Candy was not unconscious.
Like most people, Candy had a profound dislike of being locked up. Over the years, he'd come to understand that it was just something that was going to happen to him from time to time, but he also knew that he'd never be happy about it. He also knew that he'd never be as relaxed about it as he had been prior to the incident involving a lengthy and undeserved stay in a mine pit. Four walls seemed to close in on him a lot more than they used to, particularly if he couldn't see outside.
The Dewton jail cell wasn't cramped like some he'd been in, and -if he'd been able to stand- he could have seen something besides sky out of the barred window if he'd stood on the side of the cell farthest from it. But, just now, standing was completely out of the question, and he didn't have much interest in what was going on outside the window. It was what was going on in the office that worried him. He didn't know if he'd made any impression on that sheriff, or if anything had been done.
Not knowing if his job was completed, he couldn't find it in himself to relax into waiting. Candy didn't like waiting, but it was something he'd become quite good at. He didn't remember much about the night before, and certainly remembered little since the fever set in, but the sound of an unfamiliar voice out there worried him. The sheriff he'd met yesterday was talking quietly with another man whose voice Candy hadn't heard before. Because they were quiet, and the wall between the jail and main office muffled the noise, he couldn't tell what they were saying, and that frustrated him.
More than that, it concerned him. If that other voice belonged to one of the Elodie deputies, all Candy had gone through the day before might have been for nothing at all. He knew there were other people it could be, but he'd long ago learned to hope for the best, assume nothing and be prepared for the worst. If that was an Elodie deputy, Candy knew his best chance of survival was to stay right where he was. The only hope he had for that was if the Dewton sheriff decided Candy was too sick to move just now (which certainly felt true, even if it wasn't). Candy couldn't count on that.
Another thing Candy had learned was that, if people saw him as helpless, that gave him an advantage. When he'd been about ten years old, one of the soldiers at the fort had told him that he'd better learn to fight with his hands tied behind his back. Candy had questioned that at the time, not understanding why that was a skill he needed to learn. The next thing he'd known, the soldier -one Corporal Travis- had thrown him and tied him like a calf at branding time.
Candy had been badly frightened, and the wind had been knocked out of him. Growing up with a bunch of soldiers, he of course had learned the art of combat early, but of the men stationed there, Corporal Travis had been the one with the fastest reflexes, and Candy couldn't hope to match him at that time. Tied and lying in the dust, Candy hadn't known what the corporal intended for him next.
Corporal Travis had stood back for a moment, either to admire his handiwork or give Candy a chance to collect his wits. Then he'd said simply, "Now defend yourself."
Candy had protested that he couldn't, not when he was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. But the corporal had insisted. Travis hadn't hurt Candy any, and he'd carefully instructed Candy, pointing out to the young boy that he had more at his disposal than just his hands. Every inch of him could be used as a weapon, not just his feet, but his knees, shoulders and even his head if necessary. Tied up, he could still hit somebody hard enough to knock the wind out of them or even break something if he hit hard enough in the right spot. Lesson one had been upsetting, but Candy soon got used to it, and it wasn't long before the good corporal was teaching Candy different ways of fighting while handicapped in some manner, as well as escaping when people assumed he wouldn't be able to. In fact, many of the soldiers had taught him escape techniques they'd learned one way and another, and Candy had even invented a few of his own along the way. It was a plain fact that nobody could hold him for very long if he didn't want them to; given enough time and motivation he could get out of just about anything.
Another soldier, a sergeant, had advised Candy that there was one weapon Corporal Travis always overlooked. That was the tongue. A man might talk his way out of a situation even when he couldn't fight, if he knew what to say and how to say it. A third soldier taught Candy that sometimes sweet talking wasn't the answer. If you could make somebody mad, they might make mistakes, and give you the opportunity to attack them when you otherwise wouldn't be able to.
All of this was important for him to know, but what tied it together was something even more vital for him to understand. He needed to know his own abilities and limitations, and keep that knowledge to himself so nobody would ever quite know how much he was really capable of. When he was outnumbered and outclassed in a fight, Candy had learned that a good way to escape from too bad a beating was to feign unconsciousness, because a lack of reaction took the fun out of it. That's assuming of course that the people beating him up didn't want him dead.
In this instance, it seemed like it was in his best interest that he be thought to be unconscious, or at the very least unable to move on his own. Fine if everyone thought that, but Candy himself needed to know if he could do more than that. He knew he didn't have much strength left in him, but he needed to know exactly how much. He needed to assess exactly what he could do. If it came down to it, and he found himself being carted back to Elodie by the crooked deputies, he needed to know what he had left to fight back with. He knew that -if he was taken back there- he would never leave Elodie alive again.
It was hell trying to sit up, but he managed to push himself up and lean against the wall of the cell so he could look around. He was shaky and sweating, he knew he was still feverish and in no shape for a brawl of any sort, but he also knew only too well that fighting for your life didn't have anything to do with feeling. You didn't get to pick when or where you fought if someone was out to kill you, what you got to do was choose how hard you tried to keep your life. And Candy had no intention of being killed.
Moreover, he had no intention of letting the Cartwright boys be killed.
He hoped Sheriff Walker was smart, though he knew more depended on whether or not the sheriff believed him than the man's overall intelligence. Sometimes it was the smart sheriffs that got Candy in the worst kind of trouble, because smarts weren't the same as wisdom or cleverness or experience, and those three things were far more critical than merely being smart. If the Dewton sheriff was any or all of those things, he would at least look into what Candy had said, even if he didn't believe.
Candy hoped on the sheriff, but at the same time he sat there and looked at where the cell keys were hung on a wall peg, and he began to think of how he was going to fight back if hoping wasn't enough.
Stanley Harris had returned to Elodie with George James, cold, tired and discouraged. They had been among the first to become involved in this scheme of Holt's, and Lee had been one of the men Canaday nailed in the stable. George had been the other one, and he had the shiner on his face to prove it.
They'd ridden out after Canaday, tracking him to a rundown ranch halfway to nowhere before they lost the trail. George was convinced that their quarry had hidden somewhere on the ranch, but Lee had talked him out of it. They'd checked the barn, and surely the people living there would know if he was in the house. So they'd ridden on into Dewton, where Jace Colby had been sent to use the telegraph office to send a message to the senior Cartwright. They'd passed Jace along the way, but he said he'd seen no sign of Canaday. In fact, the only thing he'd seen was a dark colored animal he thought might've been a wolf slinking around the town's outskirts.
"If I didn't know better," Jace had said, "I would think it was Lacy's dog."
"What would that dog be doin' all the way out to Dewton?" George scoffed, and the matter dropped.
Lee and George had talked to the Dewton sheriff, a sleepy, bored looking kid barely old enough to carry a gun. The sheriff promised to keep a look out for their runaway prisoner, but Lee didn't hold out much hope that the kid could catch anything trickier than a fluffy kitten. If Lee had spent any time around kittens, he would've been more impressed with anyone able to outfox one, but he hadn't.
Rather than stay in town, because neither of them felt comfortable with the notion, Lee and George made their way to a line shack George had pointed out earlier. In the cold winter, most people wouldn't mind if a line shack was used briefly. In the morning, they headed back for home. The trail was cold, and they didn't expect to find Canaday. Maybe some of the other deputies had had better luck.
When they got in, they were surprised to find the sheriff's office completely empty. George immediately went back and checked the jail room. He returned to report that the prisoners were there, but nobody was with them. Lee frowned.
"Stay put," Lee said, "Keep an eye on those two while I look for Holt and Mayer."
"Fine by me," George said, dropping wearily into a chair.
Lee shook his head irritably. At the start, he'd liked this idea of Holt's. It seemed like easy money. But it seemed like he'd been doing all the work since then. With the cooperation of Josh Jones, Holt had arranged for the Cartwrights and their companion to come to him, Mayer and Jenkins. Lee and George had been assigned to keep an eye out in case they didn't all go along. It turned out that they hadn't. Canaday had stayed in the stable, and they'd gone in after him.
They'd come up behind him, but it was almost like he was psychic. Before Lee got to say or do anything, Canaday had struck him in the face with an elbow, splitting his lip. Canaday had then turned on George, while Lee had taken a moment to clear his head. Canaday had brought George to the floor before Lee managed to intervene, getting an arm around the cowboy's throat. But Canaday hadn't been finished then. He'd employed his elbow again, and Lee had felt an explosion of pain just below his ribcage that for a moment had him all but convinced that something inside him had burst.
George was up again by then, and managed to engage Canaday just as Lee lost hold of him. Together, they'd managed to wrestle him into submission, but Lee knew they'd been lucky to get close enough to prevent him from ever using his pistol, because he surely had the ability. They'd finally gotten him when George twisted his right arm behind him and at the same time Lee had caught him by the bandana and choked him with it until he went down.
At the time, they didn't know if they had a Cartwright or not, but Holt had informed them in the sheriff's office that they didn't need him. They could have just shot Canaday in the stable and been done with it. But no, they'd found out late, and Canaday had slipped free of them. Lee and George got sent after him, while Holt and Mayer stayed behind. Holt always had liked Mayer best, even though Mayer had been the least keen on this whole notion. In fact, Lee was pretty sure Mayer was about to turn to Holt and ask why they had to kill Canaday when everything had gone to hell.
When things went sideways, where was Holt? Was he helping Lee and George? No, of course not. He'd turned to help Mayer with the scrappy little Cartwright. Jenkins at least had been engaged by the hulking giant one. George had helped to put a stop to that one, and Lee didn't blame him because the tall Cartwright looked like he was strong enough to pick up a horse and carry it.
And when Holt had failed to stop Canaday with a bullet, whose horse had been stolen? Well naturally it had been Lee's. But did that mean he got to stay behind? Of course not! Holt told him to take Mayer's horse and get after Canaday. It had been a losing proposition ever since. Assuming Canaday hadn't simply dropped dead in the snow somewhere, there was no way he was going to be tracked down. Canaday was long gone, though Lee couldn't figure how.
Lee's horse had pulled up lame, and Canaday had abandoned it. But where he'd gone was a mystery.
And now, to come back and find that nobody was manning the sheriff's office... it would not be an overstatement to say that Lee was upset, and felt he had a perfectly good reason to be.
His mood was in no way improved by finding Mayer down the street near the livery stable walking a black and white pony. Lee remembered the pony had been in the stable the day before. It seemed the pony remembered him too, because it neighed and shied away as he approached, evidently seeing him as a bringer of noise and chaos and violence and not liking that at all.
"What the hell are you doing!?" Lee shouted at Mayer, and the pony tossed its head, tugging at its lead rope while Mayer tried desperately to keep hold of it.
"Did you find Canaday?" Mayer inquired, ignoring Lee's question and choosing to keep looking at the pony instead of paying attention to the man.
"No," Lee snapped, "Found my horse, an' he's lame now. Canaday musta rode him 'til he quit, then abandoned him in the snow," Lee muttered a few choice curses under his breath.
Mayer had the pony back under control now and stroked its neck, finally looking at Lee.
"So what are you doing back in town?" Mayer asked, "Sheriff Holt told you not to come back until you had him. Harris, you know what it'll mean if Canaday gets word to Cartwright."
"Don't you scold me!" Lee snarled angrily, and the pinto snorted and shook its head again, "I been out there all day yesterday and all night last night lookin' for Canaday while you stayed cozy and warm at home and all I got to show for it is a lame horse!"
As he began shouting and getting right up in Mayer's face, the pinto neighed, backed up and then abruptly threw his head and reared. Mayer let the animal's lead slide through his fingers, and kept a level stare on Lee, refusing to flinch even though Lee was older, taller and had twenty pounds on him.
"Well you can't blame me for that," Mayer said with maddening calmness, "It was Sheriff Holt's decision who stayed behind, and he gave you my horse anyway. I don't recall my getting bent outta shape about that," the pinto came back down just as he finished.
"And why should you!?" Lee yelled, "It meant you got to stay here!"
"You ride horses straight into the ground," Mayer replied, in a quiet but firm voice, "And you use a bit like a saw. I'll be lucky if I even have a horse when you get through with him."
"What do you mean when?" Lee demanded hotly, "I am through!"
"I wouldn't be so sure," Mayer said, "I expect Sheriff Holt will send you right back out when he hears you left the job unfinished."
"And what about when I tell him you left the office to play with a horse?" Lee asked.
"That's my problem," Mayer told him, bringing the pinto to him and stroking its nose, "Not yours."
Before Lee could make a retort, a messenger from the telegraph office came running up breathlessly.
"I got a message for the sheriff's department!" the youngster said, irritatingly looking at Mayer and not Lee, "An' I can't find Sheriff Holt nowhere."
"Well give the message to me and I'll see he gets it," Mayer said patiently.
When the kid got through repeating the message, Lee knew with grim certainty that he was about to be sitting in a saddle again, making the lengthy ride back to Dewton with George, riding Mayer's horse.