Chapter 17: Hang On
Sheriff Moore's reply telegram gets to Sheriff Lestrade right after lunch on the same day. He tacks up two of his horses and is out at the Watson place before sundown. He is welcomed in by Jessie, whose eyes seem to open so wide that they will pop as the Sheriff tells them all what is happening. They sit around the dining table, each with a glass of whiskey at their elbows. No one is drinking except for Jack.
"The town where John mailed his letter has a Sheriff named Moore." Greg explains. He glances around the table at the three pairs of eyes belonging to the family waiting on pins and needles to hear news of their loved one. Ones, he mentally corrects himself. "The Sheriff lent your brother and Sherlock a pair of horses to ride up to the reservation. They were supposed to have stayed one night there." All three heads nod in his direction, keeping their silence. "Sometime yesterday, one of the Sheriff's horses showed back up in town, riderless. He has reason to believe that they may have been ambushed on the road back into town, as there's been occasional problems in that area with a small gang of thieves and cutthroats allegedly led by some big half-Indian goes by the name The Bear." Greg throws the burning whiskey down his throat, his glass hitting the table with a thud.
Jessie makes a startled little noise. Mike reaches over and takes her hand. "It doesn't mean anything, Jessie, it's just coincidence."
Across the table, Jack sighs in weariness. He thanks his friend and tells him he can stay in the house tonight. He takes one look at Jessie's face and frowns.
"Gimme just a minute, Greg, won't take me long to get you a pallet together." He moves swiftly from the room.
Jessie Watson is many things. She is a girl, a frontier girl, and her father's daughter. She learned that sometimes women could sense things that were either happening or going to happen at her mama's knees.
Greg's eyes flash between Jessie and Mike. He doesn't have to be a medicine-show level con to see that Mike seriously just stepped in it. He stepped in it big. Greg attempts to catch Mike's attention over the table, but by the time Jessie stands up, it's just too late.
"How dare you?" Her words are thrown at her fiancé as leans into his face. "I was RIGHT." She storms away from them, angry, hurt and scared for her brother. Mike knows that, he knows it and should have kept his mouth shut.
"Sheriff, sometimes I think she forgets that it's my friends missing out there, too." Mike says quietly to the table.
Jack has been watching from the hallway. He briefly touches Mike's shoulder.
"She'll get over it, son. Give her time. Better yet, bring her brother and his friend home safe." Jack speaks quietly, but his deep voice carries through the rafters of the house. He knows full well his daughter heard every word.
"I will." Mike states firmly. "When do we leave?" He asks Lestrade.
"First light." Lestrade nods his thanks to Jack as he pours another shot into Greg's glass. All three men sit in silence for a few moments.
"Sheriff, the night you brought my cousin here, where had he been?" Mike asks, still downcast.
"I caught him by the boot heels trying to break into the general store."
"I know you said you didn't want to spend the night at the jailhouse, but what made you believe him when you said I was here?" He's wanted an answer to this question since that night.
"Mike, I tell you, I don't know. When that boy looked up at me with those eyes…" he paused and sipped at the brown amber liquid in his glass. "When I looked into those eyes, I was not looking into the gaze of a hardened thief; I was looking at a boy just trying to get something to eat. It was pretty obvious he had been on the run for a while and when he said his cousin was at Jack's place, I had to bring him out here to at least try." Greg settles back in his chair and holds his glass up, watching the candlelight from the table dance against the whiskey.
"Thank you, Sheriff." Mike states, finally raising his eyes towards the older man.
"You're welcome, son. What anyone would have done."
"No, Sheriff, on that you are wrong. That's why he was on the run in the first place."
It was after midnight before Mike stopped talking as he laid out the story of his cousins and the terrible tragedy that befell their mother. He knew some of the story and had a pretty good guess at the rest of it. Greg and Jack listened intently, not once stopping to consider Sherlock anything but a man that had been through hell and back.
~0o0~
Mike only sleeps in small snatches the rest of the night. After telling Sherlock's story he is more aware of what his friends could be facing than ever before. He knocks on Jessie's bedroom door before they leave, trying to apologize for doubting her. She just grumbles and tells him to go away. He squares his shoulders and spreads his feet before banging on the door even harder.
"Fine, Jessica. I'm going to go find them. If you don't want to talk to me, that's fine. I've only got one thing to say." He takes a deep breath and lets it out. "I love you. I will be back to marry you, with my friends in tow. See you soon." He stomps down the hallway, greeting the Sheriff with a grunt. The two men leave, the only sounds in their wake is the thrumming of their boots across the old wooden porch and down the stairs.
Jessie opens her door a little, sticking her tear-streaked face out for a moment. Jack comes out of his room and pushes the door open with one hand and embraces his daughter with the other. She leans up against his chest and cries, her tears staining the front of his shirt.
~0o0~
John is doing his best to keep Sherlock comfortable and at least not dehydrated. He's managed to catch and skin a squirrel, but the meat is pretty terrible without any way to cook it. He cuts it up into tiny pale squares and manages to get Sherlock to eat a few of them. He tries some himself and finally gives up, taking the remainder all the way to the stream to dispose of. He walks past Wallace's body, following the stream in the opposite direction to fill the water bag with clean water. He eyes the little silver fish swimming by but decides that raw fish probably won't taste any better than the squirrel. At least now with some sustenance in their bellies, maybe they will both sleep. He does manage to find a little half-dead gooseberry bush in the foliage and tosses a handful of the sour little berries into his mouth as he walks back to their makeshift camp. He drops the rest of them into his pocket, hoping that maybe Sherlock will try them.
John takes the berries out of his pocket and lays them on the ground where they won't be crushed. He then curls up behind Sherlock, his thighs resting against the younger man's rear end, his arms around Sherlock's chest. He pulls the poncho over them, leaving the majority of it over Sherlock's body.
Sherlock's fever went down a little only to flare back up again. He's been in and out of strange dreams since John attempted to feed him. They had tried to leave that afternoon, but Sherlock's fever made the attempt fruitless as he stumbled and almost fell two or three times getting out of the shelter of the outcrop. Without any supplies nor extensive knowledge of the local plant life, there isn't too much more John can do to make Sherlock comfortable. He buries his nose in the tiny bit of hair present on Sherlock's very warm nape and closes his eyes; Sherlock's sweat stings his skin but he doesn't care. If this is the way it ends, at least they can be together.
He remembers the argument from before when he decided that Sherlock was not fit for travelling. Even in a fever haze Sherlock was a force to be reckoned with. He tried to push John away, to make him head down the road alone. John refused, considering that he was Sherlock's only chance. It took them half a day on horseback to reach this point; he couldn't even fathom trying to walk it in his present condition. Not to mention that Sherlock has had enough people turn their back on him. He was not going to be the next in line.
John curls around the thin body and lays his ear against Sherlock's back. The slight wheeze that he hears when the other man breathes is enough for concern. He's got to find a way to get him off of the ground, but he's grown weak from the lack of food, strain of fighting off three men in the space of twelve hours and his own injuries. Sherlock shivers a little and John attempts to curl impossibly closer. He's starting to wind down, hope seeping out of him and into the ground. All he can do is hold on.
Chapter 18: Keep Moving
As the train crawls to a stop, the lowing whine of its whistle announcing its intentions, Mike Stamford thrusts his ticket at the conduct and all but jumps the last two steps out of the passenger car. He tilts his head down so that the pouring rain will run down his hat brim, at the same time adjusting the bridle hanging on his shoulder. It's been a long six hours and he is ready to get out and stretch his legs. There is a short line in front of the livestock car so he's forced to stand still once more. After what seems like another six hours, his horse is led down the plank, his metal shoes playing a melody against the wood. Mike drapes the lead rope over his arm and swiftly puts the bridle on over the gelding's halter. He leaves the lead rope attached to the halter and ties it in a quick-release knot to the horn of saddle.
Mike leads his mount away from the train and the throng of people with the reins in his hand. The horse snorts a little, shaking his head, maybe glad to be out of the tight quarters and back on solid ground. Mike knows it's better to let the gelding walk a bit before riding, in case the horse's legs have gone stiff from adjusting his weight against the rocking movement of the train. He is proud to see that the little bay Mustang is calm and so gives him a pat on the shoulder. The rain is starting to let up as the follow a throng of people away from the station. A couple of wagons rumble by, there are a few people on foot, but most are mounting up for the ride towards town. Mike stops his horse, readjusts his saddle and quickly does up the three-quarter rig cinch. He places one palm under the cinch, checking that it's tight but not so much so that the poor animal can't breathe. He nods to himself as he climbs up into the saddle.
Mike is just outside the town limits when the rain finally stops. A slight mist of steam comes off of the horse's neck as they walk. He reaches into his pocket with the hand not controlling the reins and makes note of the general store where he is supposed to meet with Sheriff Moore. The original plan was for Sheriff Lestrade to go out with him, but Greg got sidetracked by a serious bar brawl in town just before they were to board the train. Mike thinks fondly of the man who is probably partially responsible for saving his cousin's life, at least once. He's especially impressed by Greg's "live and let live" attitude. A tall man on an equally tall horse trots by him and Mike gives him a nod, touching the rim of his hat. The man turns his way and returns the gesture, giving him a welcoming smile, his teeth flashing white against his dark skin.
Mike finds the general store. He dismounts and ties the lead rope to the hitching post out front. There's already two other horses there: a buckskin and a black pinto. He makes note of a pair of wooden torches lashed to the saddle of the pinto.
Mike takes his hat off, deftly flicking it to remove any water still remaining on the top. Little droplets fly into the air, pale yellow rays of light turning them into tiny prisms. The air is clean. He opens the door to the shop and the smell of sweets is the first thing to hit him. It's a neat, homey place and he looks around a minute to get his bearings, his eyes scanning the shelves of sale goods as well as the sweets counter. The only patron seems to be a man is sitting at a little table just in front of the window, his hat held in strong fingers. The copper star on his chest gleams against the dying sunlight streaming through the window. Mike approaches him with only a little apprehension.
"Sheriff Moore?" Mike holds out a hand.
"Mike Stamford?" Ray shakes the younger man's hand. He's got a solid grip.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, you are here as part of rescue effort? Time is of the essence and tracking is going to be difficult once it gets dark, but we have to try. Are you ready?"
"Yes, sir, ready as I'll ever be."
"Good man." Ray pounds his big hand against Mike's shoulder. He calls out to let Eileen know he's leaving the shop and leads Mike out the door.
~0o0~
"Sherlock." John is growing more terrified each time Sherlock doesn't answer. He had been lying over the prone body in an attempt to keep the heavy rain off of him when he realized that Sherlock's breathing pattern had changed into this shallow, gasping sound. John shakes Sherlock's shoulder a little harder this time; when the sick man doesn't respond, he flips him over onto his back and peels back his eyelids. His pupils are responsive, but his mouth is open as if he's begging for air. He pulls back the poncho and unbuttons Sherlock's shirt. John makes a fist and lays the flat part of his fingers against Sherlock's breastbone, rubbing none too gently. With a last startled intake of air, Sherlock sits up, his eyes flying open in fear.
"You are alright, Sherlock." John pulls him close and fastens the buttons back up. Sherlock starts to fall back again but John pushes off the ground and stands them both up at the same time. "No, stay awake." Sherlock's weary green gaze almost causes John to cry out in the misery that Sherlock must be feeling but cannot vocalize as John pats a little roughly at the side of his face.
"I've got to get you out of here." John moves them towards the outcrop and pushes Sherlock up to the flat rock. He climbs up behind him, and then shimmies down to the ground. He manhandles the semi-conscious man into position where he can lean on John but support some of his own weight on his own feet. John cannot take the seclusion much longer. Deep down inside, he knows he's going to lose Sherlock if he doesn't do something. He partially supports, partially forces Sherlock to move forward. It would be an incredibly difficult maneuver to perform even if John was in perfect health. At this point, the risk of being forced to carry a full-grown man back to town heavily outweighs the risk of Sherlock's lungs filling completely with fluid. He refuses to let his partner die a slow death of drowning in his own body.
John stops them for a moment to catch his breath. Sherlock mumbles something incoherent in his native language. John bows his head and closes his eyes, once again remembering scenes from the dance. He thinks about everything that Louis was saying to his people without John understanding a single word of it. For some reason, John draws on the memory and finds a reserve of strength within himself. He opens his eyes, pulling Sherlock tighter to his side and forces one foot in front of the other until they are back on the trail.
After a time, Sherlock seems to be coming around again. John thinks that perhaps the movement is good for him. Within the hour, he is taking almost his own weight on his feet and his breathing has improved slightly. Mostly he walks with his down and his arm still around John's waist; occasionally though he looks to John and each time it gives John a little more hope. He pushes them a little harder.
When the rain finally stops falling, John is surprised that it's almost dusk. The wilds around them are growing quiet as if everything is ready to bed down for the night. They keep pushing through; John wondering if he should feel guilty for forcing Sherlock to move through the pain; he quickly banishes the thought, instead considering that he'll feel guilty once they get out of this alive.
Darkness closes softly around them. They don't speak. The only sounds are Sherlock's ragged breathing and occasional grunt of pain as the injuries on his body are jarred by the movement. John is faring slightly better; he's actually starting to fear he's not going to last much longer. He is unaware that they are now only a few miles from town when Sherlock stumbles, pulling them both to the ground. John reaches out for him and finds his lover's hand just before the softness of the night wraps her arms around them, lulling them into a painless ignorance as they pillow their heads on her soft belly like babies curling up to mother.
