Loser Take All

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Part 1: Dead Man's Hand

Joe opened his eyes. The sun was lower than it should be, wasn't it? It was too dark. Almost dusk. The sun had been sinking when he'd left the saloon, but this…this shadowed sky told him he must have lost an hour or more. That sure didn't bode well for him. Closing his eyes again, he tried a few deep breaths and was relieved to find the fresh air easing the fog in his head—even if that hole in his back screamed at him for the way his breathing scraped the open wound against something on the ground.

A twig, Joe decided. Yeah. He must've landed on a twig. That meant the best thing to do to stop all that scraping was to change positions. He would have to get up anyway. He couldn't get home if he couldn't get up.

Taking another breath, Joe rolled to his right side and was rewarded for easing the hurt in his back by waking up a whole new kind of hurt in his head. He gingerly raised his left hand to the worst of the pain near the base of his skull and discovered a wound he didn't remember getting. He'd been shot in the back, so why was his head sore and bleeding?

Must've landed on more than one twig, he told himself. Or maybe a rock. He supposed it didn't much matter, though. What mattered was the fact he needed to get himself moving so he could get help. Yep. He needed to get himself moving. But…could he?

Moving sure wasn't easy with that hole in his back and his head throbbing so much he could almost believe the world had gone from dusk to midnight in the blink of an eye.

Then he blinked again and saw stars blinking back at him.

Damn. He'd lost more time. For a moment, Joe allowed himself to think maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. The later it got, the more his family would worry, and then they'd come looking for him.

No, that wasn't right. No one was going to come. They expected him to stay late in Virginia City, and to maybe even stay the night.

It was kind of funny, in a way. This was the only time Pa had ever encouraged Joe to "have a real good time" and stay as late as he wanted. He'd earned a night on the town for all the hard work he'd done getting them horses ready for the army. But Joe hadn't had a good time. And he'd turned his back on trouble like Pa had asked him to. He'd even left for home hours earlier than he'd planned to leave, just to keep that trouble behind him.

It stayed behind him, alright. And then it shot him in the back.

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Cochise wasn't moving. Joe kicked the horse's flanks—or he tried to, anyway. His legs were so weak he doubted Cochise had felt a thing. Then Joe noticed they were standing next to the barn. Danged if that wasn't the strangest thing…. He didn't need Cochise to go anywhere. He was already home.

He couldn't even remember mounting up, let alone riding home. What he did remember was finding his saddlebags open and empty of the winnings that had put trouble behind him in the first place…

…Trouble in the guise of a boney little hag of a man who'd done nothing but complain from the moment he'd joined Joe's poker game, uninvited, to the moment Joe had won the best hand he'd ever seen.

That man had been like an old hag, alright. Didn't matter he was neither old nor female. He'd spent the afternoon whining and nagging like a proper spinster. Joe'd had a good laugh or two imagining that nagging hag in a bonnet and dress, but mostly he'd just wanted to shut the wisp of a man up for good. One clean punch ought to have done it. But Joe had made a promise to Pa. There wouldn't be any fighting. And while some fights might be worth breaking such a promise, that hag wasn't worth anything at all.

So rather than staying to let his friends—and maybe even that hag—win back some of what they'd lost, Joe had decided to take his unprecedented winnings and head home. He'd turned his back on the trouble he knew would have been inevitable. If he'd stayed for just one more beer, Joe's next hand of poker would've ended with his fist aiming straight for Mr. Hag's hawk like nose.

Yep. Joe had turned his back on trouble. He sure hadn't expected it to catch up with him like it did, though.

Fortunately, all that trouble was behind him for good now, wasn't it? After all, he was home.

Groggy and dizzy, Joe slid off his saddle and onto his knees in the dirt, the odd dismount making Cochise whinny and shimmy backwards, indignant.

"Shorry," Joe slurred back at the animal, sounding…and feeling…like he'd drunk his fill back at that saloon after all. He even smiled, preferring to imagine all he had to worry about was waking up with a hangover come morning—since part of him was starting to worry about waking up at all. He figured if he lost any more time, he might never find it again.

Sure, Joe was home. But so far the only one who knew about that fact was him.

Cochise huffed, drawing Joe's attention.

Yeah, Cochise knew Joe was home, too. But Cochise wasn't going to do anything to help Joe, was he? Joe needed to let someone else know he was out there. He thought about shooting off his gun, but if Cochise was ornery already, that darned horse would be pure misery at the sound of a gunshot at this time of night. Besides, Joe didn't think that pulsing throb in his head would like it much, either.

His next best option was the bell on the porch. But, try as he might to aim himself in that direction, his half crawl, half walk kept him listing to the right until the front door was in front of him instead.

Joe almost laughed at that. In fact, maybe he did laugh. He really was feeling drunk.

Getting to his feet wasn't easy, but he managed to pull himself upright enough to trip the latch and push the door open.

"It's about time," Adam's voice called angrily from inside.

And Joe smiled again, grateful for the rescue that angry voice provided. "Ad'm," Joe mumbled, blinking blearily at the black form he figured must be his brother sitting beside the ghostlike flames in the fireplace.

Adam closed the book in his lap—at least, Joe thought it must be a book, although it sure looked like a small animal of some kind…or a fish, seeing as how it seemed to be swimming through the flames beyond.

"What's wrong?" Yup. That was Adam alright. But the question….

"Wrong?" Joe should know the answer. So why couldn't he find it? Then his hand brushed the handle of his revolver and he forgot what he was looking for. He couldn't go inside wearing his gun belt like that. Pa didn't like them wearing their guns in the house. Maybe that's why Adam had sounded so mad a moment ago.

"Joe?" Adam was moving closer.

Aiming to place his gun belt on the bureau beside the door, Joe was surprised to discover it was already there.

"What happened?" Adam pressed.

Joe looked at his brother, confused. Then he remembered Mr. Hag. And the poker game. And the best hand he'd ever played. "I won," he said.

An instant later, Joe found himself in his brother's arms. And he knew time was slipping away again.

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