In another section of town, Doctor Edward Anders had just finished attending to his patient, the hapless gunman known as Richard "Peaceful" Jones. Unlike his partner Bart Jason, Jones was going to make it. Doctor Anders had managed to prevent infection from setting in and had succeeded in patching him up reasonably well--- considering the damage that had been inflicted.

It had been necessary to remove the residue of the gunman's external reproductive organs but that was a fate less cruel than death, or so the doctor reasoned. He had explained as much to Jones, who by now, was awake and lucid. Jones was finally, just barely, coming to grips with the fact that he would never again be fully functional as a male. He had requested that the doctor bring him a bottle of whiskey and Dr. Anders grudgingly acquiesced. After all, under the same circumstances, he himself might seek solace from the bottle. For that matter, under similar circumstances, who wouldn't!?

The doctor's thoughts were interrupted as the door to his front office opened, and a beautiful woman who looked to be in her early twenties, stepped inside. She was tall, about five eight, had auburn hair and bright green eyes which under normal circumstances, would have been beautiful. At the moment, they were swollen and bloodshot, as if the woman had been drinking heavily or crying profusely. She introduced herself as Annie Jones, claiming in between sobs, to be the gunman's younger sister. Dr. Anders thought that odd, having earlier been informed that the gunman had no relatives near by, and he was unable to perceive any family resemblance. He privately decided that she was more than likely the gunman's mistress, and on that basis, granted her request to see Richard Jones in private.

As she entered Jones' room, doctor Anders stepped out the door so as to allow them more privacy. He shook his head and wondered, just how long the woman would remain the gunman's mistress, considering the nature of his wounds. He had only given her the scantiest of details, feeling that the gunman could best explain his predicament himself in his own way and time.

The woman entered the room and shut the door behind her. The head of the bed was facing the doorway and Jones, assuming it was the doctor, did not even bother to glance backward in that direction but instead, took a healthy swallow of whiskey. "Leave me alone doc, if ya know what's good fer ya, just go away fer awhile." Jones said, staring at the wall opposite the door in despair.

The woman was silent, and trembling with suppressed emotion. However, her name was not Annie Jones, nor was she the gunman's mistress. Her name was Maggie Baldridge, the recently widowed wife of Roy Baldridge, whom Peaceful Jones had taunted into a gunfight, and shot between the eyes not two nights previous.

She was originally from a large family in Kentucky known as the McCoys, some of whom would, several years later, become famous for a long drawn out feud with another family of that area known as the Hatfields. Although she looked the part of a lady, there was still very much within her, the backwoods tendencies and mannerisms common to the mountain folk of Appalachia, which some would later refer to as "hillbilly" or "hick."

Despite her attempts at playing the "cultured lady," such tendencies were ever lurking near the surface. The maxim "forgive and forget" was unthinkable to her, as it was to the majority of the people who were raised in that area. They lived rather by the code-- an eye for an eye.

"Turn around and look at me Richard Jones, you no-good piece of trash!" Maggie commanded.

Jones, startled, did so, and recognized her immediately. He had seen her several times before, and had often bragged to Jason and whomever would listen, about the various obscene maneuvers that he one day hoped to perform upon her. At the moment however, gazing at the Colt 44 Dragoon pistol she held pointed at his belly, eroticism was the farthest thing from his mind.

"You bastard! Did you really think I'd let ya get away with what you did ta my man? No sir. I was gonna kill ya sooner or later. But I figured I'd go ta his funeral first. After hearin' bout your bein' laid up here though, I figured I'd avenge my husband's death. I reckon he won't mind my missin' his funeral, under the circumstances." Maggie said, all pretenses of being "lady-like" discarded as her mountain-bred mannerisms began rising to the surface.

She then walked over to the trembling gunman and asked, "What was it you said 'bout my man not having a pecker or somethin'?" She pulled back the sheets, and gazing at the bandages covering his groin remarked, "Now if that ain't the pot callin' the kettle black, I don't know what is. Let me have a better look."

Jones started to protest as she reached down to remove the bandages. She quickly leveled the gun at his head and said, "You just hold real still, mister. I'm of a mind ta blow ya ta kingdom come as it is. You make one move, and I'll send ya ta Hell right now!"

Jones began trembling even more but did not move other than to wince in pain as she removed the bandages none too gently. "So you were going ta ride over an show me what a real man is like huh, with THAT?" She asked, pointing at his groin and breaking out into scornful laughter. "Looks ta me like you'll be a sqauttin' like a girl fer the rest a yer days. I'll just bet your gunslingin' buddies'll get a hoot outa that. Just wait till it gets around town. Them whores sure ain't gonna get no more a yer business." she chided, half to herself and half to him, still laughing, and almost on the verge of hysteria..

"Ya know, I came in here ta blow yer brains out, not that ya have any, but the Bible says, 'Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. I will avenge, I will repay.' Well seems ta me, that He did, in a way better than I would have, especially considerin' what you said ta my husband before ya murdered him. I'd be doin' you a favor by killin' ya right now. I think you'll suffer a lot more just livin'. Knowin' that you ain't never gonna be a man again. Tell me "MRS." Jones, when are ya plannin' ta show Conchita your battle scars?" She asked, breaking out in almost hysterical, mocking laughter once more.

"You bitch! Get out a here or shoot me, I don't care, just go!" Jones cried and flung the half full bottle of whiskey at her.

She dodged it easily and said, "I'll be seein' ya round, Peaceful. Oopps, you know, that name don't seem ta fit. What're they gonna call ya now? `Stubby' Jones, `No-balls' Jones, or maybe just plain, 'Mrs.' Jones? Richard's your real name, Dick fer short, real short now, I reckon. I'll bet from now on they'll be callin' ya `Dickless' Jones." she said with a sweet innocent smile, in a voice that would normally have been considered melodious or beautiful, despite the backwoods grammar and vulgarity.

In fact, Jones could have withstood the scornful laughter, but her voice, was so sweet and feminine, yet, so insulting, that he would have endured a hundred times what he and Jason metted out to Billy Fogg, merely to escape the humility he was now facing. He knew, and worse yet, so did she, that she was hurting him more now, than he had ever been hurt in his life. And there was nothing; no gun to grab for, no partner to help, nothing at all. Nowhere to run from the truth.

He truly had beaten formidable opponents, some of which stood a good chance of beating him, or so he had convinced himself. Now, the veil had been removed and in Maggie's eyes, he finally saw himself as he truly was. A bully, and coward. Facing her was the second most terrible fight he had ever faced, yet it was she, who had just now forced him to face the first. The first, was facing who, and what, he really was.

Billy Fogg, smart-ass young snot that he was, at least had courage. He wasn't afraid to face odds that were stacked against him. Jones realized that he possessed not even that. The only time he would willingly face an equally dangerous foe was when he was certain that he had the upper hand. The realization destroyed him.

Jones broke down into sobs as she walked out the door, laughing hysterically. Doctor Anders had just returned and gaped in astonishment as he watched her placing the huge pistol back into her hand bag as she laughed. A moment later, as he was about to make a remark, they both turned abruptly as the report of a 44 Colt reverberated through the room.

Doctor Anders rushed to the room and flung open the door, Maggie Baldridge immediately upon his heels. The acrid stench of black-powder assailed their nostrils as they peered through the blue haze of gun smoke which permeated the room..

Jones' pistol had been in its holster and had been hanging at the foot of his bed. Somehow, he had managed to reach it after she'd left, and had placed the barrel in his mouth, then pulled the trigger. The wall beside him was covered with blood and gray-matter. Doctor Anders glanced at Maggie and noted that her face bore neither shock or remorse, but rather a knowing smirk that bespoke a grim sort of satisfaction. Pleased with herself for a job well done, she politely bid him good day, then wheeled abruptly and left the office.

After she left however, it was as if the world had come crashing down about her. True, she had accomplished precisely what she had set out to do. Still, her own life was empty. Revenge was sweet, but could never replace what she had lost. For a split second, she was tempted to do the same thing that Jones had done. Only, however, for a moment. Her upbringing and own sense of character was too strong to give in to feelings of despair and futility. She would make it, by God---somehow, she would make it!

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