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The Perfect Patsies
A Maverick story by Deana
Sequel to 'A Shot in the Dark'.
Disclaimer: I don't own Bart or Doc Holliday. Phooey.
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Bart stared in shock as his poker opponent raked in the pile—the huge pile—of money. He'd lost; he'd actually lost!
The man laughed and started counting it. "Looks like your luck has run out, Maverick."
Bart's first instinct was to accuse the man of cheating, but he knew how that would turn out: in a shootout, most likely. Bart looked at his beautiful four-of-a-kind, the row of Queens staring up at him as if in shock themselves.
"What, you lose your voice too, not just your money?" laughed the man. His name was Matt Walters, and he'd had a four-of-a-kind of his own: but his were Kings.
"No," Bart automatically answered. He sounded as sick as he felt. Not only had Walters won the four thousand dollars that he'd entered the game with, but he'd even won the thousand dollar bill that Bart kept pinned inside his jacket pocket.
Bart Maverick was completely broke.
"Come on, Maverick," said Walters. "You're acting like you never lose."
Bart gave him no answer; he simply stood from his chair and headed towards the doors. Once outside, he leaned against a post, still in shock.
"What's the matter?" he suddenly heard. "Still tired?"
Bart turned slightly to see that Doc Holliday had joined him. The answer to Doc's question was definitely 'yes', even if he wasn't still recovering from their last escapade, in which Bart had received three bullet wounds from one bullet; Doc's bullet. "I lost," he said.
Doc dropped his cigar. "You what?! I was counting on you to finance us both!"
Bart looked at him. "Huh?"
Doc gave him a sheepish look. "I lost too."
Bart covered his eyes with his right hand.
"Do you need to sit down?" Doc asked.
Bart wasn't sure if he was being serious or funny...probably both. "We're in trouble, Doc."
Doc sighed. "I guess we're sleeping tonight in the wondrous outdoors, under the starry sky."
Bart lowered his hand and sighed. That's just what his still sore body needed; sleep on the hard ground. "Looks that way," he said.
They headed to the hotel and checked out before retrieving their horses from the livery stable and heading out of town. They didn't go far, as they planned to return the next day to try—somehow—to make some money.
Doc could see that Bart was taking their lack of funds harder than he was, so he quickly made coffee over their fire and shoved a cup into Bart's hand. If there was one thing that Doc knew about Bart, it was that coffee always made him feel better.
"Thanks," Bart said, taking a sip.
Doc sat beside him and poured some whiskey into his own coffee as they quietly stared into the fire.
"So," said Doc.
"So what?" asked Bart.
"So what's your plan?"
Bart looked at him. "Plan? What plan? I don't have a plan." He paused. "Do you?"
"Course I do," Doc answered. "We rob a bank, what else?" He poured more whiskey into his coffee.
Bart rolled his eyes. "I'm going to sleep."
Doc nodded. "You enjoy that and I'll enjoy this," Doc said, patting his whiskey bottle. "G'night."
Bart stood. "G'night." He went over to his bedroll and laid down, wincing as he tried to get into a position that would cause the least amount of pain to his still healing left arm and side. Once that was accomplished, he heaved a sigh and looked up at the millions of bright stars, and it thankfully wasn't long before he fell asleep.
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In the middle of the night, Bart woke up hearing noises. He lay there half awake, not realizing that he was hearing whispered voices, too. Suddenly, the noises abruptly stopped, before continuing again more quietly. He fell back to sleep before he could even understand what he was hearing.
Long after dawn had risen, Bart woke with a jolt, as if only now realizing that something strange had happened. He looked across the fire, to see Doc asleep hugging his empty whiskey bottle. He was snoring loud enough to disturb the horses, who seemed to both be looking right at him.
With a wince, Bart gingerly sat up, trying to ignore the various aches throughout his body from sleeping on the hard ground. He rubbed his left arm, before carefully bracing his recently cracked rib and slowly getting to his feet. He took a deep breath and stiffly made his way over to the fire, desperately needing coffee.
Doc continued to snore, not waking even when Bart accidentally dropped a pan.
Bart drank half the pot before Doc suddenly coughed himself awake. The whiskey bottle fell off him and started to roll away, and Doc grabbed it without even looking.
"You made a big mistake, Doc," Bart said, watching him.
"I did? And what is that?" Doc asked, not moving.
"You drank all your whiskey," said Bart. "Even though you have no money to buy anymore."
Doc's eyes popped open and he sat up. He looked at the bottle as if it had slapped him. "Traitor! How could you?" he said to it, as if it was the bottle's fault.
Bart smiled as he continued to drink his coffee. "You can have some of my drink," he said.
"What's the point?" Doc asked. "There's no alcohol in it." But he reached over and poured himself a cup anyway.
After eating some awful beef jerky—since that's all they had—and downing more coffee, they eventually decided to go back into town to see if there was some way they could make some money. Nothing presented itself, and they simply walked around until a man walked out of the sheriff's office up ahead and stared. "It's them, sheriff! They're the ones I saw!"
Doc and Bart stopped walking, and they both looked behind themselves to see who the man was pointing at. Before they could say anything, the sheriff headed over to them with his gun out. "All right, you two, drop the guns!"
Bart and Doc both blinked. "Us?" Bart said.
The sheriff pulled back the hammer on his gun. "Yes, you; don't try to pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about!"
"But we don't know!" Bart exclaimed.
"Hand over the guns!" the sheriff said again.
Bart and Doc looked at each other before obeying. What else could they do?
The sheriff put both guns into his waistband of his pants before gesturing to them towards the jail. "Get moving."
"What are we under arrest for?" Bart demanded.
"As if you don't know," said the other man. "You robbed my bank!"
Bart was shocked. "We absolutely did not!" he exclaimed.
"Get going," said the sheriff.
Bart and Doc had no choice but to start walking.
"What have we done?" Doc said to Bart, quietly. "I was joking when I said that we needed to rob a bank, Bart! Was I so drunk that I don't remember doing it?"
Bart shook his head. "No, Doc, we didn't rob any banks."
Doc sighed with relief. "And we're still going to jail anyway." His face suddenly brightened. "At lease we'll get fed free!"
"But that won't get you any whiskey," Bart answered.
Doc's smile vanished.
Once inside, the sheriff led them to the cells and shut them both inside one together.
"We didn't rob any bank, sheriff," Bart said, gripping the bars. "We left town last night after playing poker, and returned when you saw us just now."
"Poker, eh?" said the sheriff. "Win big?"
"Lose big," said Doc; miserably sitting on one of the cots while he wondered how long he'd have to go without his whiskey.
"Aha, lose big," said the sheriff. "Have any money left?"
"Not a penny," said Doc, his chin in one hand.
Bart looked at him as if telling him to shut up.
"So, no money then, for either of you," the sheriff said. "Sounds like a motive to rob a bank."
"Whether it is or not, we didn't," Bart told him.
The sheriff nodded. "Umm hmm." With that, he walked out the door.
TBC