The freezing rain fell in thick, heavy sheets, turning the deeply rutted earth of the mining camp into a treacherous, sucking swamp.
Cole dragged his ruined body through the mud, moving like a broken insect across the dark terrain.
His splinted right leg was a dead, agonizing weight dragging behind him. The crude wooden rungs and torn cotton strips held the fractured tibia relatively straight, but every inch of forward movement sent a blinding, white-hot spike of agony directly up his spinal cord.
He was entirely numb to the cold, which was a terrifying biological indicator. The freezing rain had washed away the mud and Elias's blood from his pale face, but it was also rapidly draining the core temperature from his vital organs. Hypothermia was setting in, slowing his thoughts, making the darkness at the edge of his vision pulse and warp.
He needed shelter. He needed medical attention. He needed to secure the massive, heavy knot of raw gold pressing against his bruised stomach.
The camp was massive, a sprawling infection of canvas and cheap wood built upon the desperate greed of ten thousand men.
Cole navigated the outskirts of the settlement, deliberately avoiding the main thoroughfares where drunken prospectors and armed guards wandered between the saloons and the brothels. He stuck to the deep shadows cast by the large slag heaps and the rusted, abandoned mining equipment.
He was heading for the western edge of the camp, an area known as the boneyard. It was a dumping ground for broken tools, dead mules, and the men who lacked the funds for a proper burial.
Located at the very edge of the boneyard was a dilapidated, leaning shack constructed from rotting, discarded timber. It had once been a storage shed for black powder, but the roof had caved in months ago, and it had been abandoned to the rats and the weather.
It took Cole nearly an hour to crawl the five hundred yards to the structure.
He reached the doorway, pulling his exhausted, shivering frame over the rotting threshold and collapsing onto the relatively dry, packed dirt floor inside.
The air inside the shed smelled of mildew, wet wood, and old dust. It was completely dark, save for the faint, ambient moonlight filtering through the massive hole in the collapsed roof.
Cole lay on his back for a long time, listening to his own ragged, shallow breathing. His chest rattled with a deep, wet cough.
He could not stay here forever. A broken leg did not heal on its own in the freezing mud. Without a proper splint, bandages, and antiseptic, the fractured bone would inevitably become infected. Gangrene would set in within days, and he would die a slow, rotting death, surrounded by rats.
He needed a doctor.
There was only one man in the entire camp who possessed surgical knowledge and did not ask questions.
His name was Silas Weaver. The camp called him Doc Weaver.
He was a disgraced, former military surgeon who had fled the eastern cities after a scandal involving stolen medical supplies and a severe addiction to morphine. He operated a small, bloody clinic out of a large canvas tent near the saloons. He catered exclusively to the criminals, the outlaws, and the desperate men who could not afford to have their gunshot wounds reported to the local marshals.
Doc Weaver was incredibly expensive, highly paranoid, and entirely devoid of morals.
If Cole walked into Weaver's tent with a broken leg and no money, Weaver would simply kick him back out into the rain.
If Cole walked into Weaver's tent with a broken leg and a massive, fist-sized chunk of pure raw gold, Weaver would undoubtedly slit his throat, bury him in the boneyard, and book the next train to the civilized coast.
Cole slowly sat up, leaning his shivering back against the rotting timber wall of the shed.
He reached into his ruined shirt and untied the knot, pulling out the massive chunk of quartz and gold.
It was too heavy. It was too visible. It was a death sentence to carry it.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the sharp slate wedge he had used to extract the motherlode.
He placed the massive gold nugget carefully on the packed dirt floor. He positioned the sharp edge of the slate wedge against a small, protruding nodule of pure yellow metal located on the side of the main chunk.
He found a heavy, loose brick lying in the corner of the shed.
He raised the brick and brought it down heavily upon the back of the slate wedge.
Crack.
He struck it again, his weak, trembling arms barely able to lift the heavy brick.
On the third strike, a small piece of the gold nodule snapped cleanly off the main quartz matrix.
Cole picked it up. It was a piece of solid, pure gold, roughly the size of a large pea. It possessed no quartz, just the heavy, dense weight of raw wealth.
"System," Cole whispered into the dark, shivering violently. "Appraise the fragment."
[Scanning physical coordinates.]
[Item detected: Raw Gold Fragment.]
[Condition is unrefined. Purity is exceptional. Weight is estimated at zero point three ounces.]
[Estimated Market Value is 5 Silver Eagles.]
Cole nodded slowly. Five Silver Eagles was a small fortune in the camp. It was more than enough to purchase a medical procedure, a bottle of cheap whiskey, and a hot meal. It was enough to buy Weaver's services without triggering the blinding, homicidal madness of the Western Fever.
He looked at the remaining massive chunk of the motherlode lying on the dirt floor.
He could not take it with him. He had to hide it.
He used his bleeding hands and the slate wedge to frantically dig a deep, narrow hole in the packed dirt floor, right in the darkest corner of the shed, beneath a pile of rotting, discarded canvas tarps.
He buried the massive chunk of wealth deep in the earth, packing the dirt tightly over it and scattering old debris across the surface to completely mask the excavation.
He possessed nothing now but the torn clothes on his back, the small, pea-sized gold fragment in his right hand, and the system interface hovering silently in his vision.
[Current balance: 346.6 Silver Eagles.]
He needed to plan his visit to the doctor.
"System," Cole commanded, his teeth chattering uncontrollably from the freezing cold. "Deduct one Silver Eagle. Initiate simulation."
[Balance updated. Current balance is 345.6 Silver Eagles.]
[Simulation starting in 3, 2, 1.]
The blinding flash of temporal displacement shattered the darkness of the shed.
Cole opened his eyes in the projected future.
He did not hesitate. He immediately dragged himself out of the shed and back into the freezing rain, heading toward the bright, noisy center of the mining camp.
It took him nearly forty agonizing minutes to reach Doc Weaver's large, blood-stained canvas tent.
The tent was illuminated from the inside, casting highly disturbing, elongated shadows against the canvas walls. Cole could smell the harsh, chemical scent of carbolic acid and the coppery tang of old blood from ten yards away.
He crawled to the flap of the tent and pushed it open.
The interior was a nightmare of primitive medicine. A rusted iron surgical table dominated the center of the room, complete with heavy leather restraint straps. Glass cabinets lined the walls, filled with bone saws, terrifying metal clamps, and dozens of dark glass bottles.
Doc Weaver was sitting at a small wooden desk in the corner, writing in a leather ledger. He was a gaunt, skeletal man with thin, greasy gray hair and highly prominent cheekbones. His hands trembled slightly as he held his pen, a clear physiological sign of severe laudanum withdrawal.
Weaver looked up, his hollow eyes narrowing in extreme annoyance as the wet, muddy, sixteen-year-old boy dragged himself across the surgical floor.
"Get out," Weaver snapped, his voice a dry, rasping hiss. "I don't run a charity for stray dogs. Go die in the mud."
Cole pulled himself up, leaning heavily against the rusted leg of the surgical table.
"I can pay," Cole gasped, opening his right hand to reveal the pea-sized gold fragment.
Weaver's sunken eyes instantly locked onto the glittering yellow metal. The annoyance in his expression vanished, immediately replaced by a highly calculated, predatory gleam.
Weaver stood up slowly, wiping his trembling hands on his blood-stained leather apron.
"Well now," Weaver purred, his voice suddenly smooth and highly accommodating. "That is a very compelling argument, young man. It seems you have suffered a severe fracture of the tibia. A highly dangerous injury in this climate."
Weaver walked over and effortlessly plucked the gold fragment from Cole's shaking palm. He held it up to the light of the oil lantern, his eyes wide with greed.
"Excellent purity," Weaver muttered. "This will cover the cost of the bone setting, the splint, and the necessary painkillers. Hop up on the table, son."
Cole struggled, using his last ounce of strength to pull his ruined body onto the cold, hard metal surface of the surgical table.
Weaver walked over to a glass cabinet and retrieved a small, dark brown bottle and a tin cup. He poured a generous measure of thick, dark liquid into the cup.
"Drink this," Weaver instructed, holding the cup to Cole's pale lips. "It is a heavy tincture of laudanum. It will put you under completely. Setting a bone this shattered requires extreme force. You do not want to be awake when I realign the marrow."
It was a perfectly logical medical assessment. Cole took the tin cup and drank the bitter, highly acidic liquid.
Almost immediately, a heavy, suffocating warmth spread through his freezing chest. The pain in his leg began to dull, fading into a distant, detached throb. His eyelids became incredibly heavy, his vision blurring.
He let his head fall back against the metal table, finally feeling safe.
He felt Weaver's hands moving over his body. But Weaver was not touching his broken leg.
Weaver's hands were moving over his chest, patting down his ruined shirt, checking his muddy pockets, running along the lining of his pants.
Cole tried to speak, but his tongue was completely paralyzed. His vocal cords refused to function. The drug was not a simple painkiller. It was a massive, highly concentrated paralytic overdose.
Through his rapidly fading vision, Cole saw Weaver standing over him, his face twisted into a grotesque, greedy mask.
"A filthy orphan does not just find a piece of gold this pure on the ground," Weaver whispered to himself, completely unaware that Cole was still conscious behind his paralyzed eyes. "If he has one piece, he has the motherlode hidden somewhere."
Weaver picked up a long, incredibly sharp surgical scalpel from a metal tray.
"But you are not going to tell me where it is, are you?" Weaver continued, his trembling hands suddenly becoming perfectly steady as he gripped the blade. "Orphans are stubborn. It is much faster to simply check your stomach contents. Many thieves swallow their gold to smuggle it past the guards."
Cole felt a sudden, terrifying line of freezing cold trace its way down the exact center of his chest, from his collarbone to his navel.
He could not scream. He could not thrash. He could only watch in absolute, silent horror as Weaver literally began to dissect him alive.
The pain of the scalpel slicing through his flesh, completely bypassing the numbing effects of the drug, was catastrophic.
Cole's heart exploded with sheer, unadulterated panic. He felt the warm rush of his own blood spilling over his sides. He felt the horrific, invasive pressure of Weaver's gloved hands physically pulling his ribcage apart.
His brain could not process the magnitude of the trauma.
His vision went completely, permanently black.
[Simulation terminated. Host vital signs depleted.]
[Cause of death: Catastrophic surgical trauma and massive blood loss.]
[Resetting temporal coordinates.]
Cole gasped violently, his eyes snapping open in the pitch-black darkness of the ruined timber shed.
He rolled onto his side, vomiting acidic bile onto the dirt floor.
He was shaking uncontrollably, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He could still feel the phantom sensation of the scalpel opening his chest. He could still hear Weaver's cold, rational voice explaining why dissecting a living boy was the most efficient way to check for hidden gold.
The system had taught him another flawless, brutal lesson.
Never surrender consciousness. Never accept a chemical substance from a stranger. Never assume that a small payment guarantees professional integrity in the Western Fever.
Weaver was not a doctor. Weaver was an opportunist who viewed his patients as potential treasure chests.
Cole wiped his mouth with the back of his muddy hand. He looked at the blue text floating in his vision.
[Current balance: 345.6 Silver Eagles.]
"System," Cole whispered, his voice gaining a terrifying, hollow edge. "Deduct one Silver Eagle. Initiate simulation."
[Balance updated. Current balance is 344.6 Silver Eagles.]
[Simulation starting in 3, 2, 1.]
The flash. The reset.
Cole crawled through the freezing rain again. He reached Weaver's tent.
He entered the surgical nightmare. Weaver was sitting at his desk, writing in the ledger.
"Get out," Weaver hissed.
Cole pulled himself up against the table. "I can pay."
He revealed the gold fragment. Weaver's eyes ignited with greed. Weaver took the gold, appraised it, and smiled.
"Excellent purity," Weaver purred. "Hop up on the table, son."
Cole pulled himself onto the metal surface.
Weaver retrieved the dark brown bottle and the tin cup. He poured the liquid and offered it to Cole.
"Drink this. It is a heavy tincture of laudanum."
Cole looked at the cup, his eyes entirely cold.
"No," Cole stated flatly, slapping the tin cup away with his left hand. The dark liquid spilled across the blood-stained canvas floor.
Weaver stepped back, his false smile instantly vanishing, replaced by a deep, highly offended frown.
"Do not be a fool, boy," Weaver snapped. "I am going to have to physically break the maligned bone fragments and manually set the tibia. The pain will cause you to go into severe cardiac shock. You must take the anesthetic."
"I will endure the pain," Cole replied, staring directly into the skeletal doctor's eyes. "Set the bone."
Weaver stared at the boy for a long moment, highly suspicious.
"Very well," Weaver muttered coldly. "But I will not have you thrashing wildly and ruining my surgical instruments."
Weaver reached under the metal table and quickly pulled out the heavy, thick leather restraint straps.
Before Cole could react, Weaver violently strapped Cole's left arm and left leg securely to the iron frame of the table. The leather was thick, secured with heavy brass buckles. Cole pulled against them, but he was entirely trapped.
Weaver did not secure the right side. He stepped back, looking down at the helpless boy with a terrifying, predatory grin.
"You are a very tough young man," Weaver whispered, picking up a heavy, serrated surgical bone saw from the metal tray. "But toughness is a highly measurable commodity."
Weaver did not walk toward Cole's broken leg. He walked toward Cole's trapped left arm.
"A piece of gold that pure," Weaver said, lightly dragging the serrated teeth of the bone saw across Cole's exposed forearm. "It implies a much larger source. A motherlode. You are going to tell me exactly where you found it, boy."
Cole struggled violently against the leather straps, but the buckles held firm.
"I don't know!" Cole shouted. "I found it in the mud! That is all I have!"
Weaver sighed deeply, looking highly disappointed.
"I was a military interrogator before I was a surgeon," Weaver stated calmly. "I know precisely how many non-lethal incisions the human body can sustain before the mind completely fractures."
Weaver raised the bone saw.
He did not cut deeply. He simply applied pressure and dragged the serrated blade slowly across Cole's bicep, tearing the skin and muscle fibers with agonizing, mechanical precision.
Cole screamed. It was a raw, endless sound of absolute, unadulterated torture.
The simulation lasted for exactly three hours.
For three projected hours, Cole experienced the absolute pinnacle of medical torture. Weaver systematically dismantled his physical body, using scalpels, bone saws, and burning carbolic acid, continually asking for the location of the gold vein.
Cole never broke, because breaking would mean leading Weaver to the shed, and Weaver would simply kill him afterward anyway.
Finally, Weaver accidentally severed a major artery in Cole's left leg. The blood loss was instantaneous and catastrophic.
[Simulation terminated. Host vital signs depleted.]
[Cause of death: Exsanguination due to systemic surgical trauma.]
[Resetting temporal coordinates.]
Cole gasped, his eyes snapping open in the dark timber shed.
He did not vomit this time. He did not shake.
He simply sat in the dirt, his face a perfectly blank, emotionless mask.
He had died five times in the last hour. He had experienced the absolute limits of human physical agony. He had been burned, shot, suffocated, dissected, and tortured.
He felt a fundamental shift occurring deep within his own psychology. The scared, desperate, sixteen-year-old boy who had swung the pickaxe in the dark shaft was entirely dead. The system had burned his innocence away, replacing it with cold, absolute, mathematical pragmatism.
Everyone in this camp was a predator.
If he acted like prey, he would die. If he tried to negotiate, he would die.
To survive the Western Fever, he had to become the most dangerous, highly unpredictable variable in the entire equation.
He needed to control Weaver entirely. He could not allow Weaver to dictate the terms of the medical procedure.
He needed leverage. Overwhelming, absolute, undeniable leverage.
He needed a weapon, and he needed Weaver to know that he was entirely willing to use it.
"System," Cole stated, his voice completely dead, devoid of all human warmth. "Deduct one Silver Eagle. Initiate simulation."
[Balance updated. Current balance is 343.6 Silver Eagles.]
[Simulation starting in 3, 2, 1.]
The flash. The reset.
Cole crawled through the rain. He reached the surgical tent.
This time, he did not enter through the main front flap.
He crawled entirely around the perimeter of the large canvas structure, moving through the deep mud to the rear of the tent, directly behind the area where Weaver's small wooden desk was located.
He pulled his sharp slate wedge from his pocket.
He carefully, silently cut a long vertical slit in the thick canvas wall.
He peered through the slit.
Weaver was sitting at the desk, completely engrossed in writing in his leather ledger. The oil lantern provided excellent illumination.
Cole watched the doctor intently.
In his previous simulations, Weaver had reacted to Cole's presence by immediately focusing on the boy. Cole had never had the opportunity to observe Weaver's natural, unprovoked behavior.
Cole watched for twenty minutes.
Suddenly, Weaver stopped writing. The doctor's hands began to shake violently. The severe laudanum withdrawal was reaching a critical peak.
Weaver groaned, wiping sweat from his pale forehead. He reached down and opened the bottom right drawer of his wooden desk.
Inside the drawer was a small, locked iron cash box.
But Weaver did not reach for the cash box. He reached his trembling hand deep into the very back of the drawer, pulling out a small, highly polished, double-barreled Remington derringer.
Weaver checked the twin chambers of the small pistol, confirming they were loaded with heavy lead slugs. He then carefully placed the derringer on top of the desk, perfectly hidden beneath a folded white surgical towel, ensuring it was within immediate reach.
After securing his weapon, Weaver reached into his coat pocket, retrieved a small glass vial of liquid laudanum, and drank it greedily.
Cole watched the entire sequence through the slit in the canvas.
He had found his leverage.
Cole did not confront Weaver. He did not enter the tent.
He simply lay in the freezing mud, allowing the simulation clock to tick down.
"System," Cole whispered. "Terminate simulation protocols."
[Confirmed. Simulation protocols suspended.]
Cole opened his eyes in the dark, abandoned timber shed.
He was back in absolute reality.
He had the perfect, flawless blueprint. He knew exactly where the weapon was located. He knew exactly how Weaver would react.
Cole began his final crawl through the freezing rain.
His physical body was entirely exhausted, shutting down from severe hypothermia and massive trauma, but his mind was crystal clear, operating with the cold precision of the system itself.
He reached the perimeter of Weaver's large, blood-stained tent.
He did not go to the front flap. He crawled directly to the rear canvas wall, exactly where he had cut the slit in the projected future.
He pulled out his slate wedge and carefully, silently sliced a three-foot vertical opening in the heavy wet canvas.
He pulled himself through the slit, entering the surgical nightmare.
The tent was entirely silent, save for the sound of the rain hitting the canvas roof.
Weaver was not sitting at his desk.
The severe laudanum addiction had forced the doctor to seek rest. Weaver was lying on a small, narrow cot in the opposite corner of the room, snoring softly, his skeletal face twitching in a drug-induced sleep.
The small wooden desk was completely unoccupied.
Cole dragged his ruined body silently across the blood-stained floor. He did not make a single sound. He moved with the terrifying, absolute silence of a ghost who had already died a dozen times.
He reached the wooden desk.
He slowly pulled himself up onto his good left knee, leaning heavily against the side of the desk to support his weight.
He looked down at the cluttered surface. The leather ledger. The inkwell. And the neatly folded white surgical towel.
Cole reached his bloody right hand out and slowly lifted the white towel.
The highly polished, double-barreled Remington derringer gleamed coldly in the dim light of the low-burning oil lantern.
Cole wrapped his fingers around the small, heavy pistol. The cold steel felt incredibly solid, incredibly real.
He checked the twin chambers, perfectly mimicking Weaver's actions from the simulation. Both chambers were fully loaded.
He cocked the twin hammers. The mechanical clicks were loud, sharp, and highly decisive in the quiet tent.
Across the room, Weaver's eyes snapped open.
The gaunt doctor sat up quickly on the cot, his drug-addled mind struggling to process the sudden intrusion.
He looked across the room and saw the filthy, muddy, completely soaked sixteen-year-old boy leaning against his desk.
Weaver's initial reaction was deep, offended anger.
"How did you get in here?" Weaver hissed, swinging his legs off the cot. "I will have you strung up for breaking into my clinic, you filthy rat."
Weaver stood up and took a heavy, aggressive step forward.
Cole slowly raised his right hand, pointing the twin barrels of the loaded Remington derringer directly at the absolute center of Weaver's forehead.
Weaver froze entirely.
His eyes darted instantly to the folded white towel on his desk. He realized his hidden, personal weapon was currently aimed at his own skull.
The deep anger in Weaver's eyes vanished, immediately replaced by a highly calculated, paranoid fear.
Cole did not say a word. He simply stared at the doctor with eyes that were completely dead, completely devoid of the fear that a sixteen-year-old orphan should possess.
Cole reached his left hand into his ruined shirt pocket. He pulled out the pea-sized fragment of pure, glittering yellow gold.
He tossed the gold underhand. It landed directly on the center of the rusted iron surgical table with a heavy, metallic clink.
"That is five Silver Eagles worth of pure, unrefined metal," Cole stated. His voice was not shaking. It was flat, mechanical, and infinitely cold.
Weaver stared at the gold on the table, and then back at the twin barrels of the derringer.
"You are going to set my leg," Cole commanded softly, the weapon entirely steady in his bloody hand.
"You are not going to use the leather restraint straps."
"You are not going to offer me laudanum, whiskey, or a wooden stick to bite down on."
"You are going to work quickly, and you are going to work perfectly."
Cole tilted his head slightly, his dead eyes locking directly into Weaver's terrified pupils.
"If I feel my consciousness fading, my finger twitches. The trigger pulls."
"If you attempt to sever an artery to bleed me out, my finger twitches. The trigger pulls."
"If you ask me a single question about where I found that gold, my finger twitches. The trigger pulls."
Weaver swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly in his gaunt throat. He was a man who operated entirely on fear and leverage, and he realized with absolute certainty that the boy holding the gun possessed a terrifying, sociopathic lack of hesitation.
"Setting a shattered tibia without chemical anesthesia or physical restraints will induce catastrophic pain," Weaver whispered, his professional medical knowledge conflicting directly with his survival instincts. "You will likely go into cardiac arrest simply from the neurological shock."
"That is my biological problem," Cole replied coldly. "Your problem is ensuring the bone is straight before I pass out and shoot you."
Weaver slowly raised both of his hands in the air, a gesture of absolute surrender.
"Very well," Weaver said, his voice trembling slightly. "Sit on the edge of the table. Keep the weapon aimed at me. I will gather the splints and the carbolic acid."
Cole slowly hopped backward, pulling himself onto the edge of the cold iron table. He kept the derringer perfectly leveled at Weaver's head.
Weaver moved with extreme caution, gathering his surgical tools, a heavy canvas bandage, and a thick wooden splint. He approached Cole's ruined right leg.
"I have to remove the crude binding," Weaver stated clearly, announcing his actions to avoid startling the boy holding the gun.
"Do it," Cole said.
Weaver carefully sliced through the leather belt and the torn cotton strips. He pulled the broken ladder rung away.
The shattered tibia was fully exposed, heavily swollen, bruised entirely black and purple, with the broken bone pressing menacingly against the taut skin.
"The fracture is severe. The marrow is misaligned," Weaver said, his medical training taking over. "I have to physically grasp the ankle and the knee, and apply massive opposing traction to snap the bone back into the correct linear alignment."
"Do it," Cole repeated, his finger resting lightly on the twin triggers of the derringer.
Weaver took a deep breath. He placed his left hand firmly just below Cole's knee, and his right hand tightly around Cole's muddy ankle.
"On three," Weaver said. "One. Two."
Weaver did not wait for three. He violently, brutally pulled the ankle downward while pushing the knee upward with all of his strength.
The sound of the thick, heavy bone grinding and snapping forcefully back into place echoed loudly in the silent tent.
The pain was not a feeling. It was an absolute, blinding, white-hot explosion that completely erased the universe. It was a symphony of shattered nerves and pure agony that tore through Cole's spinal cord and exploded inside his brain.
Cole's vision went completely, entirely white.
His jaw locked so tightly he cracked a molar. His body convulsed violently, his muscles seizing in absolute neurological terror.
But his right arm remained perfectly, terrifyingly rigid.
The twin barrels of the Remington derringer did not waver a single millimeter from Weaver's forehead.
Through the blinding white haze of agony, Cole forced his eyes to stay open. He forced his lungs to draw air. He forced his consciousness to remain absolutely anchored to reality.
He refused to die. He refused to black out.
Weaver stared at the boy in absolute, unadulterated awe.
He had performed this procedure on hardened outlaws, massive soldiers, and veteran prospectors. Every single one of them had screamed, thrashed, or completely lost consciousness without heavy laudanum.
The sixteen-year-old boy sitting on his table did not scream. He did not drop the gun. He simply stared through the pain with the cold, absolute resilience of a machine.
"The alignment is successful," Weaver whispered rapidly, quickly applying thick carbolic acid to the scrapes and tightly binding the heavy wooden splint to Cole's leg with the canvas bandages.
"The bone is straight. The splint is secure. You must keep all weight off the extremity for a minimum of six weeks."
Cole sat on the edge of the table, his entire body drenched in cold sweat, panting heavily. The white haze slowly faded from his vision, returning the dim, blood-stained tent to his sight.
He looked down at his leg. It was professionally bound, secure, and the agonizing, throbbing pain had reduced to a dull, manageable ache.
He looked at Weaver, who was standing perfectly still, his hands raised.
Cole slowly lowered the derringer, resting the barrel on his lap, but keeping his finger firmly on the triggers.
"Take the gold," Cole commanded softly, his voice raspy.
Weaver slowly reached out and picked up the pea-sized gold fragment from the table.
"The surgery is complete," Weaver said cautiously. "The transaction is concluded. You may leave my clinic."
Cole looked around the warm, dry tent. He listened to the freezing, heavy rain pounding against the canvas roof outside.
He had a massive, raw motherlode buried in an abandoned shed, completely vulnerable to discovery. He had a broken leg that prevented him from traveling. He had nowhere to sleep, no food to eat, and an entire camp of heavily armed, greedy prospectors waiting outside in the mud.
He was incredibly wealthy, but he was physically trapped.
He needed a safe house. He needed a base of operations.
Cole looked back at Weaver.
"I am not leaving," Cole stated flatly, shifting his weight comfortably on the surgical table.
"I am going to sleep on your cot. You are going to provide me with a hot meal, clean water, and a new set of dry clothes."
Weaver's eyes widened in profound outrage.
"I am a medical professional, not a hotelier!" Weaver hissed, his fear momentarily overridden by his indignation. "You paid for a bone setting, boy. You did not pay for boarding!"
Cole slowly raised the twin barrels of the derringer, pointing them directly back at Weaver's chest.
"I paid five Silver Eagles for the bone setting," Cole whispered, his voice echoing with the cold, terrifying authority he had learned in the void.
"The gun pays for the room."