My apologies for the delay but here is Day 5.

BJ2 wasn't sure why I felt the need to update. That's simple. Updating let's you fix the mistakes that passed you by the first time and, if you've improved as a writer, it also gives you the chance to portray yourself better (hopefully). I will say that I love the 2 new characters in this section - the friend and the villain. Basically they wrote themselves which is always fun. It makes my job easier when all I have to do is write down what they say. (Of course, I could be hallucinating. Eh, whatever works.)

A note to all of you nice people who are reviewing under Guest. I can't respond individually to your nice words so I hope you read this - THANK YOU very much!

And, while on that same subject, I've been remiss in the individual thank you's I can give. Thank you to: BJ2, ChristyG, BettyHT, cma, westernsoul and drmweaver. You guys rock!

Onward ~

Day 5

Chapter 6

Drey Grisham was a stern man who liked things to be in order. He liked his pants to be clean and sturdy and his shirts to be made of silk; his neckerchief needed to be tied just so and his leather gloves, boots and spurs always shone. Only his hat looked as if it'd been through the ringer - sweat stained and dusty, the eagle feather ragged and torn and a string of rusty conchos hung loose about the crown. It had seen better days but it was his lucky piece, something he'd never be without and none of his men even considered laughing at it for fear of tasting a piece of the whip that hung from his saddle. And, right now, Drey sat atop his appaloosa, his men ranged behind him awaiting orders. They'd already been waiting for ten minutes. No telling how much longer it might be.

Ignoring them like usual, Drey looked through field glasses to survey the land below, thinking on how nice it'll be to take a bath, to eat something besides beans and to look upon the lovelies in the next town sooner rather than later. Perhaps that large block of brown dust swirling through the air not half a mile away might just get him there. Now that was a clever way to hide what they were about to do. Only one thing picked at him though - timing. It was a bit too soon to be striking again but their last haul, well, they'd made a mistake, finding out the large box inside the stage that burned bright and long was filled with medical supplies after the fact. He would've been able to take himself to San Francisco with what those supplies would've brought and stayed about a month. Instead, he was stuck in this heat not liking the itchy feel of sweat rolling down his back.

But then he smiled remembering how his whip wrapped about Nick Halton's neck, how his face turned redder the tighter he pulled as he ticked off the mistakes that had been made. He tried to talk his way out of it, even pointing to the other men as he clawed at his neck stopping only when he fell to his knees then on his face. No one would find the body. At least no one on two legs.

"Here she comes," drew Drey from his daydreaming and he shifted the glasses to take in the charging stage.

"Take her down, boys," he said, turning to give each of them the eye. "No mistakes this time."

He watched them silently move out of sight leaving him to survey from above, something he always did. It wasn't his place to get his hands dirty. He led them, ruffians that they were, and that was all. Lowering the glasses, he swiped at a piece of sand that dared to land on his pants. What a life he led. Nothing to tie him down, to take his attention except what he wanted and, even then, he could change his mind if he so desired. He didn't even try to keep the grin off his face.

BZBZBZBZBZ

Trace pulled tight the kerchief over his mouth and nose and yanked down his hat as the storm whirled about him. It beat on him something fierce but he knew he had to continue no matter what.

He'd left Chance yesterday afternoon with the clue 'fancy spurs' ringing in his ears and the Chinaman's mention of the stage that had dropped him off and something resonated in him, some feeling that he'd learned long ago not to ignore. Immediately gathering up Henry, he'd headed out only to find himself sucking sand and hoping this wasn't some wild goose chase. But what else did he have?

Nothing. Not one damn thing.

And he was sure hanging around Chance and pestering that Cartwright boy probably wouldn't earn him any hugs and kisses either. He didn't really want to tangle with that big brother nor his father for that matter and he wasn't even sure if the boy knew anything else . . . at least anything that would be helpful. No, he'd follow this feeling of his and when that petered out he'd head back and try to come up with something else. Sighing, he hunkered down against the biting sand only to have his gun in hand before the full sounds of gunfire filled his ears. Kicking Henry's sides, the two rushed through the storm to emerge into chaos.

Four men, guns firing, chased the stage until a wheel broke and it careened out of control, flipping end over end, the horses careening off into the desert. Harsh screams and wild hollers filled the air as men flew out of their saddles and rushed the stage, gunfire picking off the driver and shotgun as they flailed on the ground then moving toward the passengers struggling to escape.

Trace didn't wait and took aim.

BZBZBZBZBZ

Drey's grin quickly disappeared at the sight of a man on a gray horse rocketing out of the brown sand, bullets flying. Three of his men fell flat before a second passed, the fourth running for his horse then heading straight for him.

"Damn idiot!" he cursed maneuvering his appaloosa back from the edge not wanting to give away his position. But the man caught a bullet and slipped from the saddle to lie ominously still as the mystery man came to a stop and headed back to the stage.

Raising his field glasses, Drey watched him dismount and stand next to what used to be three of his men, nudging them with his boot.

"Turn around," he urged, needing to see the man who'd disrupted everything, who was now heading toward the fourth man. "Look up. Look u . . ." The word died on his tongue when the man hastily grabbed the front of the fourth man's shirt and hauled him upright. "Staggert," he whispered, letting go of the glasses and drawing his rifle, taking the time to get the man's face in his sights.

But the gods weren't smiling upon him this day as the brown swirling mass inundated the area and his shot went wide, sand and dirt soon covering him from head to foot. Slamming shut grit filled eyes, Drey raged at the way things were going; raged at the unforeseen circumstances that suddenly seemed to be plaguing his life. This was not how it was supposed to work! He never got it wrong. Never. All these months of success shouldn't just collapse for no reason. And how had Staggert found him? He'd always been steps ahead of him. How did he suddenly get so lucky?

A particularly large piece of sand popped against the side of his face and a quick thought followed, no longer than a passing moment, and caught him flat.

A survivor! There had to be a survivor!

"Shit-shit-shit!" he cursed.

And now Staggert had one of his men.

"Damnation!" he shouted coughing at the sand attacking his mouth and taking refuge in his expensive coat, one hand making sure his lucky hat stayed in place.

Swirling thoughts played over and over in his head. What was next? How could he put things right? Where the hell did this survivor come from?!

It took a moment to notice the winds were slowing, the sun slowly making itself known with the heat right behind it. Drey opened eyes onto a sand covered stage and nothing else. Staggert was gone and so was his man.

Sliding the rifle back into its scabbard, he urged his appaloosa down toward the carnage and pulled up. Only one town lingered in this burning mass, just one. Unless the Marshall was planning on dragging him clear back to Washington territory, that would be where he was going; that would be where he could make things right. A squeak drew his attention and he turned, the sun shining off something gold.

What would it hurt to rummage through what was left? They wouldn't be needing their coin where they were headed and he needed a bath for it wouldn't do to scratch at himself and look unkempt while he pulled the name of the survivor from Staggert just before he killed him.

"Not right indeed," he said with a gleeful smile as he slowly dismounted.

*The prompt for the above sections was a storm

BZBZBZBZBZ

"Did you see how it sparkled?" Genevieve Perkins asked of Milly Depper as the two ladies gathered outside Harvey Jenkins General Store, the only General Store in Chance. "It practically blinded me when I peeked through the window."

"Genevieve! Dr. Bick could've caught you!" Milly stated.

"I was careful. I've never seen a punchbowl that color. I wonder where he got it. Maybe it's an heirloom."

"Probably from his mother because I don't think Dr. Bick's ever been married. Oh, that would be nice," Milly wistfully said.

"What?"

"Being married to Dr. Bick. He is nice to look at."

"Milly!" Genevieve said with a slight giggle as she reached for the door.

"Allow me," came a new voice behind her and she jumped.

"Oh, Mr. Trundell!" Genevieve said holding a hand to her chest.

"I'm sorry, Miss Perkins," Bob Trundell answered touching her elbow to make sure she didn't fall off the step. "I thought you knew I was behind you."

"No, I . . . Oh, I was so caught up in my conversation with Milly I just didn't . . ."

"How nice it is to see you again, Mr. Trundell," Milly jumped in with a flick of her fan. "We don't get the chance very often."

Bob touched the brim of his hat and opened the door, following in after the two. "And what was the chance that I would see the two most beautiful ladies in one afternoon?" he said with a smile as they both tittered, hands to their mouths. "By the way, it was a gift from a satisfied customer. The punchbowl," he explained. "It came all the way from England."

"How do you know that?" Genevieve asked as Bob's smile grew wider.

"My wife was the satisfied customer."

Once again touching the brim of his hat, he quickly turned from the ladies, knowing that bit of information would be on everyone's lips within the hour, and handed Harvey Jenkins his two page list.

"The missus tells me she needs EVERYTHING on this list," he began swiping at his generous moustache. "I don't cotton to disappointing her. What can you do?" he asked watching Harvey's brows fly up his forehead as he gazed at the entire list.

"Well, this'll take me about an hour or more to put together, Bob."

"That's fine. I'm looking for some guests that were supposed to be here a couple days ago. I'll just do a search and maybe get me a beer or two. Don't get into town that often."

"That's obvious by this list," Harvey joked as Bob laughed then turned toward the door, still hearing Genevieve and Milly chattering away as he left.

Bob Trundell was a tall man, standing well over 6'4", and solid muscle. His salt and pepper hair and eyebrows had not extended to his moustache which still flamed a dark red, something his wife, Ella, found quite amusing. The last time he couldn't take her laughs he threatened to shave it off but her hand stayed his and what followed produced twins nine months later. That had been the last of their six children but not the last time he'd threatened to show her what he really looked like underneath. He vowed she wouldn't be able to take it and so she stayed his hand each time. God, he loved that woman. He loved his life and everything it gave him.

Hearing a snort from a squatty mule just to his left, thoughts rose from his memories and moved back to the present glancing about the main street. He hadn't been to town in well over four months, the two hour buckboard ride the reason why, but he did notice one new thing – a saloon by the name of The Red Slipper just down the street. It'd taken up residence next to the telegraph office and five doors down from the Southern Belle. Well maybe he'd check it out in a bit but first he had to send off a telegram to his old friend, Ben Cartwright, to see where his wayward boys were. Rummaging through a pocket for his watch, he thought upon the many possible reasons why they weren't here. Something had happened to the stage or to their horses but then they would've sent word. Perhaps they'd been detained elsewhere or changed their minds and decided Brahma's weren't for them but they would've notified him. It all kept coming back to the telegraph office.

The little bell over the door tinkled as he entered, smiling at Finny as he approached.

"Mr. Trundell, haven't seen you in a long while," he said to the tall man.

"Been awful busy these last months with round-up and a trip to Sacramento and a whole bunch of nothing that takes up a lot of time."

Finny smiled. "I know about that," he admitted scanning the boxes behind him. "There doesn't seem to be anything for you. You're box is empty."

"Well, that's a wonder," Bob said scratching his head then rubbing his chin. "I guess I'll just havta send my own. Gotta pencil?"

"Of course," he answered handing one over, watching Bob scrawl out a short message – BEN CARTWRIGHT. WHERE ARE YOUR BOYS? BOB T. "Ben Cartwright?" Finny asked.

"Yeah," Bob answered as he searched for the coins necessary to send his missive.

"Why Ben Cartwright's over at Doc Bick's," Finny informed him seeing Bob's questioning look. "He and his boys."

"Which boys?"

"Ah, the big one . . . Hoss I think and the other one . . ."

"Adam?"

"Yes, that's it. Hoss brought him in after the stage was robbed and set on fire. He's in a bad way."

"What?!"

"They've been here for a good four or five days. A Chinaman came in yesterday or was that two days . . ."

Finny's voice trailed off as Bob raced out the door and across the street. Sidling up to the office window, Finny followed his journey as he dodged cowboys and miners to get to the doctor's house.

"Huh." was all he said, crumpling up the message and moving back behind his desk.

*The prompt here was a punchbowl

BZBZBZBZBZ

Silence.

There was nothing – not a slip of sound or movement to disturb the air. It was disorienting.

Have I gone deaf?

Questions surrounded Adam, questions that might not deliver the answers he wanted, but he wasn't the type of person to let that stop him so opened his eyes. Unfortunately, all that came back to him was black - a black so dark he couldn't even see hands in front of his face.

Am I blind as well as deaf?

Scraping hands upon his shirt, sound became evident. Relief filled him - he wasn't deaf. He wasn't deaf.

Then why can't I see?

Reaching up to rub those orbs that were betraying him he stopped when his hand touched a cheek. It was smooth, his hand was smooth. Quickly grabbing it with the other they were no longer the cracked mess of vague memory. Testing his foot and leg it bore weight and his head no longer felt as if it would explode.

Then I must be dead.

"No, son, you're not."

Adam spun squinting into the dark to locate that voice. He would've laughed at the automatic response if he wasn't so unnerved. "Pa?" he called reaching out with those long fingers soon to find them clasped within others.

"I'm here, son," came the answer, his face slowly appearing before Adam's eyes as if a door had opened letting in the light.

"Pa," he whispered, arms suddenly wrapped about his father, holding on tightly, relaxing at the feel of Ben's hand slowly rubbing his back. Hesitantly he let go and stepped back taking in those dark coffee eyes he'd known all his life. "If I'm not dead then where am I?" he dared to ask.

Ben just smiled. "You stand at a doorway, son, and it's your choice to either step through or stay locked inside."

"What?" Of all the times his father would choose to be vague now was not the time.

Ben chuckled. "Turn around."

Doing as he was told, Adam found himself faced with dozens of doors of various shapes and sizes; some even appeared to be floating as if hung by invisible strings. He felt his father's hand once again on his back and the two began to walk.

"Every person's life is filled with doorways, both literal and figurative. You walk through one every night when you come home or go to bed; through a saloon or bank; stepping onto a train or even a stagecoach."

Adam flinched at that, memories of flying about the coach swept through him and he cringed. A strong arm held him tightly.

"But now you must choose another door," came his father's calming voice close to his ear. "And it must be soon or all the doors will close and we'll lose you to the dark. Look." As he watched a door faded away then another. "If you wait too long . . ."

"But . . ."

"There can be no hesitation, Adam," Ben informed him. "Or it will be too late."

He raised fearful eyes to his father who gently smiled then pulled open the closest door.

"Is this the door you want?" he asked as Adam looked inside.

He could see himself stretched out on the sand, buzzards moving ever closer, while he struggled for breath, his last breath. Adam slammed shut the door, watching as it disappeared.

"Hoss found me. I'm not out there."

"Perhaps not," was all his father said pushing him toward the next door.

Peering in he saw himself in an unfamiliar room, Hoss and Hop Sing stood nearby in tears and his father's head rested in his hands. Someone came rushing into the room, sliding to a stop at his bedside.

"No, no, no! I can't be late! Adam! You can't go! I havta tell you! Don't go!"

"Joe," Adam whispered.

"He was too late," Ben sadly proclaimed.

"What was he going to tell me?" he cautiously asked unsure if he really wanted to know after the years of disagreements between the two.

"How much you mean to him. How sorry he was that he didn't treat you very well when you came home from college. How grateful he is that you are his brother. But most importantly he wanted to tell you he loves you."

Adam's eyes glistened when his brother dropped to his knees next to the bed, listening to the cries that came from him.

"I was never really sure of that after so many things we've said to each other."

Ben slowly shut the door. "You don't want this door, son."

He gave his father a questioning look. "But aren't they all going to be . . . that? My death?"

"Fate is not decided until you decide what it shall be. There are always choices, always doorways to step through. Whichever door you walk through will be your choice and no one else's."

"But there are so many," Adam said suddenly nervous. "Which is the right one?" He was becoming frantic and even more so now as he felt his father's hand slowly leave his shoulder. "Pa?"

"Choose wisely, son," Ben said as he drifted back into the dark leaving Adam alone.

"Pa!" he called taking a step to follow then stopping, hands clenched at his sides.

Turning away he forced his heart to slow its fluttering, his mind to settle then looked back up at the doors within sight, wondering if he had enough time just as another one disappeared.

Deciding it didn't matter how many doors there were, he started with the nearest one, peeked inside and instantly closed it keeping hands flat to the wood until it vanished. Eyes caught the next one, then the next, eliminating all of them until only two remained, two doors that seemed to be fading. There was no time to think only to pick. He couldn't hesitate and reached for the door on the right. It had to lead home. If it didn't . . .

He pulled it open.

BZBZBZBZBZ

The door crashed open and smacked against the sideboard which held Dr. Bick's punchbowl. It wobbled a bit and cast an array of light across the far wall then held its ground as a form rushed past shouting as it moved.

"ADAM! HOSS!"

"Keep quiet, Joseph!" came Ben's stern voice as he met his youngest at the door off the main room.

"Pa, is he . . ? Is Adam . . ?" He couldn't bring himself to say it.

Is he dead? Did I miss out on telling my brother everything?

"We had a . . . a moment," came the soft words.

It was then Joe really looked at his father, looked into those deep dark eyes dripping with worry and exhaustion. "A moment?" was all Joe could say as Ben nodded. "And now?"

"Seem he decide to stay," came Hop Sing's answer drawing Joe's brows up as he looked around his father to see both he and Hoss sitting next to Adam's bed. Hop Sing motioned him forward and plopped him down into his chair. "I get more water. You sit."

"Hi, Shortshanks," Hoss said tossing his brother a tired grin. "Missed ya somethin' fierce."

"I'm sorry I wasn't here," Joe answered watching as Ben moved to stand at the end of the bed looking at his youngest son. His eyes cast about the room seeing Bob Trundell standing near the window and an unfamiliar man rising from the other side of the bed.

"Doctor Leslie Bick," he introduced himself holding out a hand. Joe gratefully took it. "Your brother has a strong constitution."

"Always has. He'll fight anything that comes his way," Joe admitted glancing toward Adam, wincing at the sight. Every part he could see was wrapped in bandages. It made the burn on his hand seem like nothing.

"That's good for all of us," Leslie stated then vacated the room.

"Joseph . . ."

"I couldn't stay home, Pa," he responded without looking at him. "It wasn't right of you to ask me."

"I know."

"I needed to see him, to tell him . . ." His voice trailed off when he found himself looking into those very familiar hazel eyes focusing solely on him.

". . . oe . . ." came out as a rasp, a hint of a smile tugging at the side of his mouth.

"I'm here, brother," Joe answered not knowing where to touch as he leaned forward. "I just need to . . . I havta . . ." He bent his head in frustration not understanding why he couldn't just say what he meant.

". . . love . . . you . . . too, Joe," Adam returned the unspoken words. He'd already heard them, already felt them. Dragging his gaze from his brother, Adam caught his father staring at him. ". . . I chose . . . wisely . . ." came the words on a breath. He couldn't keep his eyes open any longer and let them close, the small smile lingering still.

"What'd he mean by that?" Joe asked looking from Hoss to Ben.

They both shrugged but Ben couldn't help but wonder what choices his boy had been given and who had offered them.

*The prompt for these two sections was a door

BZBZBZBZBZ

Bob looked over to his silver haired friend and thought he looked old. True, he hadn't seen him in a few years but this was something more and it didn't take much figuring to know what made him look that way: Adam.

When he'd hurried over from the telegraph office a few hours before and rushed inside Dr. Bick's house without even knocking, he'd entered into a bright entryway which led to a dark back room. Slowing his steps, he slid into the room noting bowed heads and quiet murmurings, eyes falling on Adam stretched out on the bed, then took up space by the window to wait with them. Once the words 'I chose wisely' were said, he followed after the doctor. He needed information.

He'd had to grab onto something when the doctor finished then slowly made his way back to the room to coax Ben out to the porch and plunk him down on a bench. Leslie showed up with two glasses of whiskey then headed back in, leaving the two to watch the sun go down.

Taking a moment to gather himself, Bob downed his whiskey in one gulp and wiped roughly at his mouth trying to quell all the feelings running through him. He couldn't do a thing for Ben, absolutely nothing except sit by him and be there if he wanted to talk. So far there'd been nothing but silence. Bob wasn't used to silence.

"What are you thinking?" he finally asked.

Ben stared into his glass for a long while then . . . "That it's a true disaster."

Bob waited for more but when none came he ventured another question. "What is?"

It was then Ben looked up and cast those dark eyes on Bob as he held up his glass. "It's a true disaster that this is the last of the whiskey." Bob's brows rose at that statement but he kept silent. "There's not a single drop left in Chance. I know. I checked. It seems Adam's stage was carrying more than medical supplies." He sighed and rubbed his face. "I call that a disaster of epic proportions."

Bob nodded as thoughts strayed to his own family, his own children, and how he'd found himself wrapped around a whiskey bottle a few times over the years when it became too much. It was funny. He never expected that from Ben. He always seemed calm and in control. It appears most everyone was the same in more ways than one. He saw Ben move, watched his friend raise his glass as if in a toast with eyes skyward then tossed the liquid back, setting the empty glass on the arm of his chair.

"Just a shame if you ask me," were his final words as he stared out at the orange flares of color striping the sky.

"You could always switch to beer," Bob offered seeing a slight twitch to Ben's mouth.

"Nope," Ben sighed. "It's always been whiskey that's shared my pain. The burn as it travels down my throat reminds me that I'm alive even though I may feel differently at the time."

Bob nodded again watching as brilliant oranges began to alter to pinks then slowly began to fade as twilight settled around them.

"I first discovered its ability to make me forget the day after my Elizabeth died," Ben began never taking eyes from the darkening sky. "I'd downed two bottles before the Captain yanked me up, cuffed me, dunked my head into a bucket of cold water and put me to bed. I spent the next day with my head back in that bucket puking my guts out and vowed, after a lengthy lecture, to never touch the stuff again. And I didn't. I had a son to raise, a dream to follow. There was no place for it in the wagon or on my tongue, not when you had to keep your wits about you.

"Somehow I made it through when Inger died but it all came crashing down again when Marie, when Marie left us. When I could raise my head out of the dark, whiskey sat in a glass in my hand and on my breath." He closed his eyes for a moment. "And the lecture I received that time was from Adam himself." He shrugged. "That boy would've made a great orator."

Bob saw Ben rub his face again then drop his head into his hands. "Adam's a fighter, Ben. Always has been. Don't see why he'll give up now."

"I know."

"Then don't you give up on him."

That got Ben's attention and he turned angry eyes toward his friend. "I've never given up on that boy, on any of my boys, and I never will."

"Then quit bemoaning the fact that the whiskey is gone and let's go get us a beer."

Bob waited for an outburst and readied himself to move quickly out of grabbing range when he saw the anger leave Ben's eyes. A quiet laugh came his way instead.

"Come on, Ben," Bob said as he stood. "Adam wouldn't want you to fret not after he struggled so to stay here. You look like hell and the dry night air will do you a world of good." Heaving a heavy sigh, Ben slowly stood and looked back toward the open door. "They'll get us if there's a problem."

Ben glanced at Bob and nodded, then stepped off the porch, feeling his friend's hand on his shoulder.

"So tell me, Ben, about those boys of yours. How come none of them are married yet?" was all Hoss heard as he stood in the doorway thankful for Bob's intervention and his brother's constitution.

Maybe they'd see their way through this after all.

*The prompt here was a response to a disaster

Whew! That was a looooong day. At least the whole dadburned family is there to give their support and we've met Bob who is a decent fella. And then there's Drey - that pig! He's a mean sort and not to be ignored. I wouldn't trifle with him. Day 6 should be up in a few days. Thanks for reading and reviewing. :-D