Bart's Story

Some things never get any easier; no matter how many times one has to go through them. Getting shot is one of those things. I don't care how many times I have to suffer through having hot lead invade my body; it's never going to get better. Charity had made me as comfortable as she could, but without proper care there was only so much that could be done, and it wasn't much. I had been moved off the floor and into the bedroom, though, and it was nice to be in an actual bed. Apparently Boucher didn't think I was capable of doing too much with a hole in my side because he'd allowed my hands to stay untied. Those two things did ease a little of my misery but the wound still felt like it was on fire, although that was an improvement over the agony that had been caused by Charity trying to clean it.

Groaning I curled up on my side trying to find some position that would ease, even marginally, the burning in my belly.

"There's nothing else I can do for you. I'm sorry."

I forced open eyes I hadn't realized I closed and looked up at Charity. What was I supposed to say to her, that it was fine? It wasn't. That I would be alright? I wasn't sure I would be. I was hurting, and there wasn't any relief in sight. I had passed out a couple of times, but it never lasted long. Even earlier when Jim left, I'd only been able to enjoy the darkness a few minutes before I'd been jarred awake. Just in time to enjoy getting moved into the bedroom and undergo Charity's ministrations. I was in and out for most of that too.

"Why are you . . . doing this?" I finally asked when I could think of nothing else.

"He told you. He needs your brother to come."

I stared at Charity; she didn't look the slightest bit phased by what she'd just said, as though it was completely normal to go around shooting people to guarantee you could get a powwow with their brother. I warily closed my eyes again. Charity was an even bigger puzzle now than she had been before. She had taken care of me so she obviously wasn't so heartless that she wanted to see me dead. But she hadn't seemed too upset when Boucher had shot me either. Maybe she just didn't want me dead before my time. I had thought before they didn't want me dead, but now I wasn't sure if it mattered or not. A bolt of pain shot through my gut again bringing another moan.

I heard Charity scoot her chair closer to the bed as I rode out the wave of pain. "Bart." I felt her hand on my arm. "He had to make sure your brother would come. I am sorry he had to go this far."

That didn't make much sense to my pain filled mind, but I wasn't sure it would make sense even with a clear head. When the pain settled back into an almost bearable throb I opened my eyes. "Why do you . . . want my brother?" I forced out between gritted teeth.

Charity looked down then back at me. "He has to pay for . . . men died, Bart. He needs to answer for that."

There it was again. For some reason Boucher believed Bret was responsible for someone's death, and he had convinced Charity it was true too. Just what was it Bret had supposedly done?

Bret and I had been pretty fortunate while we were in the army. Most of the time we'd been in, we'd been allowed to be together. We'd spent a lot of time in New Mexico, but during the fall of '65 Bret had been in a group that was sent into Arizona. Listening to Boucher, one would think Bret had committed some heinous crime, but when Bret had returned to New Mexico just a few months later he hadn't mentioned anything out of the ordinary happening.

"What did he do?"

"It's not what he did. It's what he didn't do."

Could she have been more cryptic with her answer? I was about to ask her to explain when another spasm of pain went through me. Groaning I once again tried to shift into a more comfortable position. I already knew it wouldn't do any good, but that didn't stop me from trying. Unfortunately, all it did was aggravate my wound even more.

"Don't try to move around," Charity said softly. She took a cool rag and wiped the beads of sweat off my face. "You're only hurting yourself more."

"What do . . . you care?"

"I care." Charity sounded offended. I peered up at her, sure I'd never come across a more confusing female. I could almost believe she did care, except that she was partially responsible for my being here to start with. "I do," she insisted. "I didn't want him to shoot you."

"Still in there?" I asked after I'd caught my breath again.

"The bullet? Yes."

I would have sighed but I knew it would hurt too much. I should have figured. On the one hand having a bullet inside me meant there was no exit wound. That was to my advantage as there was only one hole to bleed and possibly get infected. The flip side was there was a bullet in me. It wasn't wise to leave lead in the body too long, but given a choice between leaving it or letting one of my captors take it out, I was content to leave it a while.

My thoughts went back to Bret. I had mixed feelings about him coming. I had a feeling that Boucher wanted my brother dead. I was afraid that Bret would be gunned down where he stood as soon as he showed his face here, but I knew I wasn't getting out of this alone, and that bullet could only sit inside me for so long before the real problems started. At the moment, this looked like a lose, lose situation. Feeling hopeless, I closed my eyes. Charity continued to wipe my face and after several minutes I started to feel better. I still didn't know how this would go, but I had more confidence Bret would think of something. The pain in my side dulled some too, allowing me to talk again.

I opened my eyes and found Charity leaning over me. She smiled some and I tried to return the gesture. "Charity, what does he have to answer for?"

Charity bit her lip and seemed to think a lot about her words before she spoke. "Dereliction of duty."

"What?" The idea was absurd and my natural reaction was to defend my brother. I attempted to sit up ready to do just that. It turned out to be a big mistake on my apart. As soon as I moved fire tore across my middle, forcing a strangled yell from my throat.

"Bart, don't!"

I held onto Charity, trying to ride out the wave of intense pain. I could hear her muttering something but couldn't make out the words. Eventually the burning began to die down, and I could almost think again, even though I was still gasping for breath. I relaxed the death grip I'd had on Charity's arms. A somewhat pathetic sounding moan left me. I felt Charity pull out of my grasp and put her hands on my shoulders. Every bit of energy I'd had before had been drained out of me with my sudden movement and she had no trouble pushing me back onto the bed.

"What are you doing? You have to be still," she scolded as I lay there panting.

I've never had my guts torn out before, but I imagine it would feel something like what I had just experienced. "Sorry," I said hoarsely. Eventually, the pain did subside and I was able to think about Bret again. I turned back to Charity. "That's ridic . . . ridiculous. Bret wouldn't . . . do that."

"He did," she responded coolly.

"How?" Again it looked like Charity wasn't sure what or if she should say anything. "That's a . . .serious . . .charge in the . . . army." Serious enough that I knew Bret would never have done anything to risk having to face it. I also found it hard to believe something that major would have happened and I wouldn't have been told a word about it.

"It wasn't an official charge, but it should have been." I just did my best to glare at her. I wanted to know what was going on. "He was to be in a scouting party. He didn't go. He was replaced and they were ambushed by a group of renegade Apaches. Most of the party was killed, including the man who was sent to take your brother's place."

I closed my eyes and sighed, grimacing when it pulled at my wound. It was starting to make sense now. If I had to guess I would say whoever had been killed in that party was someone of significance to Boucher, and I was starting to suspect Charity too. "Who was he?"

"My cousin."

I groaned again; this one had nothing to do with my wound. "Boucher's son?"

"Yes."

Alright, I can understand the man being upset, any normal father would be upset, but how could he think Bret had anything to do with that? "How is that's Bret's fault?"

"Thomas wasn't supposed to be there; your brother was."

"Do you know . . . anything . . . about the army? Bret was a . . . a private. He didn't just . . . decide he wasn't . . . gonna . . . go." I had to stop and try to catch my breath again. Putting a hand on my wound, I curled back up on my side. I was talking too much and getting too worked up, but I had to get to the bottom of this. "There was a . . . reason."

Charity gave me a long look before she abruptly stood. "That doesn't help Thomas though, does it?" Turning on her heel she strode out of the room, shutting the door behind her. I rolled over onto my back with a moan.

I heard voices out in the main room but no discernible words. Boucher's gruff voice was louder than anyone else's but still muffled by the door. I assumed Charity was giving her dear uncle a report on what we had talked about. I didn't have to wonder long. Soon Boucher himself came in the room. He came over to the bed and stood over me. He could have sat down, but I suspected he knew standing over me that way was unnerving. I assumed he had learned a thing or two about intimidating men during his army career. "Charity tells me you don't believe my story."

"I don't believe Bret killed your son." I had been determined not to gasp for breath when I answered him and I hadn't. I paid for it though, and was panting by the end.

"Not personally, but he is responsible."

I didn't have a reply. I was almost sure Boucher was crazy now. How could he blame a private for a scouting party being attacked by Apaches? And I knew for a fact that it couldn't have been as simple as Bret telling someone he didn't want to go and being allowed to stay. If it worked that way Bret would never have been in Arizona to begin with. If it worked that way neither one of us would have been in New Mexico for that matter.

"I understand it's not an easy thing for a man to hear, Mr. Maverick . . . . "

"My brother didn't get anyone killed."

Well, I found out the good major didn't take too kindly to being interrupted when I felt him backhand me. It was dispassionate, but hard, snapping my head to the side and causing my wound to be pulled again. I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my jaw. I didn't intend for Boucher to hear me make a sound. I also made a mental note to remember just how fast the man was capable of moving.

"You'll do well to remember how to address your betters, private."

The only reply he received was a stare. I hated to break it to the major, but I wasn't in the army anymore. I wasn't a private and his rank meant nothing to me. He may have been in control for now, but it had nothing to do with rank. If he was expecting a 'yes, sir' he was out of luck.

Boucher's eyes darkened. "I have no intention of causing you any more harm, Maverick, but I've never been one to tolerate insolence. Your wound shouldn't be a fatal one; watch yourself and as soon as I have your brother, you'll be free to go, but it would behoove you to keep your mouth shut. However, I'm not a patient man. You'd better hope your brother doesn't waste time." Like Charity, he spun around and left me alone.

Hurry, Jim I silently pleaded with Dandy as I lay there in the dimly lit room, my side burning and my face still stinging from the backhand. One of those unexpected spasms of pain hit me again and I didn't bother to hold the groan in this time. I hated the thought of Bret walking into this, and I certainly didn't want to be the cause of my brother's untimely death, but I was helpless on my own. I needed help and I had two of the best conmen in the world coming to give just that. I could only hope that between the crafty and conniving minds of Bret Maverick and Dandy Jim Buckley, we would all somehow get out of this alive.