School Teacher and Gunman

Clint Mason awoke with a tremendous headache and a sore body to go with it.  He found himself sitting on the side of a bunk bed looking through iron bars into the face of an older, kind-looking woman with gray hair.  His mind was a complete blank.  It was like he was in a dream, but the pain coming from all parts of his body was all real.

In a very firm but friendly voice, the lady pronounced that he would probably live, but if he didn't change his ways, life might be very short for him.  The sheriff was summoned and a clean set of clothes were handed to Clint through the open jail door.  The sheriff then pointed out the wash basin at the end of the cell block walkway and told Clint to clean up and put on the clean clothes.  The lady and the lawman turned and left him alone in his misery.

The mirror over the water basin reflected a beat up face and bloody shirt that Clint could hardly recognize.  Although Clint's body was bruised and had a few cuts, the amount of blood on his shirt could not all be his.  It took all his will power to keep from screaming when he pulled off his shirt and pants.  Every part of his body ached, especially the insides.  His stomach was in knots and he felt like throwing up. 

Clint couldn't believe it was his body that stood before the mirror.  To his own eyes, his skinny young frame looked pathetic.  Gritting his teeth, he washed himself down good and put on the clean clothes.  The effort exhausted him, so he returned to the open cell and flopped on the bunk.  Standing up hurt and laying down hurt.  He was a miserable pile of bones, without memory of how he got himself into this condition.

The sheriff brought in some food and left.  Clint tried to eat a little but his stomach was too sore.  The hot coffee did feel good, but his mind would not clear itself.  The sun had moved across the sky as the small light square on the floor moved from one side of his cell to the other.  His cell door was still open and the jailhouse was quiet.  Clint just didn't have the energy to walk out.  He was thinking that a quick death from hanging may be less painful than living on in his battered body.

After dozing off for a few minutes, he awoke to hear three voices talking near the front of the jail, sounding like the woman, the sheriff, and another man.  Clint was sitting on the edge of the bunk when the sheriff asked him to come into the front office.  He was brought before the sheriff, an older gentleman dressed in a dark suit, and the gray-haired lady.

The three of them started asking Clint questions, to which he had no answers.  Where did he come from?  Where did he get the large amount of $20 gold coins found in the saddle bags he was carrying?  Where did he get the top quality horse he had been riding?  The lady asked if the two books found in his saddle bags belonged to him.  The man in the dark suit wanted to know if he was wanted for any crimes.  How did he learn to play poker so well?  Had he killed anyone before?  What was his name?  Where was he born?  The questions went on and on, but Clint had no answer for anything.

A little later, another man came in and introduced himself as Doctor Hopkins.  The doctor went over several more questions which Clint could not answer.  A fairly thorough exam of his eyes, head, chest and back proceeded with everyone looking on.  He was asked to breathe in and out as big as he could.  His chest and ribs hurt so much that a small moan slipped through his lips.  The doctor finally stopped his probing and declared that the young man would live. 

Then, the four adults entered into a discussion about him as though he wasn't there.  The sheriff said that the killings were self-defense and no crime as far as he knew had been committed by the young man.  The man in the dark suit was addressed by the sheriff as Judge Brown.  He felt that the boy should be in protective custody or monitored some way until more was found out about him and the source of all that gold.  The doctor felt that the blow to the boy's head had caused the loss of memory.  If complications did not develop in the coming week, the boy should recover.  His memory may or may not come back... only time would tell.  The boy would need rest for several weeks, with someone watching out for any unusual behavior or continued headaches.

The older lady finally spoke up and suggested that the boy be released to her custody.  She would put him to work at her school.  If he was able to read the books he was carrying in his saddle bags, then his education level was rather high...