Thanks to y'all for the gracious reviews thus far, I'm really grateful for the feedback this has gotten :)

Blue sky, white clouds, muffled traffic. Rango's eyes blinked slowly once, twice. He swallowed, the taste of dust hard on his tongue. What happened, here? The last split seconds before the posse hit the opposite side were a blur, full of screeching tires, honking horns, billowed dust, and burnt rubber. All sort of tumbled together like the concoction from a nightmarish blender.

He was alive, he was nearly certain. He was probably just light-headed, right? That happened. At the moment though, he didn't feel like he could move, which brought about a far more troubling realization: he was almost definitely alive, but with no mobility. Well, that certainly threw a monkey wrench into the rest of his plan. Some evil kind of monkey wrench that had a chainsaw attached and-

Sheriff?

Huh? Rango's eyes flitted off to the left, drawn by a slight shadow. It was Spoons, hovering over the chameleon's head. The mouse's voice seemed far away. Sheriff? Ya hurt?

He don't look too bad. Rango's other eye flicked over to Turley, appearing from the other side. Prob'ly jus' some shell-shock.

Surprised he made it. Elgin stood beside Turley, sharp eyes narrowed with concern. Sheriff, can ya hear us?

Rango didn't know if he could nod, but attempted it anyways, surprising himself with the short up-and-down movement. Guess the motor function still worked between his head and his shoulders. Well, it probably worked on all of him, but he should probably take small steps in his diagnosis. One: he was alive, he was more certain of that, now. Two, he could nod. Three: ... well, here goes...

"Wha-aat ha-ppen'd?" He croaked, between a mouthful of dust.

"You were seconds away from bein' turned into a right casualty, Sheriff," Turley responded, apparently relieved. "That ol' vehicle never had a chance."

"That ol' vehicle had a chance," Elgin muttered. "We jus' got outta th' way, bird-brain."

Rango groaned inwardly. Of all the times to start a fight, couldn't his team at least wait until he could move? "Cease, an-an' dee-sist, men." He shook his head. "Dunno' if I can... move, yet."

"Ya hit th' ground pretty hard, Sheriff," Spoons observed. "Prob'ly broke a bone'r two."

"What can't ya move, Sheriff?" Turley asked. "Havin' exper-yence in th'war, I might be invaluable."

"I... dunno'," Rango answered, weakly. "I can... nod."

Turley nodded, as if to confirm that he could, too. "Well, my notion s'that yer paralyzed. Might be fixable if we hurry. Gonna need a blade. Anyone gotta knife?"

"What in tarnation ya need a knife, fer?" Elgin scowled.

Turley places his wings on his pelvis, as if to exert his own makeshift authority. "I been in th' war, an' I know a thing'r two 'bout war wounds. Elgin."

"But he ain't got no war wounds," the big cat snarled, baring his teeth in exasperation. "He just had a bad landin'!"

"Rocks paper scissors, then, t'see who's right." Turley challenged. Rango groaned again - but this time it was more audible. At least that was working, too.

"Jus' gimme some time, see if I... come out a'right." The chameleon insisted.

"He's right, men. Back off." Spoons directed. The elderly mouse shooed the rest of the posse off one by one, and then seated himself beside his Sheriff. "I reckon ya jus' got th' wind knocked outta ya. That fall weren't hard 'nough fer a right an' true paralyzation."

Rango gulped hard. "It gets worse?" he squeaked. He probably should have re-thought the squeak - maybe should have made it more of a threatening squeak if anything.

Back in town, Jake stirred. He's stayed in much the same position for an hour now, but there was only so much one could do while bandaged and feverish on the floor. The fever had more or less passed, and with that passing, the snake realized just how bored he was. True, waiting on injuries to heal was never a favorite pasttime of the snake's, but this was getting nigh unbearable. He moodily flicked his tongue out, as if hoping for some unseeable scent. He desperately wanted to spook something.

Or someone. Whichever came first.

Someone did indeed come first, if only in the shape of the old jackrabbit. Jack would have rolled his eyes if the pain let him. He seriously doubted the Doc would be sober enough for a proper scare, and anyways, did he really want to give him a jolt? Rather, did he feel like it? Of course he wanted to... didn't he?

Doc gave the brooding rattler a slight nod, keeping in mind the near run-ins yesterday he'd had with the snake's unpredictable temper. "G'day t'ya, Jake."

Jake. Not 'Rattlesnake Jake', or even 'Reaper'. Jake. Just Jake. The snake felt the urge to roll his eyes again. He shouldn't have been as lenient with the lead-ins as he had been upon first arriving in this town. After all, his reputation alone should have sent everybody running for the hills. The fact that he was weak and helpless with pain and fever didn't seem as fitting as an excuse. But what did he expect?

Doc tilted his head at the rattler's silence. "Ya holdin' up, there?"

Jake gave an affirmative grunt - or at least a grunt that sounded as close to 'lemme alone' as he could manage. But with that grunt, Doc decided to hold off on the pleasantries and stick to the silence that pervaded this room. He hopped over to the back door and slipped out, returning a moment later with - surprise, surprise - a half-empty flask. Half-empty only because of the quantity which had been drained beforehand, not to seem pessimistic. Although a pessimist himself, Jake would easily have made the distinction.

Doc settled into a chair, letting a loud sigh of relief to have the load taken off his feet - he wasn't a large rabbit persay, but there was definite heft to his person. "Fixin' up t'be a mild one, yessir," he remarked, seeming to have forgotten about the attempt at earlier conversation. "Bit of a relief, if ya ask me. Too much o' this heat, an' th' crops'll shrink like last year's liquor." To demonstrate said point, he gave the bottle a hearty swig. Jake suddenly felt parched seeing that swift, upward flick of glass. When was the last time he'd had a proper drink? Would probably have kept the fever at bay longer...

Against his somewhat better nature, the rattler opened his mouth a mite, and rasped. "Spare some o' that?" Oh, why did he use the words of a petrified housewife?

Doc paused en route of his second swig and shifted his gaze to the rattler's scaly face. "Uhh, sure. Why didn't ya say so afore? Ya had any liquids recently?"

Y'all should well know, Jake thought, almost bitterly. Been subject t'yer company long 'nough.

Doc had climbed to his feet and the next moment was stooping over Jake's head, the bottle held at the ready. The lip was only centimeters from his own. Jake almost doubted he could make it that far without feeling the - now familiar - barbs of stinging pain wash over him, but to his immense surprise, the rattler suddenly found his jaws closed around the glass neck, and the bittersweet liquid pouring down his throat!

So surprised was he, the bottle had to be removed with more force than was expected by the just as astonished Doc. "Well, I'll be," he breathed, tugging the glass flask back into his own possession. "Never have I seen a recov'ry quick as a split,"

Jake hadn't either, at least not such from one he hadn't originally planned to be a quick recovery. Granted, he was a stone-cold killer, but not all of his hits had been fatalities. At least, not those that weren't specified to be fatalities. He swallowed slowly, relishing the taste of the alcohol. "Obliged," he muttered.

Doc shook his head, "T'weren't nuhin'."

Jake exhaled. He hadn't remembered liqour ever tasting so good. He was almost on the brink of giving it up entirely - there was no need for depressants in Jake's line of work - but whatever had been in that bottle, well, Jake was certain of one thing: he needed that.

Ranting about alcohol isn't exactly what I'd intended, but there ya go.

Don't worry, we be getting cloer to the juicier bits... *evil laugh plz*