It was hot and sticky, unusually so for a day in late June. These temperatures weren't typically felt until August, and even then there might be a welcome breeze with it.
There was no breeze this day. Bret Maverick stood nervously at the stage depot, waiting for the coach's arrival from Littlewood, Texas. His father and uncle were supposed to be on the stage, and his brother Bart should have been beside him, waiting to greet them. Instead, Bart was lying in Doctor Staley's back room, unconscious and in what the Doctor was calling a 'coma.'
He'd been shot in the chest, and the doctor still wasn't sure if the bullet had nicked anything vital. His heartbeat was erratic and his breathing shallow and labored, and the physician hadn't been able to discern an exit wound. There was massive blood loss and the doctor's hands were tied when it came to finding the bullet. The shooting had occurred yesterday, with Bart taking a slug meant for Bret. Jack Templeton had led an entire contingent of Rangers on a raid to incapacitate or destroy the group of radicals that wanted Texas to be an independent republic once more. Bart wasn't the only casualty.
Lee Maxwell, the head of the whole movement, was gone, as was his sister Julie. Bret had shot Maxwell in self-defense and Julie after she'd tried to get even with Bret. That one grated on him worse than almost anything; Julie hadn't been involved in the movement and only grabbed for her brother's gun after he and Bret exchanged gunfire. His feeling of remorse was tempered by the fact that it was Julie that shot Bart while aiming for him.
Tam Porter, the 'money man' for the group, was dead, as were Stefan Brotherly and Quentin Travers. Brotherly was the leader in Corpus Christi, Travers one of the most devoted supporters. Tommy Slade had escaped entirely; he'd been Lee Maxwell's ranch foreman until a year ago. There were almost twenty-five more members taken into custody in Laredo, and Rangers rooted out the majority of participants in Brownsville, Littlewood, San Antonio, Corpus Christi and Harlington.
Still, the capture or destruction of the majority of the Republic of Texas supporters was little comfort to Bret. He blamed himself for their accidental involvement with the group to begin with, and it was his life Bart saved by taking the bullet meant for the older brother.
Pappy had long ago invited 'his boys' to Laredo to play in the massive poker game that was taking place there, and they'd left Natchez, Mississippi to do just that. Then came the unintentional association with the radical secession group, and everything led to this moment. If Bret had his way, he'd be the one in the doctor's room and Bart would be here waiting for the stage.
The stage was late, and Bret finally lit a cigar to kill time while he waited. He welcomed and dreaded his father's arrival; the last interaction they'd experienced was sketchy at times, and he felt sure Pappy would blame him for Bart's condition. Hell, he blamed himself. Once again he'd failed to take sufficient care of his brother.
Unexpectedly he heard approaching footsteps and turned to see who was coming down the sidewalk. He inwardly groaned when he saw Jack Templeton. If there was anything that would make his explanation to Pappy any more difficult, it was the Ranger's involvement. Considering what Pappy thought of lawmen in general, and the Texas Rangers in particular, he was not looking forward to explaining anything to either of them.
"Bret, I thought I might find you here," Jack offered by way of a greeting.
"Stage is late," Bret responded.
"Yes, I know. There was an, ahem, incident in Littlewood."
"Why am I afraid it involves a Maverick?"
"Great instincts?"
"What did Pappy do now?"
"Actually, it wasn't your father. Bentley is your uncle, correct?"
"Uncle Ben? Ben's never in trouble. He's the voice of sanity in the family. What happened?"
"An incident with a drunken cowboy and a young lady. There was just a small delay while the cowboy was asked to spend thirty days in jail for assault."
"And Uncle Ben?"
"Oh, he's fine. But he will have a black eye by tomorrow."
"Great. And I have such good news for Pappy."
"Your brother, you mean? How's he doin' this mornin'?"
Bret sighed. "No change. The doctors 'weighin' his options'."
"Still no bullet?"
"No. That's what's got me most worried."
"Doc Staley's one of the best. We were real lucky to get him here, with all the gunfights in this part of the country. He'll get it out, wherever it is."
Bret blinked once or twice and cleared his throat. "Any sign of Slade yet?"
"The boys tracked him to Nuevo Laredo and lost his trail. I don't imagine he'll be back anytime soon."
"Thanks for the information, Jack."
"Let me know when somethin' changes for your brother, would you? And I'll let you know if we hear from Slade."
"Thanks."
He watched Templeton head back up the sidewalk. The man was alright, for a lawman. He heard a familiar sound and looked up to see the stage fast approaching. 'Easy Bret,' he told himself. 'Steady.' The driver pulled the horses up and Bret took a step back to give the passengers a chance to get off. First came the aforementioned young lady, and she was well worth getting a black eye over, even for Uncle Ben. Bret reached up a hand and helped her out, and she smiled prettily at him and said, "Thank you." She looked a lot like Ben's wife Abigail, long deceased, and Bret understood the rash act on Ben's part. Next out was an older lady, perhaps the young woman's mother or aunt, and again Bret lent a hand. Next came Uncle Ben, and Jack Templeton was right, Ben was going to have a glorious shiner. They hugged, and Bret pointed to Ben's eye and they both laughed.
Finally, Pappy alighted from the coach. At first he wore a big smile when he saw Bret, but it slowly faded as he looked around for a sign of his youngest son. By the time he got down to the sidewalk, there was a genuine concern on his face. "Where's Bart?" he asked, always fearful that something had happened to one or the other of them.
"Uh . . . . " was all Bret had time to get out before the next question came.
"Is he alive?"
There was no use putting it off, it would only get worse. "He was when I left."
"Ben, get the luggage, would ya? I'm goin' with Bret."
"Go, Beauregard," came his brother's reply.
"Where is he and what happened?" For whatever reason there was more than the usual amount of concern in his voice. He reached out a hand and gripped Bret's arm tightly. Pappy was a little thinner, a little frailer than he had been the last time Bret left Little Bend, and his oldest son wondered if he'd ever completely recovered from the pneumonia that had almost killed him. He carried a cane, a sure sign that old age was indeed beginning to have its way with the Maverick patriarch.
"He's at Doc Staley's and he was shot in the chest. Doctor hasn't found the bullet or an exit wound. He's in a coma."
"A coma? What does that mean? He's unconscious?"
"Yes, Pappy, that's exactly what it means."
"Has he been awake since he was shot?" Pappy stopped walking and stared at his firstborn.
"No."
"How'd it happen?"
"He was protecting me."
If Bret expected an eruption of some kind, it didn't happen. Instead, Beauregard started walking again and quietly asked, "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Pappy. Bart saved my life."
Beau's head bobbed up and down. "Of course he did. Just like you've done for him. What happened to the man that shot him?"
"She's dead."
That stopped Pappy in his tracks. "She's dead? A woman shot him? A married woman?"
"No, sir, not a married woman. I killed her brother in self-defense, and she tried to get even."
"Who killed her?"
"I did."
Pappy reached out and rested his hand on Bret's arm again, and this time he held on as they walked. "Good."
They arrived at the doctor's office and Bret opened the door. Doc's assistant was out front, and she'd already seen Bret that morning. "Bret, this must be your father. Mr. Maverick, I'm Sammy Jo. Your son's in the last room through this door. Go right on back."
Pappy didn't wait for Bret; he stood up and squared his shoulders, then walked through the door. Sammy Jo gave Bret a wan smile and watched the younger man follow his father into the back room. She sighed and shook her head, then murmured to herself, "Poor men."
Bret caught up to Pappy quickly and put his hand on his father's back. There was a time Beauregard was taller than his oldest son, but that was no longer true. The closer they got to the room the smaller Pappy seemed to get. As he reached the last door to open, he hesitated and looked up at Bret. "Tell me he's gonna be alright."
"Of course he is, Pappy. He's a Maverick, after all," Bret lied, and then fervently prayed that it wasn't a lie at all.
Finally Beauregard reached for the doorknob, but his hand trembled so that his fingers slipped off and Bret opened it. The room was dark, and it took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust to the dim light. Bret already knew where everything was and could have walked in, but he waited for Pappy to step forward first. On the north wall there was a bed, and in that bed, very still and silent, lay the youngest Maverick.
The first thing that struck Pappy was how pale Bart was. He'd lost so much blood, and even from ten feet away his labored breathing could be heard. It was ragged and uneven, and loud. Pappy went to his son and immediately sat in the chair that Bret had vacated not long ago. He grasped one of Bart's hands in his, and it was so cold. Pappy gave a small chuckle and Bret asked, "What?"
In a hushed voice, Beauregard shared an old memory. "I remember how hot his hands were when he had scarlet fever." He looked up at his oldest. "Yours, too." He sighed, and Bret could hear the weight of the world in that sound. "It seems so long ago, now." He paused for a moment, and then said, "He can't die. It ain't right. A father ain't supposed to bury his children."
Bret struggled to say something, but he couldn't. No sound would come from his mouth, so he closed his hand on his father's and brother's. Long minutes passed before he could finally speak. "He won't die. I couldn't stand it if he did." And Bret put his head down on his father's shoulder and wept.