Snippet #2032296

Morgan had really hoped to go the rest of the day without seeing another dead/injured/crazy person. He was settled quite comfortably at the bar, and, thanks to Bell's $4, he was enjoying a wide variety of gut-wrenching, face-scrunching, throat-burning liquor. So he was more than a little annoyed when he heard gunshots from outside, followed by a series of shrieks and screams. Someone yelled for a doctor, or was it the sheriff? Hell, from the sound of it, they needed all kinds of help.

Sighing heavily, Morgan brought his glass to his lips and downed the last of his shot before half walking, half stumbling out of the saloon. He neatly sidestepped the shattered glass littering the entryway, calling on the first person he saw to run down to his office and grab his medical bag. The scene in the street was a gruesome thing, and the gory sight immediately sobered the drunken doctor. Immune to all other sight and sound, he rushed to the man's side, his eyes roving the maimed body. There was blood, lots of it- a sea of red swimming in Morgan's eyes.

He dropped to his knees, trying to see past the blood covering every part of the mutilated man. There was no way to tell where the wounds were, or their severity, but the the grisly scene spoke for itself. Someone dropped the medical bag at Morgan's side, and he called for someone to bring him a bucket of water and a damn rag, but no one was interested in coming anywhere near the body, lest the devil himself rise from the bloody figure. Producing his stethoscope from the depths of his bag, Morgan sought out the man's faint heartbeat. The sound was almost inaudible- a soft, shallow thud that seemed to grow quieter by the second. There was no way the man would survive this. It'd be kinder to put a bullet in his brain, though if they didn't do it soon the blood loss would kill him.

At long last someone arrived with a bucket of water, and the doctor made a fruitless attempt to clean the grime and blood from the man's face. The man was barely breathing, but somehow managed to mumble a string of muffled words, which Morgan tried and failed to comprehend. He did catch the name Hass, though, which made his blood boil. Of course the whole mess could be traced back to that crazy German. Hass was so crooked he could swallow nails and spit out cork screws. Bill kept mumbling, and Morgan strained to hear him, picking out the words "gold", "deal", and...knell? Dell? No, Bell.

"Somebody get me Hass!" Morgan roared, tossing the blood-soaked rag into the bucket and getting to his feet. "And somebody help me get 'im off the street!" There was little to nothing he could do for the dying man, but he didn't intend to leave him for buzzard food.