Paul pulled in a long, deep breath as he ducked out of the ramshackle cabin into the cool, crisp air of approaching evening. He didn't have any real reason to step outside, but he needed a break from the overwhelming closeness and odor within. Stretching, he wandered in a circle for a few minutes, clearing his mind. Then he leaned back against the rough boards, fixed his eyes on the boy stumbling back and forth between the bank and the center of the stream, and pondered his day. So far, it had been … disturbing, in more ways than he cared to admit.
His patient was going to die—probably by morning. Paul had done all he could for the elder Layton, but the situation was out of his hands now. It was unfortunate that his attendance here had been delayed for so long … but it was also entirely likely that in the end it would have made no difference. The leg was a mess, and had obviously been broken for longer than could be accounted for by the four-day delay Layton claimed. Chances were good that the old man's son had bound it himself and tried to nurse his father along for at least several days without outside help. Many of the settlers and prospectors in the area, Paul had discovered, were loath to seek out a doctor at need, either from unwillingness (or inability) to pay or from just plain stubbornness.
Not only that, but the man's lungs were some of the worst he had ever heard. The old prospector obviously had severe breathing problems that long preceded the injury. Between the struggling lungs and brutal injury, then, there was very little to be done for a man of his patient's years even if he had been on the scene at the time of the accident. As neither God nor just plain luck had so far interceded, though he prayed for all of his patients as he worked, Paul expected that another grave digging was in his immediate future.
The thought was disheartening, but if he was the type to become despondent over every lost patient he would have specialized in podiatry and remained back East.
Even with all of that, however, his patient was (ironically) the most straightforward part of the situation at Jim Layton's claim. Layton's mother—Marcia, the elder Layton's wife—was far gone in dementia, and in no fit shape to be keeping house for a couple of men in the wilds of the Sierra. In truth, Paul was surprised, as he watched her puttering around the cookstove, that she had not burned the place down already. The poor woman's grasp on reality was tenuous at best. She did not always seem to realize where she was or what she was doing. Even if she recognized her son when he entered, or expressed concern over her husband one moment, her mind would flit away the next to some world in which only she existed. She should be in a safe, secure environment, being cared for rather than expected to pull her weight in a place such as this.
He would talk to Layton about her before he left. Even if the prospector wasn't willing to leave his claim to care for her himself, perhaps one of the local families could be persuaded to take her in until other arrangements could be make. Paul knew of several of settlers who would, he hoped, be more than willing to open their home to a woman in need. He suspected that Layton might not be amenable to such a suggestion … but it was worth a try. Marcia Layton was just not truly safe here.
And that left the boy. Paul sighed, and sharpened his focus on the child down in the stream. The boy—truly the most troubling piece of this particular puzzle.
The child stuck out like a sore thumb here. The Laytons were small people, and spare, lean specimens—whittled down by a hard life until nothing but bone, sinew, and cussedness (it was not a part of his vocabulary from back East, but Paul had heard the term the day he stepped off the boat in San Francisco and had immediately adopted it for his own) remained. The boy who had worked so diligently and silently around Layton's claim throughout the entire day was a big, strong child, obviously well fed and well cared for. His clothing—stained, torn, and filthy as it was—was of a completely different quality than those Jim Layton and his family wore. His hair was well-cut and shaped rather than simply hacked off at the ends. His teeth, from what Paul had been able to see, were in much better shape than any of the Laytons'.
At first sight, as they had entered the claim, Paul had assumed the child to be Layton's son, or possibly some other younger family member. Now, though … now there was no avoiding one glaring, uncomfortable truth. This boy could not possibly be related to Jim Layton and his people—or even have been living here with them for any length of time.
So. What did that mean?
What did it mean? Still watching the figure down in the stream, Paul sifted through whatever other small facts he'd gathered over the course of his visit. The child hadn't taken any break from his tasks all day, other than a quick bite at midday that couldn't possibly have been enough to fuel his industriousness from sunup to sundown. The chores were heavy work—too much, at least all together, for a child of that age (Paul had guessed twelve at first, but a closer look at the boy's face had him revising that estimate down a couple of years). The boy was obviously exhausted (he couldn't walk without stumbling, even when not up to his thighs in water) and in some kind of pain (he'd been favoring his left arm all day). Layton ignored him completely, other than to assign him some new task whenever the old one was complete.
And … the boy was frightened. Paul sighed, scrubbing one hand across his sandpapery chin. Out of the whole disquieting list, that was the part that really twisted in his gut. The child kept his head down when Layton spoke to him, obeying the prospector's directives without a word or even a nod to show that he understood. The one exception had been late that morning, when Paul had decided to clean what infection he could out of the old man's leg in order to assess the damage beneath. He had been setting out his supplies, mentally reviewing for the task at hand, when the door flew open and Layton had appeared, pushing the boy before him.
"You be ready to hold him down, now."
He nudged the boy toward the elder Layton's head. The child had inched forward, eyes wide and white with fear, and the hand he reached toward the old man's shoulder was visibly shaking. Horrified and disgusted, Paul caught it and pulled the boy gently away from the sickbed.
"There's no need for that." He didn't dare give the old prospector any laudanum, not in his shape and with his lungs, and he didn't know how they were going to keep the man steady through the coming procedure—but it was not going to involve this terrified child. Paul forced a smile for the boy. "I'm Dr. Martin. What's your name?"
The blue eyes came up swiftly and locked with his for just an instant, startling in their directness and obviously begging his attention. Layton stepped forward then and the child moved away, his gaze skittering off into a corner and his shoulders slumping.
"Don't want him talkin' ta no strangers."
Paul eyed the boy for a long moment, and decided that while there might be (probably was) something here that needed his attention, now was not the time. "All right. But we don't need him here. Send him back outside, away from this." It was an order more than a request, and after a moment Layton motioned the child out. The boy scrambled for the doorway, and just before Layton slammed the door shut behind him, Paul heard the sounds of retching from the yard.
His gut twisted a little tighter.
What had he stumbled into here?
A splash drew his attention back to the present. Paul refocused, and saw the boy struggling to right himself in the flowing water. Apparently, the child had tripped and gone completely under—he was drenched from head to toe. That solid blue gaze flashed across his memory, another quick punch in the gut, and after a glance around to ensure that Jim Layton was nowhere in evidence—the prospector had gone hunting, Paul thought, but couldn't be sure—he stepped away from the cabin and strode down to the stream.
The boy saw him coming. He swept a sharp glance of his own around the little claim and then struggled toward the bank, coming to a shivering, dripping stop before Paul.
It was too late in the year for this kind of thing. The weather had not been overtly cold as of yet, but the October breeze was chilly and it was no time to be wet outdoors. Paul shrugged out of his coat and snugged it around the boy's shoulders. "Are you hurt? What about your arm?"
The child eyed the coat, then Paul himself, then ducked his head almost bashfully, pulling the heavy material close around himself. "Naw, I'm …" He looked up suddenly, catching Paul's eyes again with that forthright blue gaze. "I'm Hoss Cartwright." Cartwright. The name was familiar to him—if he remembered right, Cartwright was one of the … Paul's stomach lurched. One of the ranchers in the area. The boy kept on. "When ya get back ta the Station can ya tell them I'm here? My … my pa'll be lookin' for me."
The quiet, wistful words stole his breath away.
Moving slowly, Paul placed a gentle hand on each small shoulder, taking in up close the purple hollows beneath Hoss Cartwright's eyes, the lips white with cold and pain and fatigue. And fear. "He took you away from your home?" Hoss nodded. Tears swam, but didn't fall. "How long?"
"Five days."
The boy had been counting, it seemed—and why wouldn't he? Hoss seemed about to add more, but his eyes darted behind Paul and then he stumbled back, away from Paul's grasp. Paul started to turn, but was bumped roughly to one side as Jim Layton plowed past him, rifle clutched in one hand.
"I told you not ta talk ta him!"
The prospector seized Hoss, nearly lifting the boy from the ground with the force of his grip, and stalked back toward the cabin. Hoss stumbled and shrieked, whether from fear or pain or both Paul couldn't tell. Layton certainly had that bad arm twisted nearly above the boy's head. He should have been paying attention! Scolding himself roundly, Paul bolted after them. He stumbled over his own coat, crumpled into a dark heap where it had fallen, righted himself, and finally caught up to his quarry about twenty feet from the cabin. Paul seized Layton from behind, wrenched him around, and flung him away from the sobbing child.
Hoss yelled out again as he fell, and Paul spared a glance for the boy. When he looked back around—barely a second later—Layton's rifle was pointed squarely at him. Paul froze, hurling silent imprecations at both the prospector and himself. Had his misspent youth entirely abandoned him?
Rapid, panting breaths drew his attention back to young Hoss Cartwright, still curled into a tight ball on the ground nearby. "Hoss?" Cautiously, the blue eyes appeared. Layton growled.
"I told ya—"
"Get up, get behind me." If possible, the boy's eyes widened further, flickering between Paul and Jim Layton. The prospector moved abruptly toward Hoss but Paul stepped with him, keeping himself between the man—the gun—and the child. Layton scowled. Hoss whimpered, and the sound both tore at Paul and stoked his fury. With difficulty, he managed to keep his tone soothing. "Hoss, it's all right. Come on, boy, get yourself up and get behind me." Again, the child hesitated, and Paul added, "I won't let anything happen to you."
How he was going to manage that, he had no idea. It was, however, a promise he had every intention of keeping.
Layton had no right, none at all …
Hoss crept slowly to his knees. When Paul moved once again to block Layton's advance, the boy scrambled behind the doctor in a rush of elbows and knees, slamming into him and fisting his hands tight into Paul's shirt. Paul felt forehead and nose buried in his back, the entire trembling length of Hoss Cartwright's frame tucked tight against him.
Alright, then. He looked back around to meet Jim Layton's eyes.
"His family will be after him. They might already be close. It would be better for you if you allow us to just walk out of here."
He didn't expect it, and it didn't happen. Layton only settled the gun more tightly into the crease of his shoulder. "I need that boy, and my pa needs you. You ain't neither of you goin' anywhere."
"You don't need him, and you're not getting him. I'm not letting him out of my sight."
What he would have done had Layton pressed the matter, Paul had no idea. After a long moment, though, the prospector spat a stream of tobacco juice to the side, stepped back, and jerked the rifle toward the cabin doorway. "Inside, both of ya."
The matter of young Hoss Cartwright was not over in the prospector's eyes - Paul had no doubt at all. But the immediate battle had been won (survived, at least). Hopefully, Paul would have time to decide their best course of action before Layton made his own next move. For the time being, though, they had very little choice but to play along. He glanced back over his shoulder, catching just the top of the tangled brown locks pressed against him. "Come on along, Hoss."
He felt the child take a deep breath, then Hoss peeked out from behind him. Paul almost laughed aloud, despite their predicament, when the boy's nose wrinkled in disgust at the cabin. Hoss followed along into the structure without argument, though. Jim Layton motioned them down against the wall. Paul slid to the floor and leaned back against the rough boards, tucking a tight arm around young Cartwright.
"Stinks in here," Hoss mumbled, and Paul laughed silently, ruffling the boy's filthy hair.
"It does indeed."
The boy sighed. "I'm awful sorry."
"About … ?"
"Gettin' ya inta trouble." Another sigh. "I just shouldn'ta said nothin'."
Paul shook Hoss gently. "Not true. You did absolutely right." They watched in silence as Layton poured himself a cup of burned, foul-smelling coffee, paced over to his bedroll, and flung himself down, rifle at hand. Hoss shivered, pulling his knees tight beneath this chin. He might have been chilled from his earlier dunking in the stream—but Paul knew that wasn't it. He squeezed the boy's arm. "It's going to be all right. I promise."
Even if he had no idea how he was going to make that happen.
A/N: I'll be without access to cell or internet or pretty much electronic devices in general for about week starting Sunday, so it's entirely possible you won't see another chapter until I get back. No worries, though - I have not forgotten Hoss or Paul or the rest ... :-)