Of course it still fucking hurt, it had only been two days since it had had an arrow lodged in the muscle, but his arm, and his ego, still hurt. It was a good thing he could draw just as fast and precisely with either hand, but being only able to correctly draw one gun out of the two slung at his hips was not to Charlie Edwards' liking. At all.
And his arm still fucking hurt. Fucking Indians getting into his business. He'd just gone back, just in case they'd left anything, but the body of his wanted fugitive must have washed down the river. Fucking Indians. Charlie dismounted, tied his horse's tether in front of the saloon, and walked in to have a drink or ten. He was doing his best to hide the fact that his right arm was, for the time being, shot to hell, but he wouldn't be surprised if the rumor had spread anyway. He didn't figure the doc would've said anything, but many a town folk had seen him ride into town with blood seeping down his arm, two days past.
Fucking Indians.
He settled at the counter, waiting for the bartender to have a second to pour him a glass. And not very patiently, at that, although it didn't show much, just in the set of his brow, mostly hidden under his hat.