Will sighed, looking out the window. He had been here over a week, and still couldn’t walk on his own. His thigh wound was healing, and he could see that the leg wasn’t infected, but the shoulder wound was still open and seeping. It still ached constantly, though Elizabeth was giving him medication for the physical pain.
As much as she had tried, she could do nothing for the emotional pain. Will had realized how depressed he was earlier, when he had finished his story. Elizabeth had spent a lot of time in ranch work, and he understood that there were other things she needed to do – she had a large ranch to run, and could not sit for days on end speaking to her guest. Still, her work meant that he had been left alone. The solitude was playing games with his mind, and he had taken to replaying the events of the last few months over and over, trying to find a different answer. The unhappiness of his marriage to Mary, then her death, and his tumble into alcoholism. The search for the Gomez brothers; his unwillingness to listen to Roy, and then the attack from the gang itself. He had now convinced himself that he could have saved Mary if he’d only tried harder, and that Roy would still be alive – and with him – if he’d only listened. The weight of both of their deaths leaned heavily on his conscience, and kept him from sleeping at night. He was growing more exhausted with every passing day, and falling deeper into a chasm of guilt and despair.
In his moments of practicality, Will knew that these thoughts and feelings were ridiculous, and that they were only doing more harm. His depression was probably keeping him from healing adequately; instead of being up and out in the sunshine, where the warmth and fresh air would tend to his wounds, he spent his time in his room, becoming obsessed with the past.
Will looked around the room now, searching for something to take his mind from his thoughts of Mary. He had asked for more books, and received them, but had found that they couldn’t hold his interest. He needed something to do with his hands, something that could occupy both body and mind, so that he could stop thinking…
As he gazed around the room, Will noticed his gun belt sitting on the table in the corner. Elizabeth had told him that she didn’t believe in leaving guns around the ranch, and preferred to store them in their holsters and in drawers, so that the children wouldn’t get at them. She had realized, though, that he would worry about his possessions, and would want to know that he could defend himself if need be. So she had left his gun in his room, which was found at the campsite, and where he could see it. At the time, he had thought that she was being generous.
Now he wished desperately that she had moved it.
He had been looking at the gun for less than a minute when the idea came to him. He was a useless man, lying here in bed. He could not move by himself, had to have his meals brought to him, and needed help just to reach the outhouse. He would never have his job back if he couldn’t ride or shoot, and the feeling still hadn’t come back in his right hand. His wife had been shot, and the people in the town had stopped trusting him. He had no home to which he could return, and no one who would watch over him. The worst of it was, he realized, that he felt himself to be a drain on Elizabeth’s household. She did not have time to nurse him back to health, and she wouldn’t thank him for living as a cripple on her ranch.
His gun, which had gone with him on so many adventures, and saved his life so many times, might do him one last service. This might be the way out of his current situation.
He would have difficulty getting to the table, true, but he thought that he could do it with time. He would have to load and aim the gun using only his left hand, since his right hand was useless. He would have to find the strength to squeeze the trigger, and he might be discovered and stopped before he could do any of this.
But if he succeeded … if he found the strength to do these things … he would be free. Finished with the guilt and the worry and the sorrow.
He was pulling himself up and trying to stand before he realized that he’d made his decision. The table was several steps from the bed, but his thigh was healing and did its best to support his weight. He fell the short distance toward the table, and pulled himself up to sit in one of the chairs. Loading the gun with one hand was one of the most difficult things he had ever done, but he bit his lip, concentrated, and finished the loading process. Someone walked by outside, then, and he stilled, holding his breath. If they caught him now, he would lose many of his privileges, and he did not want to disappoint Elizabeth. The footsteps outside strode past, though, and he began to breathe again. Safe, for the moment.
Will raised the gun quickly to his head. The quicker he was, he thought, the less chance there would be of anyone stopping him. It was difficult to hold the gun up, weak as he was, and his hand began to tremble and sweat. He pressed the nozzle of the gun roughly against his temple, tried to calm the shaking, and pulled the trigger before he could think any farther.
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