eloise entered. She was carrying a large leather satchel. Wesley was quite impressed at her speed. For a woman who had spent all of her formative years playing piano and embroidering, she made good time. "Perfect," Wesley said at the sight of his wife. He and Eloise had once before gone through the essentials of surgery. Not because Wesley had any faith in her becoming a nurse since she was undoubtedly squeamish, but just in case he had managed to severely hurt himself while building their new home. That way, she could at least hand him the right instruments while he operated on himself. "Forget about the surgery room," Wesley said to the other woman. "Find me more light. A lantern, some candles. Anything." It wasn't to say that the Sherriff's office was dark, but it was certainly dim and Wesley knew that taking a man in his condition out into broad daylight would certainly terrify the townsfolk.

"Eloise," he said with command, "bring the chloroform." After handing him the liquid in a glass bottle, the doctor applied it to a piece of cloth that was folded into a tent. "Mr. Lockhart, I'm going to put this tent over your face. You will begin to feel very sleepy. You are not dying. Give into the feeling. We are putting you into a chemical sleep for the pain. We will wake you when we have finished repairing your wounds." Wesley explained this with tones of sympathy but maintained his straight forward confidence. "Miss- Miss..." Wesley realized he didn't know the other woman's name. "My name is Dr. Wesley Vernon." With that introduction, he placed the tent over Lockhart's nose hole and mouth.

"Are you trained?"

rebirth jones573

 

[rebirth]

Wednesday, January 19, 1846
9:53 A.M.
Lemonte Davis

​

The train screamed to a halt at the train station and the large doors to the cargo car were tugged open by a fancy gentleman wearing a dark blue suit and low top hat and displaying a long, curly orange mustache that stuck out to the left and right of his face. The man waited a few brief seconds before putting his head out of the gap and looking around, making sure nobody saw him. He watched as the men and women offloaded to his right. Hopefully, if he played his cards right, this would be a good enough distraction to get the hell out of here and find a place to stay for the night, just until they figured out a plan.

The man in the suit stepped out carefully, falling a foot or two before hitting the wet ground. It squelched as his pristine black boots collided with it, causing the man's head to retract into his shoulders. He let out a sound of disgust.

He turned around and quickly extended his arm, then brought his hand back to his body; a gesture telling the man inside to 'come on'. Soon, a young African American man emerged from the darkness, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the morning sun. His tired eyes managed to find their way to the man below, who held out two arms to help the man down from the train car.

As the young fellow slowly climbed down from the edge, the mustached man held onto the rags that he wore and helped the poor boy down. Finally on his feet, the young boy put his right arm around the man's shoulder. They began to walk away as they realized the train began to peel away, at first slowly, but it chugged harder and sped off.

"Come on, come on, you're okay," the suited man said, comforting the boy as they watched the train roll away. "You've been through worse, right? C'mon, let's get us somewhere warm and comfortable, somewhere we can rest besides that god-awful train."

As they continued, the young man, who had not spoke a word, shuffled his feet in the mud, trying not to trip over his own feet and embarrass himself in front of the only man who had ever shown him kindness. The rag-wearing kid stifled his feelings and continued cautiously, his head rising and looking forward to a destination down the street to his right: the Stagecoach Inn.

"There, you say? Well, I don't see any others; let's go, I suppose. Come on now, let's go!" The suited man's hand wrapped around the rag-kid's upper arm, which had moved from the suit's shoulder.

Although there was no real reason to be rushing him, Edgar did it mostly because he was impatient. However, the fear, the slim chance of a bounty hunter following them from the neighboring state lingered in the back of his mind. This would spell danger in all capital letters, and it would be a definite win-lose situation; combined, they had quite the price on their heads.

 

[jones573]

Mags nodded swiftly and ducked back out the way she had come, quickly lifting the bucket of fish from where it hung off lopsided off her horse, who was now looking at her somewhat expectantly. Horses did not tend to understand that medical emergencies took precedence over fresh hay.



She came back inside quickly, and snorted at his question about Alfenheimer’s facilities. “Can’t say I’ve ever been invited in to know,” she answered bluntly, and set to work unhinging the lid from the bucket and lifting out a chunk of ice. She broke it in two and put the bandage wrapped nose between the pieces, and took another cloth to bind them together.



Light, she could help with. There were empty frame windows in the office, on the walls that didn’t form part of a cell, but they were shuttered tightly against the cold. She nodded in brief acknowledgement of the reappearance of the pretty blonde woman, but otherwise stepped around the pair to twist open the latches and push the wooden shutters to the side.



“Shit,” Mags swore when she nearly stepped on the jagged edges of the Sheriff’s whiskey bottle. “Glass on the floor,” she warned them, gesturing at the area in question. “Maybe in him, too- Small pieces, I’d reckon.”



Most of it looked accounted for in the mess on the floor, though a few splinters of glass hidden deep in those wounds could be as deadly as if there was a three inch piece sticking out between his ribs. At least a three inch piece, they couldn’t miss.



She’d struck matches to the lanterns already out, one hanging by the door and one sitting on the table by the basin, and was opening a lower cupboard to find more candles when she realized the doctor was putting the boy under.



“The hell you do that for,” she snapped from where she was crouched, and then bit her tongue. She’d gotten too comfortable in the rough dynamic of Walburn and her place in it, to be allowing herself to snap at some white doctor she’d never met. “I woulda- Was hoping he might be able to say how he got like this, is all,” she explained with a sigh.



She did not have as much faith as this Doctor Vernon, that the bloodied man would wake up again.



“It’s Mags, sir. No ‘miss’,” she clarified. “Was trained in birthing. Some practice with wounds and stichin’ folks up, but nothing like this,” she explained, wiping the boy’s neck with a wet cloth. It was purple beneath the red, but it didn’t seem like any of the blood had come from wounds on the neck, which was something. Unbuttoning his shirt revealed much the same- Beaten, bruised and bloodied, but nothing deeper than the skin.



“Fellow got mauled by a bear, once, on the trail. Neck was half gone- We shot him, so he wouldn’t keep suffering,” she admitted. It seemed a succinct way to warn the doctor of her limitations, and to curb his own expectations of what he might be able to do. If the boy lasted the week, Mags would be impressed.

 

[supertoastgirl]

Wesley D. Vernon
​

Dr. Vernon looked over at the woman in a moment of distaste as she swooped down to question the chloroform. In the blink of an eye, his emotion was gone and he was back to being appreciative of another helping hand. "Don't worry," Wesley reassured her, "Lockhart will remember everything before falling asleep. The chloroform makes sure the patient doesn't fidget during operation..." Concentrating on the pair of tweezers that Eloise had handed him Wesley trailed off. Diving into the man's split cheek, Dr. Vernon searched for debris. "and most importantly," he continued his train of thought, "the patient doesn't feel anything during the operation."

"It's especially useful for amputees," Eloise piped in, finding deep pleasure in the nod of Wesley's head.

"Mags," Wesley repeated her name, trying to imprint it in his mind. The doctor was never very savvy in the way of names. In fact, Wesley mistook Eloise's name for Eleri during the entire summer of his first visit with the Scott family. "Pleasure," he said back to Mags, focusing on the work in front of his. "I'm Dr. Vernon." He paused a moment, extracting a piece of glass from his cheek. "But please," he said, "call me Wesley." Eloise cleared her throat at this comment. It would take some time for the formal way of England to wash out of her. Being on a first name basis was very American, and Eloise found it rather improper.

"And this is Eloise," Wesley cocked his head toward her, "my wife." Eloise smiled while holding her hand out to shake. "Mrs. Vernon," she corrected. Wesley shook his head ever so slightly before moving on to the section where his nose was supposed to be. A cloth lay beside Lockhart, two neat piles were comprised. Bones fragments in one heap and bits of rocks and glass in another pile. Wesley had no way of putting these bones back right now, but he had read journals on rebuilding a face after recovery. If the boy didn't get an infection, it was very likely that he would survive. Looking like nothing short of a boogyman would be the next challenge.

Wesley watched Mags for a moment as she looked for further wounds on Lockhart's body. "Good to meet something with some experience," he remarked. "Address these wounds on his head," Wesley said to Mags. "Make sure they don't bleed anymore. Apply pressure to the wound." Eloise stood and watched before realizing that she could be useful. The blonde woman turned toward the medical bag and began threading two types of sutures, silk and horse hair. Elle wasn't sure which type he would need, so she figured it was best to be ready with both.

Wesley clenched his jaw at the story Mags told. "How awful," Eloise said, holding her delicate hand up to her mouth. "Rest assured that no one else will be shot instead of treated," Wesley said curtly. Such a brutal way of dealing with the destruction of the human body reminded him of the war. Such carelessness and laziness. Thinking of it now still made his skin crawl.

Looking over the damage, Wesley let out of a sigh. With a spark of inspiration, he knew what to do. "I need the nose," he said. Thankfully, Lockhart's forehead wasn't as damaged as the rest of his face. Though Wesley had never actually seen the method done, he knew how to do forehead flap reconstruction, developed in India just sixty years or so ago. Dr. Vernon began mumbling to himself, trying to remember his textbook. "The paramedian forehead flap is based on an axial blood-supply from the supratrochlear artery, which exits the orbit..." He dark hair doctor nodded his head. "And I need something to mark him with. Ink, graphite, chalk, anything," he demanded.

Wesley would need to take skin from Lockhart's forehead, traced in the shape of his nose, and flipped around to lay atop the bridge and cavity. The remaining forehead skin would then be stretched and stitched back together. With time and monitoring, it was a surprisingly successful surgery. His features would be a tad clumsy, but at least he would have a nose. "Before I begin this," Wesley said before clearing his throat, "I'm going to need you to trust me, Mags."

"I am a highly trained physician. Though young, I have served in several countries, and even in the civil war. I am devoted, truly, to my oath as a healer." Wesley explained to Mags. Receiving a blotter of ink from Eloise, Wesley was tracing out Lockhart's nose shape on the poor boy's forehead.

"Scalpel, Elle." Wesley said. Eloise handed him the blade. Wesley took the scalpel and looked at Mags one more time.

"Do you trust me, Mags?" What he was about to do was going to seem absolutely insane to an untrained eye. Taking skin from the only place on Lockhart's face that was wasn't already damaged seemed counterintuitive, surely. But this was the only way that Dr. Vernon was going to be able to help Lockhart maintain a suitable face for society.

jones573 rebirth

 

[jones573]

Wesley Vernon was a bit of a fool, doctor or no, Mags thought, if he expected her to call him by his first name. She nodded with brief appreciation at Mrs. Vernon’s correction- She doubted she and Eloise might ever be close friends, but they would get along just fine, knowing where the other stood.



“Another time, maybe,” Mags told her, in acknowledgement of the other woman’s outstretched hand. Her own fingers were stained with blood, and she wiped them somewhat dry on a cloth before shrugging out of her long coat and tossing it and her hat into the corner behind her.



She used the dirtied cloth in her hand to hastily mop up the floor in front of her. The knees of her pants were likely already a mess, but no sense it making it worse, she reasoned as she rolled up the cuffs of her sleeves and got to work as the doctor had instructed, pressing the bandages across his face with the width of her palm with as much force as she could manage without damaging any of the bone underneath.



She didn’t have a hell of an idea about what Vernon was going on about, but she didn’t seem to need to. Eloise seemed to be able to find what her husband wanted easily enough, and Mags was grateful for the woman’s quickness, as she didn’t really have a hand to spare in pointing.



Course then he went addressing her directly, all earnest and direct like, and Mags looked up at him with a bit of genuine surprise. It hardly mattered if she trusted him, she’d do as he asked regardless- She hadn’t argued further on the chloroform, or pointed out that sometimes shooting someone was the most humane way of treating them or the several other retorts that she might have had for someone who wasn’t a well dressed unfamiliar white man claiming to be a doctor, if she’d found them in the sheriff’s office with some half-dead youth.



She wondered how he’d gotten through the war, if he was inclined to be all noble and honest all the time. Mags reckoned wars tended to beat that out of you, real quick. He seemed keen on having an answer, so Mags finally cleared her throat.



“I trust you are going to do as best you can to save the boy, sir,” she reassured him, which was honest enough. It wasn’t as though she had any of her own ideas, and whatever scheme he was planning with that scalpel and the drawing on the forehead would be at least be more intentional than the chaos of the bottle had been. “And I will do what I can to help you,” she told him.

But.



Mags held in a sigh. He seemed like the smart kind of noble sort, not the foolish and gullible kind, and he was at least observant enough to have picked up on her hesitation.



“Sir, he ain’t in here- looking the way he does- on account of good behavior,” she reasoned. She could be wrong, of course. Mags had been wrong before, and she would do what she could to make sure she wasn’t again. This could be a misunderstanding, and he could be completely innocent. But she didn’t recognize him, and he’d been in jail, and he’d been beaten so thoroughly she couldn’t imagine a cause other than anger and vengeance.



The doctor’s best, might end up a waste.



“So if Sheriff wants him to hang before the week is out,” she told Vernon evenly. “Then I’ll help him too, same as I help you now. Just. Thought you should know,” she admitted.



She’d taken no oaths the way he had, and she didn’t want Vernon thinking that just because she’d treat the boy as a patient made him any less likely to be her prisoner once they were done.



“Spare wicks and oil are in that lower cabinet on the left,” she told Eloise, mostly to signal that she was ready to get to work as she had promised. It seemed likely that it would be at least another hour or two before any of the lanterns burned out, but it would be a pain to have to hunt for supplies if it did happen sooner than expected.