Upon being shoved into the supply car, John's head abruptly crashed into something soft and smelling distinctly of blood. He reeled back drunkenly, the back of his mind registering the fact that the door had been slammed shut and barred from the outside, and reached up to gingerly rub his forehead. Removing his hand, he pressed it against the wall to steady himself and squinted against the dim lamplight at the furry mass he'd run into. A deer carcass swung with the movement of the train; a thin, crimson line marred the pure white fur of its throat. John looked into the glassy eyes and swallowed thickly.
He turned away from the dead deer and surveyed his makeshift prison cell. They hadn't bothered with cuffs; there was no sense in wasting time or supplies. His pistol was gone and so was his mask. John winced when he recalled tossing the leather down into the dirt at Tonto's feet and the harsh words they'd exchanged. A pang tore at his chest. He missed his Comanche friend. Where was Tonto now - still lying unconscious in the sand? John's heart skipped a beat. Had Cavendish's men woken?
Angrily, he clenched a fist and swung it at the wall, then let out a harsh cry when the skin of his knuckles tore and bled. He shook out his hand, swiped it over the deer's fur to get rid of the blood, and slowly sank down to sit on the floor. His back rested against a crate and his booted feet lolled to either side; crossing his arms, he let his head fall back against the top of the crate and his eyes drift shut. A snicker escaped him at the thought of catching a few hours' sleep before his execution. Shot down in front of a firing squad - how fitting. A man of justice, murdered by those who supposedly fought for it. He snorted.
The train's wheels bumped roughly over the tracks and jarred him into full alertness. A green apple fell over the edge of a basket and rolled to a stop next to his boot; he considered it for a moment, then picked it up, rubbed it against his shirt, and sank his teeth into it. The sweet juices hitting his tongue brought his mind back to a distant memory of a lazy summer's day by the creek, one of many he fondly remembered from his childhood. He and Dan had been picking apples. John smiled at the memory.
"I reckon I can reach that top branch up there," ten-year-old John boasted. His brother Dan, standing two inches taller and three years older, squinted up at the lofty apple tree, rubbing a fresh red fruit against his shirt.
"Nah, Johnny. That's too high." A dribble of juice reached Dan's chin as he bit into the apple and he roughly wiped it away with his sleeve. John watched enviously, wishing he could act so grown up like Dan did. Everybody in town liked him.
"I can do it!" the smaller boy protested. "I climb trees all the time."
Dan shook his head, chewing another bite of fruit. "Forget it, John. You'll fall and break your neck. And I ain't carryin' you back to Ma and Pa." He turned and sauntered away, picking up a fishing rod as he headed towards the creek. John watched him go, chewing his bottom lip. He glanced up at the tree, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the sun, then looked back at his brother again. Dan still hadn't turned around and was now at the bank, settling into the sand as he prepared his rod. The younger boy grinned.
At first, it was easy - just like every other tree. He could find perfect footholds on the trunk, and the branches were just low enough to grab and wide enough to stand on. John straddled a branch, panting, and looked up to see how close he was to the top. To his surprise, a large, shiny red apple dangled just two feet above his head. He licked his lips hungrily. They'd been picking apples all morning - Mama had promised a big apple pie - but he hadn't seen anything like this one.
Slowly, he rose to his feet. The branch wobbled beneath his boots, and he stood still for a moment, but his gaze was drawn to the apple again and he straightened to his full height. He stretched out a hand toward the apple, and felt his fingers brush smooth skin at the same moment the branch beneath his feet broke.
Over his own screams, he could hear Dan's panicked shouts and the cracking of branches as he tumbled down out of the tree. He hit the ground with an almighty thud and lay there, dazed, while his left arm burned with a fire unlike anything he'd ever experienced.
"Johnny!" The boy groaned in response. "Johnny, are you alright?" His brother fell to his knees beside him, and he felt fingers poking his head and squeezing his limbs. John let out a cry when Dan touched his arm, and to his shame, hot tears began making their way down his cheeks. "Aw, don't cry, John, come on..."
Arms roughly slid underneath his back and then John was lifted up off the ground. Dan carefully stood his brother up, then brought John's unbroken arm over his shoulders to support the weakened, shaky boy. They shuffled this way, baskets and fishing poles forgotten, out of the grove and in the direction of their ranch.
It was John who heard the wagon. "Look," he mumbled, his voice hoarse from shouting. A cloud of dust was steadily approaching them, the sound of horses reaching their ears. Dan let out a whoop and then placed two fingers in his mouth, sending a piercing whistle that made John wince. The wagon steadily drew closer, and the figure in the seat directing the team of horses became familiar. "It's Mr. Martin!"
Their neighbor from several miles brought the horses to a stop near the boys and hopped down out of the wagon, slapping his hat against his thigh to clear away the dust. Thomas Martin, a strong man in his mid-thirties, studied the boys thoughtfully, nodding to the elder. "Dan."
"Mr. Martin."
Thomas eyed John's arm, which the boy was cradling against his chest. "Got into a bit of a scrap, did you, John?"
"Yes, sir." A head of dark, curly hair popped up in the back of the wagon and light blue eyes looked at the boys curiously. John ducked his head as his cheeks flared up in embarrassment. Of course Mr. Martin would have his daughter with him.
"I see." Mr. Martin waited only a moment before placing the hat back onto his head and jerking his chin toward the wagon. "Get on up in the back, then. I'll take y'all home."
John kept his gaze directed at the floorboards as he took a seat in the back next to his brother. Dan, grinning, took off his hat and dipped his chin like a gentleman caller. "Good day, Miss Rebecca. Fancy seeing you here."
"Hello, Dan." Rebecca's voice was formal and her tone unimpressed. John shyly peeked at her from under his lashes, and to his surprise, found her watching him. She smiled, and John's heart beat faster than it ever had before. "Hello," she said. "I'm Rebecca."
John's reverie was shattered when the train's whistle blew. There was a high-pitched squealing as the brakes were applied, then the train began to slow. He let out a sigh and then began a silent prayer, as outside, footsteps approached.