Snippet #2004089

It was a blazing hot afternoon in Splitcreek. Seemed to Morgan that every afternoon in Splitcreek was blazing hot, but it didn't bother him much. He still wore his favorite denim work shirt, recently laundered, and the buckskin coat he'd traded for way back...God, who knows when?, and the sturdy boots that had carried him many a mile in the twelve years he'd owned them.

Currently, Morgan was doing what he did best (after medicine, anyway), which was to sit at his favorite spot in the Silver Spur Saloon, order quite a few drinks, and smoke. Oh yes, Morgan did this very well. It wasn't that he was lazy, he just appreciated the luxury of being able to sit in a town that was, for once, relatively quiet, and listen to the buffoon at the piano play the same tripping melody over and over and over. Were there more exciting things he could've been doing? Sure. But Morgan wasn't much in the mood for excitement today, or any day, really. If he had his way, he'd be settled on some quiet little ranch with a sweet little lady and a couple of kids. But that was not to be. Some of us are destined to be mothers and fathers, and some are destined to be brooding war veterans who pass their time stitching up the cracked skulls of drunken fools.

So here he was in the town of Splitcreek, which he'd liked quite a lot until about four months ago when the outlaws started coming in. Rats and snakes and liars and cheats pouring in by the dozen, causing trouble and making a mess of a nice little mining town. Morgan snarled in disgust at the thought of it, taking a long pull on his beer. Yes, somebody needed to do something about those cowboys. Somebody, but not him. No Sir. Since the war, he'd made his way as a respectable doctor. He was a thoughtful, quiet man who minded his own business and did well for himself. He didn't need to be anybody's hero. In fact, he wasn't sure he'd make a good hero even if that was a position he fancied. He'd already given heroics a shot when he went off to fight in the war, but it turned that war wasn't nearly as noble or clear cut as he'd originally thought it to be. In fact, there were times it was impossible to tell which side was in the right and which was in the wrong. Sure he was morally opposed to slavery, but did that really give him the right to slaughter another man? Some of them hadn't even been men. They'd been boys like himself, foolish young boys seeking glory and adventure. And he'd killed them, in the name of what? Freedom? Goodness? These days he couldn't even remember. The war had been over for years now, but it still haunted his conscious. He'd hoped to leave his ghosts behind when he came West, but they'd followed along after him, relentless as ever. Now he did his best to do what little good he could and to keep out of trouble.

Still, something had to be done. Maybe he'd talk to the town marshal about it. Yeah, that's what he'd do. ...Right after he finished his drink. Taking another generous drink from his beer, Morgan looked around the saloon, noting its inhabitants. It was relatively empty today, just a few people playing cards and some sad, sorry soul in the corner weeping into his whiskey about a lost love named Delilah. He grunted, nodding his approval, then turned back to his beer. This was the way it was supposed to be. No reckless outlaws barging in, whooping and hollering and firing their damn pistols, just a quiet afternoon in the Silver Spur before business picked up tonight.