V.
SEVERAL DAYS LATER
Frank was cursing his rotten luck.
He knew all about bad luck. Almost every type of it came his way at one time or another. His Ma and sister had died of a fever when he was six, leaving him to be raised by a bumbling, forgetful father who hadn't worked a day in his life. Frank's first pay for a month's work had been stolen when he was bushwhacked. He got fired from his first job two months later for something he hadn't done. Yes, indeed, Frankie Bulls-eye Lee knew all about rotten luck.
But coming into town to kill a man, only to have the man's son beat him to it…that was a first even for Frank.
What a nice man he must have been, reflected Frank nastily, leaning back in his chair in the Carson City hotel lobby, his icy blue eyes surveying the world coolly.
The door opened wide, and in stepped a man with a walk that proclaimed him full of self-assurance. He wore dark clothes a dark hat, and his mouth had a crooked, ironic curve to it. He walked up to the desk of the lobby and asked the skinny man behind it for a room.
Frank studied the man, trying to remember who he was. Wasn't it just a few days ago that they'd met? Most of that day was a little fuzzy in his mind. Frank concentrated, and it hit him.
This was the man who'd bought his drinks. The one that Frank later discovered killed his own father.
Adam waited for the man to give him a room so that he could go get a drink. He sure was thirsty today! It had been a long night; he hadn't stopped to sleep, knowing that he would reach Carson City in the morning. The oldest Cartwright boy wanted to find his little brother just as quickly as he could.
A man across the room jumped to his feet and called Adam's name. "Adam Cartwright!"
Adam's heart nearly jumped out of his chest. Trying to get ahold of himself, he didn't turn around right away. Eventually he did look, turning slowly with that blank, unsurprised expression he was so grateful to possess. Anyone watching could have sworn he'd expected to find Frank here – which he certainly hadn't.
Frank was standing in a too-familiar position: feet apart, hat back, hands ready at his side, face angry. Adam felt a little jolt go up his spine when he realized today might end in bloodshed.
"Do you know how much money you cost me, Cartwright?" asked Frank. The few people milling about the lobby began to scoot away. The room was silent.
"Come now," was all Adam could think to say. "You can't be serious."
"I needed that money."
Adam nearly told him not to be ridiculous, but he bit his tongue. Of all the things to fight over… "I'm sorry about that…" he said slowly. Was this man really angry because Adam had prevented him from killing his Pa?
Frank's blood boiled over. This Cartwright was talking down to him! He hadn't really planned to shoot at Adam before now, but his temper got the better of him. He yanked out his gun and fired at the Cartwright without aiming.
Adam jumped out of the way, going for his own gun as Frank squeezed off another shot. The gun was in Adam's hand; he fired.
Pain ripped through Frank as the bullet slammed into his body and he fell backward. That was bad, he knew at once. That was a bad, bad hit.
He'd been stupid to challenge Cartwright, and now he would die. Frank felt a little panicked.
"C…Cart…" He tried to sit up.
Adam saw he was still alive and made his way over. He leaned over the injured man. "He needs a doctor," he told a tall, tan man who stood beside him.
The man nodded and ran out of the hotel.
"It was self-defense, Mister," said a black-haired girl in a light blue dress. "We can all testify to that."
Adam waved his hand, dismissing that thought for the moment.
Frank looked up and managed to talk, wincing as though every word was painful. "I…am not getting hung, but…" Frank gasped suddenly, his hard face going pale. "Do you think I could have a pastor?"
Adam looked behind him. Most of the people in the hotel were beginning to crowd around, but one man nodded and said with a thick southern drawl, "Ah'll go get the reverend." He left quickly.
An hour later, Adam was sitting in the saloon, sipping a beer but not enjoying it. A girl dressed in red sat across from him, fruitlessly trying to start a conversation.
Adam wondered listlessly why he was still hanging around. Why did he care whether Frank died or not? He'd wanted to kill Pa. But for some reason, Adam just couldn't leave until he knew what was going to become of Francis Lee.
The doctor walked in, sighing and lugging along his black bag. "Hello, Rachel," he greeted the pretty woman. "Can you get me a drink?"
"Sure, Doc," said the woman, standing up. "You just sit yourself down, and I'll be right back."
The doctor sat in her now-vacant chair and peered across the table cloth at the dark-haired cowboy. "Are you a friend of the man I was tending to?"
Adam smiled a little. "Hardly. Matter of fact, I barely know him. Why do you ask?"
The doctor sighed again. He looked like a lonely, tired man who saw too much suffering every day, much different than Doc Martin. "I was just wondering what friends and family he had."
Adam shrugged. "None, I think, but I could be mistaken. Is he going to make it?" He leaned forward.
The doctor shook his head. "The pastor was much more help to the poor soul than I was."
Adam stood up, head down, and picked his hat up from the table. He didn't put it on, though, out of respect for the subject at hand. "I see. His name was Francis Lee, also known as Frankie 'Bulls-eye' Lee. I don't know much more, but I should be in the hotel tonight if you do have any questions."
The good doctor nodded his thanks.
Adam paid for his drink and pushed the doors, stepping outside into the street. The bright, stinging sunlight didn't quite match his mood. A man, no matter how rotten and dishonest, had just died.
I don't know of it did him any good, but I'm glad he got the reverend, Adam thought. Poor Frankie. Adam wondered, for the first time, if perhaps he did have friends somewhere. Would they miss Frank?
After one more melancholy sigh, Adam decided to let dead men lie, and let Frankie Lee be.
He continued down the street, walking towards the hotel. Joe might even be in the there if he was lucky. Poor Joe. The dead man who haunted the youngest Cartwright couldn't be left in peace as easily as Adam had left Frank. He was Joe's father, after all. And he was alive, though Little Joe didn't know it.
Suddenly someone grabbed onto Adam. Startled, Adam spun around, into a side alley, hand on his gun.
He was facing Little Joe, whose face was darkened by the fury and sorrow that came from losing a family member.
A/N: Not my best writing, I know. This chapter was torture to write, so eventually I had to split it up into two pieces. Part of the reason for that was my ignorance. Namely, I don't remember how long it takes to get to Carson City on horseback. Another thing: I don't know what the Cartwrights would call their priest/pastor/minister person. I think they are some Protestant branch (because I've seen them read the Bible and attend Church and all) but I don't know much about their religion. If anyone can help, I would be grateful. The next chapter should be the last.