Sammy Jo was the next to enter Bart's room. "Bret, there's a Jim Buckley out here that wants to talk to you."
"Tell him I'll be out in a minute, please, Sammy Jo."
"Buckley?" Pappy asked, trying not to sneer. "What does that dandy want?"
Bret didn't intend to go into a long explanation right now, at least not as long as Buckley was in the building. "He's involved in all this. Matter of fact, he actually helped. I'll explain later." Before Pappy could ask any more questions, Bret headed out the door and closed it behind him.
Buckley was nervously pacing in Doc's front office. "Your whole family's here?" he asked as soon as he saw Bret.
"Just Uncle Ben and Pappy. What do you want Buckley?"
"Slade got away."
"Yes, he did."
"Doesn't that worry you?"
"Nothing worries me right now except Bart."
"What? Oh, how is Bart?"
"Hangin' on by a thread."
"Hanging on – oh, that's right. Threw himself in front of you. It's a shame."
"What is, Buckley? That it wasn't me that got shot?" Bret asked. He was well aware that if one of the brothers was a friend of Dandy Jim's, it was the man lying in Doc's back room, and not the one standing in front of him.
"That's not what I meant, Maverick, and you know it."
"Believe me, Jim, I'd trade if I could."
For just a moment Buckley showed a trace of compassion. "It was the only thing he could do, Bret." And as quickly as it had come upon him, it was gone. "Tough luck, old boy. That's a lot of guilt to carry around if he dies."
"Get out, Buckley. And don't come back," Bret growled at Dandy, sounding exactly like Geoff Radson.
"I'm going, I'm going."
Bret stood in Doc Staley's outer office and watched to make sure that Buckley walked back towards the hotel and didn't linger around. He and Dandy had always had a fractured, if not adversarial, relationship, but for some reason there seemed to be much more tolerance, if not genuine affection, between Buckley and Bart.
Ben came out into the front office, looking like he usually did after spending a considerable length of time with his brother without a break. Pappy wasn't the easiest person in the world to live with – truth be told, none of them were – but Bentley seemed to have a higher tolerance level than the rest of them put together. Today, however, he looked like a man desperately in need of a break - or worse, a drink.
"Uncle Ben, you look worn out. Or worn down, I'm not sure which. Anything I can do to help?"
Ben almost collapsed into one of the chairs in Doc's office and looked up at Bret with weary eyes. "I wish there was, nephew. I think there's only one man that can, and I ain't sure he's listenin' right now. You're pa's a handful, Bret, even under the best circumstances, and this sure don't qualify. Buckley want anything important?"
Bret shook his head. "Not really. It was just Buckley bein' Buckley. The only thing I give him credit for is his friendship with Bart, which I will never understand. Why he puts up with that insufferable jackass, I have no idea."
"How's Buckley tied up in all this, anyway?" Ben asked, stifling a yawn.
"It only makes sense if I explain the whole thing. You got time?"
"I could use some coffee, Bret. Anyplace closer than the hotel?"
"Yeah, Uncle Ben, Tiny's, right around the corner. Let me tell Pappy we're gonna be gone for a bit."
Bret put his hand on his uncle's shoulder before turning and walking back into Bart's room. He found Pappy sitting with his head in his hands, and when Bret called "Pappy?" softly, it was a minute before his father answered.
"Yes, son?"
"Uncle Ben needs some coffee and I could use some, too. You want anything? We're goin' around the corner."
"I want a drink."
"What?" Bret wasn't sure he'd heard his father correctly.
"Nothin'. No, son, I don't want anything. You and Ben take as long as ya need. I'll be right here."
Bret could hear the pain, and despair, and fear in his father's voice, and could see it in his eyes. He knew there was only one thing that would alleviate all those emotions, and he knew he couldn't supply it. He closed the door as quietly as possible and went back to collect his uncle.
"Come on, Ben, he knows we're leavin'. I'll tell ya the whole, sorry story of how I got us into this mess."
XXXXXXXX
They sat in Tiny's and drank coffee, and Bret spun the gun runner's tale from the beginning to the current state. It took Bret an hour and three cups of coffee, and Ben sat patiently and listened to his nephew's tale of insanity and hubris among the recently depleted ranks of the Republic of Texas supporters. He nodded and murmured and asked the occasional question, but for the most part he listened, without judging or making unsolicited remarks.
The last thing Bret said was, "All he had to do was stay out of it, Ben. And he wouldn't be layin' there now like that, helpless and maybe . . . . . . " The word left unsaid was 'dying.'
Ben gave a soft chuckle and reached over to pat his nephew's hand. "He couldn't do that Bret, any more than you can stay outta his life. You're his brother, and he took a bullet for ya. Given the same choice, you'da done the same thing. And probably have."
"Why, Ben? Why do we seem to have this need to take care of each other?"
"That's because we're family, boy, and family looks out for each other. No matter the cost." Ben thought of his own life, and some of the choices he'd made, and sighed. "No matter the cost."