the burnt black powder drifted into his nose, Doc felt it irritate the tender strip at the back of his throat. When he started coughing, it seemed as if he wouldnât be able to stop until the taste of blood welled up on the back of his tongue.
âThis is precisely the sort of thingâ¦my physician warned against,â Doc said in between vicious coughs.
As Boyer dropped to his knees, he reached with his free hand to his own bloody torso. There was a blackened spot on his side, but it was the dark pool of blood soaking into his gut that concerned him even more. When he took his next breath, it was accompanied by a powerful, jabbing pain.
While keeping his gun trained on Boyer, Doc reached out with his free hand to take hold of the coffee that heâd saved by placing it on the edge of his bed. He sipped it and let out a relieved breath as the warm, liquor-laced brew went down his throat. âIâm a great admirer of irony. Considering the facts, Iâd say itâs ironic that youâre on the floor coughing while Iâm still on my feet.â
Boyer tried to get up, but the effort of doing so brought another agonizing stab into his gut. When he dropped down, he landed with his hand pressing down on top of his gun just to keep from falling over.
âAnd considering what Iâve heard about what you did to Miss Denoâs lookout,â Doc continued, âthis becomes ironic on another level.â
âShutâ¦up,â Boyer snarled through gritted teeth.
Doc holstered his gun and squatted so he could get down to Boyerâs level. âTell me more about this Tiger,â he said while calmly taking Boyerâs gun out from under his trembling hand.
âYouâre aâ¦deadâ¦man.â
âI knew that already. Tell me something else.â
âYou wonâtâ¦get awayâ¦with this.â
As Boyer said that, Doc heard footsteps and excited voices outside his room. He stepped over the fallen man and glanced out into the hall. After stepping out for a minute or so, Doc returned and grabbed hold of Boyer under both arms.
âYouâre going across the hall,â Doc said as he dragged the man out the door. Fortunately for him, his words and actions were enough to get Boyer kicking and struggling again. That kicking made it a little easier for Doc to move the man the short distance from one room to the other. Even though Boyer was fairly slight of build, the effort of dragging him brought a layer of sweat to Docâs brow.
âTell me whatever you need to tell me,â Doc said. âIn my professional opinion, you havenât much time left.â
Boyer was glancing around in disbelief. Judging by the look in his eyes, he was having just as much trouble accepting that heâd been shot as he was in believing whoâd shot him. âThere areâ¦othersâ¦â
âHow many others?â Doc asked.
The footsteps outside were getting closer as the folks inside the boardinghouse were gathering enough courage to approach the spot where theyâd heard the shots.
Doc stepped across the room to the window and pushed it open. It wasnât until then that he spotted the saddlebags propped in one corner and the dirty shirt crumpled near the bed.
âWhoâs your connection with the law?â Doc asked. âWhoâs the crooked one wearing the badge?â
Boyer shifted and looked at Doc with confusion as more and more of the color drained from his face.
Once it was obvious that no more shots were forthcoming, the owner of the boardinghouse made her way up the stairs and down the narrow hall. She was a lady in her early sixties and had eyes that rarely missed a thing. She didnât make ends meet, however, by pointing those sharp eyes too long in the direction of the people who were put up in her rooms by the saloon owners. Of course, she wasnât about to be a party to murder, either.
âHello?â she called down