Chapter 1 – Getting There
Bart had started out that morning from Conway, determined to see if his brother was still in Wyoming. He sent a wire to the last address he had, the Casper Diamond Hotel, and asked to have a wire of confirmation returned to General Delivery in Russellville, his next stop. It took him all day to get there, but once he'd checked into the hotel he went to the telegraph office to see if there was a reply. He found a brief one. 'Still here. You coming this way? Bret.'
He sent one back to Casper. 'I am. Don't leave. Bart.'
That night he had the same nightmare. The next morning he couldn't remember much of it, just that he had to get to his brother before he lost Bret forever. He was up at dawn and headed cross-country for Fayetteville. It meant sleeping on the trail but it would cut three or four days off the time needed to get there. His conscience argued with his back about a bedroll on the ground, but something in the nightmare kept tugging at him, and he gave up comfort for expediency.
From Fayetteville he hightailed it across Indian Territory and aimed straight for Wichita. He stopped there and spent a night; his back just wouldn't tolerate one more night on the hard ground without some relief. He had a hot meal and a bath and even went to sleep when he would normally be sitting down at a poker table. This time there was no nightmare, no dream of any kind, just blackness and a dread that he couldn't define.
The nightmares didn't return until he'd passed through Denver. Maybe it was the amount of country he'd covered in such a short period of time; maybe it was the altitude. He didn't remember much, but he remembered standing in a graveyard, watching a casket being lowered into the ground. He woke up screaming and was glad that he was alone under the stars, with only his horse for company.
Right past Fort Collins he went, then on through Cheyenne and ever more northwest, until he crossed the Wilderness Mountains and Forest. The closer he got to Bret the more unsettled he became; something was pushing him on faster and with more urgency than he'd ever felt in his life. Two days out of Casper he remembered more of the nightmare when he had it again; this time he stood in front of a saloon and watched as a brand new identity was painted on the front window. 'The Watering Hole' had replaced the name that adorned it previously, followed by 'Under New Ownership.' There was piano music and female laughter coming from inside, and he felt a mixture of terror and relief.
Without warning a girl came running out and headed straight up the boardwalk, ducking into an office with no name on it. Moments later she was back, this time with what could only be a doctor following close on her heels, his bag in hand. The saloon had gone deathly quiet, and inside they ran. He took one step forward towards the batwing doors and everything went black. He was cold, he was hungry, he was confused, but mostly he was scared. He knew it was the same nightmare over and over, but never once could he remember it from beginning to end. Bret's very existence was in danger; he was certain of that and nothing else.
He rode like a madman, stopping only long enough to give his mount sufficient time to rest before pushing on. Bart was so tired that on the last leg of the journey he fell asleep in the saddle and only woke up when he started to slip, but nothing was going to slow him down.
It was almost midnight on Thursday when he reached the outer edges of Casper, and he headed straight for the Diamond Hotel. He got a room and when the clerk looked at his registration, a question quickly followed. "Bart Maverick, eh? You related to Bret Maverick?"
"My brother. What room's he in?"
"Why, he's not here anymore. Mr. Maverick checked out two months ago."
Checked out? When Bart had told him not to leave? "Do you know where he went?"
"Yes, sir. He moved into the rooms over The Watering Hole."
"The Watering Hole?" His heart began racing and his stomach blanched. That was the name . . . "What's The Watering Hole?"
"Well, it used to be the Lucky Seven. Your brother renamed it when he won it a few months ago. We were sorry to see him go, but there's plenty of rooms to live in above the saloon. Can't say that I blame him."
"Where is this place?" He knew he should probably wait until morning – get a good night's sleep, take a bath, look like something more than a saddle tramp. But an undefinable force had been pushing him forward for weeks, and it wouldn't let him stop now.
"Half a block down, on the other side of the street. They're still open; they don't close up until four in the morning. You can't miss it. He's never mentioned a brother. Does he know you're coming?"
Bart nodded. "He knows. What room do I have?"
"Oh, sorry. Room sixteen. That's the room your brother had. Is that alright?"
A single word answer. "Sure." He turned and hurried from the hotel, determined to get to Bret as quickly as possible. The brothers were tall, taller than the average man, and Bart used his long legs to his advantage as he strode down the boardwalk. He crossed the street and was soon standing in front of the place . . . a good sized saloon, brightly lit up, with a brand new name painted on the window – 'The Watering Hole.' The lettering was a little bigger than it had been in his nightmare, and there was nothing written under the name. He shuddered involuntarily as the sound of piano music and female laughter drifted out and washed over him.
He forced himself across the threshold and inside the saloon. It was brighter than he expected it to be and it took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the light. When he could look around comfortably without squinting his eyes swept the place from front to back. To the left was a piano with a middle-aged piano player and a much younger saloon girl leaning over the back of the instrument. She looked up at Bart and flashed him a smile, but he didn't seem to notice how pretty she was. He was too busy looking for his brother.
His eyes wandered right and he saw the two faro games being played. Both tables were packed and it surprised him, since this wasn't a Friday or Saturday night. Another saloon girl smiled at him, this one even more attractive than the first one, and started to walk towards him. He shifted his line of sight quickly and headed towards the far end of the saloon.
A long mahogany bar ran down the right side of the room, and it was so highly polished that it positively gleamed. One bartender was handling the crowd most efficiently. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and was balding, with long sideburns and a full mustache. He, too, smiled at Bart but paid no further attention; the men at the bar kept him busy. The middle and right side of the room held half a dozen poker tables, almost all of them full, and a roulette wheel nestled near the steps that went to the upstairs. There were two or three more girls scattered about the place, each one better looking than the last, and the entire saloon looked like it had just been painted. Trust Bret to own the cleanest saloon in town.
Bart looked everywhere for his brother but didn't see him until his eyes swept up the staircase. Big Brother was leaning on the railing upstairs, watching everything going on down on the floor. He looked good, even better than he had the last time they parted company. One thing the younger man had to admit was that Bret was probably the best looking man in the place, and he wore clothes well. Black pants, a silver gray coat with a silver paisley waistcoat, a ruffled shirt with a black silk string tie. No hat tonight, and Bret's curly black hair was a little longer than before. His face wore no smile, but it held a look of contentment that was usually reserved for the end of a successful poker night.
Bart never shifted his gaze, and eventually Bret's eyes swept the room and locked onto his brother. That's when the smile finally appeared, and the older brother's secret weapon, the previously unseen dimples, made their presence known. Bret straightened and descended the staircase, taking the steps two at a time, and Bart moved towards the back of the room to meet his brother. He was anxious about the kind of a greeting Bret would give him – there was a time in their lives when they had no qualms about embracing each other, but the last time they'd parted company it had been a handshake, and a rather quick one at that.
He needn't have worried. Bret gathered his little brother into an all-encompassing bear hug and seemed genuinely pleased to see him. "Probably shouldn't do that, I'm trail dusty," Bart explained and was completely ignored.
"Don't care," Bret grinned at him,"it's been too long since we saw each other for that to matter. Let me look at you. You've gained a little weight, at long last. And what's that growin' on your face, son? When did you quit shavin'?"
If Bart hadn't been so worried he would have laughed. It had been a running joke for years that he called Bret 'Pappy' and Bret referred to him as 'son,' due to their father-son relationship growing up. Bret was seven and Bart five when their mother died, and their father was one of the best and most skilled poker players in the West; consequently, he was in one of the saloons in their hometown of Little Bend, Texas most every night, and asleep most every day. Bart had been a sickly child, and it was up to his brother to take care of him more often than not.
Bart rubbed his hand over his chin – he'd forgotten about not taking the added time to shave the last four or five days and he had a lot of stubble on his face. "Forgot. I was in a hurry to get here."
That caught Bret's immediate attention. Bart was every bit as good looking as he was, though not as dark haired and, alas, dimple-less. Both were fastidious about their cleanliness and appearance. Something must be awfully wrong for the younger man to have skipped shaving for several days. "Why?" Bret asked him. "What wouldn't wait while you took care of your face?"
Bart shook his head. That's not the way he wanted this conversation to go, and he needed to do some backtracking. "Nah, just got lazy. You're lookin' good – and prosperous. When did all this happen?"
"About five months ago, I guess. Just got on one of those streaks one night when I was playin' against Max Ludlow and he lost the whole place to me – lock, stock and barrel. She's somethin', ain't she?"
"The Watering Hole?"
The older brother shrugged. "Didn't like her name – Lucky Seven. So I changed it. I remember Pappy talkin' about a place in St. Louis called The Watering Hole, and I used that. She seems to like it."
"What are you gonna do with her?" On more than one occasion one or both of the brothers had passed up the opportunity to buy part or all of a saloon, not wanting to be tied to one place. Especially a place that got as cold as Wyoming. Yet Bart got the distinct feeling that Bret was enjoying this, and the thought of moving on hadn't entered his mind.
"Do with her? For now at least, I'm gonna run her. She's makin' good money, Bart, and I'm enjoying myself. Just bide my time and see what happens." There was a loud noise from the vicinity of the roulette wheel, and Bret looked up sharply. "Gotta go see what that's about. You check into the hotel?"
"Yeah, room sixteen."
The saloon owner gave a sharp laugh. "My old room. You look worn out – go on back to the hotel and get some sleep. I'll come up in the morning and we can check you out and bring your gear down here. I've got two extra rooms upstairs, and you'll like the price – free." He slapped his brother on the shoulder and headed for the back of the saloon. "I'm glad you're here. I missed you somethin' awful."
"See you in the mornin'," Bart called after him, and watched Bret move through the saloon until he lost sight of his brother.
