BETWEEN EACH BREATH
The hours after Trampas was shot down by the boy of two minds - Eddie Laredo.
/
The Virginian
As the kneeling foreman quietly gave his orders, the heavy callouses of his palms grew dark with the blood seeping through the cloth he held pressed to the wound under his hands. There might have been a dozen other people in the room - there might have been just the one. That wasn't his concern. There was no need to look up from where his closest friend lay sprawled. He knew he'd been heard and that his word would be followed.
"Randy, take Buck, he's the fastest. Push him until he drops, if you have to."
/
Randy
He knew the way of horses, which things in their nature gave them strength and heart. With this one, he would have all that was needed. Hastily checking the cinch before snatching up the braided reins and vaulting into the saddle, the young cowhand leaned down to speak soft and sure to the uneasy animal.
"Your partner's fixin' to die, Buck, so you and me, we're gonna ride for Doc like there's devil dogs at our heels. We best get on quick now, son."
/
Buck
Urged ever forward, ever faster, the horse listened only to the voice of instinct. Death was coming and he was to run. Even if the ground dropped away forever beneath his hooves, he was to run. He was to run.
'For the man, for the man, for the man…'
/
The Judge
Throwing open the doors from the porch, clearing the way, his fear was for them both - the one ashen and slack with suffering, carried by the grim-faced hands who tried to keep their hurried steps easy and even - the other drawn taut with worry and anger as he followed close behind. It had become so unlikely, over the past few years, to see one of them without the other being somewhere near at hand. Sun and earth, water and stone, these two, bonded as brothers by some intervening hand of fate. Silently, he swore a vow, for all their sakes.
"This will be an ugly fight but Death won't have an easy time of it, either. We'll see to that."
/
Harper
Watching from the open window as a dazed Eddie was taken away, he began to rummage for a pail and brush, making far more noise in the process than was really necessary. The bunkhouse was too quiet and empty for his liking. The breeze sweeping in from the yard hadn't yet driven out the stink of blood and gunpowder, either. He'd never been squeamish but he sure didn't care to leave this job for later.
Whistling tunelessly between his teeth, he began to scrub, digging deep into the floor with the bristles of the brush. If anyone came in and said one word to him about "whistling past the graveyard" he'd see to it that they got his fist in their face.
'It'll help pass some time, gettin' this done right off. Bad enough for the rest of the boys to see and it sure wouldn't be doin' right by Tranoas. A man shouldn't ever have to see something like this. Sure thought that boy was his friend. Hell of a thing all around.'
/
Doc
His morning had been an easy one, slow enough that he'd had time to sort through the latest journals and replenish the stock of medicines, supplies and instruments in his bag. Perhaps there'd even be time for a leisurely lunch at home with his wife.
Rarely though, do the angels smile on the simple pleasures of small town doctors. The harsh scrape of skidding hooves in the street out front was most likely about to confirm that.
Randy from Shiloh - up on Buck who was sweating and snorting. On Buck... Nobody rode Buck… Not hard, not like that… Trampas would pound any man into the ground who…
Doc's bag was in his hand and he was out the door, heading for his own horse, before the boy had even slid from the saddle.
"How bad?"
"Real bad. Eddie Laredo shot him, meant to kill him. They were startin' to get him up to the house when I left."
Heading for the north road, past the sheriff's office, Doc barely noticed the crowd that was gathering.
'Bad… Real bad.'
/
Betsy
It was a childish rhyme, something a little girl might chant over the body of a butterfly or a bird, hoping the magic would be strong enough and whatever broken wing there was would mend and all would be well again.
Helping to cut away the blood-soaked blue shirt, dropping it into the basin by the bed, she kept it up, her little rhyme.
Watching the color drain from the Virginian's face just before he settled his grip on his friend's shuddering shoulders to hold him still, she kept it up.
Hearing Doc's measured breathing and muttered curses as he battled for a life, she kept it up.
Holding tight to Trampas' hand as his tortured gasps fell away into a terrible silence, she kept it up.
Seeing her father's memories of loss well up in his eyes, that was the hardest, but she kept it up – her rhyme, repeating it over and over in her head.
'If I don't cry, he won't die. If I don't cry, he won't die. If I don't cry…'
/
Shiloh
Doc had dropped into an exhausted doze in the chair by the window but that was alright. Once an hour, his pocket watch would softly chime and he'd rouse to check for any signs of change.
The judge was settled in as the dragon at the gate on the front porch, dispensing whiskey and what little news there was to the men who walked up the hill in twos and threes from the bunkhouse or came in off the road that led to the neighboring ranches. Some of them stood for a moment, hats off, looking up at the front bedroom window before taking their leave, promising to stop by again when work allowed. The ranch wives who came by were more straightforward, slipping into the front hall to leave food or freshly laundered linens. A house living through pain needed those things.
Randy rode in just as the sun was setting, letting Buck walk as slowly as he wanted. The softening wind carried his voice, singing a song to bring them both home.
"I've circle-herded, trail-herded, cross-herded, too,
But to keep you together, that's what I can't do;
My horse is leg-weary, and I'm awful tired,
But if I let you get away, I'm sure to get fired.
Bunch up, little dogies, bunch up."
It had damn near taken an act of god to persuade Betsy to take a rest. Brewing coffee, plating food, replacing the foreman's sweat-soaked shirt with a fresh one of her father's, bundling off dirty linen and clothes to the wash-house, she'd set herself as stubborn as a mule against all good sense until Doc gently reminded her how much she'd be needed as a nurse in the coming days. Hearing him affirm there would indeed be coming days for Trampas was what finally broke her fierce resolve and left her weeping in relief on the stairs. Still, when she finally went to rest, she left her door ajar and stayed dressed.
As the moon rose, a tenuous peace lay over Shiloh.
Randy had gone back down to the corral to spend some time with Buck. When Joe D wandered over for his own bit of attention, the boy reached up to scratch the big appaloosa between the ears.
"You stick close by him, Joe. It's gonna be a long while before Trampas gets down here to him."
The hands had carried their supper plates outside, sitting on the bunkhouse porch, quietly eating and smoking. There wasn't much talk and Eddie Laredo's name wasn't spoken. No one riled Harper about his cooking and no one commented on how red and raw his hands were. Someone had shifted the bunks in the far corner just enough so the lye-bleached wood wasn't quite so evident.
The Virginian had taken the chair by the side of the bed, turning it so that he could keep watch over his friend. They'd done that for each other countless times - in the bunkhouse, on a drive - sitting up, waiting, having the coffee or the whiskey ready in case there was the need to talk - or the need to simply sit in silence.
The judge came into the room at midnight to say that the men, knowing the simple truth that the work of cattle and land would not wait, had finally gone to bed. His offer to take the watch for the rest of the night was flatly refused, and if there was a harsh edge in his foreman's voice, well, he'd expected that. When a man counts his true friends on one hand, you don't expect him to be overly polite while one of them journeys to the crossroads. If you're another of those friends, you take a seat and wait there with him to see how that journey ends.
/
Eddie
Every time he looked down and saw the stains of rusty brown on the toe of his boot, he was sick - violently, wretchedly sick.
The same image swam into his mind, over and over - Trampas, face down on the floor, and that boot - his boot – carelessly kicking the truest friend he'd ever had onto his back like he was something a man wouldn't dirty his hands with.
Over and over, he heard and he saw - the distant crack of a rifle shot and Trampas' cry of pain - and that boot - that bloodstained boot - his boot.
/
Trampas
He didn't remember laying down. It's dark as pitch and whatever he's laying on is soft, a lot softer than the ground or his bunk, so maybe this is the barn? That couldn't be right, though. Hay's this soft but wherever he is, it doesn't smell like the barn. It smells like coffee and soap but there's a trace of something sharp, too, like copper. Maybe he fell asleep? He should probably sit up and figure out where…
Oh, son of a BITCH…. He HURTS, god damn it… Hurts like HELL… Can't move… Feels like some bastard's shoving a red-hot branding iron straight through his chest… Oh, god DAMN it hurts… He should yell… Yell for somebody… Bossman… He's supposed to be riding in… Maybe Eddie's here… Just been talking to Eddie, so he's got to be around… They'd been talking about that fancy red shirt… The judge needs to know about… Ryker needs… Eddie… Eddie was… EDDIE…
"Trampas, stop… Don't fight… Stay down, Trampas, damn it, stay DOWN… TRAMPAS…"
Whoever was telling him to stay down was sure the fool, 'cause he couldn't hardly move anyway, not with all the hurt he was in. Son of a bitch with the branding iron sure wasn't easing up, not one damn bit. Get his hands on that bastard, he'd punch him clear into next week, throw him back to Sunday, and start all over.
Forcing his eyes open, he fought to focus in the dim light… early light… Morning? What happened to noon? He could just make out faces. The Judge, frowning… Doc, too, why Doc? And the Virginian, yelling… Bossman's always yelling about something…
He could feel Doc's hand slide behind his head and then the taste of something thick and bitter on his tongue. All he really wanted was sleep… He was so damn tired but there was something…
"Eddie… Where's...?"
The judge's voice was a familiar growl, like spring thunder far off over the valley.
"He shot you, Trampas. Ryker has him in jail so try to rest easy. All of Shiloh is watching out for you."
"How… close… "
Whatever Doc had done, it was starting to work. The pain was dulled a bit, more like a dull pitchfork than a hot iron. It was all he could do to shape any words… but Bossman always could seem to figure out what was on his mind…
"Yesterday, partner. Eddie meant to kill you - came real close to gettin' that done. It's going to be a long way back and not so easy." There was a heaviness in the Virginian's voice but his stern face carried a faint smile. "So… You ridin' with me?"
Now, he'd sure heard that question before… Some years ago… Bossman sittin' there on Joe, waitin' for an answer… Long way back to Shiloh, he'd said… Try not to fall off…
Just as he dropped into the mercy of sleep, Trampas managed to nod.
"Yeah."
/
Author's Note: I always enjoy filling in the back story or the missing scenes of a good book or performance. Those who are long-time fans of the series may notice the ending reference in tribute to "Ride a Dark Trail", one of the most stellar stories of the entire run of the show.