Burned in Utah

   A man stood beside a road, holding a sign. Behind him stood the Wasatch Range of Utah. On this evening of the solstice, a glow of sunshine bathed the man and the mountains in a warm toned ambiance.
  He was soliciting money to purchase a bus ticket to New Mexico. He was a few dollars short.
  Yeah right. I've heard that line before. Skeptical, I pressed him for details.
   He told me he'd come to Utah for work. New on the job, his leg had gotten burned by chemicals.
   Crass as this sounds, I asked him to show me his injury. He lifted his pants.
   I gasped.
   His calf was horribly burned. A chemical had devoured the layers of his skin. The chemical had consumed much of his muscle.
   A bloody gauze had fallen to his ankles. The wound was exposed to the air and susceptible to infection.
   I urged him to visit a hospital. He said he'd done that in Salt Lake City. The doctors wanted to amputate the limb. Freaked out by their intentions, the man had left the hospital. He wanted to go home. There, he'd get a second opinion at a hospital that he was familiar with.
   He told me his wife was holding another sign down the street. Between the two of them, they hoped to obtain enough cash to board a bus.
   I gave him a dollar, wished him luck, and walked away.
   My conscience went haywire. Why was I walking away? The man needed more help than a dollar bill.
   A few things about the man's story didn't seem right. His sign described himself as homeless. Was that assertion truthful? How could someone who'd been employed lack a place to live? His sign mentioned a desire to get back to his children. Why would his wife be present in Utah if their children were back home in New Mexico? Perhaps there were no children. Perhaps there was no wife.
   Was the man lying to me?
   One thing was certain. A horrific wound festered on his leg. 
   I walked back and handed him cash for bus fares. Minutes later I brought him anti infection lotion. We went our separate ways.
   Why did I first walk away before lending a hand to that man?
   When people consider helping a stranger, a tug of war erupts in their minds. On one side of the rope is conscience; it urges them to render assistance. On the other side is rationalization; it considers the motives and truthfulness of the people seeking help.
   This tug of war requires time. Sometimes that means seconds. Often it means longer.
   What should happen when a dilemma about helping a stranger becomes too hard? Should conscience trump rationalization, or vice versa?