Legion

naga Jack could only think, in hindsight, that this wasn’t a very bright idea. It wasn’t like he was desperate for cash or anything, so he wasn’t in it for the money, but the instant someone told him that a girl was missing and had likely been taken captive by Walton’s Gang near Armadillo? He was heading northward before he knew what he was actually doing. Sure, he knew how to handle a gun thanks to his father’s guidance and his own tendency to keep going at something long enough and in stubborn enough fashion to become good at it… but taking on a whole gang of men? What the hell was he thinking?

That phrase was repeated over and over again the instant gunfire rang out from the gang’s hideout. Jack knew he wouldn’t be able to take out all these men, not even close. He was able to take two down from the higher-level rocks and the like, taking out the eyes of the men down below, but from there he snuck closer and was just barely able to get into one of the houses without being noticed. God please let this be the one she’s in, he thought to himself as he used the butt of his rifle to knock out the man inside. He fell without a sound and Jack search the house, finding the girl bound and gagged in a back room. Releasing her and holding a finger to his mouth to indicate that she keep quiet, he checked that the coast was clear before turning back to her.

“The instant I’m out the window and making a ruckus, you run out and head east. The hills will cover your tracks and keep you safe from the gunfire.” The woman nodded and quickly gave him a hug and kiss on the cheek before asking his name, wanting to know who her rescuer was. Jack frowned, clearing his throat and trying to ignore the awkward, uncomfortable feeling he got by her actions, as well as the fact that he knew his name meant something different to everyone. “Marston. Jack, not John.” And that was that. Without watching her face to catch her response, he climbed up and out the window, immediately shooting the man on the roof before rushing off to the left, drawing the fire of another gunman on the roof of the second house.

When the girl pulled herself out of the window and began to run off towards the hills, Jack concentrated his fire and took down as many men as he could. Unfortunately for him, one of the gangsters actually knew how to shoot and managed to knick him right on the shoulder. Crying out, he ducked behind the cover of a small wall, trying to catch his breath as the pain washed over him and set every nerve on fire in his upper body. Fire and brimstone but that hurt! He’d been shot before, yeah, in the year or so he’d been running around like a lunatic without reason, without purpose… yeah, he’d been shot. But this one hurt more than the others! Maybe it was because it was hitting near an old wound. He didn’t know. All he did know was that he was getting the hell out of here!

Whistling loudly, his pinto horse came running from the hills, its dark mane flying wildly and its dark tail swishing over its white back. Jack had always loved pintos, the two colours always making him think of someone throwing brown paint over a crisp white canvas… but now was no time to get lost in the detail of it. He swiftly ran up and pulled himself onto the horse, needing to only nudge her off before she was taking him away from the gang hideout and back to the safety of the hills. There he caught up with the girl, pulling her onto his horse and taking the both of them back to Armadillo in a hurry. He didn’t want to linger any longer.

Once in the town limits, Jack hopped off, helping the girl off with his good arm before hitching the horse and making haste towards the doctor’s building. That wound wasn’t feeling so good and he knew he was going to need to get it looked at, much to his discontentment. He wasn’t the biggest fan of doctors, only because they tended to poke and prod more than he liked… and they asked questions about family history that he could never answer—especially if they were doctors from the east. Either way, he needed their help now and he didn’t have much choice in the matter.

Knocking on the door before heading right in, Jack held his shoulder with a grimace, trying to keep some of the bleeding at bay as he called out, “Hello? Anyone here? I uh… need a little help here, if anyone’s got the time.”

crematorium Clarence M. MacKinnon was not a brash man. Not in any sense the word offered for interpretation—not now, nor ever. He’d always been more of a gentle creature, preferring to stay clear out of the spotlight in favour of avoiding trouble. It wasn’t necessarily the best strategy—‘trouble’ had never been a designated area on the map and seemed to move rather freely with more than a handful of people wherever their travels took them. In most cases, the first sign of danger was all it took to send him scurrying, but from time to time he’d encounter things he’d never seen before… and like a deer, trapped and without a ‘plan B’ to rely on, he’d freeze.

It would have been proper to suggest that he lacked a certain amount of ‘street smarts’—the sort that were usually developed with the help of one’s social skills, most likely. And it was admittedly more or less depressing, considering he’d been raised in a particular area of the north-eastern United States that was never without an overabundance of people to experience. But he also had an unending desire to fill his head with knowledge (the specifics of which were rarely important to him). More often than not, it was collected from paper—thousands and thousands of pages littered with tiny black letters—sometimes for hours at a time (though this had been much more common when he had actually had the time to do so, now it was simply if and when he had the chance).

As much sense as it didn’t make, with Clarence being the sort of fellow that he was and Texas being the sort of place that is was, it never once occurred to him that leaving the city to offer his skills to the hard working people of the South might actually be a poor decision. The journey to Armadillo was without a doubt one of the longest and most intriguing trips he’d ever endured; though he wasn’t much for talking with other people, that didn’t stop him from observing them along the way—carefully, of course, so as not to seem rude. The scenery, while not too different throughout a greater majority of the country, was perhaps his favourite indulgence while traveling. In the city, there were not many trees; there were no rolling hills or exquisite plant-life decorating the land, and as a result the lack of fauna was severely obvious. But this? This was refreshing.

The young doctor managed to keep his chin up for a grueling first week in Armadillo, but upon the arrival of the second, he couldn’t help but acknowledge the disappointment tugging at his sleeves. Life out here—or down here… he really wasn’t sure which would be the correct choice—was tough. It was uncomfortable, unsettling, unfamiliar… and Goddamn it, it was dirty! Initially he’d been anxious to become acquainted with his residence-of-sorts. As childish as it was, the idea that he was meant to look after something—no matter how temporary the arrangement may have been—made him feel somehow less invisible. But the instant he saw the condition of …well, everything in the building, he was wishing he had the ability to make himself invisible. He couldn’t say for sure whether the townsfolk took things such as hygiene and all-around cleanliness seriously, but a doctor’s dwelling was certainly no place for blood-stained bedding!

He’d been hurrying to rid the examining area of dust (which always seemed to be present regardless of how vigilant his door-watching habits were) for a man in need of medical attention when suddenly the man lost his [remaining] patience and struck him across the face. Beyond shocked but not stupid enough to ignore the man, Clarence put an end to his fussing and began to patch him up. It was difficult to comprehend that he’d been treated in such a manner for attempting to be helpful, but he wouldn’t dare say anything; the only indication that he’d been hurt was his reddened cheek - which was beyond eager to bruise.

That’d been several days ago, by the looks of his cheek (which was still somewhat tender to the touch)… incidentally, it’d also been the first time he realised that he wasn’t working exclusively with honest people. It’d frightened him, to say the least, knowing that by removing a bullet from the body of an unknown person, he could be helping a man to murder more people than he would ever know. But he tried not to think about it for the most part, rather, he busied himself with other things. Only some of them qualified as productive.

Like collecting clean linens, for example! If he couldn’t remove the blood stains from the cot in the doctor’s building, then he might as well cover them. His patients didn’t deserve such unsanitary conditions. Of course, in the amount of time it took to walk from his building to the General Store and be directed to the Saloon, someone had managed to accumulate some sort of injury. Though frustrated, because he could have sworn he’d placed a note on the door informing the sickly of his brief absence—in his rush back to the building, he’d failed to notice the very same note fluttering aimlessly with the wind—he couldn’t help but worry about the man and his possible ailments.

“Yes, yes! Terribly sorry, sir! I only stepped out for a minute,” he spoke, though a majority of his announcement was muffled by the bundled sheets he held close to his chest. “Do come in,” he continued, paying absolutely no mind to the fact that the other had already been inside, and instead moved past him to find an appropriate place to store the linens and afterwards to gather a variety of supplies. “You can set your things on the table just there… I’ll be right with you.”

It wasn’t long before he returned to the man, though.

naga The moment someone came rushing back into the doctor’s office, Jack allowed himself exhale the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. For a moment, a brief panic had begun to set in—what if no one was here? What if he had to try and patch this damned wound by himself? What if there were still bullet fragments in there? The last time he had to do that by himself he made a horrid mess of it! Thankfully it was in his leg, so it was easier to see, but his shoulder? That had to be something close to impossible.

But thankfully a doctor had come back in, rummaging around with something or another in his arms. What it was Jack couldn’t be sure thanks to the vision around the corners of his eyes going a little dark. While it was beginning to grow colder outside, the harshness of the terrain still left much to be desired, and a combination of over-exertion and too little water was getting to him. Oh yeah, and the blood loss. And the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything yet today. Jesus, what the hell was he doing with himself? Jack could almost hear his father’s lecturing, as if he were standing right there: Why are you going and acting like a goddamned fool? Who in the Hell are you trying to impress?

“It’s all right,” he managed to mutter after a couple of delayed seconds, trying desperately to find something to lean on, opting to go for the wall and simply lean on that. That worked for now. As for the matter of things to set down… he groaned at the thought of moving his shoulder enough to take off the bandolier set around his torso along with the holster for his rifle. Not to mention the rifle itself.

Telling himself not to curse, Jack managed to unclip the bandolier and set it on the table after he got his equilibrium back. “I don’t know how bad it is, but a gunshot nicked my shoulder…” He tried to explain, frowning as his brain began to grow fuzzy. “I think I’ve lost a little too much blood,” he added as a bit of an afterthought as he managed to finally get his holster and rifle off. Next would be tackling the damned duster he had on. Judging by how warm and sticky his shoulder was feeling by now, he was glad that the material was a dark grey and wouldn’t show the blood as much. His shirt underneath, however? Yeah, that was probably ruined.

Even if he was trying to be a frontiersman or sorts, Jack still cared about such things. His mother managed to pound that much into his skull from a very early age. Hygiene, grooming, well taken care of clothing… all of that was important to him. And the thought of losing another damned shirt to blood stains? Quite frankly it was depressing. Oh well. Too late now, he’d gotten himself into the mess and would have to deal with every single consequence of it.

crematorium Watching silently as his patient-to-be unclipped, unfastened and peeled away layers of clothing, weaponry and various accessories, he couldn’t help but observe that this wasn’t typical of the gunfight mishaps he was used to dealing with thus far. This man was polite, and seemed to take some amount of pride in his appearance… but really, he wasn’t about to pass any form of judgment on another for something as simple as their own sense of self (especially not in a time like this, as it wasn’t exactly convenient). As ridiculous as it was to think that a doctor—someone that should’ve been used to seeing things of the sort—could get so wrapped up in trivial matters, the reality of the situation sat mostly in the fact that he was never entirely sure he could properly fix the problems at hand. It was unsettling to see people in pain, and it was no different now!

“Please, have a seat and I’ll take a look,” seeing as how the man was currently positioned against the wall, however, Clarence wasn’t particularly sure that moving would be at the top of his agenda. But rather than stand around impatiently like some sort of imbecile, he inched over shyly and offered his assistance to the other by way of shoulder. Though he couldn’t sympathise with the weakness that came along with blood-loss, he understood the reasons behind it. “Would it be too much trouble to ask you to remove your shirt? I’d like to clean the wound before I… Sorry.”

Truthfully, he wasn’t quite certain he understood what he was apologising for; he already had his equipment gathered (with the water he’d use to rinse the other’s wound being the only real exception)… he wasn’t wasting the man’s time. He still took a moment to step away and gather what he hadn’t yet unpacked in the main room of the building, giving the other whatever pseudo-privacy he could possibly need.

naga A seat. Right. Jack looked over to where he could shuffle himself over too sit down and let out a breath of discontentment at the thought. He’d ridden a horse all the way here, helped a woman off that horse too, and walked all the way here… one would think he’d be able to handle something as short distance as this! But for some reason he was faltering, his stomach twisting and flipping in his body. He’d only been injured once like this before, where the blood loss made him dizzy. But he’d been in the woman’s position that time, with someone else to help cart him around and make life easier. No more though.

Depressing thoughts weren’t helping him feel any more able to tackle what small and few tasks he had too accomplish in this little doctor’s office. So he opted to shut them down in favour of focusing purely on the here and now; especially when the doctor apologised out of the blue, causing Jack to look up and over with a look of mild confusion. “Uh, no… no trouble at all. Just need a moment to get my bearings back,” he muttered softly. And with that he pushed himself up from against the wall, making his way to sit down, gladly taking the offered help. While he used to have an issue with too much pride, his inability to handle anything done by himself for a time swiftly beat that out of his skull. Besides, it would be rude to turn the doctor away for doing his job—a profession built around helping people.

“Thanks,” he breathed out once he was settled. Now for the matter of the shirt. Right. Pulling off his duster and chucking it aside with is good arm, he frowned at the sight of the blood pooling in the shoulder of the light fabric. Once more Jack refused to curse as he set his hat aside and undid the top few buttons of the shirt before tugging it up and off. While he wasn’t a huge fan of showing anything of himself to anyone, having been raised around little to no bear skin whatsoever and too little human contact outside of his family, this was no time to be bashful for crying out loud. The man was a doctor! Again, this was his job.

Looking at the wound, he was relieved to see that the damage seemed to be minimal, just a matter of the skin being nicked and bleeding too much. Thank God. The last thing he needed was a severe trauma to send him right back to West Elizabeth to meander around aimlessly with his thoughts for the next few months while he healed. Not that this wouldn’t take time to heal, but he wasn’t going back up there. Not unless he had to.

crematorium In the rear portion of the building where a great deal of the supplies were kept—ones that he used and also those that were for sale to those that wished to purchase them—Clarence had also neatly arranged the small spread of items he had come prepared with. In his experience, it was almost always best to have clean water on hand or close by; there were several ways to obtain it, but in most cases it was easiest to simply boil it. However, the current reason for his having a kettle of water already bubbling could not be explained by the Wounded’s presence. When he’d set out to gather his linens earlier, he had not counted on returning to company.

It was all the same in the end though, as he found it in himself to sacrifice what might have been the start of a cup of tea to pour a warm bowl of water instead. Quickly, he located a few rags and several other supplies—tightly rolled bandages, tincture of iodine and a gentle soap of sorts (most everything else was kept up front in his personal ‘kit’)—and returned to the main room, only to find that the other had successfully exposed his shoulder for examining.

After freeing his hands (he had set his things down on the table occupied by the stranger’s guns, but he’d made a conscious effort to avoid making contact with them), he grabbed and neatly wet one of the rags, then proceeded to wring it out so as to eliminate as much of the excess water as he could. Most people didn’t exactly enjoy receiving medical attention… and while he couldn’t say for sure that it had anything to do with a bad experience involving doctors and near-drowning, he figured it wouldn’t exactly be appreciated if he ruined the rest of the man’s clothing by soaking them in water. “I’m going to clean it up a bit,” he offered in explanation as he secured the afflicted arm in a delicate grip, manipulating the limb to get a better look at his shoulder.

Within the first few minutes of dabbing gingerly at the torn skin, the doctor made a small sound—perhaps a positive indication, or a suggestion that he was preparing to say something?—it wasn’t the most distinguishable of noises.

“It’s… not so bad, at least not as bad as it must feel. You’re lucky,” and how? Clarence had never been shot, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine what it felt like—in all honesty, it wasn’t something he wanted to devote too much time or energy to even thinking about. But the suggestion had been reassuring in nature; ‘you’re lucky it wasn’t any deeper’, perhaps. The human shoulder wasn’t a significantly meaty area, after all, and had the bullet done any more than graze his skin… well, it was best not to think about that.

naga Jack kept silent while the doctor tended to his things then promptly began tending to his shoulder. He’d never been the best at small talk, even with his family, often preferring to either delver fully into his work or his books. Conversation didn’t really come easily to him, especially not these days. The last time he made a decided effort at conversation was well over four years ago. And even then it’d been a stretch! But no matter. He supposed it wasn’t entirely expected for a patient to converse with their doctor, right? Or was it? The last doctor he’d seen spoke only Spanish, so it wasn’t as if they could converse, even if he’d wanted to.

Lucky, the doctor said. Yeah, he was lucky all right. Jack sighed inwardly and pushed the notion of True Luck away before replying, “Yeah, I know there’s a major artery of some kind around there. A few inches down and I’d be a dead man, I’m sure.” Not that he was doubting this man’s medical ability, but fixing a busted artery was a nightmare of a process, and even if the bleeding could the stopped and the wound taken care of, he’d likely die of infection anyway. Armadillo wasn’t exactly the cleanest and most wise of towns… though this man didn’t look familiar. And it was then, when Jack finally allowed himself to look at the other man, that he realised he wasn’t familiar at all. Not even from around town. Armadillo wasn’t the biggest of towns either, so that could only mean one thing.

Wincing a bit as the cloth hit a tender area, he finally spoke up, “You new around here? I haven’t seen your face before.” Even being from West Elizabeth predominantly, he spent enough time in New Austin to know the faces. Jack just wished he’d gotten the chance to know Leigh Johnson, the old Marshall of Armadillo, before he retired. That was a man he wanted to ask questions of… but that was neither here nor there. This doctor probably wouldn’t have even heard the name. And hopefully he wouldn’t know the name Marston either. Not unless the man was a former police officer or some kind, then he might’ve heard of it.

crematorium “There are two,” the information wasn’t especially important, but the thought that he hadn’t been the one to mention it in the first place left him in a mild state of shock. He wasn’t dull enough to believe that Armadillo was a town of illiterate people, stumbling about with no knowledge of the world they lived in, but it wasn’t very often (though he hadn’t been in town long enough to say for sure) he encountered someone that volunteered to do some of the talking for him. “…m-major arteries. The Axillary artery,” in a small series of feather-light touches, he’d moved a hand towards the other’s arm - where the connecting joint was located, ghosting along the flesh that was indistinguishable from that of his upper chest. After a short pause, he shifted his attention to a point just above the man’s collarbone, where he’d tap once before returning to the more important wound. “And the Subclavian artery… But I am inclined to believe it depends most on whether this was a skillfully executed shot or simply an example of luck.”

He’d been just about ready to begin disinfecting the wound when the subject of familiarity and his general business in town was brought about. It was something he never felt entirely comfortable talking about—not because he wasn’t proud of himself, or because he had issues with his upbringing or some scandalous affairs to shake from his conscience—but because talking in general was not a strength of his. This man was not pressing, and didn’t seem to be threatening—though it was obvious he had more than enough potential to be—so it seemed proper to at least consider making some sort of effort. Even if it only meant making small talk.

“I’ve only been in town for about a week and a half now. I came in from New York.” In a way, he felt silly actually saying it, but it was probably obvious that he was an ‘out-of-towner’ regardless of whether he admitted it or not. “I apologise for not introducing myself earlier…” while it wasn’t exactly the ideal time to offer a hand to the other, he still offered his name, using the spared time to begin disinfecting the wound. “MacKinnon, Clarence… this might sting a bit, actually.”

naga Watching as the other man traced over locations of the various arteries that were of importance, making note to memorise their placement in future. Couldn’t hurt to know, right? That way he could try and avoid being shot there, right along with getting shot in the head, heart, a few of the organs, and his upper thighs—they also included some big and painful arteries that would make bleeding to death exceedingly simple. Especially if he was stuck in the middle of nowhere where no doctor could help him; that would be the last thing he needed. It was just a shame how easily something like that could happen out here, in New Austin. Or the north-western parts of West Elizabeth. What a depressing thought—how easy it was to die out here, even if all you wanted to do was do some good in the world. Jack sighed.

“I think the guy was aiming for my head, actually, but I was runnin’ around too much for him to get a clear shot,” he said with a bit of a chuckle, trying to make light of the situation. Being shot wasn’t usually something he had to deal with, not unless he stuck his nose in business that wasn’t his own, much like what he did today. That was more of his father’s business, but Jack wasn’t about to delve too deeply into that line of thought. He did it often, unfortunately, and found himself falling deeper and deeper into this feeling of depression and despair. Which was what had him doing stupid shit like going into gang hideouts to try and rescue damsels in distress! Or whatever. It sounded like something out of an awful book he read once.

Either way, the doctor was from out of town, and Jack couldn’t stop his brows from rising at the thought of coming all the way here from New York. Chuckling soon at the apology for the lack of introductions, he would have shrugged it off if he had the ability, but he really didn’t want to move his shoulder at all right now—not while the doctor was still poking around in the area. “Don’t worry about it,” he wasn’t exactly in the state for introductions when he first arrived. He was too dizzy and light-headed to be bothered. But now that he was sitting he was feeling a bit more able to handle them. “Jack Marston. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he figured talking through the stinging sensation would make it easier to deal with, which it did, so he just kept going for it—he’d really never been the best at dealing with pain of any kind. Again, that was more in his father’s line of work.

“I always wanted to go see New York,” he began again, remembering it all too well, “back when I was a kid. Must’ve been a boring as hell train ride here though.” Jack couldn’t stand being on a train for longer than the trip from Manzanita Post to MacFarlane’s Ranch. Any farther than that and he felt claustrophobic and got a little twitchy.

crematorium Had Jack explained that he’d acquired his wound in an effort to rescue a woman being held against her will by a local gang, Clarence wouldn’t have thought to doubt him. At least not verbally, lest he wish for a tense moment of silence, followed abruptly by an equally unsettling sensation of guilt for having spoken out of turn. It wasn’t wrong to have an opinion—surely he had several of his own outlandish ideas—but if it happened to be an opinion that wasn’t relevant to the situation, then it certainly was wrong to have shared it in the first place. Not only that, but if Jack were to offer an insight to anything, it wouldn’t be an opinion to debate. Besides, he was a city boy… It was only natural to view the goings-on of Armadillo and its neighbouring lands as something almost surreal, where the rough-and-tumble thrived and Cowboys and Indians (though ‘and Scoundrels’ seemed much more appropriate) was something of a lifestyle.

“Blessed be the bad shots, in that case, and their appalling aim,” though he couldn’t for the life of him understand how (or why, for that matter) the other had maintained such a calm outward appearance, it wasn’t something he was about to discourage. It was typical to make jokes in varied states of unease (for whatever reason, he’d never found that to be confusing, as he understood it to be a coping mechanism), but something about being shot struck him as worthy of qualifying as more than just a state of ‘unease’. He knew for a fact that if their roles were switched that very instant, he’d be so far gone [in a manner of ‘freaking out’] that his hysterics would more than likely prevent any doctor from getting at whatever injuries he’d accumulated. But again, that was just due to his being unfamiliar with the lifestyle.

He worked quickly and carefully, grabbing the small bottle labeled ‘tincture of iodine’ and uncapping it to place drops of the extract throughout the wound. Once the cap had found its way back to the bottle, Clarence shifted his gaze from Jack’s shoulder to his face. “Apparently, quite a few people do,” he smiled softly, not at all regretting his decision to leave. He’d never been very fond of the amount of people… though he supposed there was no escaping it, really. People needed other people to survive. “I didn’t mind the train ride. It certainly was lengthy, I’ll give you that much. I suppose there isn’t much to do if you haven’t something to read or someone to talk to,” looking over his shoulder to glance at the table, the doctor contemplated the numerous articles of shed clothing and assorted gunwhatsits. “It doesn’t exactly look like you have much room to be carrying reading materials around with you, of course.”

And then, hesitantly, after putting two and two (a certain dislike for riding on trains, all the handy holsters for making weaponry easier to carry around) together… “Do you have a horse?”

naga Once upon a time, perhaps a few years ago, Jack might have bragged about the deed he’d done. He would’ve gone on and on about how it was like something off of the page of a book! But eternally humbling and depressing events that had happened in those last few years effectively made Jack the type to never talk about much of anything. What was the point? Sure, one man might see him in a different light as opposed to simply assuming he was some gunslinger, shooting his gun off for little to no reason… but why should he even care about another man’s opinion? Even if this man were a lawman, as opposed to a doctor, he wouldn’t have said anything. Hell, he would’ve said even less. Jack had little to no respect for them—plenty were good, yes, but even more were the worst this land could ever make.

Jack managed a chuckle at what the other man said. Yeah, bless those fools and their terrible aim. And thank whatever God that may or may not exist that his own aim had gotten somewhat better over the years. His composure was also something that had developed over time—he used to have a freak out almost every single time he got hurt one way or another, but living with two of the toughest parents to ever exist? Yeah. That was another thing that was nagged out of him one way or another over time. Now? Now he couldn’t even give a damn. Pain was just another reminder that he was still alive, rather than wandering in a constant dream. Or would it be a nightmare? He wasn’t sure.

Looking back at the doctor with the talk of New York and train rides, he was surprised that anyone could enjoy such a long journey, until books were brought up. All of a sudden a somewhat wistful expression came upon his face as it was mentioned that he likely didn’t have much room in his life for books. No, he didn’t. Not any more. There was one favourite book of his still stashed away in his pack that was secured tightly to his horse, but that was it. He hadn’t read anything new in ages.

It wasn’t until said horse was mentioned that he snapped back to attention somewhat and he rolled his eyes at himself for getting lost in his lamentation. “Yeah, she’s hitched outside. Along with the one book I’ve been able to keep my hands on for a while: Jules Vernes’ From the Earth to the Moon.” Knowing that even in savvy readers’ hands, most people didn’t care for fantasy or fiction one way or another, it was all Jack could handle reading. If he wanted real life, he’d live it. But fantasy? Now that was something worth sitting down and getting lost in. “I used to love reading his Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea too, but the day I realised I’d probably never see the ocean, I put it away and just kept taking From the Earth to the Moon with me. One day I’ll get around to reading the sequel, I guess.”

Maybe. If he could ever find it in Blackwater.

crematorium “Around the Moon? I’m afraid I’ve only managed to read some of Les Voyages Extraordinaires.” In any other circumstance, he would have felt foolish discussing ‘stories’ so fondly with other grown men. But it wasn’t as though he’d been the one to suggest the aforementioned titles in the first place, and being prompted to discuss something was quite a bit different than absently bringing a topic into play. Quite frankly, he was surprised to have something in common with the man—not that it was a bad thing… personally, he would have thought of it as being much more ‘endearing’, if anything other than something to simply talk about.

Having grown up with a general dislike for activities typical of his own age-group, it was often easier for him to spend his time alone [with books], reading about various lives he’d prefer to have. Reading had always supplied him with a distinct, unconditional feeling of comfort—one that his mother and father failed to give him whenever his reaction to receiving attention from girls was ‘improper’. Though as he grew older and developed more specific (‘mature’) interests as well as an awfully intense passion for science, his taste in literature shifted dramatically from fiction to textbook-style material. The day he discovered that both science and fiction could be combined between the same two covers was a particularly happy day, to say the least.

He never grew out of the skittish behaviour that had so often been the cause of Mother’s scoldings and long, embarrassing talks with his father. Even currently, he caught himself treating perfectly polite women coldly simply because he didn’t care to amuse them with conversation. When he actually took the time to contemplate the situation, he ended up pushing it (and all thoughts of it) aside moments later out of frustration. It was distressing! He wasn’t a rude person, and that certainly wasn’t his aim. He could sound so precise and intelligent when speaking to women, but any time he encountered a man it was as if he were suddenly transformed into a bumbling idiot. Perhaps it had to do with nerves… he didn’t exactly take up a lot of space (he’d never had a problem with being short) and he wasn’t very intimidating (but then, he’d never had much use for such tactics)—unless his being a doctor counted (but it didn’t, at least not in a fist-fight). There were more than enough ‘perhapses’ to carry on for hours without stopping, but it was unlikely that any of it would ever amount to anything.

“Do you ever…” Clarence eventually spoke up, not entirely sure he even understood why he wanted to ask another question in the first place. “…you know, read to her? Your horse, I mean.” He’d seen plenty of horses, and it was possible that he had ridden one several years ago… but it wasn’t something he actively remembered. In all honesty, he was somewhat afraid of the creatures—it was a fear based on respect, of course, but he just had trouble understanding how something so large and powerful could have such a kind, docile demeanour. Of course, some horses had wild spirits and tended to misbehave like mice craved cheese, but he wasn’t so much concerned with individual personalities as he was with the fact that… well, he didn’t quite understand them. “Sorry, that was rather ridiculous. Horses are probably more sophisticated than that… fond of etiquette or law, I’ll bet.”

naga Jack couldn’t hide the bit of surprise he felt when the other man admitted he’d read anything else at all! Obviously he was a doctor, so he had to value books and learning more than the average man, of course, but fiction was a completely different story. The only people who hadn’t mocked him (in a truly mean way) for reading them had been his parents. They had teased, obviously, but Jack didn’t hold that against them. It was a completely different thing for them… just like hearing the stories of the things his dad used to do. That used to be a completely different world to him. And now look at what he’d gone and done with his life! Gone down almost exactly the same route; so much for going out east and daydreaming of going to a university to make something better of himself.

Still, talking about books for a change was nice. It was a positive subject for him, one that didn’t come with any baggage and didn’t have to remain so neutral that he could never connect with anyone. Not that he ever really tried. Jack’s own awkwardness around people, regardless of their gender, never abated over the years. With a healthy serving of both humility and depression, the previous having been smacked into his head by his father (who was better than him in everything he did), and the latter coming from losing both his parents and Uncle so suddenly and under such terrible circumstances… yeah. He really didn’t feel too obliged when it came to socialising or making more friends that he’d likely lose anyway!

But then came the talk of reading to his horse, and Jack considered his answer, wondering if being honest might make him look insane to this man… but once the joke came along next he felt far more at ease once he’d let out an amused laugh. “Sometimes I wonder with the kind of horses people bring up around here.” He’d met horses with all kinds of different personalities. Some were stuck up as all hell, nipping and biting at anyone who wasn’t their primary master, others were trained so much that their very walk was a performance, a show almost. Their gate and stance were so beyond ridiculous… what was the point in training a horse to walk like that? The ones Jack attempted to raise were so much more down to earth and, you know, practical. The kind that people could actually use to travel and work with. The MacFarlanes seemed to appreciate that much, at least.

“To answer your question though,” he began again, still with a bit of hesitation in his tone, even if the laugh had calmed him somewhat, “I do sometimes. Helps the illusion that there’s someone else actually there every now and then.” It was a simple, honest answer. The kind someone else might make if they were in his shoes. People often travelled alone and people often got lonely. The only difference for Jack was that even if he went home, apart from the man he’d hired to help mind the ranch and ensure it kept running smoothly enough… he’d be returning to an empty, lonely place. Though he was sure plenty of other people knew the same feeling, he doubted that many of them saw their own father murdered in such cold blood, along with a family friend, only to have their mother die of heartbreak from it mere years later.

God… he was a bitter man, wasn’t he? Jack frowned inwardly and made a concentrated effort to stop thinking about it. Might be worth heading back to West Elizabeth soon. Just… just to get all this out of his system and do something productive with his time.

crematorium “I think a horse would count as someone else if it were particularly important. She has a name,” at this point, it may have felt as though the doctor was carrying on for the sake of hearing himself speak—the longer he spoke to Jack, the more his interest in learning about him seemed to grow—still, he hadn’t meant to drone on and on. “…right?”

For something made out to be as simple as plain conversation, it often proved itself to be an ultimate distraction. Clarence had long since finished disinfecting Jack’s shoulder and had been more than intent on tidying up his work, but each and every time he made a move to thread the needle (which he’d kept tucked away for various reasons), he found himself turning his attention away from the increasingly tedious task and saying something he eventually wished he could rephrase.

“I’m almost finished, Mr. Marston—sir—but I’d like to request that you stay in town overnight. Please, don’t feel compelled to do so if it isn’t something you’re comfortable with,” his main concern at that point was helping to replenish the man’s blood supply. There wasn’t much he could do in reference to the produce that was available locally and therefore offering edibles (that weren’t already there) in exchange for a promise of consumption was rendered more or less useless… What he could do, though, was advise the other to rest and eat as often as possible.

“And if you happen to be nearby in the next 10 to 14 days, don’t hesitate to drop by. Otherwise, please remember to get it looked at elsewhere if you can.” It took him practically forever to get the needle threaded, sure, but he wasn’t as shaky when it came to doing the actual job. “Ah, sorry to be a pain, sir… but will you please hold this? No! No, no, don’t watch… unless you want to, of course.” He’d handed Jack a magnifying glass in hopes that he’d be able to assist in the artful process of finding a proper place for the first suture. The doctor realised his mistake shortly after, however, when it became evident that Jack would need to turn slightly to look at his wound in order to determine where to hold the magnifying glass.

“I’ll just move the lamp closer.” And once he did just that, it didn’t take him long to begin closing the thankfully shallow gunshot wound.

naga Jack managed a smile as the good doctor brought up a very good point: yes, his horse had a name. He would have never thought of a doctor caring to converse about such things, however, so the fact that Clarence did so was very… strange. In a good way. “Oh yeah, she has a name. I named her Ava after I finally broke her. Took longer than it usually does to break a wild horse, but she’s been amazing ever since.” So he supposed it was all well and good to consider her company. It was just a shame that she could never talk back. Oh if only that part of the world of fantasy were true. Then again, if half of the things that happened in his books really happened in reality, he supposed his life would be a hell of a lot better.

As for the wound, he was glad the conversation had distracted him, because any and all pain from the gunshot itself had long since faded. Now it was the sickly, dizzy feeling that had him feeling less then 100 percent. Which, as Clarence brought up the notion of staying overnight, had him realising that yeah… it’d be pretty dumb to try and ride back to Beecher’s Hope tonight. He’d been intending on heading back in the next few days, but he really didn’t feel up for the journey. He wasn’t even sure he could handle the ride up to MacFarlane’s Ranch. His father would probably be able to make it, but he’d done everything he possibly could to ensure his son didn’t get so tough. Bastard.

Quickly biting his lip and chastising himself for thinking so harshly of his father, who really had just been trying his best to keep his son away from the negative aspects of that kind of life, he once more told his brain to shut up and stop thinking. It was probably the loss of blood and lack of food that had him thinking such strange things so frequently. Luckily the doctor continued to speak and Jack snapped back to reality to pay attention. Though he did wonder, 10 to 14 days? Would it take that long to properly heal? Then again, the last real gunshot he’d suffered took months to heal, so that didn’t actually sound like that much time.

When handed a magnifying glass, however, he couldn’t help but grin. “I love these things,” he commented more to himself than the other man as he looked it over before happily looking at his shoulder as well. It wasn’t so bad. Grievous wounds were the ones that made him feel sick to his stomach, but this was nothing! Hence why he chuckled at Clarence’s stuttering over the matter. “Ah, it’s no problem. I stitched myself up once before, and that was after actually getting shot in the leg. This isn’t so bad, and you’re stitching it up a hell of a lot better than I ever could.” Then again, he’d also had shaky hands and was fighting the urge to be sick the whole time. Ah well. His leg didn’t end up falling off, so it turned out all right.

“I’ll probably stick around for a while though. I live up in West Elizabeth, but I’ve been out and about trying to hunt and just, you know, get away from the ranch for a while before I go crazy.” It was too quiet without his parents’ bickering and Uncle’s rambling. Not to mention Rufus… he missed Rufus. Maybe he should get another dog. That might actually do him some good. Course it would be another companion that couldn’t ever talk back, but who didn’t love dogs? Honestly!

crematorium “Ava… How incredibly appropriate.” But Clarence was an awkward man—perhaps not so much so when it came to the way he practiced medicine (he couldn’t recall having been told to only discuss such things with his patients, though). And while it may have not been his intent, it was most definitely apparent that he hadn’t quite established a likable method of alternative behaviour.

It wasn’t that he’d experienced any one example of trauma enough to know exactly how things would work out in the end—or what sort of influence they would have on a person’s body—but by using the evaluations he made as he went along as guidelines, it was easier to judge things on a more specific level. Like how long it might take Jack’s shoulder to heal, for example. It didn’t seem all that terrible for being what it was, but the fact that in stitching the flesh together, he was essentially making multiple small wounds and introducing an unfamiliar substance to Jack’s body meant that it was essential to give it all the time it needed to heal. As clean as everything might have been, it wasn’t too helpful to be riding miles on horseback and sleeping in the middle of nowhere on an empty stomach.

“My God, you’ve been shot before?” He didn’t look up from what he was doing, as it would have been stupid at this point, but the expression on his face did change from a rather calm one to something suggesting quite a bit more shock. Of course, when Jack mentioned that he’d been shot in the leg, Clarence immediately pictured him trying to retrieve a bullet with a twig or something equally as outdoorsy. “Maybe you should reconsider this hunting idea of yours,” he’d said the same thing to a man several days ago… he’d come in after being attacked by a wolf, and admittedly, it had been somewhat difficult to contain his amusement. Somehow though, he had trouble doubting Jack.

“You own a ranch? What’s that like?”

naga Knowing exactly why he named his horse Ava, Jack always felt embarrassed offering the reasoning—after all, how many people named their horse a variant of their mother’s name? It was an obscure relation, yes, but the horse had such a fiery passion and Jack relied on her so much… it seemed only fitting to honour his mother in a very simple and almost mundane way. After all, all she’d wanted for him was a simple and mundane life. She wanted him to have what she never did, and it seemed like a good idea at the time, but so few people would understand that. Hell, people were still split on how to think of his father: was he a criminal or a hero? Being named John Marston Jr. had its benefits and downfalls all wrapped up in one confusing as hell package.

“Oh yeah, I’ve been shot before. This is really nothing compared to the first bullet I took.” Being shot in the leg wasn’t a pleasant experience and it had shaken him considerably. The pain of it was comparable to being mauled by a bear, though the latter was still more frightening and life changing. Still, one couldn’t exactly shrug off the first time they were shot. He was certain if he’d asked his father about it, he wouldn’t have forgotten the first time either. When being shot was brought back to hunting, however, he just chuckled and shook his head. “Nah, hunting’s the safest thing I do. It’s the fact that I try to do good things and help people… and the local gangs don’t exactly take too kindly to that.” Not to mention the duels. God he was sick of duelling. But that was the negative part of being the son of a famous gunslinger in these parts.

As for owning a ranch, Jack couldn’t stop the long, drawn out sigh that came from thinking about it. His shoulders wanted to slump in response as well, but he made a concentrated effort not to move his shoulder at that moment. Either way, the verbal answer was all too clear and easy to offer, “It’s boring.” Jack was good when it came to hunting and trading skins, as well as breaking and training horses. But the farming aspect he was completely and utterly terrible at. He hadn’t the foggiest clue as to what he was doing, despite trying to read up on the subject. He’d asked for the MacFarlane’s help more times than he could count, but he was still struggling. Luckily they were good business partners and always seemed happy to buy his horses. With Drew MacFarlane getting on in years and Bonnie having only just gotten married, it seemed that buying their horses was simply an easier thing to do these days than to do everything themselves.

Yeah, it was boring. But it was all that his parents had ever wanted and he wasn’t going to abandon it, regardless of how depressing the place was these days. “Boring, but it’s honest work, at the very least.” Honest work for a man who hadn’t had a day’s worth of formal education one way or another. He was just as lucky as he was cursed in that regard.

crematorium Now, when Jack had stated that Ava had been difficult to break, Clarence hadn’t assumed that the horse’s fiery personality and name combined were an allusion to the man’s deceased mother. Rather, he’d decided upon a more simple meaning—possibly Persian in origin—voice or sound (while not necessarily the same sort of ‘voice’ he told himself it was, it still made an awfully nice mental connection).

“Oh, I see. Then maybe you shouldn’t… How exactly does that work? If you don’t mind my asking, that is. I just find it odd that a gang would care to go around looking for people doing good deeds. Do they hide in churches?” There had been gangs in New York, and there were stories in the newspaper about their recent doings (or at least there were the last time he’d actually read a newspaper in New York), but it never sounded as psychotic and disorganised as the crime he’d encountered since arriving in Armadillo. Cannibals (of course, this may have just been a myth, but he’d heard at least two separate accounts), spontaneous horse-thieves, random duels (apparently that wasn’t considered criminal activity)… None of it really made sense to him. But then, it didn’t have to so long as it wasn’t his job to chase it out of town.

“Hm,” Clarence had kept a small window garden once before. Once. It’d been a neat little thing, not all comparable to the monstrous jungles his grandfather was known to grow (for one thing, he was working with mere window-space, not an entire yard). He’d doted on the tiny plants from the very moment they sprouted until the day they were brown and shriveled, and no amount of water could moisten their leaves. But had he been expected to care for crops and look after chickens, it was very likely that the entire plot of land would succumb to numerous unspeakable disasters. …he might be capable of caring for one chicken, but only if it had just hatched and wouldn’t mind being kept in a coat pocket from time to time. “So it’s not exactly your profession of choice. That’s understandable.”

After making and knotting the last stitch in Jack’s shoulder, Clarence moved to grab the rolled bandages he’d brought to the front of the building prior to cleaning the wound. He spent a moment arranging some of the material in a way so that the freshly-stitched flesh would be provided with a small amount of padding, and then went about wrapping it up—though not too tightly, as he wouldn’t want to restrict blood flow!

naga Now here was the perfect opportunity for Jack to explain himself, and not mind so much that it emphasised his complete clumsiness when it came to such matters of heroism and daring life! Why did he not mind so much? Because it was humorous and might actually get another smile or laugh going—and that was a worthwhile thing. It didn’t sting so much if Jack could laugh about it. “See, now there’s the thing… they don’t come lookin’ for me, it’s that I’m not the best at going about these things. I mean, this shoulder wound? I got it because I was on their territory. Walton’s Gang, they’re based just out of Twin Rocks to the north of here, right?” Chuckling to himself as he recollected, he shook his head at himself as he went through it step by step in his own mind and narrated only the important parts. “I heard they’d kidnapped some poor girl, and that just ain’t right, so I rode in, managed to knock back two of the men standing guard, then snuck around back to climb in a window to get her.”

And that was where he made his fatal mistake. “After cutting her free, I told her to get out and go for the hills while I distracted the rest of the men. I’m not the most graceful thing on the planet, I got that oafish nature from my Pa, so I… uh, got their attention a little too quickly and got shot before I could duck under cover.” Jack managed another chuckle before offering a sigh of resignation, in a sense. He wasn’t very good at this sort of thing. Hell, he wasn’t very good at anything other than shooting things now. He was a good hunter and a damn fine duellist thanks to all the practice. But running a ranch and being a hero? Nope. Not his strongest suits. Those titled still belonged to his father. “So no, they don’t come looking for do gooders. I’m just not the best at foiling their plots.” As if they were dastardly men from some book and he was the idiotic hero. Dime novel rubbish.

Oh well. But Clarence did hit the other nail on the head. Running a ranch wasn’t his chosen profession in the slightest. He’d imagined it completely different when he was a kid… when his father finally came back, and just as Jack was accepting the idea that he wasn’t going to disappear again, he figured his parents would happily stay at Beecher’s Hope, work on their perfect little lives, and he would eventually get old enough to up and head out east where he could learn the intricacies of the English language and read countless more books! Then he could actually put proper pen to paper and write something. Like the planned novel of The Day John Marston Stopped Shooting.

As his shoulder was wrapped up, Jack looked at the good work Clarence did. Yeah, he definitely knew what he was doing. The gnarled scar on his leg told him that he had a hell of a lot to learn still about stitches. It likely wouldn’t be the last time he had to stitch himself up… he just got lucky he was close to a doctor this time around. “To think, I wanted to be a writer. And here I am.” Jack couldn’t help the sad tone of his voice. He didn’t mean to bring anything of the sort up, as it wasn’t Clarence’s fault and he probably didn’t even want to hear any of it other than the amusing portions! But Jack was tired, feeling ill and dizzy still from the blood loss, and he just… he was so tired of it all. And he’d only been doing this for barely over a year now! He’d be turning twenty in less than a month—and he was still struggling with it all.

“Thank you for your help,” he said finally, wanting to change the subject quick before he had a chance to wax poetic about his damned life. “I really appreciate it. Trying to stitch that thing up myself would’ve been a nightmare.”

crematorium “Well,” he’d taken Jack’s narration in (word-for-word, actually), and was left (for a lack of better words) without anything of significance to say in response. It wasn’t that he was struggling to establish whether or not the man was telling one hell of a convincing tale—Clarence had already decided that Jack was to be trusted. He couldn’t explain why, but there was just a peculiar sort of naïvety about him that made his chosen pastime seem a little too expertly far-fetched. “Is that what you meant by hunting, then? What do they call it… bounty hunting?”

Though being twenty again was obviously just wishful thinking (he wasn’t that much older, really), he couldn’t ever imagine having gone through what Jack had managed to rack up in experience in the meager two decades he hadn’t even lived through …completely, anyway. As a child, there were times when he’d caught himself wishing his parents weren’t around—though often he took the wishes back shortly after realising there was no way that he could, in good conscience, choose one of them over the other for elimination. Had he been forced to carry on a life, taking on a role of strength and consolation for his own mother after his father had been hunted down and ‘pumped full of lead’ right outside their home? He’d have crumbled, or jumped straight off a bridge… most likely both, in that order.

Of course, not knowing of the other’s past, and being told about his pa (and how oafish he’d been) probably didn’t help the doctor’s imagination [to settle down] any.

“It isn’t necessary to study writing in order to do it!” Clarence had suddenly snapped out of whatever thought he’d been lost in, speaking in a tone that—for the first time—lacked any trailing hesitance or nervous stutter. He was serious. When he realised that he may have came across to Jack as being rude, of course, he immediately hushed himself and stepped down [figuratively]. “What I mean, Mr. Marston… sir, is that when you write, you should write for yourself, and that’s about it. One of the most special things about writing is that it can be done almost anywhere. If you have something to say, don’t use location as an excuse to not say it.” He’d taken note of the difference in the other’s voice, of course, and though he’d wanted to offer a small smile, all that managed to surface was something much more pathetic… while still a smile, it wasn’t exactly the happiest one ever. In a way, it was difficult for Clarence to keep up with everything that was going on; he knew that there were many things he should be doing, but at the same time he felt like nothing he could do would be able to help Jack, ultimately. He could offer to get him something to eat, but he wouldn’t be able to control whether or not he ate after he was out of his care; he could offer him a bed to sleep in, but that had nothing to do with where or how he got his rest after he was gone. It was depressing to a certain degree, but it was reality… it was something he dealt with constantly.

“Not quite a nightmare! I think perhaps the worst mistake you could’ve made is spacing the stitches wrong, but really, it’s something you learn over time… I’ve been doing this for a couple years now—if you’d seen my work when I was just starting, I imagine you’d prefer to do it yourself,” he fidgeted with a bit of left-over bandage until he was forced to set it to the side where he couldn’t toy with it. He wanted desperately to voice all his concerns at once, but knew that if he did, it’d just overwhelm Jack… and that’d be just as pleasant as having to watch him leave.

“Do you have a place to stay for the night?”

CONTINUE?