There's only one more day left after Day 6 (although it's a looooong day) then the Epilogue. Just wanted to warn you guys that the end is nigh.
I'm very glad that you are enjoying this story and thanks to the new people who've joined the ride: A Fan, Visage and Tauna Petit-Strawn. It's good to know there are still BZ fans out there. (And, of course, all the ones here from the start.)
Onward ~
Day 6
Chapter 7
". . . you're gonna . . . rot . . . your teeth," came quiet words from the bed as Hoss's head spun toward him.
Adam couldn't help himself and started to chuckle at the sight of his brother's mouth wreathed in sugar. It was a low careful sound that stretched his bruised ribs and made him wince then cough which hurt even more, but it felt good to do more than moan in pain.
"Am not," was the only response Hoss gave as he held up Adam's head to give him some water.
"Are too," came back at him with a slow smile. "Eatin' . . . donuts . . . aren't you?"
Hoss gave him a sheepish look. "How could ya tell?"
Adam's tongue moved out to slowly encircle his lips raising Hoss's brow in question then in understanding as his own tongue darted out to taste the sugar present. Drawing a hand to his mouth, he immediately began cleaning it off, then brushing off his shirt, then his pants. Next thing he was standing and cleaning off the seat and Adam was chuckling again as Hop Sing stormed into the room.
"What all the noise?!" he gave them in a throaty growl peering intently at Hoss's innocent face. "Mista Adam need rest," he exclaimed pointing to Number One son as his chuckles subsided leaving a pained but pleased expression on his face.
"I ain't done nothin' ta bother 'im, Hop Sing. I was jest sittin' here mindin' my own business."
"Then why he laugh?"
"I don't know."
"You make face or say somethin' funny?"
"I ain't said nothin' funny and my face always looks like this," Hoss responded trying to look stern, keeping his eyes from Adam who desperately tried not to start laughing again. "What?" he asked as Hop Sing ventured toward him, making him back up the closer he got until the window stopped his progress.
"What this?" Hop Sing asked pointing toward Hoss's face.
"What's what?" he asked back clutching the curtains behind him.
Hop Sing's finger darted out and whisked something from Hoss's cheek. Dragging it closer to the window's light, dark eyes suddenly dropped on Number Two son like a heavy weight.
"If I go to kitchen will find something missing?" he asked.
"Now, Hop Sing . . ."
"You take donut. I tell you they for later. How many you take?"
A scowl dropped on Hoss's face. "Jest 'cause they's missin' don't mean it was me that took 'em. There's other folks in this here house ya know."
"How many you take?" he asked again pushing so close to Hoss he found himself pressed flat against the glass, his hard swallow heard a mile away. "How many?"
"Been here . . . whole time," came Adam's strained voice drawing the little man's attention, the hard look softening.
"Whole time?" Adam gave a slight nod then winced again soon to feel a hand touching his forehead. "You still have fever. I get remedy. Wait here," he instructed then turned narrowed eyes on Number Two son before stomping out of the room.
Hoss blew out a breath and plopped back down in his seat.
"How . . . many?" Adam asked trying to ignore a trail of pain that was rising above the ache throughout his body.
"Huh?" was his first response until he saw Adam's knowing look. Holding up a finger, Hoss dashed to the door and peered out, tiptoeing back to lean close to his brother. "Two," he whispered. "And I rearranged the leftovers so he won't notice."
A smile graced Adam's face. "Sneaky."
"Yup. Learned it from Joe."
"Figures," he answered. "Quiet. Where's . . . everyone?"
"Well, Marshall Staggert brung in a prisoner. Says he's one'a them that burned yer stage. Doc's down there with 'im. Last time I saw Pa he and Bob was headin' toward The Red Slipper. A course that was last night and I ain't seen hide nor hair o' either o' 'em yet this mornin'. Don't rightly know where Joe is. That boy could be anywhere."
Hoss watched his brother turn to look out the door to the main room beyond and squint. He followed his gaze seeing the myriad of colored light bouncing against the walls.
"That's Doc Bick's punchbowl," Hoss began. "Purty thing. When the sun hits it right it lights up the room. Once you get back on yer feet we'll go take a look. I'm afraid ta touch it. Ya know how I am around things like that."
"I do," Adam answered. ". . . mighty pretty," he said hoping that moment of getting back on his feet would be soon. Of course he'd have to stay awake for more than a few minutes to do that.
"You drink," came from Hop Sing as he hurried back into the room breaking Adam's line of sight. He blinked, trying to focus on his friend as he neared, seeing a steaming cup of something in his hands. It didn't smell very good and he wrinkled his nose.
"What's that?" he asked as Hoss carefully slipped in behind him.
He could feel Adam stiffen at his touch then gasp in pain. "Sorry," he muttered, resting his brother's head against his shoulder.
"It pain remedy. Also work on fever," Hop Sing quickly interjected trying to take Number One son's mind off anything and everything. "Old family recipe. You been taking for few days now."
"'ceptin' ya'll be awake ta take it now," Hoss added with a grin.
". . . smells," was all Adam could get out between clenched teeth and a racing heart, grabbing for what little breath he could find.
"Smell bad, work better. But add something this time. Make sweet. Maybe later you eat donut." A stony gaze dropped on Number Two son. "If any left."
Hoss dutifully ignored it. "Let me have it, Hop Sing," he ordered holding out his hand. "I'll make older brother take his medicine even if it takes all afternoon."
"You do that and maybe, maybe I give treat later."
He slid a glance over to the little cook then found himself smiling as Hop Sing grinned back before hastily leaving.
"Come on, brother. The sooner ya drink this concoction the quicker ya can take a nap."
Without any say in the matter, Adam obediently opened his mouth as the hot liquid came his way waiting for the inevitable bitter taste that curled his toes only to be surprised that it tasted of peppermint.
Now where had Hop Sing found peppermint in the middle of nowhere?
BZBZBZBZBZ
The door to Harvey Jenkins General Store came open to reveal a man in a new pair of pants and a cream colored shirt, his grungy hat perched atop his newly cleaned and barbered hair. Drey Grisham frowned as he tugged at the offending shirt, hoping he didn't get a rash from the harsh fabric that chafed his skin. But silk would have to wait until he'd taken care of business in this podunk town.
Eyes scanned the street watching the inhabitants of Chance go about their daily business with a detached interest, touching the brim of his hat as a lady happened by. Moving the peppermint stick from one side of his mouth to the other, he started slowly down the street.
He'd always had a thing for sweets; could never get enough and robbing stages provided him with enough money to buy all the best candy he could find. But like the shirt, this town only had the simpler things - peppermint, molasses bits(1) and common twists(2). Boy, he had to get back to civilization and out of all this sand and bury his face in a box of sweets soon or he'd just go crazy.
Glancing up and down both sides of the street, he took in each building, every nook and cranny, every horse and wagon until he came upon two saloons - the Southern Belle and the Red Slipper. He smiled. There'd been a gal once that favored red slippers and always had a box of chocolates(3) in her room. And she'd been a southern belle.
"Kismet," he muttered moving the peppermint to the other side of his mouth as he stepped off the sidewalk heading toward the Belle.
1 Molasses bits were the precursor of toffee
2 Common twists were like candy canes
3 Whitman's made the first box of chocolates in 1854
*The prompt for these sections was a sweet tooth
BZBZBZBZBZ
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Finny cautioned Jed with a shake of the head.
"Why not?" questioned the miner giving his friend a hard look.
Finny sighed. "I don't think Doc Bick will want to be bothered. That boy's still alive so he must be doing something right."
"He ain't never pushed aside a little help afore. Why would he now? 'sides all his supplies burned up with the stage and all the whiskey's gone. He ain't got much else."
"He's got that Chinaman. You know how mysterious they are. I've seen that big one over at Harvey's buying some interesting stuff."
"But this," Jed said slapping the side of the squat bottle. "This stuff'll right whatever's wrong with ya. Doc should at least know about it afore he tells me no."
Finny took a sip of his beer. "You're just sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong."
"This'll help with the burns and I aim ta let 'im know." Jed pushed himself up and took a step plowing directly into a tall man with an ugly hat who seemingly appeared out of nowhere.
"I'm sorry," the man said as he grabbed Jed to steady him.
"Didn't see ya, mister," Jed claimed finding himself back in his seat. The man pointed toward the empty chair. "A course," he answered, always a friendly type.
"Thanks," came the answer as he sat, tossing his grungy hat onto the table.
"Jed Hopker and Finny Blemmer," he introduced both smiling at the man.
"Name's Drey," he said holding out his hand and shaking both. "I couldn't help overhearing about the stage being burned."
"Ah, yeah, about a week ago," Jed answered holding tightly to his squat bottle. "Ya ain't heard?"
Drey shook his head. "Just arrived in town. Got caught in a dust storm a ways out and just had to have a bath," he said with a smile. "Did it have anything to do with all those stages that are being attacked?"
"That's what the Marshall thinks," Finny supplied.
"Marshall?"
"Marshall Staggert. He's been chasing some gang clear across the territories that's been robbin' and burnin' and killin'. Didn't have no clues neither 'til just recent."
"Oh?" Drey said thinking how much easier could this get.
"There was a survivor," Finny gave him.
"Really?"
"Burned pretty bad," Jed supplied. "Almost died. But Doc Bick managed ta keep him alive. Seems ta be doin' better." He slapped the bottle in his hand. "That's what this remedy's for."
"How fortunate for the Marshall," Drey commented. "To be in a town with helpful people," he quickly added with a smile. "Ah, did this man, this survivor, have anything to say to the Marshall, you know, about who did this?"
"Don't rightly know," Jed answered, "but the Marshall brought in a prisoner off'a the desert. Word is," he began his voice lowering to a whisper prompting the man to lean in close, "he's one'a them that tried ta kill 'im."
"You don't say," Drey said concern on his face.
"Yep. Ain't heard nothin' more so's don't know if'n it's true."
"Just spreading rumors, Jed?" Finny accused as his friend turned toward him.
"I ain't. Norman Baylor was standin' right there when the Marshall come in; heard 'im talkin' with the Sheriff. Couldn't make out all he was sayin' but he heard stage robberies and figured this man was one'a them."
"Well, I hope the Marshall was successful," said Drey as he reached for his hat. "Can't have murderers running around unattended."
"Got that right," Jed stated with a quick shake of the head.
"Well, thank you," Drey answered plopping his ugly hat on his head. "Nice to meet you two," he said excusing himself from the table and heading out the door wondering if his luck could get any better.
"That seemed like a nice fella," Jed said as they watched him leave the saloon.
"Ugly hat though," Finny stated finishing off his beer.
BZBZBZBZBZ
The minute Drey stepped into the Red Slipper he knew he should step back out. He wasn't here to draw attention least of all over a drunk cowboy taking liberties with a saloon girl, but he needed a vantage point and this place overlooked the doctor's house.
Decision made, he stepped forward. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he mentioned from behind the cowboy whose finger twitched on the trigger of a pistol currently pressed firmly against the redheaded saloon girl's temple. The cowboy stiffened.
"Mind yer business, mister," he gave Drey who heard a slight slur mixed in with the threat.
"Leave Maime Sue alone, Butch," Clancy Yeomers said from his perch behind the bar.
"She called me yella!" he yelled back to the bartender.
"I still wouldn't do that if I were you," Drey repeated around the small smile that blossomed under his mustache as he gave Maime Sue a quick once over.
"Well ya ain't me!" yelled Butch, spitting on her hair that bunched against his face.
"Thank the Lord for small favors," came Drey's whisper as he took a step closer to the cowboy looking him straight in the face. "Did it ever occur to you that she called you yellow because you're wearing a yellow shirt?" Drey waited for an answer seeing his words work their way through whatever he'd had to drink that day. "Didn't think so," he muttered. "Nice looking shirt by the way. Get that in town or somewhere else?"
Butch's eyes narrowed. Where had he gotten this shirt? It wasn't in Chance was it? He looked down at himself and sure enough it was yellow. He hadn't remembered putting it on this morning . . . or was that yesterday?
"Stockton!" he blurted out surprising himself as much as everyone present.
"Well, that's a fine looking shirt," Drey casually said sitting down at an empty table and smiling up at the cowboy. "Why don't you sit a spell and tell me about it."
Butch eyed him for a long moment then let Maime Sue go before staggering over, dropping into a chair and taking all of a few seconds to pass out. The sound of his head hitting the table top echoed about the quiet room as Drey chuckled, pulling the pistol from Butch's grasp. A soft hand ran across the back of his neck.
"That was mighty nice'a you ta take on a wild cowboy like that," Maime Sue said flashing him a seductive smile. "And ta think I don't even know you." She sat down next to him and ran her hand down his leg.
He smiled back at her. "Not much to know."
"What shall I call you then?" she asked.
"Anything you'd like," came his answer as her hand traveled a bit higher than before. They shared a look and her hand kept moving until he stopped her short of the prize. "Anything interesting happen around here?" he asked pulling her hand from his leg to his shoulder where she automatically began to squeeze.
"Not much happens around here exceptin' when a miner hits a lode and that ain't happened for a spell."
"Why do you stay then? A pretty girl like you could make good money in a bigger town."
"Don't know why I stay," she answered truthfully. "Guess I like being able to choose who I spend my time with," she gave him leaning over to kiss his neck. "Although we did have some excitement just a few days back."
"Oh?" he asked trying not to show much interest.
"First there was that man that was brung in off the desert. Bad hurt he was. Then we found out he was on the stage that was bringing in stuff for the town and it was all burned. Then a Marshall blew in then took off only ta come back draggin' a prisoner. That's the most fun this town's seen in ages."
"You say the Marshall came back with a prisoner?" Drey asked as her kisses drifted along his cheek.
"Yep."
"Who was this man they brought in off the desert?" came his next question as he pulled Maime Sue into his lap, running a finger along her chin and lightly down her neck.
"Stranger ta me. Heard he got burned on the stage and they don't know if'n he's gonna live."
"But he did?"
"Ain't seen no undertaker visitin' the Doc," she answered. "Just the man's family and a Chinaman. Oh, and the Marshall." She leaned in close to his ear. "Let's go upstairs and I'll show you where Doc's house is in case you wanna visit later," she whispered.
Drey grinned and thanked whoever had put him back on track. It was so nice to be back in the groove and not have to worry about all the complexities that could just tear your heart out.
Rising from the chair, he returned Maime Sue to her feet and followed along gratefully as she led him up the stairs.
*The prompt for these sections was I wouldn't do that if I were you
BZBZBZBZBZ
"Marshall, I want to see your prisoner," Joe asked, hands gripping his gun belt to keep them from shaking.
Trace looked up and inwardly cringed. He'd not yet met Joe but heard about him from Doc, heard how upset he was over what'd happened to his brother. Even Hoss gave him a quick warning about his younger brother. And here he stood, face pinched, eyes flashing. Here goes.
"Mr. Cartwright, ya can't be here," Trace quietly said to the angry young man before him as the two stood toe-to-toe in the Sheriff's office.
"I've every right to speak to the man who tried to murder my brother," Joe answered, hands dropping from his gun belt to move in and out of fists at his side.
Trace cast an understanding look toward the youngest Cartwright and rubbed a hand over the stubble on his face. He would dearly love to let him have a go at the prisoner but something bright and shiny hanging on his chest was stopping him. He sighed.
"He won't talk ta ya. In fact I'd bet a month's pay that he'll just try and rile ya. He's not exactly an upstandin' citizen."
Joe's jaw clenched as he tried to tamp down his growing anger; tried to do what Adam always did and control the rage inside that insisted he beat that man to death. His brother wouldn't take kindly to recovering from his injuries only to stand at the base of a scaffold to watch his younger brother hang. He blew out a harsh breath and turned from Trace to stare at a wanted poster on the wall.
"I just want to see what type of man would kill innocent people then burn them. I need to see what evil looks like so I can recognize it again when it passes me on the street because we all know it's out there, will always be out there as long as people walk this earth."
Trace sat on the edge of the Sheriff's desk and crossed arms over his knee. "Evil comes in many forms. It never looks the same twice or so I've noticed. It's the deed that shows you evil is present not the face. That's hard ta define, hard ta see, hard ta escape from."
Joe glared at him. "But you have a representation of it here, Marshall, sitting in that cell."
"He's a follower, Mr. Cartwright. He ain't smart enough ta figure out how ta hide evidence for this long. No, there's someone else in charge, someone who took a shot at me out there in the desert and I'm pretty sure he won't wanna let this one live for much longer." Trace stood then and placed a hand on Joe's shoulder. "Just remember evil ain't perfect otherwise all the good people in this world would be dead. You and your family strike me as good people. Don't change that now just 'cause your brother's hurt. I don't know much about him but I'm thinkin' he wouldn't want ya steppin' over that line and for you I'd bet just talkin' ta him would be erasin' that line."
A small smile appeared on Joe's stern face as Adam's voice popped into his head warning him against such an action.
"Now, please," Trace continued, "go on back ta Doc's and see ta your brother. If I need any help I'll come yellin'."
"You will won't you? Yell if you need anything?"
"Loud and clear. I may be a Marshall but this badge can't protect me from multiple bullets headin' my way. You and Hoss would be a fine addition ta my side."
"All right." Joe said with a sigh then a nod. "All right."
Clapping a hand on Joe's back, Trace watched the young man walk slowly through the door knowing he'd have to watch that one. A few words weren't going to douse the fire in his belly and he couldn't say that he blamed him. No, couldn't blame him at all. Wrestling with his own conscience was a normal thing for Trace. He found he had to curtail certain aspects of his desire to throttle the bad men he brought to justice. But just once he'd like to close his eyes to what should be done and do what was needed.
Visions of those people burned to death sprang to mind; the sounds of Adam's cries filled his ears and he felt his hand reach for the badge that rested on his vest and carefully removed it. Taking a swift glance at it, he slipped it into his pocket and headed for the door that led to the cells, quietly pulling it open to see the prisoner sitting with his back to him. Taking a deep breath, Trace stepped in then stopped. Was it worth it to throw away his career over some lowlife? Were the words he'd just given young Cartwright meaningless? Was the badge that sat in his pocket just a piece of tin or did it stand for what he'd based his life on – honor, justice, truth?
Sighing, he bent his head then quietly backed out of the room and closed the door behind him.
BZBZBZBZBZ
There's nothing worse than feeling like you've missed something even though you were in the room at the time. Adam felt that way. He'd felt that way ever since the accident. Tortured dreams and intense pain filtered through morphine then whiskey then some of Hop Sing's concoctions just left him out of the loop and he hated that. But there wasn't much use railing against the inevitable. He couldn't move without causing himself pain; he couldn't eat without causing himself pain. Hell, he could barely breathe without causing himself pain so he just slept, which his father kept telling him was for the best.
Tell that to my dreams.
But then a noise seeped through all the murkiness and with great effort he pulled open his eyes (at least they didn't hurt) to see his youngest brother standing at the window, his posture stiff, one hand balled into a fist banging softly against the wall and the other fidgeting with the tie-down on his holster. Adam recognized the stance.
"What's . . . the matter, Joe?" he asked.
Joe took a seat and looked down at his hands as they rested on the bed fiddling with the bandage over his burn. "The Marshall," he began then rubbed his face. "The Marshall has one of the men who attacked you in jail. He won't let me talk to him."
Adam gazed at Joe feeling the anger and torment present. "Wise man . . . this Marshall," he finally said.
Joe looked up at his brother, a scowl crossing his face. "I need to see him, Adam; need to look him in the eye and tell him it didn't work. You're still alive despite everything they did. He needs to know."
"No," was all Adam said laying a bandaged hand over Joe's fists, wincing at the movement. "He won't . . . care."
"But I care!" Joe gave back, his voice rising. "I need him to see that he's through killing people! You're alive and he lost!"
"He's in jail, Joe, and I'm . . . still breathing. He's already . . . already lost no matter what . . . happens now. No need . . . to tell him what . . . what he already knows." Adam's breath was leaving him but he held his brother's intense gaze until Joe looked away and back down to his hands.
Tough words coming from a man who, if he could've managed it, would've hightailed it down to the jail and confronted the prisoner himself. Of course he didn't want to tell Joe that there was no way in hell he could confirm that this particular man was one of the gang that attacked the stage. He'd not seen one face; heard only vague voices; his memories centering on those spurs that stepped past his face as he lay there in the sand and nothing else.
No, he wouldn't tell Joe that.
So instead he reveled in the joy of his brother's intense desire to right the wrong done to him, a trait not specific to Joe. He'd heard enough of Hoss's conversations with the doctor to know that that had been his desire as well. A slight smile came as he found himself sliding back to sleep, hand still covering Joe's, content in the feeling that they would watch his back since he couldn't.
*The prompt here was Joe
Adam sounds much better. Good ol' Hop Sing and his remedies. And Drey, well, (I hate to say this) I like him. He's so, so bad with zero redeeming qualities. You never have to worry that he'll be shamed into doing good. Every story needs a character like that just so our heroes stand taller in their white hats. Day 7 will soon be up. :-D