OOM: Lincoln County, New Mexico, 1878
His hands gripping the reins of the horse Chavez stole from the cavalry, and the feeling of blood and adrenaline rushing through his veins, Doc rides out of town with Yen-Sun's arms wrapped around his waist, his pistol still hot against his thigh, the ache in his left shoulder growing with each pulse of his heart in his chest and each thud of the horse's hooves against packed red earth.
He really needs to stop getting shot.
His mind is racing. Steve's dead. So is Charlie, and Alex. Billy's wounded, bad, and Chavez, he has no idea about. All he knows is that Yen-Sun is alright, and Murphy, the son of a bitch who started this all, is lying face down on a dusty street in front of the smoldering wreckage of the McSween house.
They'd gone there to save Alex, not get him killed.
Doc closes his eyes for the briefest of moments as they ride across the desert, on a trail south, where he knows they can pick up passage on a train eventually and then be out of New Mexico for good. He turns his head to his companion, her eyes wide with fear and concern. The look breaks his heart.
"Yen? Are you alright?"
"Yes, but you," she gingerly touches his shoulder, at the dark stain of blood, and bites her lip when Doc grimaces in pain. "You need a doctor."
"I am a doctor, sweetheart, and it's just a scratch," he lies, pulling up on the horse a bit to slow them down. They're far enough out of town, now, and he doesn't want to wear the animal out in case they send a posse. His arm is beginning to go numb, his fingers heavy. He knows he needs to treat the wound and get some medical attention, but they simply don't have the time.
That evening, when they reach another hole in the wall town, Doc hides his horse behind a barn and helps Yen down. "I'm going to go get some bandages and then I'm going to clean this up," he promises. "I'll be right back. You stay here until I come back, okay?"
She leans up and presses her lips to his cheek, very softly, chaste and shy. "Okay."
Doc smiles, a big, easy smile, then nods his head and fixes his hair a bit. He eyes the scar on his left hand, from the shootout with Buckshot Roberts, the day Dick was killed. The fine lines on his knuckles from years of working cattle and months spent in the saddle in pursuit of the Murphy gang. And now the bullet resting in his left shoulder. He stops to check his guns before he makes his way down the darkened main street of the dusty little cowtown, thankful that his shirt is dark and the blood doesn't show, even if it does hurt like a son of a bitch. He's felt worse pain in his life, in his heart.
He's still smiling as he makes his way into a local saloon, hoping for a stiff drink and a place to wash up a bit...
He really needs to stop getting shot.
His mind is racing. Steve's dead. So is Charlie, and Alex. Billy's wounded, bad, and Chavez, he has no idea about. All he knows is that Yen-Sun is alright, and Murphy, the son of a bitch who started this all, is lying face down on a dusty street in front of the smoldering wreckage of the McSween house.
They'd gone there to save Alex, not get him killed.
Doc closes his eyes for the briefest of moments as they ride across the desert, on a trail south, where he knows they can pick up passage on a train eventually and then be out of New Mexico for good. He turns his head to his companion, her eyes wide with fear and concern. The look breaks his heart.
"Yen? Are you alright?"
"Yes, but you," she gingerly touches his shoulder, at the dark stain of blood, and bites her lip when Doc grimaces in pain. "You need a doctor."
"I am a doctor, sweetheart, and it's just a scratch," he lies, pulling up on the horse a bit to slow them down. They're far enough out of town, now, and he doesn't want to wear the animal out in case they send a posse. His arm is beginning to go numb, his fingers heavy. He knows he needs to treat the wound and get some medical attention, but they simply don't have the time.
That evening, when they reach another hole in the wall town, Doc hides his horse behind a barn and helps Yen down. "I'm going to go get some bandages and then I'm going to clean this up," he promises. "I'll be right back. You stay here until I come back, okay?"
She leans up and presses her lips to his cheek, very softly, chaste and shy. "Okay."
Doc smiles, a big, easy smile, then nods his head and fixes his hair a bit. He eyes the scar on his left hand, from the shootout with Buckshot Roberts, the day Dick was killed. The fine lines on his knuckles from years of working cattle and months spent in the saddle in pursuit of the Murphy gang. And now the bullet resting in his left shoulder. He stops to check his guns before he makes his way down the darkened main street of the dusty little cowtown, thankful that his shirt is dark and the blood doesn't show, even if it does hurt like a son of a bitch. He's felt worse pain in his life, in his heart.
He's still smiling as he makes his way into a local saloon, hoping for a stiff drink and a place to wash up a bit...