A Time to Slaughter by William W. Johnstone

“Uriah, you got yourself a misery there.”
    â€œAnd don’t you think I know that?” Tweedy grumbled.
    â€œIt ain’t bad,” Marshwood said after his examination. “There’s no pus and it don’t smell bad.” He turned his head and said to Shawn, “If I smelled that it was rotten I’d suspect the gangrene and have to cut it out of him. But even then, he’d probably give up the ghost. A man can’t live through a deep cuttin’ like that.”
    â€œI’m here, you danged fools, and I got ears,” Tweedy protested. “And Miles, you ain’t cuttin’ at me with a bowie.”
    â€œHell, didn’t I just say I don’t have to? Ain’t that what I said, huh?” Marshwood rose to his feet. “Stay there. I’m gonna get a salve from the office.”
    â€œWhat kind of salve?” Tweedy asked, suspicion in his eyes.
    â€œWell, if’n you must know, it’s Dr. Gisborne’s surefire cure fer piles, pox, consumption, pimples, female problems, cancer, baldness, poor eyesight, the rheumatisms an’ a dozen other miseries. Now if’n it can fix all them things, I reckon it will fix that shoulder.”
    â€œGood for Dr. Gisborne,” Shawn said, grinning. “I guess his salve will fix most anything.”
    â€œThat’s what’s printed right there on the box,” Marshwood said. “An’ the printed word never lies.” He stepped into his office and returned with a box the size of a soup bowl and a strip of red cloth. He applied a liberal amount of the good doctor’s cure-all to the cloth and then bound it around Tweedy’s shoulder. “A few days an’ you’ll be right as rain, Uriah.”
    â€œYeah, if it don’t kill me first.”
    â€œWell, if’n it does, I’ll write a sharp letter to Dr. Gisborne, I can tell you that,” Marshwood said. “I’ll let him know that his salve don’t work a damn. Mind you, I used it on the cat one time when she got chewed up by Tom McMaster’s hound dog and she healed up just fine.”
    Tweedy poured a liberal dash of whiskey into his tin cup, growled that the “damned snake oil is punishing me something terrible,” and withdrew into an aggrieved silence.
    But the quiet didn’t last long. Venting his spleen on Shawn, he said, “You given any thought to how we’ll scout the saloon? You bein’ a walkin’ gun target an’ all.”
    â€œI figured that was down to you, Uriah,” Shawn said.
    â€œNot all day and all night I can’t, sonny, with me bein’ all shot up an’ all.”
    Marshwood interrupted. “I have a solution to your problem, Uriah. His name is Willie Wide Awake an’ he’s a watching kind o’ feller.”
    â€œMiles, I’m not catching your drift.”
    â€œWillie don’t sleep,” Marshwood said. “I mean never. Oh, there was a time he laid down to it, but he don’t any longer. He says when he drops off he has scary dreams about his wife’s mother, so he reckons to stay awake fer the rest of his days. He says it keeps a man sharp.”
    â€œYou mean he could keep an eye on the Lucky Lady for us?” Shawn asked.
    â€œYes sir,” Marshwood said, “all day an’ all night, that’s the intention. Nobody pays heed to what’s goin’ on around him like a sleepless man.”
    â€œHow much will we have to pay him?” Tweedy said, his face sour.
    â€œO’Brien here has change comin’ from the whiskey an’ grub. That will cover it just fine.”
    â€œCan we trust this wide awake feller?” Tweedy asked.
    â€œWillie will keep his mouth shut, and if he did open it, nobody would pay any attention to what he had to say anyway.”
    â€œHe’ll need to start now,” Shawn said. “And I mean right away.”
    Marshwood nodded, then threw his blanket