Filling a gap in S8E11, "All that Glitters." How did George get a wounded Murdoch home?

Author's note: Missed a section at the end of Chapter 9 when I posted. Added it May 8, 2019. Thank you all so much for the kind reviews! I enjoyed this one a lot and hope inspiration will strike again soon.


Chapter 1

"George… I don't… I…" William Murdoch felt his knees start to buckle.

"Sir… sir!" He's about to go down! George realized, and lunged to catch him, just in time.

It had been an extraordinarily bad day. George Crabtree was running on the fumes of the last time he'd really slept, three days ago in North Bay. Since then he'd spent two full days on the back of a donkey, a night in a cramped tent surrounded by… nature (he shuddered at the thought), and another night upright in a chair against the door, panicked by a potential return of that terrifying Mack woman to his room at the Haileybury inn. And then he and Detective Murdoch were in the woods where Edward Graham's map had sent them, and Mack found them and shot the detective and nearly shot him, too, until Migizi Pimise killed her right in front of him. And then Murdoch managed to turn their sole protector against them, and now here they were fleeing the Anishinaabe camp as fast as George Crabtree could drag William Murdoch… yes, it had been a terrible day, and it was not yet over. George was exhausted just thinking about it.

His head was still buzzing from the receding adrenaline, and his body felt like a limp noodle. Being held at riflepoint was bad enough, but twice in one day? Far, far too much. Murdoch wheezed and coughed as he leaned heavily on Crabtree for support, the two slowly retreating from the encampment and back into the woods. They stopped only to retrieve their hats and Crabtree's collared shirt and waistcoat, lying on the ground near where the wounded Murdoch had come to not ten minutes before.

George was silently seething. He knew it wasn't the detective's fault he'd been shot—George had only narrowly missed the same fate himself—but it was his fault that their fortunes had turned so drastically in that short ten minutes. One moment the medicine woman had been gently tending to Murdoch's bullet wound, and the next they'd been kicked out of the camp altogether, sent into the unfamiliar woods to navigate back to Haileybury by themselves. How could Murdoch have thought it wise to try to arrest Migizi Pimise, the man who had saved their lives, their guide back to the train station in North Bay? Now they were at least five miles from the inn where they'd stayed the night before, and George wasn't sure how to find it again. Even if they did get there, George didn't even want to think about how they were going to get home to Toronto without Migizi Pimise's help.

"Sir. Do you recall exactly where you left your bag?" Murdoch had dropped a small pack containing the map, a canteen of water, and a bundle of dried venison for them to snack on as they hiked.

"I know where I left it, but how should I know how to find it again, George," Murdoch returned irritably. "I was unconscious when I arrived in the camp, was I not?"

"When Migizi Pimise and I carried you in, yes. You were indeed, sir. But I saw you put the bag down near Edward Graham's claim, and I believe I can find that area without much trouble. It was near the water's edge, and if I'm right we are just farther south along the shore."

"So if you know where we're going, why did you bother asking me?" Murdoch snapped. He was clearly in a lot of pain, and perhaps he was starting to realize the predicament he had put them in.

George was silent. His tongue could be very sharp if he didn't mind it, and at the moment he could not trust himself not to lash back at the wounded man. They had a dreadfully long journey ahead of them, and George knew it was in everyone's interest to try to keep the peace. He would have to manage his fury wordlessly for now.

He guessed they had been walking along the lake for at least twenty minutes when Murdoch leaned on him even more heavily and started to stumble. "Sir?"

"I… I think I need to sit down, George." His breath was ragged. "I need to rest for a bit."

"All right, then, let's find you a log or a stump or some such. I don't want to have to get you all the way back up from the ground." George's eye lit on a stump, and he shepherded Murdoch toward it.

"This… this stump looks familiar, George," Murdoch said as he sank down onto it. George looked around, and suddenly felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck.

"We've been here before, sir." The sound of the gunshot that had felled the detective cracked again loudly in his memory, so vividly that he could smell the gunpowder. The adrenaline surged through him again, and he took a moment to catch his breath and will his pounding heart to slow down.

Murdoch noticed George freeze. "George." There was no response. "George, are you all right?" he asked.

George blinked a few times, then shook his head—he'd have said it was to clear it, but Murdoch correctly interpreted the gesture as a "no." Steeling himself, George pointed to the base of a tree. "Mack." He swallowed hard, to fight back a wave of nausea.

The corpse of the woman who had shot Murdoch lay on the forest floor. Flies were buzzing around it, and it looked as if a few animals had already been by to help themselves. Murdoch instinctively blessed himself, although he felt little sorrow about this particular death. This person—this claim jumper, this thief, this would-be murderer—was the reason he was in agony, the source of the bullet wound in his shoulder, the cause of his painful, wheezing cough.

"Should we leave her?" he asked hesitantly.

George looked at him incredulously. "Are you quite serious, sir?"

Murdoch nodded, his eyes wide and sincere.

George felt his gorge rise and tried to swallow it again before he nearly shouted. "Well what else could we possibly do with her right now? You do realise we have to hike back out to the hotel, which is no short distance, and if you don't mind my saying so, sir, you're more in need of being carried yourself at the moment than you're able to carry anyone else. You were quite senseless not even half an hour ago! And seeing as it's three days since I had a wink of sleep, I dare say I'm finding it quite a challenge to bear so much of your weight, let alone that of such a substantial woman!"

"Of course, George. Of course. I'm sorry. We'll have to make a note on the map of where she is, and send someone out from Haileybury to retrieve her."

"If you say so, sir." Although I would certainly be content to leave her as a meal for the wolves, George thought resentfully. He cared hardly at all what happened to Mack, and he was not at all happy with the prospect of five miles of bushwhacking under the weight of an injured man. "I believe I can find your pack from here. You stay put and I'll be back as soon as I can."

"I'm not going anywhere, George," Murdoch muttered, and coughed again.

George returned with the small pack to find the detective sitting on the ground, leaning against the stump and dozing. He was pale, and there was a spot of fresh blood on his shirt. George closed his eyes and muttered a quiet oath before he announced his presence. "Sir? Sir! I'm back with your bag."

There was no response. George crouched down and shook Murdoch's good shoulder gently. "Sir! Wake up."

Murdoch startled awake, disoriented. "George! Where are we?"

"In the woods, sir."

"The woods?" Murdoch asked, his face clouded with confusion.

"We're on the north tip of Long Lake, sir. We have to get moving again. I found your bag." George deposited it on Murdoch's lap.

"Oh. Right. Of course." The detective opened the top flap of the bag and reached in to grab the canteen. George unscrewed the lid for him, and he took a long drink. He wiped his mouth and offered the canteen to George, who took a small sip and then put the lid back on. "I'm hoping we won't need to conserve this, sir."

"Oh. Sorry. Let's hope not. There was a time I could tolerate the lake water, but I'd rather not have to try." Murdoch dug into his pocket to produce the compass, and pulled the map from the bag. "It took us, what? About ninety minutes to get here from the inn?"

"It'll be slower in your current state, sir," George pointed out, his eyes dark.

"I suppose it will," said Murdoch, resigned, as George helped him unfold the map and lay it out on his lap. He studied it carefully, then held up the compass in the palm of his hand. After a moment he looked up and gestured. "That's north. We came in from between those trees. With the map and what I remember of how we got here, I think we'll be all right getting back. Help me up, will you, George?" he asked, folding up the map one-handed and putting it and the compass away.

George grabbed the pack and donned it, then ungracefully heaved Murdoch up off the ground and pulled his arm over his shoulders again. Murdoch had barely found his own feet before he found himself lurching off north. "Ow! Ow, George, slow down! Please!" he cried out.

George exhaled impatiently and adjusted his pace. He wanted to be out in the woods for as short a time as possible. He hated the noise of the branches snapping under their feet, the smell of the decaying leaves on the forest floor, the biting mosquitoes, the feel of the place where twice in a matter of hours he'd been preparing to meet his maker. The ruthlessness of Nature's efforts to return Mack to the dust whence she came. But the detective was wheezing again, and although George was incensed with the man, he did not wish to increase his suffering.

"All right, sorry, sir," George said contritely. A hint of the contrition was even genuine, but he was having a hard time remembering the last time he had been this angry.

They hiked along for what must have been at least 45 more minutes before either of them spoke again. It was George who broke the awkward silence.

"Sir, this may not be the best time to ask, but how are we going to get back to North Bay from Haileybury?"

"Well, on horseback, of course." Murdoch's tone was almost condescending.

"I suppose Mack won't be needing hers…" George gave a hollow chuckle. "But that's not what I meant, sir. What I meant is, who's going to guide us? Migizi Pimise certainly won't help us now, and he's the one with all the gear and the knowledge of the land. It was his tent we slept in, and his kit that we used to prepare the food. He and his people were very good to us, sir." At least until you tried to arrest him. "And are you even going to be able to ride a horse one-handed?"

Murdoch pressed his lips together. "I've done it before, George. I broke my wrist once when I was a ranch hand, and I missed only one day of work."

"But you weren't shot then, sir. You can't even hold yourself up right now."

"What choice do I have, George?" Murdoch asked bitterly. "We have to get back to Toronto. Julia will worry. Inspector Brackenreid is expecting us back at the station house. We have to go home."

George was sceptical. "Well, I can't say as I understand the urgency, sir. But what about a wagon? Could we hitch a ride on a wagon?"

Murdoch shook his head. "The passenger coaches run twice a week and are booked in advance, and the cargo wagons don't take passengers. We'll pick up the horses tomorrow morning and figure something out. I can navigate and I know how to be in the woods."

George scowled. "Well if it's such a priority to get back to Toronto, I suppose your well-being must be a secondary consideration," he said acerbically. "Although I don't look forward to explaining your condition to Doctor Ogden when the ambulance has to meet us at Don Station to take you to Toronto General. If we even get that far."

"George." Murdoch was stung, and somehow managed to sound scolding nonetheless. He was about to say more when a word caught in his throat and started another bout of coughing. He held fiercely to George, who pressed onward. He could at least get them to the inn.