Okay, here's Day 4. I hope to have Day 5 up by Sunday. I'm glad you guys are enjoying this story. Thanks for the reviews.

Onward ~

Day 4

Chapter 5

". . . if only . . . listened . . . "

Ben's eyes shot open and frantically centered on Adam seeing him move his head slowly to the side on a sweat drenched pillow, Hoss taking great care to wipe down his face in an attempt to offer some relief.

"What did he say?" Ben asked rubbing at his scrubbly face and leaning forward, wincing at the pale skin standing out under his son's dark beard.

"'If I'd only listened'," Hoss repeated. "He's been sayin' it a bunch a times this mornin'. It could have somethin' ta do with leavin' Sport behind and takin' the stage. Didn't ya try and get 'im ta take Sport?"

"I mentioned it," Ben responded with a yawn.

"If'n it ain't that I ain't got no clue."

Plastering a hand to Adam's forehead, Ben could feel the heat burn across his palm. "A fever drags up all sorts of things. Could be anything."

"Gotta be somethin' important," came from Hoss as he squeezed water out of a cloth only to stop at the sight before him. "Pa," he softly called nodding toward Adam. They both watched as lashes parted and bloodshot eyes appeared.

"You're going to be all right, son," Ben whispered leaning in closer to make sure he could be seen.

Adam blinked, his vision unfocused and unsure. ". . . pa . . ." came out in a weak, rough voice.

"It's me. I'm here," he answered laying his knuckles carefully against his boy's cheek, trying to ignore the unfamiliar voice he'd just heard by covering up his discomfort with a smile.

For Adam those words, that smile sent a balm of comfort through his aching body. ". . . pa," he repeated, a bit more assured of what he was seeing.

"You've, ah, dinged yourself up pretty bad so just lay still," Ben responded stretching out his fingers against Adam's cheek to catch a tear before it found its way to a burn.

". . . kay," was all he said, closing those eyes then forcing them open to refocus on a man standing behind his father.

Ben followed his gaze and stiffened.

"Mr. Cartwright," Trace said with a nod.

"Marshall Staggert," Ben answered in a flat tone.

"I see he's awake," he said nodding toward Adam. "I need ta ask him some questions."

"Not until he's stronger," Ben argued turning back around.

"Mr. Cartwright," Trace began moving about the bed to drill this man with a hard stare. "Look at him. He's not gonna be stronger for some time. I need ta speak with him now."

"No."

"He may be the only one that can stop any more innocent people from bein' murdered. I've gotta get from him what he knows before it's too late. That's my job and his as well. So I'm speakin' ta a witness ta murder, Mr. Cartwright, whether ya like it or not."

Ben narrowed angry eyes at the suggestion his boy wouldn't live through his injuries and pulled himself to his full height. That worked on most people but Trace just kept staring at him, never flinching, crossing arms over his chest and waiting for this man to step aside and give him access to the witness. He'd stand there all day if necessary.

Adam watched the confrontation, heard some of the words and vaguely wondered what was going on until he saw the badge, tin flashing in the bits of light coming through a window somewhere. Suddenly he was back on the stage reliving the robbery, the killings and the flames.

The woman fell on him, a bullet to the head, knocking him flat before he could even pull his gun to defend himself; the two men opposite frantically tried to aim and fire out the window only to hear them scream in pain as bullets found their mark; and the young man, Mark, fresh from school, on his way home to take over the family business, too frightened to move. Disentangling himself from the dead weight of the woman, Adam took it upon himself to protect the kid and fired out the window. But he couldn't protect him from what was coming.

A sudden horrendous sound ripped through the air as the horses screeched then dropped in their traces, the tongue of the stagecoach snapping and sending the vehicle through the air to land with a thump. He lost track of how many times it rolled, his body a punching bag as it was tossed from side to side in the confined space, feeling things bruise and rip, his head slamming against something hard just as the rolling stopped leaving the coach upside down and him to slide out the gaping hole that had once been a door, a vague impression of a wheel spinning in the light breeze before everything went dark.

He awoke to rough hands moving through his pockets, hearing disjointed voices beating around his head talking about 'burnin' the evidence'. Unable to move or speak, his nose took in the smell of burning wood, burning flesh and ears caught a jangle of something familiar nearby.

His brow furrowed at that bit of memory.

It had moved past his head . . . stopped . . . started again . . . blinded him when he managed to kind of open an eye . . .

". . . purs . . ."

Three heads spun toward Adam at the breathless whisper.

"What did he say?" Trace asked of Hoss.

"Sounded like spurs," came the answer.

Not waiting any longer for permission, Trace quickly leaned over Adam trying to fill his glazed vision with his face. When he was sure he had most of his attention, he began.

"I'm Marshall Staggert and I'm chasin' the men that done this ta ya," he hastily explained. "Anythin' ya can give me, anythin' will end this now."

"Marshall!" Ben tried but Trace wouldn't break the connection.

"Whatever ya can remember will be more than I've ever had. I'll take anythin' no matter how small."

"Marshall! I forbid this," Ben tried again, grabbing a hold of Trace's arm.

"Anythin'," he tried again, tossing off the grip and grabbing onto the table.

Adam was caught in the Marshall's gaze where he could see the sincerity, see the knowledge that he meant what he said. He had to do something. ". . . purs . . . fancy . . ," he whispered hoping the man could hear him. He didn't have the energy to spare to make it any louder.

"How fancy?"

Adam closed his eyes, trying to remember and push the sudden pain that rose in his body far enough away for the moment it would take to tell him. He didn't want what happened to those folks on the stage to happen again.

". . . ro-roses . . . vines . . . three gol . . . prongs . . . le-leather straps . . ." His breath quickly left, pushed aside by a wave of oncoming agony. "Ahhh!" he cried out as Hoss gently held his brother down, Ben yanking Trace away from his boy.

"That's all you'll get, Marshall, now leave!"

Ben finished his order with a threatening glare just as Leslie entered the room quickly dropping off the box in his arms, eyes drifting toward Adam.

"When did this start?" he asked hurrying toward his aggravated patient and pushing Ben and Trace out of his way.

"Just now," Hoss gave him tensing at the cries coming from his brother.

Trace backed away watching Ben hurry to his son's side and wondered why he was still standing there. He had his information, had a clue. There was nothing else here. Yet here he stood, eyes trailing back to the doctor who'd returned to the box he'd dropped and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Their eyes caught.

"It's all I have left," Leslie explained motioning for Hoss to hold up Adam's head.

BZBZBZBZBZ

"If only I'd listened ta Pa, my brother Carl would say, I coulda been workin' in a mine."

Finny Blemmer, Chance's telegrapher, looked toward his friend, Jed Hopker, one of Chance's many miners, with raised brows thinking he'd finally gone 'round the bend.

"You are in a mine, Jed, most every day," he said with a shake of his head and a roll of the eyes. Obviously the sun had bleached his friend's brain.

"My mine not some Pennsylvania mine. There's a difference," answered Jed picking at his teeth and brushing sand off his shirt.

"A mine's a mine," Finny stated standing to smooth down his pants before retaking his seat on the bench outside his office.

Jed leaned closer to him once he'd resettled. "Them's coal mines in Pennsylvania, Finny. They cause ya ta spit up yer lungs in nothin' flat. Now, my mine's got dust but more silver or gold dependin' on which way we dig. Ain't no coughin' up a lung here. Big difference."

"Ah," was all Finny said his attention drawn to the stage coming down the street.

"And my uncle kept sayin' 'go west, Jed, and pick up gold offa the ground. Ya ain't gotta breathe in that stuff thataway'. I liked the sound o' that and lit out," he continued, his attention following Finny's toward the stage coming to a stop just to their left, the driver looking over the side then yelling at the horses to start up again, leaving behind a lone figure. "A course he was a bit wrong about the ground part."

They both watched the small man as he looked about, his attention centering on them. They each looked around finding no one else in the vicinity.

"More like under it," finished Finny as the man quickly approached.

"Yeah," Jed commented both leaning back as the little man stopped directly in front of them.

"Excuse me but looking for docta."

Jed and Finny traded glances.

"Now why would a Chinaman want a doctor?" Finny asked his tone anything but cordial.

"Employer's son bad hurt. Need see docta," Hop Sing answered ignoring the telegrapher, eyes fixed on Jed.

"Is that the man they brung in from the stage crash?" he asked.

"He hurt; brought in by large brother. All I know."

"What's yer name, boy?" Jed asked spitting out a gob of tobacco before moving to his feet.

"Hop Sing. You know where docta is?"

"Come on. I'll take ya."

*The prompt for the 2 sections above was 'if I'd only listened . . .

BZBZBZBZBZ

It was a tangible thing, that scream that rent the air, and Joe bolted upright knocking his hat into the small fire next to him. Hurrying to save it, he managed to burn his hand, just a small burn but the pain shot across his skin making all the hair on his arm stand on end.

Leaning back against the rocks that surrounded his small camp, he grumbled to himself that his hat was singed and his hand was singed and how could he get any sleep anyway when his brother kept screaming in his dreams. And, yes, he'd recognized that voice – those deep tones that carried through even in his agony that told Joe who it was. Closing tired eyes, he tried to still the harsh beating of his heart as his mind replayed what he'd just heard over and over making his stomach roil as bile threatened to spew from him and yanked himself to his feet.

"Stop it!" he yelled aloud rubbing at his face as if that would keep the sounds at bay.

Kicking the dirt just so he could say he was doing something other than standing there waiting for the sun to rise so he could move on toward what he didn't know, he plopped back down to the ground and squeezed shut his eyes. It was so very difficult to fight memories that insisted upon being heard about the first camping trip with Adam and the stories he told of the stars and ancient warriors all interrupted by the mother bear and cubs that surprised them both. He'd never seen his brother scared until that day, seen the shaking hands and look of fear in his eyes quickly covered when he caught Joe staring at him. It wasn't until years later he realized the fear was for him - the little brother in harm's way.

A wolf call came next and visions of him running toward it instead of away and knocking Adam clean off his feet and into a mud puddle. The resultant grappling match in said mud puddle left them both dripping in goo and standing, heads bowed, in front of their father without a word to say. Joe smiled at that, smiled at all the memories until the reason for this headlong flight across the desert came to the forefront and the frown returned.

A breeze flitted by sending sand against rocks and a shiver through scattered shrubs, the sounds drawing him back to stare at the stars clearly sparkling down from a dark sky, the storm from the previous evening nothing but a memory of hiding in an alcove of rocks and wishing it away so he could continue on to his brother. He shook his head and made a decision.

"That's it. Come on, Cooch. We've rested long enough," he stated walking toward his beloved horse. "I'm sorry for pushin' you but I've gotta get to Adam. I can't stand not knowing if he's . . . I've just gotta see him, hear his voice even if . . . even if it's for the last time."

Cochise nudged him and lipped his hair, snorting down Joe's neck to make him smile. He rubbed the soft jowl and reached for the saddle blanket. He'd not rested him enough but his patience, always thin, was running out and he knew he could count on his horse to get him where he needed to be. Besides he could pass the time remembering more stories, more teachings and clinging to the hope that he would be hearing a lot more over the years to come.

Joe hefted up the saddle and reached for the cinch as another wolf call quickened his movements. Five minutes later, the fire was out and he was jetting away from his makeshift camp toward an unknown future, digging in his heels to send Cochise into a full-fledged run spraying sand out behind them as they disappeared into the dark on their way once again toward Chance and a brother he needed to see and hear.

*The prompt here was a sense of hearing

Okay, Hop Sing's here now. Whew! Doc Bick'll have help now. New character coming up in the next one. He's a pig but I like him. :-D