A Small Price to Pay

Chapter 20 – Little Boy Lost

The very first thing that made its way into his consciousness was pain. Again, pain. The whole side of his head was throbbing and on fire, and it didn't seem as if any amount of water would put the fire out. He tried to open his eyes; the right one opened but the left one was stuck shut, probably by clotted blood. He was lying on something, a cot covered by a blanket, face down. The blanket tasted like wool. He tried to spit it out; he had to get up on his elbows to get his mouth out of the blanket. It was pitch black and silent as a church on Saturday night. His left eye finally opened; it allowed no additional light. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness a familiarity set in, followed immediately by fear and panic. He was in a jail cell.

He struggled to sit up as his head pounded even worse than before. His coat was off and thrown carelessly across his body; the left lapel was ripped away from the front of the coat, as if someone had tried to drag him. He was finally able to swing his legs around and put them on the floor. It sounded just like the cell he spent months in inside the Silver Creek jail. Suddenly the reality hit him – he was inside the Silver Creek jail. And he remembered Travis Cole, and the insistence that he was under arrest; then the struggle, the punch and the feel of the butt of the gun hitting his head. . .cell.

He was sweating and shaking at the same time; so sick to his stomach that the bile rose up in his throat and spilled out onto the floor before he could move. Another wave of nausea hit him hard and his head spun; he tried to vomit again but had nothing left inside him. He jumped up and launched himself at the bars of the cell; he had to get out, he would do anything to get out. "Cole!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Travis Cole!" There was no sound but the echo of his own voice. He was completely alone in the jail.

This was deliberate and he knew it. Travis was doing this to him as punishment. Jody's words – "He said he was going to make you pay for your sins" – came hauntingly back to him; the threat had come true. He tried to shake the bars of the cell, then the bars of the door. Nothing moved. "Travis!" He yelled again, though it did no good. Once more his stomach rolled and turned over on him, and he gagged but nothing came. He was sweating, he was freezing, he was shaking so hard he couldn't stand up; he plummeted to the floor and laid there for minutes on end. At long last he got to his knees but couldn't get any further – he grabbed hold of the edge of the cot and held on for dear life, until finally he could pull himself back up on it.

His mind was everywhere – in an abandoned barn outside Denver, tied up and being beaten; on the steps to the gallows, handcuffed behind his back; in the Mississippi River, being pulled under by the paddlewheel; on a Carson City street corner bleeding; in a burning house outside Santé Fe, with the air so clotted with smoke that he couldn't breathe; in a hotel room in Silver City being pistol-whipped into unconsciousness. They were all real; he'd lived through each and every one. His mind whip-lashed back and forth through the scenarios, again and again, until he was so dizzy that he couldn't keep his eyes open. He pulled the blanket up over his head and whimpered like a child. Eventually came blessed relief, when his mind couldn't process the trauma anymore and he slipped back into unconsciousness.

XXXXXXXX

"Bret, I'm so sorry – you have to come. It's Bart and he's in trouble."

The man standing in front of him had nothing on but a blanket. No wonder he'd reached out into the hallway and pulled Beck inside. "What kind of trouble?"

The light in the room was dim but Beckham could see the bed and a woman in the bed – although he didn't know who she was. "Uh, Cole's got him. Knocked him out and carried him over to the jail."

"What for?" Bret demanded as he hurriedly put his pants on.

"I don't know, really. Bart tapped on the door to the clinic and by the time I got there he was with the marshal. Travis's gun was out and it was pointed at Bart – and they were arguing. Travis grabbed Bart's coat the way he did the other day and tried to drag him across the street, so Bart hit him. And Cole cracked him on the head with the butt of his gun and knocked Bart out. The last I saw he was hauling Bart over to the jail, unconscious."

"Did Cole see you?"

"No, he didn't. Bart must have knocked on the clinic door before Travis got there."

Bret had his shirt on and half buttoned – he grabbed his coat and pushed Beckham out of the room.

"What were they arguing about?" He continued to push Beck back down the hall.

"Uh, Cole was trying to arrest Bart and Bart was protesting that he hadn't done anything."

"Anything else?"

"Well, after Cole hit Bart, he said something like 'survive this.' And he laughed. Then he just picked Bart up and carried him to the jail."

"That's it?" They were halfway down the hotel stairs.

"That's all, I swear." Beck had to run to keep up with Bret.

"Alright, go down to the saloon. Get Beau Maverick. You haven't met him yet. That's Cousin Beau. Blonde hair, English accent. Everybody knows him. Get him up to the jail as fast as you can. Go now. And thanks." Bret took off running, up the street and towards the jail.

Beck moved as fast as he could go down to the saloon. He ran in and grabbed the first bartender he could find. Fortunately it was Alvin. "I need Beau Maverick. Hurry. Bret sent me to get him." Alvin scurried out from behind the bar, coming back in just a minute with, as Bret said, a blonde man dressed just the way the Mavericks dressed.

"This is the man, Mr. Beau. Said Mr. Bret sent him."

"Look, I'll explain as we go, Bret needs you at the jail right now. Marshal Cole's arrested Bart and Bret's there. I'm Dr. Dooley. You're the cousin, right?"

"Right," Beau answered as they hurried out of the saloon and back up the street. Even from this distance they could hear Bret pounding on the jail door and yelling "Let me in! Open up, Cole!" There wasn't a light to be seen inside; it was obvious no one was there.

Beau get there first and tried to talk Bret down, but his cousin was having none of it. "That bastard! He did this deliberately. How did he know?"

"What are you talking about, Bret? How did who know what?" Beau was confused, he had no knowledge of Bart's fear of being locked up again. Beckham finally caught up to the Mavericks – if he and Beau couldn't get Bret quieted down quickly the whole town would be awake.

Bret's voice finally dropped in volume. "When we were on the Belle – the captain threatened to turn him over to the marshal in Memphis. He was almost irrational, Beau – he was terrified of another jail cell. I've never seen him like that. If Cole knew what he went through here - waiting for the trial and then the hanging – he could have done this deliberately." He turned to Beckham. "Didn't you say Cole was trying to arrest Bart and they were arguing?"

"Yes, that's what was going on. Bart said he'd done nothing to be arrested for. But Bret, why would Travis do that? Just to get even?" Beck couldn't believe the marshal could be so calloused.

"Exactly, to get even for losing Jody. He blames Bart."

Beau grabbed Bret by the shoulders and turned him around. "There's a window in the cell. Let's check that." They hurried around the back of the jail. There was indeed a window; it was low enough on the wall so that all three men could see inside. It was pitch black in the cell.

"Bart! Bart are you in there? It's Bret and Beau. We're here Bart. Answer me!"

Everything was very still and quiet. Bret tried again. "Bart, it's your brother. I'm here. Talk to me Bart. I'm out here."

The smallest sound. There was someone inside. Beau, this time. "Cousin Bart, it's Beau. Talk to us, Bart. Dr. Dooley's here with us. Can you answer us?"

A faint moan. A welcome sound to those outside. Beck spoke up. "He could be injured. Cole hit him hard enough to knock him out."

"Bart, it's your brother. Can you hear me? Are you hurt?"

"Bret, if he's physically hurt, and emotionally traumatized, he may not be able to answer you." This time it was the doctor, and not the friend, speaking.

Finally, from inside, a rustling sound. Then a scraping noise, and at last, a very muffled voice. "Bret?"

Bret was pacing frantically back and forth in front of the window when he heard his brother. "Bart? It's me. Are you alright?"

A barely perceptible "No." Followed a few seconds later by "You alone?"

"No. Beau and Beckham Dooley are with me."

That same frightened child voice. "Oh."

Bret was willing to do anything to help his brother, including sending away people that were there for the same reason. "Do you want them to leave?"

Another long stretch of silence. Then, finally, "Yes."

He turned around and looked at Cousin Beau, then at Dr. Dooley. "You heard him," he pleaded. "Please go."

Beau grabbed his arm. "I'm going back to the saloon. You come get me for anything. You hear me? Anything."

Beckham knew the best thing to do was leave. "See if you can get him talking and keep reassuring him. Don't promise anything you can't do. Don't pressure him. I'm going with Beau. Come and see me after you talk to him. We'll figure out where to go from there. Good luck." He joined Beau and they walked away together, back to 'Mavericks.' Bret turned back to the window and grabbed the bars.

"They're gone, Bart. Can you come over here?"

Silence continued, undisturbed, and then "I . . . . . . .I . . . . .don't know."

"Come on, little brother, just a few steps." When Bart was nine years old he'd gotten stuck on a log out in the river and Bret had kept him calm and verbally guided him back to shore with the same words. He heard some kind of unidentifiable sound, then a shuffling noise, and finally saw the form of his brother in what little moonlight was left. His coat and tie were off, he had a cut somewhere in his hairline above his left eye and a small blood trail ran past the eye and on down his face; he was drenched with sweat and appeared to have vomited down the front of his shirt. And the look on his face was a combination of confusion and terror, the same look when on the log. He came slowly across the cell floor until he was close enough to the window to wrap his hands around Bret's on the bars.

"You're safe now, Bart; I won't let go." The faintest smile appeared.