On the way, Javier kept his arm firmly around Jamie, his voice steady and reassuring. "Kid, hang in there, it's just a shoulder wound. Ain't gonna kill you."
Hearing that it was only a graze, the weight pressing on Jamie's chest finally lifted. Relief washed over him.
That scared me half to death. For a second, I thought I was about to die right after running into the Van der Linde gang. If that had been the case, I'd have gone down in history as the 'Most Miserable Transmigrator.'
With his fear fading, Jamie's legs found their strength again. Propped up by Javier, he staggered into the clinic beside the saloon.
Before the doctor even had the chance to ask, Javier barked, "Doc! He's been shot! Look him over quick!"
Inside, the town's doctor—an older man with slicked-back hair, a white coat, and a pair of rimless spectacles—motioned for Javier to set Jamie down on a bed in the corner.
"Get his shirt off. I'll grab my kit." He hurried into the back room, leaving Javier to help Jamie shrug out of his bloody, light-colored shirt.
When Javier finally peeled the fabric away, he studied the wound and let out a small sigh of relief. He patted Jamie's good shoulder. "It's alright, just a graze. Bullet went clean past."
Just then, Arthur burst through the door, mud still clinging to his clothes. "How bad is it, Javier? Did the bullet stay in?"
"It's just a graze," Javier answered, calmer now. "Nothing lodged inside."
Arthur's shoulders dropped with relief. "That's good. Real good." He dropped heavily onto the only chair in the room.
"Hey! Look what you've done to my floor—and my chair!" the doctor snapped when he came back and spotted the muddy mess Arthur had made.
"Add the cleaning fee to the bill," Arthur muttered before standing again and stepping outside.
The doctor's face tightened, but when his eyes flicked to the revolvers on both Arthur and Javier's belts, his words died in his throat.
He turned back to Jamie instead. "Let me see that wound."
Javier stepped aside as the doctor pressed a wad of cotton to the bloody shoulder. He leaned closer, squinting, then nodded. "Like he said—it's a graze. I'll clean it, dress it, and you'll be fine in a couple days."
He rinsed the wound with cool water, then looked Jamie dead in the eye. "Brace yourself. This is gonna sting."
Before Jamie could even breathe out a curse, fire ripped through his shoulder.
"Damn it!" he shouted, clenching his teeth. Inside, he was cursing the doctor's entire family tree with every foul word he knew.
Couldn't even give a man time to prepare.
The doctor ignored him, his hands steady as he dabbed medicine on the wound and wrapped it tight with clean bandages.
His movements were efficient, clearly the work of a man who'd patched up countless bullet grazes before.
"There. Done." He snapped the bandage in place. "Treatment fee plus the cleaning fee—that's two dollars, five cents." He held out his hand expectantly.
Jamie blinked.
Two dollars and five?
For a scratch? But before he could protest, Javier was already digging into his pocket, fishing out a handful of coins.
He counted them carefully and slapped them into the doctor's palm.
"Come on," Javier said, helping Jamie pull his ruined shirt back over the bandages. "Let's check on Arthur."
Back at the saloon's entrance, Bill and Charles had returned. At their feet lay a man bound at the wrists, dressed in a brown vest and black breeches.
"Hey! Looks like Arthur's savior made it out fine!" Bill called, grinning as Jamie stepped out behind Javier.
Jamie barely heard him.
His eyes locked on the man standing beside Bill—broad-shouldered, wearing a khaki trench coat with a gleaming sheriff's badge pinned to his chest.
The scar down his right cheek made him look even meaner.
The town's sheriff, no doubt.
The lawman waited until all eyes were on him before speaking. "Alright. Everyone's here. Time we figured out what to do with this fella."
Arthur, face washed clean but still looking worn, stepped forward. He jabbed a finger toward the bound man. "Sheriff, five years back, I put this son of a bitch—Michael Michelson—behind bars myself. He broke out. Been hiding out here in Valentine ever since. When he saw me fighting earlier, he remembered who I was. Held a grudge. So he fired a cheap shot from the balcony, aiming to put me in the dirt. If it weren't for this fella—" Arthur turned, eyes resting on Jamie with a questioning look.
"Jamie Custer."
"Luckily, this here Mr. Jamie Custer happened to see Michael Michelson trying to fire a sneaky shot at me. He tackled me down just in time, letting me dodge the bullet by pure luck," Arthur said in a steady tone.
"That's right, and that's the most reasonable explanation I believe," the Sheriff added, glancing at Arthur before continuing. "The station already got word by telegram about Michael Michelson's prison break some time ago, but I never thought he'd show up in my jurisdiction. Thanks to you brave men for catching him and hauling him in. Now, help me take him down to the office, and I'll see to it you get his bounty."
The group all looked toward Arthur and Jamie, who stood a little apart from the rest. Finally, Javier cleared his throat and said, "Ahem, Arthur, you and this Jamie fella should take him in. This bounty rightly belongs to you both."
Arthur scanned the faces of the others, saw them nod in agreement, and after a moment's thought, replied, "Alright then, Jamie and I'll go along with the Sheriff."
"Good. Follow me," the Sheriff said, tipping his hat. "And carry the prisoner along too."
With that, he led the way toward the Valentine Sheriff's office.
"Mr. Arthur, this man—" Jamie began, thinking he ought to lend a hand since he'd be getting part of the bounty.
Arthur cut him off with a shake of his head. "You're hurt. Leave it be. I'll handle him. And don't call me Mr. Arthur—I'm Arthur Morgan."
Arthur hefted Michael Michelson, tied up near as tight as a hog for roasting, and slung him over his shoulder with little effort.
He turned back to the rest of the gang and said, "You all head back to camp. I'll return after I collect the bounty with Jamie."
The others agreed, and Jamie gave them a polite wave before following Arthur and the Sheriff through the muddy street.
At the Sheriff's office, the lawman unlocked a cell door and said, "Put him in here first. I'll send a telegram to the main station. Likely someone will come fetch him tomorrow."
Arthur set Michael inside and stepped back as the Sheriff reached into a drawer, rifled through a stack of wanted posters, and pulled out one with Michael's name and face. He handed it to Arthur. "See here—the bounty is eighty dollars. That right?"
Arthur glanced over the poster, checked the name, face, and amount, then gave it back. "That's right, Sheriff."
"Good," the Sheriff said, removing the ring of keys from his belt. He found the right one, unlocked a small drawer nearby, and pulled out four rolls of banknotes, each tied with twine. He placed them on the desk. "Each roll's twenty dollars. Four rolls, total eighty. Count 'em if you like."
Arthur took the rolls and stuffed them straight into his pocket without a second thought. "Sheriff, you represent the law, and I trust the law's word. We'll be on our way now."
He tipped his hat respectfully, then nodded at Jamie and stepped outside.
Back on the muddy street, Arthur paused, turned, and faced Jamie. "Mr. Custer, I owe you my life. You threw yourself into danger without a thought and even took a wound for it. That's something money can't rightly measure, but I want you to have this as a token of my gratitude."
He pulled the four rolls of banknotes from his pocket and held them out. "This is the eighty dollars the Sheriff just paid. To show my thanks—and to make up for your injury—it's all yours."
"Mr. Morgan," Jamie said carefully, not taking the money, "I actually have a request."
Jamie didn't reach for the bills the doctor offered. He had something else in mind—using the fact that he'd saved Arthur to talk his way into joining the Van der Linde gang.
"A request?" Arthur asked, eyebrow raised, as he slid the money back into his pocket when Jamie declined it.
"Yeah… well, it's like this…" Jamie began, spinning a quick, pitiful tale about Jamie Custer's life: how he'd been forced to work for the traveling show, how a mistake at the tent had him facing the sack, and how he'd nowhere else to go. He hinted that he recognized that Arthur seemed to be part of some gang and, finally, blurted out his purpose—could he come along? Can he join them?
"I see how it is," Arthur said after listening, his face unreadable for a moment as he considered the plea.
He chewed it over for a beat, then added, "Normally we don't shut out folks lookin' to join— but we just rode into town. We ain't set up here proper yet. Bringing in strangers right now could draw heat on all of us. Don't take that as a jab at you—I ain't sayin' you're trouble. I mean anyone might be used to track us down 'cause of you. Here's what I'll do: I'll put you up to Dutch later, let him meet you, and I'll say a good word. Javier and the others'll back that up too."
Relief flooded Jamie. As long as Arthur hadn't flat-out refused, there was a shot.
"Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Morgan," Jamie said, trying to sound grateful and eager.
Arthur snorted a short laugh. "Don't thanks me yet. You saved me back there, and that's worth somethin'."
Saved him? Jamie's mind jumped—he still owed the circus manager money, and that blasted bottle of whiskey he'd meant to buy.
Embarrassed, Jamie explained, "Mr. Morgan, my boss says I gotta earn him a certain sum before he'll let me go…"
Arthur's expression shifted. "Oh—right. Fine. I'll come with you."
The pair walked toward the circus wagons as the show crew packed up. Jamie hustled up to the manager.
Before he could speak, the suit-clad manager was already barking, "Jamie! Where in blazes have you been? I told you to go fetch wine for the tent and you vanish for an hour! Where's that bottle? Based on today's mess, you won't be leavin' this spot anytime soon!"
Jamie watched the boss rant like an audience watching a fool play himself.
Finally Jamie asked bluntly, "Boss—how much do I gotta earn before you let me leave?"
The manager blinked, then barked without thinking, "At least ten dollars. No—make it fifteen! You gave me a scare today, I need the money—have a doctor check my ticker after that performance."
Jamie shrugged inwardly at the extra five dollars the manager arbitrarily added. He flinched as his shoulder twinged, the bandage catching on fabric.
Back by Arthur, Jamie cleared his throat and, a little sheepish, asked to borrow twenty dollars.
Arthur didn't make a scene. He took out a roll of banknotes and handed them over.
With the money in hand, Jamie sprinted back to the manager and shoved the roll into his scoffing hands. "Here—twenty dollars."
"What? Where'd you get this? You rob a bank, boy?" the manager sneered, riffling through each note to check them.
Jamie didn't answer. He just watched, heartbeat thudding.
"Now can I go?" he asked once the manager confirmed the bills were good.
"Go! Who said I was a soft man?" the manager barked. Then he looked at Jamie's outstretched hand. "What you want now?"
Jamie said, baffled, "My change. You said fifteen dollars—you owe me five."
The manager's face darkened. "Fifteen? Since when did I say fifteen? I said twenty! Get outta my sight before I change my mind. Keep pestering me and you'll be locked up like an animal."
Jamie stared at the suit's hypocrisy. The clean suit hid a rotten man. Anger rose hot and fast.
Without thinking, he kicked at the manager's knees. The man hit the dust. Jamie straddled him, slapped the manager four times hard, and grabbed back the money he'd just handed over while the manager howled.
"I was goin' to pay you," Jamie snapped, voice low and sharp. "But with that attitude? Beatin' you's too kind."
The manager's screams pulled the circus crew in. As hands tried to drag Jamie off, the manager bellowed, "Get this brat! I'll toss him in the lion cage myself!"
A scuffle broke out as the crew hauled Jamie away. The noise reached Arthur, who strolled over with a calm that made the crowd part like the sea.
He watched the chaos, then called in his lazy, measured tone, "Mr. Custer, you seem to have run into a bit of trouble. Need a hand?"