The True Warmth of November Sunshine
Wishing for a cloud-covered morning in the month of November makes this whole mess even more unbelievable. Opening my eyes is impossible. The gold-trimmed wall of hot, white light offers no warmth, no comforting heat, just the damp chill of late autumn clinging to my skin and seeping through my clothes. Hmf, even my feet are cold! The last image floating in my memory is of the sky and me lying here patiently as the sky changed from the azure and cornflower blues of afternoon to the smoky grays of dusk. Lying here as night fell, asleep or unconscious, I'm not sure, the thick, spreading puddle of blood next to my leg, proves that another day has arrived and I am still helpless and horse-less.
Wait until Hoss and Joe find out! Oh, brother! Bushwhacked in broad daylight! Smacked over the head by a man of his advanced years. Oh, his limp was a nice touch, to be sure, and his wretched, stained shirt, tattered trousers, and floppy-soled boots went a long, long way toward bamboozling my intuition! His weary eyes lowered in bogus reverence as he spoke in that frail tone of voice. Frail, my ass! The throbbing pulse in my head is proof of just how frail that saddle tramp was! I recovered enough to get the drop on him, which seemed like the right thing to do at the time, and then I climbed up onto Sport, which wasn't easy with the growing knot on my skull. And what was my reward? I get shot at by a partner I hadn't yet realized existed. Where was my mind during all of this? This sort of thing happens to Joe or Hoss, not me! As if being careless enough to completely ignore the tell-tale signs that there was another lowdown bushwhacker tucked in behind the withered patch of brush wasn't enough, the blast of the gunshot spooked Sport into a rearing frenzy; I lose my grip, plummet without so much as an ounce of grace to the ground which drives the jagged edge of a fallen branch through the skin on my leg. Well, those brothers of mine will no doubt embellish the retelling of this one until it's so far from the truth I won't even recognize that I had any part in it!
What in the world? Damned buzzards! "I haven't eaten either, you know!" Ha ha. I'm comparing my eating habits with those of the vultures! Must be the cold, or the thirst, or the hunger . . . or the pain. Funny thing I don't recall the pain being there a few minutes ago. Hmf . . . Maybe I'm defrosting!
"Ya hear that, buzzards? You'd best start looking elsewhere for your breakfast!" Ouch! Oh, Adam, your f . . . feeble attempt to thwart those eager s . . . scavengers was not an example of your finest hour! Phew. That's it. Lie perfectly still and the pain will subside to a tolerable level. Ah, that's better. Wait. Where'd the birds go? The sun . . . What did I do to deserve this most dazzling November day in the history of Virginia City? Maybe if I . . . ouch, dadburnit! Rolling to my side is not going to happen; too much pressure on my leg. Staying flat on my back is out of the question. Hurling a useless, sarcastic remark toward the gliding forms in the sky did nothing but aggravate the pungent bile lingering in my throat. Oh, please, not again!
The prickle deep in my throat . . . God, coughing really hurts! That twinge is all too familiar. And it's more of a stabbing, slicing pain than a twinge. Yeah, I have broken ribs! Must have happened when I fell so gracefully from my mount! Oh, this coughing . . . has to . . . stop! Breathe. Just try to relax and breathe. Inhale, exhale. Not so deeply! God, that smarts!
Someone will find me. I know Sport. He was spooked by the piercing gunshot and my fall to the ground. Sport went home, I'm sure of it, and the instant Pa would've gotten a glimpse of him entering the yard, he and Joe and Hoss would've wasted no time in tracing Sport's tracks. They'd have made camp for the night. I would have done the same. No use struggling in the moonlight when you can make better time resting and then starting out fresh in the morning. Pa taught us that. So they'll be well on their way again this morning.
Agh . . . My leg! Maybe I should tighten the tourniquet. Funny thing is, I don't remember slipping it free of the belt loops around my waist, winding it around and around my thigh, nor pulling the soft, weathered leather through the buckle. But it's there, and it doesn't seem to be stopping the blood. Maybe I can . . . "Damn it!" Breathe, Adam. Breathe.
"Ha ha ha!" If the Great Spirit of Misfortune had bestowed this honor on my brother Hoss, he would have sustained a beating that would've stunned the mighty grizzly and sucked the life from an average man. And the money would still be gone.
And if the distinction had fallen to my brother Joe, he would most likely have been shot at close range in the shoulder, and the money would still be gone.
Me? I get broken ribs, a k . . . killer headache, and a dead tree limb propagating in the wound in my leg! And the money is . . . you guessed it . . . gone!
Okay, I am definitely defrosting. Pain sure can spread quickly when I'm lying around in the elements waiting to be buzzard food. Oh, that smarts! This would be a marvelous time for the Cavalry, decked in their finest, sporting the flag and bugles blaring, to come charging around that bend just up ahead. Right now, I'd settle for half a regiment or even one, lonely deserter with a compassionate streak!
C'mon, Pa. I know you're on your way. It . . . It's not that I n . . . need you to get here sooner rather than l . . . later. I just know h . . . h . . . Oh, God . . . how much you're fretting about me right now, "Agh", and it's not good for a m . . . man of your years to worry so. So for your own p . . . peace of mind, h . . . hurry . . .
"Doc Martin said ta keep up with the cool washcloth for as long as his fever continues," Hoss whispered, his Tahoe-blue eyes clouded with fatigue and concern.
"I will," Joe promised, quickly reaching into the basin of cool, clear water. As he twisted the cloth, heavy drops of water trickled and plopped against the bottom of the bowl. "Get some sleep, Hoss. Pa and I will stay with him."
Hoss nodded, walked to the bedroom door and slowly turned back to his brother. "You'll call me . . ."
"The minute he so much as twitches," Joe promised, his eyes falling on his exhausted father sitting slumped over Adam's bed.
Hoss followed Joe's gaze, and moments later, when their eyes met across the room and Hoss opened his mouth to speak, he was stayed by his father's weary voice.
"Adam?" Ben mumbled softly, grasping the hand that slowly returned his embrace. "Son, can you hear me?"
"Pa?" Adam said weakly. "Pa, I . . ."
"Shh, Adam," Ben cried. "Just rest, son. You're home, in your bed, and you're going to be fine."
"They g . . . they got the money, Pa," Adam groaned, his heavy eyes straining to open.
"The money doesn't matter, son," Ben assured, his hand gently brushing the hair from Adam's forehead.
Adam swallowed, his throat resisting the force. Immediately, Joe filled a glass and tipped the edge against Adam's parched lips.
"Thanks, Joe," Adam said, his head throbbing from the slightest movements. "H . . . How long was I out?"
"Two days from the time we found you," Ben replied. "Two very long days."
Adam furrowed his brow. "That would make today . . ."
Ben nodded as a smile appeared on his tired face. "Thanksgiving," he said.
Adam frowned. "I'm sorry to spoil the celebration."
"We're postponin' the party jist fer you, older brother," Hoss said. "Soon as yer feelin' up to it, we'll be havin' our usual feast with all the trimmin's!"
"That's right," Joe added. "And Hop Sing's planning a few extras in honor of you!"
Adam grinned, the expression fading quickly as he suddenly grew tired. "I'm sorry about . . . the money, Pa."
"Son," Ben whispered, "the money means nothing." Ben inhaled sharply, the catch in his throat sending tears to his eyes. "Today, I have so much more to be thankful for. I have my sons . . . all of them."