Helpless

by Sevenstars

What Jess experienced and thought after the Parkisons took him hostage.

Helpless

by Sevenstars

SUMMARY: The climactic events of "Duel at Parkison Town," and some of what happened afterward (between the last act and the tag), as seen from Jess's viewpoint. Beta'd by Lisa.

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Jess stood still as Lee brought his horse up, his thoughts in turmoil. "You ain't got no fight with me," he said. "I ain't a Sherman."

"No, but you work for one," the old man retorted. "What I hear, you even sleep in his house. You're one of his household. A sworn man. It's his obligation to stand by you. Even a backshootin' coward can't deny that."

"Slim ain't no—" Jess began indignantly.

Parkison raised the rifle that lay across his saddlebows. "Like you said, you ain't a Sherman. I ain't obliged to treat you accordin' to the code. Be still, or I'll have Lee gag you."

Jess's lips suddenly felt dry. He licked them and shifted an inch or so. Lee didn't have his rifle in position any more, but the old man did, and he was by far the more dangerous of the two; you could see it in his eyes, in his mouth. Some men you could reason with, some you couldn't. Ben Parkison was one of the ones you couldn't. He just wouldn't listen. Jess had seen that already, the other day, when they came to the ranch and told of Floyd's death.

If he was rustlin' our beef, Jess thought, we'd'a' had the right to hang him if we'd found him—not that Slim would do that. But even a rustler don't deserve to be shot in the back. If we could'a' proved it wasn't us, like we tried to, wouldn't be happenin' now.

"Get up," Parkison ordered, with a little lift of the rifle barrel, and Jess obeyed, being careful to move slowly. Lee quickly pulled his arms around behind him and lashed them together. Jess winced at the sharp jerk on his shoulders. He looked back, west toward the lower land where the house was, wondering if he'd ever see it again. Parkison thought a lot of his honor, or at least he talked a good deal of it, but honor as he understood it might not track with Jess's concepts. Men like this were unpredictable.

"What are you gonna do with me?" he asked.

For just an instant he thought maybe the old man was going to hit him. "Reckon you got a right to know, bein's it's your life," Parkison said then. "Gonna take you up to Parkison Town, then send word down to Sherman. Tell him to come in the mornin' and settle what's between us. Tell him if he don't, you'll hang for my boy's murder."

And that was when Jess finally understood what kind of mind he was dealing with.

**SR**

Jess had seen his share of ghost towns, and not only in mineral country, though they were perhaps most plentiful there. Some, like this one, got that way because the water failed. Some were the result of financial panics, or droughts, or outbreaks of disease among the range stock. Some withered away on the vine after a stagecoach route was changed and left them high and dry. Regardless, there was always a sorrowful sameness to them. And yet this one seemed different, somehow. Jess didn't understand it, didn't have the education to describe it, but he knew what he felt.

They led his horse to what appeared to be a former blacksmith's, with a feed yard and livery next door to it. It was a relief when the animal pulled up; keeping your balance with your arms lashed behind you was one of the more difficult tasks of horsemanship, even for as good a rider as Jess was. He waited, his eyes switching restlessly from one Parkison to the other, as Lee dismounted, then gestured with his rifle barrel. Carefully Jess swung his right leg over the horn and slid down. "Take him inside," Parkison ordered his son.

Lee nudged Jess in the spine with the rifle, and Jess walked slowly down the alley that ran between the shop and the fenced yard. At the back of the building there was a door with a hasp and padlock on it. Lee halted him with a hand on his arm, opened the door and urged him through. The room beyond was maybe twenty feet a-side, with an upright pillar in the middle to support the roof; perhaps it had originally been used to store strap and bar iron for the smithy, or an overflow of grain from the stable. Looped around the pillar, lying on the floor, was a length of chain, ten feet or so, with a cuff at each end. Lee made Jess stand with his back to the pillar, snapping the cuffs around his wrists before he took out a knife and cut the rope that bound him. Jess worked his stiff shoulders a little, trying to loosen the aching joints.

Lee snatched his hat from his head. "Hey!" Jess protested.

"Just so we'll have somethin' to send to Sherman, in case he don't believe we got you," Lee said.

He'll believe, Jess knew, though he didn't say it. There were many things that might happen to a man out on the range, not least of which was simply getting thrown and either injured or merely set afoot, but Slim knew these people; he'd know that a stiff-necked old man like Parkison might be unwilling to believe what didn't track with his vision of events, but wouldn't lie about his own affairs. Jess watched as Lee went out, heard the hasp snap over and the padlock click shut.

He looked around. The room was dim but not dark, owing to the fact that several of the wall boards had fallen off the framing. He noticed a large blanket, neatly folded, within easy reach of where he stood, and in the other direction a galvanized bucket with a thick piece of wood lain over it, the purpose of which was evident. All the comforts, he thought bitterly, and tugged at the chain. It was new and firm; he could hold his arms down normally by his sides, or raise them high enough to eat (assuming his captors meant to feed him), but he couldn't get more than maybe four feet from the pillar. If they'd left him bound, maybe, over the course of the night, he could have worked his way free. But not with this. Slowly he lowered himself to a cross-legged position on the floor, his back resting against the wooden shaft. They hadn't emptied his pockets. He took his watch out. He'd reached the cut fence a little past one, and the Parkisons had taken him almost immediately; it was just after five now. Sunrise would be about a quarter to eight. Less than fifteen hours. Maybe not even that much, if they weren't willing to wait till the sun showed itself.

Jess had faced a noose once before in his life—in Laredo, when Troy McCanless set him up to divert attention from her father and brothers. He'd been saved that time, by a man who hadn't waited around to be thanked—he still wasn't sure of the fellow's name—but it had been close, much too close. He'd hoped never to have to relive it. He wouldn't have minded a bullet so much, but a rope... he had much the same horror of that kind of death as an Indian might. He couldn't stop the shudder that passed across his shoulders.

And apart from that, Jess discovered, he no longer enjoyed knowing he was a pawn in somebody else's affairs. Not that he'd ever enjoyed it before, but he'd accepted it as just part of the life he lived and the general low opinion he'd held of his own worth.

He tried to tell himself that this was no different from being a hired warrior in a range dispute... or, for that matter, a trail hand. In both situations you laid your life on the line for someone else's property, someone else's word...

But it wasn't the same. A man should never try to lie to himself. There was no percentage in it; somewhere down inside he always knew the truth.

This wasn't someone else's property, or someone else's word. This was Slim.

When he'd first come to Sherman Ranch, Jess had been a drifter in more than one sense of the term. He'd been drifting through life, aimless, homeless, not much caring what became of him because he had nobody much to care about him—only Francie, and by that time she was married to Gil, starting a life of her own. The only real aim he had in life was to kill Frank Bannister—and since by then he knew that the man was in the Wyoming Territorial Prison, he had little hope of doing so any time soon. He'd never expected that here he'd find purpose, acceptance, friends... no—a family, in his own mind, anyhow. A home, again.

Slim had given him that. Andy had started it, but it was Slim who had made it real, when he offered Jess the job, invited him to stay, and made it clear he was to live in the house.

And there'd never be enough time, enough chances, in all the rest of Jess's life, for him to repay Slim for that.

Slim didn't understand what it all meant to him. How could he? Sure, he'd lost his folks, but not the way Jess had—well, not his pa, leastways—and not till he was a man grown. And he'd always had a home, a place that was his, where he knew he belonged. All his life, he'd had that. He didn't know.

Jess didn't fault Slim for his situation. Slim had tried to make it clear to Parkison that he didn't want to keep the feud going. He'd done all he could to make peace. It wasn't his fault the old man wouldn't listen.

Yet Jess knew that Slim would come for him. That, he never doubted, never questioned. He knew it. Knew it sure in his skin, the way a Baptist knows Jesus.

Slim would come, would risk his life... for a worthless Texas Reb, a gunslinger and saddle tramp he'd taken into his home.

There'd been times enough, this last year-plus, that Jess had feared he would bring trouble on the people of Sherman Ranch, just by living there. He hadn't counted on being used as a weapon against them. The prospect hurt.

He tugged at the chain again, angry and bitter. To have it all come down to this, to lose everything he'd found here, for the sake of a stupid quarrel that folks had thought settled after Matt Sherman backed away from his duel and tore down the fence...

The earlier sensation of numb disbelief and chill comprehension gave way, suddenly, to something he knew well. It was the steady burn of rage, of fury teamed with grief, that he had come to know for the first time in the terrible days after the fire, after the shock wore off and he began to understand just how his life had changed.

You want a quarrel? he thought to Parkison. You ain't got no notion what a quarrel is, old man, not till you got one with me.

You kill Slim and leave me standin', you sign your death warrant. 'Cause I'll take you down, you and your boy and any other that carries your name, down to the last distant cousin. And none of this dang-fool nonsense about written challenges and fancy long-barrelled guns. You'll fight by Harper rules. Texas rules.

See how you like that, you old fanatic.

Jess had never enjoyed killing, the way some in his line did. But he found himself almost looking forward to seeing Parkison's face when the bullet hit him, when he understood that by killing Slim—by destroying Jess's future—he had doomed himself.

What would become of the ranch, of the stage-line contract? Andy was Slim's nearest kin, his likeliest heir; Jess supposed Slim had made a will—no, knew he had; somebody as conscientious as Slim would never have neglected to. But a thirteen-year-old boy couldn't run the place. He'd need someone to help him, to be his guardian. And Jess had a fair idea who Slim would have named for the job.

He hoped he'd have the strength for it. He dreaded the notion of going back to a ranch that would have no Slim, ever again... except buried alongside his folks.

He shook his head hard. Why was he thinkin' the worst like this? It wasn't his usual way. Slim didn't want this fight, true enough, but he didn't—wouldn't—want to die, either; he knew as surely as Jess did that he had obligations he should live for. He was a good fighter and a good shot, and younger by a lot of years than Parkison, with all that that implied: steadier of hand and nerve, keener of eye. Surely he'd have at least an even chance. Not like he'd be facin' a professional, like Ed Caulder. Or even somebody that wasn't exactly a gunfighter but depended on his gun to make his livin' just the same, like Bud Carlin. Parkison wasn't nowheres near their league.

And yet...

And yet, after all these years, all the losses, the pain, the betrayals, there was a little bit of Jess that could never quite believe he'd get to keep anythin' as good as what he had here.

Like he couldn't make himself believe he deserved it.

Like, somehow, God had had it in for him since the day he'd drawn his first breath.

Me, all right, he thought. I can accept what happens to me. But it ain't fair you take Slim too! What's he done, to make this come to him? Just taken my part, not knowin'? Took me in, give me a home, friendship? Saved my life, like last winter when I had that fever and he thought to put me through a sweat, Indian-style, and broke it? And it ain't just about us, neither. There's Andy, he ain't got no part in this. You can't be wantin' him to go through what I done, to lose his whole family...

He realized, to his horror, that there were tears running silently down his face. Is that what you been lookin' for? To humiliate me—to break me? All right then, you done it. I don't care. Whatever I got to do, to be, if it keeps Slim alive...

Footsteps. Somebody coming.

Jess dragged his sleeve across his face. He wasn't going to let the Parkisons see how far he'd had to go, to make the bargain for Slim's life. They were Slim's enemies—his enemies. He wouldn't give them that satisfaction.

A key rattled in the lock outside. The door opened and Lee Parkison came in, carrying the kind of round tray often used to serve drinks in saloons. Jess stared at him, face set, eyes coldly defiant. Lee might be a kid, but he was old enough to carry a gun and to follow his pa's orders. That made him part of the feud, and as such, a target—for Slim if he chose, for Jess if the worst happened... or even if it didn't: this was about survival—Slim's.

They hadn't troubled to take his boot knife, maybe hadn't even noticed it. He could kill the kid easy from this distance. But odds were he'd fall backward, and Jess wouldn't be able to reach his body to get at the keys to his cuffs. No, that wasn't the way. If Lee would come close enough for him to hook a foot behind his heel, or grab his arm—if he could get the blade to Lee's throat—

"Got some supper here for you, Mr. Harper." Lee set the tray on the floor, six or eight feet from where Jess sat, and pushed it closer to the prisoner with his foot. He had some brains after all, seemed like. Wasn't going to get close enough for Jess to maybe get a hand on him.

Jess looked at the tray. A tin plate with a portion of meat on it—it smelled like roast venison, which didn't surprise him much; up here, and with their town abandoned, their wells dried up, cattle mostly sold off or dead, likely the Parkisons ate a lot of game—and a roasted potato, some stewed tomatoes (probably canned), beans, cornbread. A cup of coffee. A steel knife and fork. A decent enough meal, and not much different from the kind of chuck he and Slim fed themselves on, now that Jonesy was in St. Louis. But custom forbade you to shoot a man after eating his food, and Jess knew he might well have to shoot Parkison before too much time had passed. He might be a lot of things Slim didn't approve of, but there were things he didn't—wouldn't—do. "Don't want none," he grunted.

Lee looked puzzled. "We got no fight with you, Mr. Harper. Like you said."

"Naw," Jess snarled, "except you're gonna hang me if Slim don't come, and if he does your pa'll kill him in front of me! You don't call that a fight? Take it out of here. I don't want nothin' from you." And when the kid didn't move, he lashed out with his foot, his hard-packed boot-toe catching the tray under its rim and flipping the whole thing over with a crash. He glared at the surprised Lee, his breath coming fast and harsh. "Get outta my sight."

"Mr. Harper—I..."

Jess came to his feet, lurching a bit as the chain caught against the pillar. "Get out," he hissed.

Lee backed away, looking scared. Jess took a vicious satisfaction in that. The kid might not know what Jess had planned for him, if his father won tomorrow, but at least maybe he had some notion, now, of what they were dealing with. It was a small victory, but right now Jess would take what he could get. He watched as Lee slowly edged out through the door, shutting it behind him; heard the hasp and lock being closed. He looked down at the spilled food, the tomato juice and coffee runnelling away between the floorboards, and brought his foot down on it, grinding it hard against the wood. He kicked the tray across the room, deriving some relief from the loud crash it made as it hit the wall, wishing it was the old man instead.

He hoped Lee told his pa everything he'd just seen and heard. Hoped it shook the old man.

'Cause when a man was as helpless as Jess Harper felt right now, he took every chance he could get to even things up.

**SR**

He knew he ought to sleep; knew he should be sharp and alert when morning came, ready to take advantage of any chance that came up. If he could get away before Slim got there, if he could intercept his friend on the trail, they could head home and brainstorm some way to deal with this thing, since clearly Ben Parkison wasn't interested in letting it lay. If he couldn't do that, maybe he could take the Parkisons out; even if all he could manage was to tie them up, surely the law would have something to say about his being kidnapped. The blanket he'd been provided was a good one, thick and tight-woven and free of holes, and he wrapped it around himself Indian-style and leaned back, trying to rest. But all he could do was doze fitfully, snapping awake over and over, gasping, as his usual nightmares were improved upon by new ones with the old man and his fantastically long-barrelled revolver at the center of them.

It was still dark when they came for him. The old man had a shotgun, and he held it on Jess while Lee unlocked the cuffs, bound the Texan's wrists behind him, and slipped the noose over his head. Jess had better sense than to argue with a scattergun; he held himself still and proud, shoulders back, eyes glittering like dark-blue ice, not speaking, not resisting. He took a little comfort in the fact that they'd made a proper thirteen-turn hangman's knot, the kind that would break his neck right off. That mob in Laredo hadn't—which was probably a good part of what had saved him; he'd been strangling slowly when his mysterious rescuer cut him down. There'd be none of that this time. If Slim didn't come, he would die. But at least it would be quick.

Last night's rage had diminished to a slow seething somewhere deep inside him. He would make a break if he could, if he saw any opening at all—because how could he be sure that Parkison would abide by the rules?—and for that he needed his edge, needed to be calm, alert, needed a steady hand and quiet nerves. And if he lived through these next few hours and Slim didn't, he knew, that rage would be back, cold this time, and bitter, and then—then he would do what he'd promised himself.

He hadn't managed to settle things with Bannister. He wouldn't fail with the Parkisons. There'd be no Gentry here to gum things up, no Stuart.

This would be his business, and his only.

The old man took himself and his shotgun off up the alley, presumably to wait for Slim. Lee followed after a minute or two, urging Jess before him; neither of them spoke. Ten feet back from the street Lee stopped him again, moved past him and tossed the long trailing end of the rope over a projecting beam, then came back. Slowly the light strengthened; slowly the sounds of the day birds began to fill the air. Tired as he was, and much in need of coffee, Jess marvelled at how incredible it seemed, in this sweet, fresh coolness, that before this day was out there would be at least one man dead, maybe two. Maybe three—or, if his luck had gone really sour, four.

Then he heard it: the slow, crisp clop of a horse's hooves. He didn't know whether he should be thankful that his life would be spared, or grieved that his friend was laying his life on the line for his sake. The hoofbeats checked; the old man's hoarse voice sounded from up by the front of the building. "Bring 'im out!"

Jess allowed himself to be prodded out to the street. Parkison was holding that long-barrelled pistol down at his side; there was no sign of the shotgun. Twenty feet away Slim waited astride Alamo. His face was expressionless, but Jess saw the relieved sigh that lifted his chest when he realized he'd come in time.

Jess thought of himself as a simple man, direct, uncomplicated, forthright and straightforward, and he couldn't recall ever experiencing such a witch's brew of emotion all at once: relief, pride, gratitude; sadness and shame at having been used to push Slim into something he didn't want to do; admiration for the big man's courage and loyalty; disgust and fury at Parkison for forcing Slim into this; a sick terror that he might still lose the best friend he'd ever had. How he kept any of it from showing he didn't know, unless it was that there was so much going on inside him that one thing cancelled another out—or that in that moment of stress, his face reacted as it did when he was going into a fight, and threw up a cold wall of unreadable invulnerability.

"Untie him," Parkison ordered, and Lee loosed Jess's bonds and lifted the noose over his head. "A'right," the old man continued— "you kin go now."

He still don't get it, Jess thought. Parkison actually sounded as if he expected Jess to just walk away—or ride away—and leave Slim to his fate. And yet he was the one who'd called Jess "one of Slim's household," a "sworn man." Half-mockingly, the Texan said, "I'm curious t'know if you'd'a' gone through with it. But I'm willin' to settle for bein' curious." He turned his back and walked over to the waiting rider. "Sorry, Slim," he said quietly, though his voice sounded uneven in his own ears. "I walked right into their trap."

"Don't worry about it, Jess. If that hadn't'a' worked he'd'a' thought of somethin' else." And once again that confused surge of emotion left Jess almost reeling as the rancher turned his attention to Parkison, not speaking, just encouraging him with his eyes.

"Take a heap'a' doin' to make you fight, don't it?" the old man said mockingly.

"I'm here now." Slim's tone was even.

"Yeah, well, you got your choice. Which end'a town d'you wanna start from?"

Jess looked to his friend, and Slim, without quite shrugging, said, "Doesn't make any difference."

"No, we'll do it right," Parkison insisted. "You choose."

Slim paused an instant, then hipped around in his saddle, pointing with his thumb the way he'd come. "South."

"You know the rules," the old man reminded him. "Only what's in your gun," and he lifted his for emphasis.

"I know the rules." Slim sounded almost tired, as if he wanted nothing better than to just get the whole thing over with.

"A'right—we'll start whenever you're ready." Parkison turned away, followed by Lee, and they both headed up toward the north end of the lifeless street. Jess looked up to Slim again, wanting—he didn't know what, and Slim, without a word, turned Alamo and walked him toward the gate of the feed yard. Three saddled horses, Jess's and the Parkisons', were tied inside, the former with Jess's hat and gunbelt hung over the horn. Slim turned in, dismounted and tied. Jess followed, lifting his hat off the saddle—like most range men he tended to feel naked without it; for the first time he noticed Doc Sweeny's buggy on the other side of the street, tucked neatly into an alley, and Doc himself standing beside it, his bag on the seat within easy reach of his hand.

There were a lot of things Jess wanted to say, but there wasn't time for any of them. "So this is how it ends," he noted. "Nobody loses their temper, just a quiet game'a death." He reached for his belt and began strapping it in place. If the worst happened, he meant to be ready for it.

"I must'a' had these duels described to me a hundred times, Jess. The stories always seemed real enough—" Slim checked the long-barrelled pistol's chambers— "this mornin'—nothin' about it seems real."

Jess remembered his own similar epiphany and was struck by how alike he and Slim were in so many important ways. Each had his particular strengths and weaknesses, and could make up for the other's failings with his own natural gifts. Yet where it really counted they were as like as twins. Jess buckled his belt, stepped nearer and spoke softly. "We can still make a run for it, Slim." It wasn't a thing he would have suggested to most men; it would have smacked of cowardice. But Slim knew, and he knew, that that wasn't the question here. Slim had already proven his courage simply by coming. That, and so much more. Nothing could take away what this morning's ride had said of him.

"Too late for runnin', Jess," he said, and there was a note of resignation in the words. "Maybe it always was."

Maybe it always is, Jess thought, as his friend started to walk toward the south end of the street. He followed, glancing back over his shoulder every few strides, still not certain Parkison could be trusted. "He's out to kill you, Slim," he said.

"I know, Jess." Resignation still, but also a quiet calm, even a kind of satisfaction. Jess understood, perhaps for the first time, that Slim might well be the bravest man he'd ever known, as well as the best, and his feeling of pride and gratitude, that he could be good enough for such a man to care about and risk his life for, almost choked him.

They stopped, turned to face the north end of the street. The Parkisons had reached their chosen starting point; the old man was talking to his son, too quietly for them to hear. Then he shouted: "Are you ready?"

"I'm ready." It was only a little louder than Slim's normal speaking tone, and yet the sound of it seemed to fill the morning. Jess wished he dared suggest that they do this together, but he knew he couldn't. It would diminish everything Slim had already done these last few days; would make all of it meaningless. But if you don't ride out of here, they won't neither, he promised silently, and walked slowly over to the splintered boardwalk, his hand hanging by his Colt. It don't lift till this is done. Till one of you is finished. Lee Parkison was taking a similar position off to his father's left.

"Sherman—here's number one!" the old man hollered. "Now you got witnesses you fired in self-defense!" And he squeezed off his first shot—into the air.

They started walking, a slow, measured pace. This was something Jess recognized, something he knew, from his own many fights. He moved along with Slim, about twenty feet to his left. Parkison paused, fired. The bullet kicked up dirt six feet in front of Slim's left foot; the big man hesitated an instant, then went on, paused in his turn, and started to raise his gun.

"Not yet, Slim." It was almost a whisper, and he didn't know if Slim heard it, or felt it, or just acted on his own instincts, but the rancher let out his breath and moved forward once more. Again Parkison stopped, fired; this time the bullet hit some six feet behind Slim. Was he doing it on purpose? He only had two more rounds. Why was he wasting his lead? Slim glanced back, then began moving again.

"Go 'head, Slim," Jess murmured. "Now!—Shoot, Slim, now!"

As if he'd heard, Slim raised his pistol, his lips firming. Parkison likewise lifted his, sighting along that fantastic barrel, and fired. The bullet grazed Slim's left upper arm, tearing a strip out of his shirtsleeve.

Seeing immediately that the wound wasn't serious, Jess turned slightly to face more toward the old man. Parkison grinned. Slim moved on; stopped, spread his feet, lifted his gun and sighted—not the way he would in a proper, honest gunfight, but as if he were using a rifle; the only difference was that he didn't have to use his extended left arm to support the weight of his weapon. I got to teach him to turn sideways as he makes his play, Jess thought— he's makin' 'way too big of a target—

And just then Parkison lifted his gun again and fired his fifth and presumably last shot.

Slim spun and went to his knees as the bullet struck him just above the waist, on the left side; blood blossomed on his shirt. "Slim!" Jess screamed, and lunged.

"Stay back, Jess!" Slim commanded. His voice was harsh and half strangled, but forceful, and Jess froze, perhaps four feet from him.

"Slim, I—"

"Stay back!" Slim repeated. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, his left arm curled around his lower ribs as if to hold in the pain. "You stay back too, Doc! I got a bill to collect!" The words shook with passion, but each came clearly. He and Parkison were less than ten feet apart now.

The old man glared at him defiantly. "Go ahead and pull the trigger! Go ahead and fire! I ain't askin' for no mercy from a Sherman," he declared, and Jess knew he'd guessed right: five bullets only. Parkison had shot his wad; he was completely defenseless now. It occurred to the Texan to wonder how, at that range and with that long sighting radius, he could have missed hitting a vital spot.

"You won't get any!" Slim told him, his expression as close to fury as Jess could recall ever seeing it.

"Go ahead, pull the trigger!" Parkison repeated, and Jess thought, Do it, Slim! Do it! If it was you out of bullets and him with five left, he wouldn't give you no mercy—why show him any? He forced you into this. He's drawn your blood. Take him down! You got a right, Slim! He don't deserve no courtesy of yours.

"You wanta die big," Slim spat out, disgust clear in his tone. "Be a legend. A foolish, senseless legend! So your son can carry on with somethin'. It's up to you now, Lee!" he shouted. "Do you promise that the feud will be over for all time? Or does he get his wish?"

"We ain't makin' no promises to no Sherman!" Parkison hollered, enraged.

"You're not runnin' things any more," Slim snapped. "What is it, Lee?" Jess felt his body settle itself into the familiar fighting stance, hand poised, eyes darting from one enemy to the other. Slim raised his gun one more time, cocked it. "Now!"

Softly, evenly, Lee Parkison said, "I promise."

"I'll make no sich a promise!" his father cried.

"You don't count any more, Parkison!" Slim was beginning to sound breathless, but the words still came strong and clear. "You wanta know why?" Jess watched him, fascinated, transfixed. "You owe me your life," Slim said flatly. "Now—today—tomorrow—until you draw your last breath." He took the pistol off cock. "Till this is fired. You owe a Sherman, Mr. Parkison."

He planned on this, Jess thought in astonishment. Or at least, he was allowin' for it to happen. Figurin' there was a chance Parkison thought so high of the feud that he'd be willin' to die to keep it goin'. Figurin' that he might be hit but not killed. Figurin' Parkison would count on him bein' so mad at bein' hit that he'd be ready to kill to balance the books.

Parkison for his part seemed stunned. Lee went to him and spoke quietly. "Let's go home, Pa," he said.

His father handed him the empty pistol; Lee tucked it through his waistband. The old man covered his face briefly with an outspread hand, then they turned away.

As if he'd been holding on just till he could see that happen, Slim suddenly folded, and Jess jumped forward to catch him. He lowered his friend gently to his back, right hand still curled tightly around the pistol's butt, left arm flung straight out, and knelt beside him, beginning to unbutton his shirt, as Sweeny came hurrying to join them. "Wha'd'ya think, Doc?" he demanded anxiously.

"Anybody that tough—it's gonna take a lot to kill him," Doc replied. "Lift him up a bit, Jess, if you can—I need to see if I can find an exit wound."

Carefully Jess turned Slim onto his right side, steadying him so the doctor could examine him. "No," Sweeny muttered, "looks like it must still be in there. Lodged against a rib, maybe—there's nothing else in that area hard enough to stop it."

Jess remembered the size of the pistol balls Slim had shown him in the attic, as big as the slugs out of a Sharps buffalo gun, maybe bigger. His earlier guess about Parkison, he realized, had been right. At that range, with a proper powder load, a huge bullet like that should have killed Slim, or at the very least slammed him to the ground. The old man must have underloaded a-purpose. He hadn't been intending to kill Slim, but to force Slim to kill him. Jess shook his head silently in bewilderment. Difficult though his own life had been, it would never have occurred to him to commit suicide, whether actively or passively. He could only try to guess at what must have been going through Parkison's mind as he prepared for this duel, setting things up to lead to his own death. Was it because he'd lost Floyd? Folks weren't meant to outlive their children.

"Jess! Did you hear me?"

He snapped back to the real world. "Sorry, Doc. What do you need?"

"I can't tend him here, in the dirt. And I doubt there's any better place to do it anywhere around here. We need to get him back to the ranch, if we can, and I don't want him sitting up in the buggy with me." Sweeny was working as he spoke, trying to get the bleeding stopped.

Jess looked around, at the young trees encroaching on the edges of the town. "I can make a drag. He wouldn't be plumb flat, but closer to it. Would that help?" He remembered the blanket the Parkisons had supplied for his prison. They hadn't taken it out when they came for him. He could tie it over the crosspoles, and that would give Slim a better surface to lie on. Or just spread it over him—a man losing blood mustn't take a chill. Neither Slim nor Jess had brought bedding along; they hadn't been reckoning on staying out overnight.

"Yes, that would probably be about the best we could do," Doc agreed. "Get what you need, I'll see to him."

Jess gently eased his friend back down and was just about to push to his feet when Slim groaned and his head rolled from side to side. Instantly the Texan refocused. "Slim? Easy, Slim. Don't move."

The rancher's eyes blinked open slowly, vague and unfocused at first. They settled on Jess's face and sharpened. "Jess?"

"I got you, Slim. And Doc's here. We're gonna get you home." Something suddenly occurred to Jess. "What about Andy, Slim?"

"Left... him... a note." Slim's voice was little more than a whisper. "Told him... up to him... see to the teams... be... a man..." He tried to take a breath and gasped. "Jess... Parkison?"

Jess looked up. He hadn't seen Lee come back for their horses, but he realized, now, that the kid must have done just that, as he saw the Parkisons riding slowly northward, out of town. "Goin'," he said. "Goin' plumb out of our lives, I hope." He laid his hand firmly on Slim's shoulder as the big man seemed about to speak again. "You be still now. Save your strength. I gotta make a drag so's we can get you out of here."

Slim winced, squeezing his eyes briefly shut against the pain of his wounds. The one on his arm, Jess could see, was only a flesh wound, but they could hurt like all get out; he'd had enough of them himself to know, and Slim had forced himself to ignore it for quite a few minutes—that would have taken a lot out of him. "Jess..."

"I said you hush," Jess commanded, pressing the shoulder hard to reinforce it. "Time enough to talk later." And I got a few things I wanta say to you, you dang fool Yank, he thought.

Doc was there with a spoon and a bottle that Jess recognized. "Here, Slim, take some of this. You're going to need it."

"Lau...d'num?" Slim whispered. "No..."

"Yes, and you'll take it if I have to have Jess hold your nose till you swallow," Sweeny told him. "You've got a long trip ahead of you. Take it."

Resignedly, Slim closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and obeyed. In moments his breathing changed, his face smoothed out, and his muscles relaxed. "Go," Doc said to Jess. "Get your drag put together. He'll sleep now."

**SR**

It took them a good part of the day to make their way down out of the hills, Jess in the lead with Slim's Alamo behind him, the chestnut pulling his master on the travois, Sweeny's buggy following so he could keep an eye on his patient. Andy was in the yard, forking hay to a tired-looking quartet of horses in the pasture; he looked up, spotting the buggy first, then recognizing his brother's and Jess's horses and the young Texan in the saddle. He moved forward, tentatively, and Jess could imagine how his big dark eyes must be searching frantically for Slim; and then he registered the upward-thrusting side poles of the drag and launched himself toward them at top speed. "Slim?" he shouted. "Slim? Jess—Jess, where's Slim?"

Jess pulled up, swung down fast, and caught the boy around the waist. "Easy, partner. Slim's hurt, but Doc says he's gonna make it. Now you gotta help us see to him, okay?"

Andy struggled, reflexively, for just a moment, then realized what was being asked of him, stilled, swallowed hard, and nodded. "Okay, Jess."

Again insight came to the Texan. Slim was thinkin' of him. He'd'a' been the next to inherit the feud on the Sherman side, and Slim didn't want that. Didn't want no more young lives set at risk—not Andy's and not Lee's. The depth of compassion that would lead a man to nearly sacrifice himself for such a vision almost staggered him. How come I deserve a friend like this?

"What do you want me to do, Jess?"

Jess had seen enough rough-and-ready medical care to have a fair idea of the process. "Run in and clear off the big table, reckon that'll have to do for gettin' the bullet out. Then Doc'll need hot water, like as not, so you set some to boilin'. Doc—I know he ain't no light weight, but if you take his legs I reckon I can manage the rest of him."

Andy was already off and running. Jess quickly tied his own horse by the corral and led Alamo as close to the porch as he could get him. The front door hung open, and he could hear noises from the kitchen; Andy was doing his share. "You'll be wantin' to get that lead out of him first, I reckon."

"Yes, and I may need you to hold him down, even with the laudanum. Go wash your hands in hot water, with plenty of soap, and get into a clean shirt, I don't want you contaminating his wounds. And have Andy scrub the table down with the strongest soap you've got before we start."

A couple of hours later Jess and Andy watched Doc's buggy out of sight. Sweeny had been right: the bullet had been jammed up against a rib, which its impact had cracked. But the surgery had been fairly straightforward, and Slim was now tucked up in his bed, deep in drug-induced sleep, his wounds cleaned and bandaged, his side strapped to support the rib while it healed. "Jess?" Andy said tentatively. "Jess, what happened?"

"I'll tell you about it, Tiger, I promise," Jess replied, "but we got to get the chores done—it's what Slim would want, ain't it?"

"Yeah... I reckon you're right."

"Okay." Jess checked his watch. "Last stage'll be along pretty quick. Help me get the team ready, then you do the milkin' and I'll feed."

"I didn't grain the last team," Andy realized.

" 'S okay, you had other things to do. Won't hurt 'em none to've waited, horse gets more out of his grain if he eats his hay first. I'll see to that. Let's get started."

They ministered to the five-thirty, did the barn work, went inside and checked on Slim, and then headed for the kitchen in search of food; it had been over twenty-four hours since Jess had had a bite to eat, and with the release of the day's tensions and uncertainties he was ravenous. Andy was a surprisingly good cook for a boy his age—that was Jonesy's doing—but not knowing where or why Slim or Jess were or when they might come back, he'd hesitated to put anything together ahead of time. He made up a quick meal of fried bacon with eggs poached in the gravy, potatoes sliced to a transparent thinness and fried to crisp brown at the edges, reheated beans, canned tomatoes, warmed-over biscuits, and sweet cucumber pickles and ginger pears out of the preserve cellar, with stewed apricots to finish off; Jess helped as he could, dredging up memories of his own early experiences as a cook's louse. They ate, and Jess recounted recent events, editing the story as he felt best for a young boy's consumption. He'd expected Andy to be puzzled about the concept of the feud, but discovered that his mother had told him about it sometime after Slim had come home from the war, making him promise not to let his brother know that she'd done so. "She saw Slim wasn't gonna talk about it," Andy explained. "Reckon he figured the Parkisons'd let it slide, not needin' the water as much any more—they prob'ly didn't have more'n a hundred or two head of cattle left under their brand. She never cared for the feud herself, bein' only a Sherman by marriage, but she thought I ought to know about it, bein's it was part of my family's history."

Jess nodded, remembering some of the Harper and Cooper stories he'd heard told in his own boyhood by his folks and Uncle Cam. "It was, and I reckon you should." He found himself wishing he'd had the opportunity to know Slim's ma, and not just because she'd had a share in the making of his friend—two of his friends. "Andy? You ever hear of somethin' called 'a sworn man'?" It seemed strange to be asking the question of a youngster, but he knew Andy, like Slim, did a lot of reading, and the term sounded like something you might find in a book.

"Sure," the boy agreed. "It comes out of the Middle Ages—you know, back when knights wore armor and did jousts and all." Jess wasn't sure he did know, but he let it slide. "A man would swear what was called fealty to somebody of a higher rank than he was, mostly somebody who owned land, or maybe a king. It means faithfulness, or loyalty," he added, seeing that the word puzzled the Texan. "He'd promise that if his lord called on him, he'd fight, and in return his lord would give him land, like a manor—a big farm, kind of—to support himself and his family on, and promise to stand behind him if he ever got in a quarrel. And if he got captured in a war, the lord would help his family make up the ransom, or maybe even pay the whole thing himself."

Jess nodded again, slowly, thoughtfully. Yes, Parkison had been right to use that term; he saw it at once. In a very real sense, even though no oaths had ever been exchanged, he was Slim's sworn man—and Slim was his. What had happened today had only served to confirm that.

"Which of us is gonna sit up with Slim?" Andy wanted to know.

Jess had a good idea what Slim would have said to that, but Slim wasn't in much shape to be giving orders right now. If he was indeed the rancher's sworn man, that probably made him a kind of deputy too, whose responsibility it was to run things when Slim couldn't. "We're both gonna have a lot of extra work to do, with him laid up," he said. "I reckon we best share it, so's we can cover our daytime jobs too. Maybe we can get some naptime in, between stages."

"Okay," Andy agreed readily, seeing the logic of the idea. "How 'bout me first? He'll likely sleep for hours yet, till that laudanum stuff wears off. When I think it's gonna, I'll wake you, and if he does come to, he won't know I was there. Jess? Slim don't like laudanum much."

"I kinda got that notion, partner. He didn't want Doc to give him none of it. Didn't give in till Doc threatened him with havin' his nose held."

Andy smothered a giggle. "Yeah, that sounds like Slim. I don't know what he's got against the stuff, but he sure hates it." Jess figured he had some idea; Slim, like himself, had been in the war. "Laudanum's to keep folks from hurtin', isn't it?"

"Yeah, that's what it's for." He wasn't going to tell the boy about the other thing it could do. Andy would only worry.

"Well, I know somethin' that'll do just as well for that," Andy told him. "Jonesy taught me about it. It's called purple cone-plant. You make a paste out of the roots, and spread it on the wound, like a poultice, and it cuts pain and stiffness and keeps off infection. You know that scar Slim's got on his cheek? It's from a Comanche arrow, he got it while he was with Pa on a trail drive, when he was about as old as I am now. It'd be a lot worse, Jonesy said, if he hadn't put cone-plant paste on it after he sewed it up."

"That sounds mighty good, Tiger. You know where you can get some of this cone-plant?"

"Sure do. Jonesy and me, we spotted all the places around here where herbs and things grow. I can go and get some tomorrow, after the first stage. It's not far. And we've got a canister of valerian, too, in the kitchen; it makes a tea that's real good for internal pain, like that rib. I'll make up a pot of it first thing in the morning."

Jess laid his hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed. "You do that. You and me, we'll take good care of him."

'

**SR**

It was sometime past midnight when Slim roused. He'd been briefly conscious once or twice already, but hadn't seemed to be in distress, and Jess had been reluctant to offer him any of the laudanum Doc had left. In the end, it hadn't been necessary to do so; worn out by blood loss and pain, he'd drifted off again almost without realizing that he was really awake. This time, though, was different. Jess was sitting beside his bed, half-dozing, when he heard the stirring of the big man's body and snapped to full wakefulness. In the light of the low-turned lamp on the bedstand, he could see Slim's noon-sky eyes watching him, heavy-lidded but clear and reasonably aware. "Jess...?"

"Yeah," Jess told him. "I'm here. Easy, now."

"Home?" Slim asked.

"Yeah, you're home. Been here I reckon eight hours or better. Doc left about an hour before the last stage; said he'd be by again in a day or two."

"Thirsty..."

"I bet," Jess agreed, knowing from various misfortunes of his own that any wound in any weather will make a man want water. "Lay still, I'll get you a drink."

" 'Kay..." Slim's eyelids drooped, then popped open again. "No laud'num."

"Not now," Jess promised. "Maybe later. Don't fret on it. It'll only be for tonight. Andy's gonna go out in the mornin' and get some purple cone-plant."

"Oh... that's a'right, then," Slim whispered, relaxing.

Jess poured a tumbler full from the majolica pitcher of iron-tinged well water, with several slowly diminishing chunks of ice from the icehouse behind the corral floating in it, and raised the rancher's head so he could drink. Slim drained the tumbler, sighed in relief and lay back. "You... they didn't hurt you?" he asked anxiously, his voce somewhat stronger now, as the water had eased his throat.

"No. No, they didn't hurt me. Just threatened."

"Should... should'a' thought..." Slim told him. "Parkison... he'd figure... you live here, you'd... be fair game... maybe not... part of the feud, but... that I'd come..."

"That's about right," Jess agreed. "He called me your 'sworn man.' Andy told me what that means."

"S-sorry..." Slim murmured. "Never would'a' wanted... to put you in danger... family thing..."

"Hey." Jess laid his hand firmly on his friend's good shoulder. "You give me a part of your family thing at Christmas, di'n't you? This was just th'other side of that coin. Man has to take bad with good; it's how the world is. Might just as much expect me to be mad at you for comin'."

Slim managed a weak chuckle. "Mean you're... not?"

"Was, a little bit," Jess admitted. "Hardest thing I ever done in my life, havin' to stand by and watch you hang yourself out like a target. Don't you ever do that to me again, hardcase, you hear? I ain't sure my heart could take it another time. We stand together, okay, or we don't stand at all." Ain't felt like that but one time before, he added silently— the day the Bannisters come. Ain't honin' to feel like that again, ever. Don't you make me. "But I had time to think on it since. Realize now I was mostly scared. Scared you'd get your fool self killed. Didn't want that. Who'd'a' taken care of Andy?"

"You," Slim told him, "and Jonesy, and Aunt Ella maybe..."

That's about what I figured, Jess thought. "You took an awful big chance," he pointed out solemnly. "Not the comin' up so much, but the way you handled it, holdin' back your fire like that. You could'a' killed him, Slim. Should'a', maybe. You'd'a' had every right."

"Would... you have, in my place?"

Jess took breath to answer, then hesitated. He understood that Slim wasn't just asking about being 'in his place' in a shootout; he was talking about the feud, and Lee and Andy, and any other generations who might come after them. Jess wasn't unaccustomed to the idea of vengeance, certainly; he'd taken it more than once, and not just from the Bannisters—there'd been the time he hunted Roy Wade down and killed him, out in the Utah Territory, for shooting his friend Harry Kellogg in the back. But in his circles, even if you killed a man in a gunfight—or even murdered him—it seldom led to generations of hostility. Maybe that man's son, or brother, or best friend, or maybe someone they hired, would come after you, looking to even the score; custom and opinion approved it, but usually that was as far as it went, perhaps because most men in his line didn't have kin or close friends willing to take the matter on to anything beyond. "I reckon I ain't sure," he admitted. "Ain't used to havin' to think so far ahead."

Slim grinned wearily. "I know. Not... your job to do that. Mine. Head of the family." He let his breath out in a careful sigh. "Pa tried... to settle this thing... once before. Few months after we settled... here and... found out the... Parkisons were here ahead of us. Figured... had to go the way... he'd marked out for me."

"Was that the duel he backed away from?" Jess asked, genuinely curious.

"No. That came... later, when... I was away in th'Army. Long story... tell you 'nother time, maybe..."

"It can wait," Jess assured him. "Long as you need. Ain't my affair anyhow."

"Is," Slim insisted. "What... Parkison did... that... made me see. Should'a'... told you... at Christmas... you're... part of this... this family... now." His right hand went out and grasped Jess's wrist. "Andy... you know he... thinks of you as... another brother. Has since... before you had the fever. If... if you are, then... makes you mine too. All... three of us. Thought... you must've seen... but... I guess... you've never... been adopted before... not much... real experience... to work from. S-sorry. Should... have told you. You... deserved that." He held up his forefinger to stop what he saw was Jess's intention to object. "Remember when... we built this house, me and Pa... he said... this was... gonna be... little family ranch... some time to... come... no reason not to... let our hands live... as part of... the family. Was why we... made this room... like it is. So... you got a... problem with that, you... take it up with Pa. His... idea."

"Huh," said Jess. "Know dang well I can't, bein's he's in his grave."

Slim nodded against his pillow. "What I... meant." He paused again. "He'd... 'a' liked you, Jess. Ma too. Just in... case you... ever wondered." His facial muscles tightened a bit, and his breathing hitched. "Haa... that hurts..."

"I bet it does, and you hadn't oughtta be talkin' so much, neither," Jess told him. "I know you don't care none for laudanum, Andy told me, but let me give you just a couple drops, enough to take the edge off. Okay?"

Slim closed his eyes wearily, sighed. " 'Kay."

Jess watched as the drug took effect and he drifted off again. Brother, he thought wonderingly. Part of this family. Felt it on my end—didn't know they did. Should'a'. Jonesy said so, when I come back from New Mexico—reckon I didn't rightly feel he had the right to speak for Slim.

Maybe, if it took Parkison and his dang-fool feud to make us both see it... maybe it was worth it after all.

He settled himself more comfortably—at least as comfortably as he could—in the hard homemade chair. Likely Slim would sleep through till morning now, but he'd stay on, just in case.

The last thing he remembered thinking was that they'd need to get some food into Slim tomorrow. Soup maybe... eggs...

When Andy crept in from the little room next door, around six, he found them both like that, soundly asleep.

-30-