"You won't," Doc promises, with the surety of a man who has reassured several old friends while he holds their warm soon-to-be corpses. "I won't let you."

Another gob of blood oozes freshly out of the open wound and Doc hurriedly cleans it away before resuming as neat and small of a stitchwork as he can manage. At least the wound is mostly clean, and he doesn't have to try and pull any shards or shrapnel. He's fairly certain it's hurting a lot more than Neal is letting on, and he's lost a lot of blood that Doc himself won't know if he'll pull through. Where are the damned magicians when you need them?

The cowboy likely wasn't listening to any of the oil paint explanation but they can have that lecture again, another time, when there's no need for Doc or anyone else to get their hands bloody.

Doc tapes gauze over the stitches to keep the dirt out. There's not enough bandages to wrap them both - bandages keep flying out of the first aid kit - but they can boil some sheets later and rip them up, once Malcolm is stitched up also.

He grunts at Raylan, offering to swap New Yorkers - as soon as he changes the water out and fetches another first aid kit. It should go without saying that they still need to keep an eye on Neal - make sure he's breathing at least even if he's not completely lucid.

Good thing you're here, he doesn't bother saying to the Marshal. Wouldn't want to exacerbate last night's confusion with any more sentimentality.