Disclaimer: The character do not belong to me. I make no money from writing this.
Viggomaniac: I apologise – I forgot to answer your question. I love "Lord of the Rings" and know the books well, but Aragorn from the movie doesn't speak to me in the same way that Frank does. I can't account for that – Viggo plays them both, and I think he's pretty special – but there it is. I am reading lots of LOTR fic, though, so perhaps he will one of these days.
They wouldn't leave Frank there on the sidewalk, though he insisted he was okay. He stood and then leaned on some kind soul, feeling a bit light headed and wondering why his leg was sore.
"Mister? You need the doc?"
"Huh?"
A little man was dodging in front of him, apparently trying to get him to stop walking. It wasn't difficult – Frank had little idea why he was walking and where he was going, anyway.
"You're Frank Hopkins, aren't you? Smithers – The Daily Chronicle. I was writing an article about your performance last night and here you are, saving folks from houses! Make a great headline! But your leg looks like it needs a doc."
Frank looked down, his head full of worrying images of himself in a headline, or worse, a photograph of him with his arm round the idiot who had nearly got himself killed, grinning his heroism into everyone's front parlour. One pants leg looked okay. The other had a rip in it and seemed dark and shiny. Blood. He vaguely remembered a sharp pain there as he'd been dragged from under the fallen wall.
For a moment he wondered what a young woman he'd nearly set up home with would have said about him being hurt again. It wasn't something he'd meant to happen, he'd have told her.
"Yeah," he said, pulling ineffectually at his pants leg. "Maybe it's got a chunk of wood in it."
So he was guided down the street, back to the saloon where he'd left Phoebe Ann, though she wasn't around when he got there. The doc was busy with other patients and Frank waited his turn, thinking about nothing in particular and trying to answer the journalist's questions at the same time. He was feeling groggy by the time the doctor finally got to him, and wondered if maybe putting some sort of bandage on his leg might have been a good idea.
They got him on the floor but he didn't pass out. The world was out of focus for a few minutes, and his head buzzed but he was aware that they were carrying him somewhere, maybe a back room, then were cutting off the leg of his good pants. He tried to protest but there was someone holding him down.
Then the doctor was speaking to him.
"There's a chunk of wood in your leg, Mr.Hopkins. I need to take it out but it's going to bleed pretty badly when I do. Don't you worry, though, I can stop that. If I don't take it out it'll become infected and then where will we be? Do you want to wait while I get some anaesthetic organised? It shouldn't take too long."
Frank had no idea what to say. He didn't want to have to stand the pain but he didn't want to bleed to death either. Why was it suddenly his decision?
"Do what you want, doc. Just get it done!" Frank managed to focus on the man's face. He wondered how he would pay him, and whether the man should be off treating people who were really sick. Then the operation began and Frank didn't have a chance to think about anything else, just an unbearable hotness in his calf. He tried to arch away from it but he was being held too firmly.
Afterwards, he thought wistfully of dying quietly of a nice simple infection. He couldn't move anything without a searing pain in his leg. And they hadn't even sewn him up yet – they were letting him rest for a few minutes before they started on that. He groaned and wondered if he was going to disgrace himself and refuse to let them do the stitches. The doctor was moving around, humming to himself, no doubt thinking of all the fees he would be collecting that week.
"Just a few minutes, Mr. Hopkins. Then someone'll take you in for a couple of days, I'm sure. We're really a very hospitable little town, you know."
"You are?" He couldn't say he'd noticed, but then, perhaps he hadn't given them much of a chance.
"Yes, indeed. The people who have been fortunate will take in another family until we get everything rebuilt." He really was insufferably happy, this doctor.
"You own the general store too, sir?" Frank asked, in a moment of levity. He tried to sit up a little more but that wasn't a good plan.
"Ha! You think I'm making my fortune here, don't you, Mr. Hopkins. Well, I suppose some will be doing that. We had no deaths, you know. Not one. Quite a few injuries, but no deaths. I don't know about your show, though. Right, I think we can see about these stitches."
He endured the procedure somehow. Overcome by a great tiredness, he lay and tried not to shift around while the wound throbbed. He vaguely remembered that some hapless family was going to have to take him in. He drifted off to sleep wondering how that was going to work out.
It was late evening when he woke again with a sour taste in his mouth and an urgent need for the outhouse. He was lying where he had been before – some kind out of storeroom, probably, and he was on the floor with a blanket covering him. He pushed up with his elbows, waited until his head cleared and then called out for someone, anyone, to come and give him a hand.
The door, partly open before and letting in a hum of human voices, was pushed open wide and a large, cheerful boy, about fourteen maybe, stood there.
"Yes, Mr. Hopkins? What can I do to help you?"
Frank explained, and matters were sorted out quite comfortably and, thank heaven, without a female presence. He was given some water to drink but he was longing for something stronger. A few dry crackers served to take the edge off his appetite.
Jimmy, the fourteen-year-old, sat himself down cross-legged and helped himself to one of the crackers he'd brought for Frank. "Pa and me," he explained, "and my brother Jake, we're taking you in. Pa owns the livery stable, and he's a fine blacksmith, too. Jake looks after the horses – he's got his certification and everything."
Pride in his family shone from the boy, and Frank liked him immediately. His spirits lifted suddenly, for the first time in months, and it was a heady feeling. He smiled.
"What about you? Where do you fit in?" he asked, quietly.
"Oh, I do pretty much anything Pa tells me to do. Well, mostly. I love the horses and I want to go to work on one of the ranches. Ain't room in the business for Jake and me, so I need to find myself another occupation."
"You still in school?"
"Sure! I wanna know how to figure out and stuff. Gotta be a good businessman, that's what Pa says. What about you? You're with the show, that right? Or you still doing them long distance races Pa says you did with your horse?"
Before Frank could begin on an answer to the increasing flow of questions, a large, blond-haired man appeared in the doorway. He was so startlingly like his son, Frank had to check between the two for a moment. The large man laughed, loudly.
"We look alike, huh? This one is all mine. You tiring the gentleman, boy?" He came over to his son and ruffled his hair, provoking a muffled, "Pa!" and a skither out of the way from Jimmy.
"My name's Sam – Sam Way. I guess you heard you're staying with us for a couple of days."
He held out his hand and Frank grasped it. The firm grip inspired confidence, and Frank's hopes rose a little further.
"You'll have to rough it. I don't have a wife no more to fuss over you. But we eat well and the place is clean. And we have a stall for your horse, if you want it. No charge."
"I can't let you …" Frank began, suddenly overwhelmed by the blacksmith's generosity.
"You say another word about that and I'll give you to the Johnson family. They have three children under six – and Mrs. Johnson looks after them like a broody hen." Mr. Way grinned, point made. Then he made a small concession to Frank's pride. "When you're on your feet again, I guess you could give us some advice about horses. You come with a fine reputation for knowing good horse flesh, Mr. Hopkins."
"Frank, just call me Frank." There was a moment's pause, then Jimmy stood up.
"Shall I fetch Jake, Pa? We could move Mr. Hopkins now and he'd be away from all these people."
Mr. Way nodded. "Yes, Jimmy, that's a fine idea. You'll be wanting some rest tonight, and you can't in this hornets' nest. Our reporter's asking for another interview with you. He says he has enough for one article but he wants more. Says you're a celebrity." Sam stood aside to let his son slip out of the room.
Frank grimaced. "Just what I need, articles with next to no truth in them, 'bout things I haven't done and never intend doin'. I'd be real grateful if you'd keep him away, if it's no trouble."
"Trouble? No, it's no trouble. I don't like the little weasel much. Now, here's Jake. Lift that stretcher, boys, let's get Mr. Hopkins – Frank, sorry, lad – away out of here."
Jake had appeared at the door, smiling like the rest of the family but in every other way different. Small, thin, pale, and dark-haired, he had a look about him that Frank recognised. Health not too good. But bright-eyed still, and kind-faced and open. Good with horses, Frank remembered, and warmed to the third member of the family.
They picked him up and bore him on his stretcher through the canteen like a wounded soldier. Everyone cheered him and toasted him, and he was offered a drink, which he declined. He tried to look like he did when he took the applause of the crowd but his make-up was missing and he felt he was disappointing them. Yet it was better for him to slip quickly back into the crowd and he was glad when he was taken out into the fresh air and along the street to the livery stable. They moved at a good pace, the family talking among themselves, and Frank was left to feel mildly silly lying on his back, when he could perfectly well have walked. With a little assistance, anyway. Who was he kidding? He was stuck in a strange town, his horse who knew where, in the hands of the blacksmith and his two sons. The elation that he had felt began to evaporate in the darkness of the evening.
Yet when they reached the stable, with its familiar smells of horses, Frank let himself relax again. There were far worse places to be than here, with someone to care for him, and the chance to rest up for a while. Far worse places.
They settled him in Jimmy's room. It was snug, with two beds in there, but it was a sensible arrangement and Frank appreciated the thought. He was going to be taken care of for a while. Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.
He was worried for a while that the thirst he had would make him a bad guest. But Mr. Way seemed to understand, and brought him a small glass of whisky.
"Against doctor's orders. But sometimes, a man needs something that's against orders. You ready for a visitor, Frank? Someone's been waiting in the kitchen talking to Jake for a few minutes."
"Do I need to be decent?" Frank enquired. He'd been stripped of his ruined pants and shirt.
"Yes. It's that lady, the one who does the fancy shooting." Mr. Way had barely mentioned her when she appeared at the door. She was half the man's size and twice his personality.
"Frank," she said, the averted her eyes as Frank hauled a blanket over himself. "Sorry to see you laid up like this. Heard you did good, though. Mr. Way, I believe a cup of coffee would go down well."
The blacksmith nodded and left them together.
"We're leaving tomorrow, Hop. Get back on the train, pull ourselves together, head for the next showground. Cody sent this." She handed Frank an envelope. Inside were more dollars than Frank had seen in a while. "Don't go spending it all at the saloon," she said, smiling.
"Is he paying me off?" Frank asked, looking up at her. His palms were sweating.
"I don't think so. He said, you should take a month or so, join us again then. You won't be riding for a while anyway. Have a holiday, Hop. You earned it." She reached out and grasped his hand. "Just give the booze a miss."
Frank was panicking. He couldn't stay there. How would he survive without the show – without the people who knew – who understood him. Who tolerated him, whatever he did. He knew Phoebe Ann could read him like a book, so he looked back at the money in his hand. He didn't know what to say to make her or Cody change their minds about him.
"Phoebe Ann," he choked out. "You can't leave me here. I have a show to do."
She stood away from him. "Just a month, Hop. I'll make sure Cody lets you back in the show. You get yourself all healed up."
She turned to leave. Frank could hardly breathe. Then she was gone.
But by the time Mr. Way came back in, Frank had gathered himself again, and had put aside his fears. He could endure. They were good people. Maybe he could even get himself back on the right track again.
Just before he slipped into sleep that night, with the boy's quiet, steady breathing only a few feet away, he sent up a prayer to his ancestors. Peace. For just a while, peace, for himself, for the little bit of the world he inhabited. Peace.