"Well now, looks like you could use some work too. Let's see to that shoulder of yours." Mitchell rose and crossed the room, fishing out supplies to treat Tate's injury.

The privacy was momentary, but Butch took advantage of it. "There ain't no where else for us to run, Tate."

"I know." His hands were at Butch's face again, tracing the lines where his unwanted beard met smooth skin. Brown eyes open in the daylight, resignation clear enough. "Don't know why it's always gotta be us though."

"So," the doctor returned. "Let's get you seen to. I'm Mitchell. Folks round here call me Doc. Let's start with your name."

"I'm a nobody," Tate pulled himself up so he was seated on the edge of the bed. "I'm this one's sidekick."

Butch thought about laughing, but knew better.