Thank you for the reviews so far! I always get so excited when I see there's a new one.

I've got most of the rest of the story sketched out and a fair bit of it already written, so at least the next chapter should come soon. I hope you're enjoying it. Credit to my partner and kid for coming up with some great ideas about plot and character, especially the stablehand.

Chapter 3

It must have been about eleven o'clock when Murdoch finally passed out, if George judged correctly from the height of the full moon in the window. He rolled over, rubbed his eyes a little, and…

…a beam of sunlight hit him in the face. Someone shouted in the hall. He jolted awake, bewildered. Hadn't he just…

He heard Murdoch shift position, and then moan softly. "Sir?" he inquired.

"Hello, George."

"Well good morning, sir. At least I assume this is morning—I could have sworn that mere seconds ago it was the middle of the night."

"Did you sleep, then, George?"

"I, uh, couldn't say as to whether I did or didn't! I must have? I admit I was exceedingly fatigued. How are you keeping this morning, sir?"

Murdoch lifted his arm experimentally, and blanched. "It would appear my shoulder is not much improved."

George was not surprised. "Indeed, sir? I'm sorry to hear it."

Murdoch slowly pushed himself up and swung his feet onto the floor, his breath hitching as he moved. "I'll be all right, George. We must be on our way."

George closed his eyes and sighed. I knew it, he thought resignedly. I knew it. He rolled out of bed to get dressed.

George had changed into a fresh union suit and pulled his trousers back on before he noticed that Murdoch was still sitting motionless on the edge of his bed, his head bent down. "You're going to need some help, aren't you, sir," said George matter-of-factly.

"Yes, George. I'd be grateful."

George turned to Murdoch's bag, and began rummaging through it. "There's your shirt, sir. We'll need to change your bandage. Do you have anything we could use?"

"No. We'll have to ask the innkeeper."

"I suppose so."

George helped Murdoch into his shirt, and buttoned it up before tucking it into his trousers. He held out one of Murdoch's boots, and Murdoch appeared to stare right through it. The detective was clearly ruminating on something.

"George."

George froze for an instant. He's not going to start explaining things again, is he? he thought with slight alarm. "Yes, sir?" he finally managed, as Murdoch finally pointed his toe into the boot.

"I'm afraid I can't recall much of last evening after you administered the patent medicine. I have a few flashes of feeling particularly jovial, and a sense I may have said things that were perhaps, ah, untoward, but that's all. Whatever was in that bottle?"

That blasted elixir, George groused to himself. "Well, there was laudanum, of course, but it turns out there was also a significant amount of cocaine. You were most animated, sir." He held out the other boot.

Murdoch flushed slightly. "'Animated,' you say."

"Yes indeed, sir. Discoursing at some length on the properties and history of laudanum, and on other topics as well." A corner of George's mouth twitched.

"What other topics, George?" he asked so hesitantly that George wondered if a glimmer of memory was returning. "I hope I didn't embarrass myself."

"Think nothing of it, sir," George said, turning back toward his bed so the detective could not see his face. He picked up the previous day's union suit and started to fold it.

"So I did embarrass myself." Murdoch grimaced.

"Not to my recollection," George said innocently, tucking the folded clothes into his bag.

"George. You know I can tell when you're lying."

"Yes sir." George wouldn't meet his eye.

Murdoch waited.

"There," said George, closing his bag. "The innkeeper should be serving breakfast by now. Shall we adjourn to the public house, sir?"

Murdoch was opening his mouth to press George on the events of the previous evening when George shot him a look. Murdoch recognized within it the same air of warning that many suspects would give him when he was getting a little too close to the truth. But there was also an unspoken question: Are you so very sure you want to know?

"Very well, then, George, we could both use a hearty breakfast before we begin the journey home." Murdoch rose, and took an experimental step, then another. He was steadier than he had been in the woods yesterday: the night's sleep had made quite a difference. Perhaps this trip would not be as bad as George was anticipating.

Breakfast was a heaping pile of scrambled eggs, venison sausage, and sourdough bread, and the two men tucked in eagerly. Once they were sated, Murdoch returned to the room to finish packing his bags while George negotiated the final bill with the innkeeper. For an extra dollar, the innkeeper threw in some gauze from his little dispensary, and material for a sling. George also managed to convince him to exchange the horrid patent medicine for half as much laudanum in whisky, in case the detective needed pain relief during their journey. George had noticed Murdoch guarding his shoulder, and the man's entire bearing was pained. He suspected it was taking a lot of effort for Murdoch to be up and about at all.

Finding a guide for the trip to North Bay proved as difficult as George had feared. On speaking with the innkeeper, he learned that word had already spread that Murdoch and Crabtree were persona non grata with the guides: the innkeeper told him he couldn't arrange for anyone to direct them if his life depended on it. They could rent the horse and the donkey they'd arrived on, for a price, and use the camp along the way if no one else needed it, but that was as much as he could do.

George's expression was grim when he returned to Murdoch's room. All the bags were packed and ready to go by the door, but Murdoch was flat on his back again, and he looked a bit grey. He greeted George without opening his eyes.

"Hello, sir. I've spoken with the innkeeper, and he explained the arrangement by which he acts as an agent for the local Indian guides who take people to and from North Bay. It seems the founder of Haileybury, a Charles Farr, worked out an arrangement years ago: the innkeeper acts as agent for the guides and stables the horses, in exchange for a cut of the profits. Apparently Mr. Farr intended—"

"Get to the point, George," Murdoch snapped impatiently. "Do we have a guide?"

"Well, that's just it, sir. Given the inn's exclusive arrangement with the guides, and the guides' new antipathy toward us…" Murdoch's eyes widened with irritation. "Well, no, sir. We do not have a guide. We can rent the horse and the donkey we arrived on, and we have the use of the camp at the midway point as long as no one else needs the space, but there will be no one to assist us." He hesitated. "Perhaps we should consider staying on here a bit longer until you are fit to travel."

"I'm fine, George. I just need some help changing this bandage and then we'll be on our way. Like I said, I've spent a lot of time in the woods. I can get us to the train."

George drew himself up to argue, but realized it was pointless. He had worked with William Murdoch long enough to know just how stubborn he could be, and George could not bring himself to open insubordination. If Murdoch said they were leaving today, they were leaving today. He sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "If you say so, sir, but let it be known that I am most opposed to this plan. Now the innkeeper did sell me some gauze, if you'll be so kind as to let me apply it…"

The last thing George did before the two men headed to the stables was to send a telegram to Doctor Ogden in Toronto, to let her know that they were on their way home.[i] He debated at length whether to mention Murdoch's injury, and eventually decided not to—there was no point worrying her when she could do nothing about it until they arrived back in the city. He would telegraph her again from North Bay to let her know which train they would be on; perhaps he would tell her then of the misadventure, depending on the detective's condition. But he was hoping past hope for an uneventful ride.

George emerged from the building to find Murdoch leaning against the outside wall, eyes closed, taking slow, deep breaths. "Sir? Are you quite all right?"

Murdoch opened one eye and glared. "Let us be on our way, then, George." He gathered himself up and headed toward the stable.

Very well, then, sir, if that is how you wish it, George thought sullenly. He was moving just as slowly as the detective: he was laden down with all the bags, the bedrolls, and his pillow. The bags were heavier than on the journey north—this time they were responsible for their own provisions and water. Murdoch had tried to take his own pack, but the effort to lift it had led to a bout of coughing, and so George had silently relieved him of it.

When they arrived at the stable they had a short argument about whether Murdoch should have some laudanum before mounting his horse. George advocated for a dose, arguing that unrelenting pain without relief would be most debilitating, especially over such a long day. Murdoch, on the other hand, insisted that a full dose would astronomically increase the risk of his falling off his horse. Eventually they compromised on four drops rather than the full ten: for all his bravado, Murdoch was quite miserable, and doubts about his ability to get himself and George safely south, doubts he would never voice, were nagging at him with increasing frequency.

George called out toward the stable door in greeting, and a wiry young lad with piercing blue eyes and rakish hair peeked out. He was perhaps 16 or 17 years of age, dressed in bib overalls and a dusty collarless shirt. Murdoch regarded him curiously. "You're not the gentleman we met here two days ago."

"'Gentleman.'" The young man snorted. "Nope. I'm his son. Joe. I'm here when he's too drunk to get out of bed. You're Murdoch and Crabtree," the lad said brusquely.

"I see our reputation precedes us," George said, trying to adopt an air of good humour even as his heart skipped a beat. This must go well. It simply must.

Joe regarded them evenly. "I hear you're the ones wanting to get to North Bay with no guide."

"You hear correctly," said Murdoch. There was a silence as the lad stared at them. George found his gaze quite unnerving.

"My pop would never let you go on your own." He spat into the hay. "He'd say you're touched in the head for even thinking about it."

"Your pop's not here, is he," said Murdoch evenly.

"He is not." Joe scanned the inside of the stable before he turned back to look at the men, his expression unreadable.

Another pause. George shifted uncomfortably under his load.

"You two came in on Alice and ol' Wilfrid," said Joe, staring at them. Yes, George thought, there is something most unsettling about this young man. "Now Alice is a good horse," Joe continued. "She'll do right by you, that one. And Wilfrid, well, he's slow but he gets the job done."

"So we noticed," said Murdoch, and George nodded. The weight of the bags was starting to hurt.

Joe stared at Murdoch's arm in its sling. "You're shot, huh?" Murdoch grimaced in agreement. "So you'll need a good horse." He turned his piercing gaze to George. "And that's quite a load you got there. Don't see as how you can get it and yourself on a donkey, there."

George glanced at the detective. Where is this going? he wondered silently. Murdoch shrugged almost imperceptibly. I don't know, George.

"I should mention that Mack, who arrived with us, will no longer be in need of her mount," George ventured.

"So I hear," said the boy. "The Indians got her, huh."

"They did."

"Good. Pop kept cheating on Ma with her. When he wasn't beating on one of us at home, that is."

George saw Murdoch wince in sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear it," said Murdoch, and his tone dropped. "I believe I understand how hard that can be, coming from one's father."

Joe suddenly bared stained teeth in what George realized must be a grin. "Tell you what." He looked around furtively. "I like you two, and I don't like my pop. And you already paid for your trip. Hell with ol' Joseph. You take Alice and Wilfrid here, and I'll send Brown Betty with you too. I'll even help you pack all your kit onto Wilfrid and tether him up to Alice. Won't be the first time they've travelled that way. Just… the two of you got to get out of here fast as you can, 'fore old Joseph gets outa bed."

Murdoch blinked. "Are you sure, son?"

"Will you be safe?" George added.

"Old man ain't licked me since I got big enough to hit back. Knocked him out last time he tried. Broke his nose."

"What about your mother?" George worried.

"Never mind that. I can take care of her. Ol' Joseph's likely on a bender next few days, anyway. Maybe Alice and Betty will be back before he even knows they're gone." Joe plucked two bags off George's shoulders and carried them toward the donkey in the stall. George and Murdoch exchanged surprised, elated looks, and followed him inside.

[i] It is highly unlikely that Haileybury had the telegraph in 1902, given that the railroad and the telegraph lines were almost always built together, and the whole plot of "All That Glitters" hinges on the yet-to-be-built railroad there. So is the telegram that Murdoch receives in that episode an anachronism? So be it. I'm going with it here.