Bob and I both had our guns on Sheriff Tommy Turner, as he walked into the room with his hands held high.
“Don’t shoot me, please don’t shoot. I’ve come to help,” Tommy said.
“Too late, get a mop.” Bob said.
“Yeah, you’ve made a hell of a mess,” Tommy observed.
“Tommy, go get a doctor!” I spat.
“We ain’t got one. The nearest thing to a doctor we had was the bartender here, but I see you’ve killed him, too.”
I knew I hadn’t. I looked at Bob, who shook his head. He hadn’t shot the bartender either. It must’ve been Wes or a loose shot fired by someone else. I looked at the man as he lay sprawled on the floor at the end of the bar. He had a sawed off double-barreled shotgun in his left hand.
“It was me. I shot that man,” Wes groaned. He was awake again.
“Damned good thing you did—if he had opened up on us with that thing, one or more of us would be dead for sure,” Bob said.
Wes shook his head weakly.
“Tommy, we need some help in here. Where can we get help for the wounded?” I asked.
“There’s a woman over at Aphrodite’s Bower. She was a nurse in the war. I hear she’s pretty good with wounds,” Tommy said.