DAY 3 IS HERE! Boy, that sounded ominous didn't it. I shouldn't do that to you guys since you've been so kind in your reviews but I can't help it. :-D

Onward ~

Day 3

Chapter 4

Buck stood silently waiting for instructions and receiving none. His head hung low and his sides heaved and all he really wanted to do was sleep. The weather hadn't helped much and he found himself covered in lathered sweat that dried in the cool of the evening making him shiver.

It wasn't like his master to treat him so but he knew something urgent was afoot; something that sent anxiety through the reins and the tight hold of the knees and sharpness of the heel as his rider asked for more. And he'd given it freely. Now he was standing still, gathering his breath as they stood on a high outcropping overlooking a vast amount of sand. Stars were just disappearing as the sky slowly lightened, the moon still shining down brilliantly showing him all sorts of wildlife skittering below. But he showed little interest in his surroundings.

He just wanted a drink of water.

"I'm sorry, old son," Ben softly said as he held up his water filled hat, pulling at his tangled mane. Buck heard the words but gave no notice as he greedily drank not knowing when this would happen again. "It's Adam, you see. He's been hurt," Ben continued, "and I have to get to him. I have to see him before . . ." He faltered and looked away. "I can't lose him. At least I can't lose him without seeing him first."

Ben choked back a sob and wiped at his eyes drawing a concerned look from Buck which prompted a forced grin. Running a hand down the soft cheek, he scratched under the bridle relieving the itch there.

"I don't really have any favorites . . . although Adam would tell you I tend to lean more toward Joe," he continued as Buck finished his long drink. Slapping the hat against his leg, Ben reframed it and settled it on his head. He then stared up at the approaching dawn and moved to tighten Buck's girth strap. "I'm not sure that's true." Buck turned his head to gape at his master following it with a snort. "You don't believe that either, huh? Well, I love them all. Joe for his love of life, Hoss because he's so gentle and loving and Adam, well, he knows what I'm thinking even before I do and we've spent the most time together. We all compliment the other and to lose one . . . to lose any just rips me in half."

The tears were coming again and he couldn't give in. Hell, he didn't even know how badly Adam was hurt. He was reading so much into a short grouping of words.

"I just can't lose him."

Buck turned away and shook his head. His master needed him, needed him to keep going and he was game. Never let it be said around the stable that he was too old or too settled to complete a job. Let those upstarts snicker about the extra special feed he got or the time off his master gave him because when the chips were down he came through just as they would for their own.

Ready for the new day and the distance they had to cover, horse and rider made their way down off the rocks and onto the long stretch of sand before them. It was going to be another hot one but Buck wouldn't let that bother him. It was time to run; to deliver his master to his destination; to serve him as best he could as he kicked up the sand moving toward an uncertain dawn.

*The prompt here was the perspective of one of the CW's horses

BZBZBZBZBZ

"I wish I was anywhere but here," came a gruff voice from a tall lean man who rummaged through the remains of the burned out stagecoach, its skeletal frame creaking in the hot breeze that ruffled the mane of his dapple gray horse standing silently behind him.

U. S. Marshall Trace Staggert, born and raised in Oregon territory, wasn't one for the heat so this sojourn into Hell's furnace, as he liked to call it, wasn't sitting very well with him. But he had a job to do and that was following this band of murderers that had spread a trail of fear on their way from Canada down through Oregon territory, California and now into Nevada territory. And what he saw before him just proved he was on the right track.

For months he'd been trailing these killers, months of arriving just days too late and moving quickly onto the next crash only to be confronted by those left behind. 'Why haven't you done anything?' followed right after 'You're the Marshall ain't ya?' along with other questions peppered at him that he couldn't answer and it crushed him. All those people killed – twenty-five at his last count – and left out in the elements to rot for what? A bit of gold in someone's ring or silver on a necklace? Or was it one or two bulging wallets that merited a hundred dollars or less?

"Damn waste," he muttered tossing a blackened piece of wood back into the heap before he pushed himself to his feet realizing he would find nothing here just as he'd found nothing at any of the other sites – no evidence, no witnesses, nothing. Just like all the other times.

Ripping off his hat and slapping it against his thigh, Trace ran an angry hand through sticky hair and eyed his horse who stared intently back at him, and sighed.

"Well, Henry, ain't nothin' different about this place than any of the others but that's never stopped us has it?" Replacing his hat, he walked toward his horse and rubbed along his neck. "One'a these days they're gonna mess up and we're gonna be right there ta catch 'em."

Easily mounting, Trace grabbed up the reins and surveyed the area one last time. "And I'm gonna find pleasure in wrappin' the noose about their necks and pullin' the lever myself. Shootin's too good for 'em. Suppose they'll let me do that?" he asked as he turned Henry away and urged him forward. "Seems I've gotta right bein' that they dragged us from home these past four months and inta such disagreeable country at that. Should just hang 'em for that." Henry snorted and Trace smiled. "Make sure ya say that ta the Judge when we bring 'em in. Now, let's go see where them bodies ended up."

Henry carefully picked his way through the sand as they headed toward Chance, the only town in the vicinity, wondering when they'd make it back to the lovely gray skies and damp days of their home and leave this dreadful heat and sand behind.

*The prompt here was 'I wish . . "

BZBZBZBZBZ

Julian Tate loved his job and he did it well. It gratified him to no end making sure every "i" was dotted and every "t" crossed because sometimes what he did was important.

Today was no exception.

Excited as he was, Julian headed out the door without his coat or hat something that would've upset his mother to no end. Fortunately, she was back east but if he'd been honest with himself he would've admitted that it gave him a start as well when he found himself standing just outside his office scanning a dusty Virginia City street in his shirtsleeves and vest. But it was too late to worry when eyes lit up as he spotted his quarry.

"Sheriff Coffee! Sheriff Coffee!"

Roy looked up at the sound of his name seeing Julian hurrying across the street, his comb over blowing in the wind. Roy's brows flew up. He was in shirtsleeves and he was running. Julian never ran and he always made sure his hair stayed in place in the fiercest windstorm. Something was up.

"I hear ya, Julian. What's the rush?" Roy asked the winded man as he approached waving a piece of paper over his head. "Now settle down afore ya fall down," he ordered helping the man sit on the edge of a water trough.

"Mess . . . age," Julian managed with great difficulty thrusting the paper toward Roy. "Hoss," came next as he reached into the trough and splashed water on his face looking up to stare straight into the eyes of a slobbering horse. He grimaced then let it pass, wiping a hand on his trousers.

Roy grabbed the paper from Julian's hand and quickly read its contents, his heart slowing from the rapid pace at the mention of Hoss's name. He gave Julian's shoulder a pat.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," Julian answered to air soon realizing he was alone with a slobbering horse and hair hanging down past his right ear, seeing Roy hightail it down the street.

As carefully as he could and with as little movement as possible so not to draw attention to himself, Julian rearranged those pesky follicles, stood and ambled slowly across the street so as not to break into another sweat, silently closing the telegraph office door behind him.

BZBZBZBZBZ

Paul Martin glanced at the paper Roy held out before him like it was a snake ready to strike, hoping like the devil that the words that kept repeating in his head weren't written there – Adam Cartwright was dead.

"Go on, Doc, read it," Roy prodded, wiping at the sweat running down his face with a kerchief.

Paul looked at Roy not seeing anything like grief or distress, merely concern, and took the paper then pulled it slowly open. His sigh of relief was audible to anyone inside or outside his office.

"He's holding his own," Paul said with a slight grin always sure that nothing could keep Adam down for long.

"But shouldn't they be runnin' outta morphine by now? Didn't Hoss's last telegram say the Doc's shipment was on the stage with Adam?"

"He did and I sent out a request to doctors along the way. No telling if they'll have anything to spare." He cursed then slammed a hand on the table. "I hate not being able to do anything. He's too far away. I can't just up and leave."

"Me neither," Roy said. "If'n this here badge weren't on my chest I'd already be there. Adam's like a son ta me and I don't like it when he's hurtin'. It makes me . . . well, it makes me feel . . ."

"Useless," Paul gave him and Roy just nodded.

"Sittin' here waitin' is the worst."

"Always has been," Paul agreed. "I used to think it was hard on the patients, the ones going through all that pain, but I've seen enough faces of those who wait to know they've got it far worse. It's a fear of the unknown I think – will they live or will they die that throws people for a loop."

"Well, we know ol' Adam's just too ornery ta give up and with Hoss there, well, he'd fend off Lucifer hisself ta keep his brother alive," Roy said with a smile.

Paul echoed Roy's smile. "And with Ben coming – God Himself should stand back." They both nodded then fell silent.

Paul knew the dangers of burns and how fast they could turn septic but he would keep the faith. He'd done what he could . . . it wasn't enough but it was all he could do from here.

"Want to stay for coffee?" he asked.

"I'd like that," Roy answered with a half smile and followed the doctor into his kitchen.

Useless, that's what he felt but there wasn't anything he could do. It was all up to Adam to keep breathing and come home. "This reminds me of the time when Adam and Hoss was just young'uns and . . ."

BZBZBZBZBZ

Lightning spidered across the sky highlighting thick clouds that ranged from horizon to horizon. Massive claps of riotous thunder boomed across the open expanse of sand and rock to plow against the sturdy buildings of Chance as a storm blew through. Rain was sure to follow or so hoped Trace as he and Henry loped into town. Asking for the livery he was directed to the far end of town noting the amount of people sitting on porches or standing on sidewalks all watching the sky as the heavens performed their magic. He shook his head. Obviously no one had ever told these fools that lightning can fry your brains as well as split trees in half.

Hurrying Henry along, they made it inside just as an impressive display of fireworks lit up the sky. Within seconds the loudest sound he'd ever heard dropped about them and shook the building. The other horses screamed in fright while Henry only pulled at the reins held tightly in Trace's hands until he heard the comforting voice of his master filter into twitching ears. It was then the pelting of rain along with echoing drips inside were heard as rainwater wormed its way into long forgotten holes to fall on tack and pitchforks and bales of hay.

"Come on, Henry," Trace said in a soft voice. "They're just little 'un's who can't tell the difference 'tween a big old sound that can't hurt ya none and somethin' that can . . . like a gunshot. Ya know all about that don't'cha?" Henry shifted a knowing eye toward his master then faithfully followed him into an empty stall. "That's a good boy," he said lacing the reins through a ring at the back wall. "Got me some talkin' ta do with the Sheriff and the Undertaker then we'll be on our way," he jabbered releasing the girth strap and pulling off Henry's saddle, using the blanket to wipe him down then filled up the water bucket. "I'll be back shortly ta do ya up right. Play nice with the others."

Trace patted Henry's rump and headed toward the door, taking a peek out at the angry sky and wondering if he should risk walking out in the open when his gaze was drawn to something else - a man riding hell-bent down the street, his passage marked by another jagged bolt outlining his form as he leaped from his horse then over the fence of a modest white house, running onto the porch and slamming a fist against the door. Curiosity nearly got the best of Trace but he stopped himself. He had a job to do and headed out to look for the Sheriff.

BZBZBZBZBZ

Hoss's eyes instantly popped open at the horrendous cascade of sound that blanketed the house, rattling windows and shaking the doctor's instruments, and he shot to his feet, a hand automatically attaching itself to Adam's shoulder as his brother began to stir, a harsh moan escaping him.

"Hush now, brother," Hoss quietly spoke. "Just nature havin' a hissy."

"Maybe it'll rain and break this heat wave we've been having," came Leslie's voice as he sauntered into the room, not bothering to stifle a yawn. Hoss just looked at him. "Well, it's been hotter than usual for this time of year."

"How can ya tell?" he sarcastically asked.

Leslie grinned and moved toward Adam. "His fever's up," was all he said drawing Hoss's attention back to his brother as the doctor picked up an empty bowl and headed toward the door. "Time to change his bandages."

Hoss blanched. That was the worst time for Adam and with their stock of morphine all but gone, it was bound to be bad. "Careful ya don't get struck by lightnin', Doc," he called after him. "Won't do ta have two fellas burned ta a crisp."

"I'll be careful, Hoss," he called over his shoulder shivering at the thought just as the sounds of rain hitting the windows reached him.

Yawning again as another flash lit the room, Leslie thought someone was stomping on the house but soon discovered it wasn't all thunder but a frantic pounding on the front door. Quickly pulling it open, he was met with a scowling face.

"Are you the doctor?!" the man growled barely controlling himself.

"Yes. How may I . . ," was all Leslie got out before he was pushed aside.

"HOSS!" came the bellow as eyes searched the room in front of him.

"Pa!" came the relieved response as Hoss met his father halfway, both tumbling into a desperate embrace. "Lordy, I never thought ya'd get here," he whispered into Ben's neck, feeling his son tremble in his arms.

"I'm here now." Ben waited a moment then pushed him back. "How is he?"

Hoss held his father's intense look. "He's gotta fever, Pa, and it's gettin' worse."

Ben's jaw clenched and he stood a bit straighter. "I need to see him."

"Right back here," he answered pulling on his father's arm.

Leslie watched them for a moment then ventured out into the falling rain, closing the door softly behind him.

BZBZBZBZBZ

Trace moved quickly along the sidewalk, ducking inside the Southern Belle saloon as a particularly nasty bolt cut through the sky then continued on, the Sheriff's words tumbling through his head like the thunder that followed.

There was a survivor!

My God, he finally had a lead; would finally be able to break the case and go home. He rubbed hands together at the thought. No more deaths, no more destruction, just bad men hanging from a gallows and his feet up on his own porch watching the grass grow until the next group of bad men came his way and disrupted his life. It was a dream worth having.

Taking to the street again, Trace slowed some as he spied the buckskin he'd seen rocketing down the street not ten minutes before, fidgety in the storm, and glanced toward the house, a neat sign proclaiming a Dr. Leslie Bick lived there, then continued on. True, the Sheriff had warned him that the man who'd survived wasn't in good shape and would probably die real soon, but Trace wasn't the type to let any rock lay unturned when it came to doing his job. Whether at death's door or not, he'd get what information he could so this would end sooner rather than later.

Knocking once, Trace stepped inside just as a cry of pain came from the other room. Hand hovering at his gun, he moved forward to see two men holding down a third as the fourth worked as quickly as he could changing bandages on burnt flesh. Moving forward, he jumped in and braced the injured man's leg as it thrashed and caught a look of gratitude from the older man to his right, one mixed with fear and desperation. Trace looked away from their depths not wanting to know who this man was beneath his hands or who these people were because he had a job to do; because all he had running through his mind was a simple, selfish prayer.

Don't die on me before I get my answers.

Trace closed his eyes at the next anguished cry and held on.

*The prompt here was ' Rain to Reign - There to They're'. It was quest to use these words correctly.

Whew! Day 3 was busy but I think all the bases were covered - Roy, Paul, the Marshall, Ben . . . I guess that just leaves Joe. Wonder where that boy is?

Day 4 may take a couple of days because I've now posted all the updated pieces and have to work on the rest. I'll try to be as quick as I can. Thanks for the support. :-D