Time passed slowly as Bart tried to go back to sleep and failed, despite his exhaustion. He couldn't keep his eyes open, but his cough was growing worse and interrupted him every time he dozed off. His fever didn't get any higher, but it didn't get any lower either. When he finally fell asleep and stayed that way, it seemed like a miracle.

Bret was upset as he sat there watching his brother. It brought back memories that he hadn't thought of in a long time; as children, Bart had been the one to get sick the most, and he suddenly remembered a time just after they'd been drafted to fight the Civil War; Bart had been twenty-one years old and sicker than he was now. Bret remembered thinking how ridiculous it would be for his brother to die from influenza rather than a war wound.

Bart suddenly started coughing again, interrupting his brother's thoughts.

Bret stood from the chair near the window and sat in the one beside the bed. "Need anything, Bart?" He looked at the clock on the nightstand and saw that it was time for more aspirin.

Bart shook his head as he coughed.

"Here," Bret said, picking up his brother's hand and shaking three pills into it.

Bart popped them into his mouth and drank the water that Bret handed him, hoping that three pills would do a better job than two.

Bret took the empty glass and put it back on the nightstand.

Bart blinked sleepily as he looked at his brother. "What time is it?" he asked. His voice sounded scratchier and he painfully cleared his throat.

"Almost one," Bret said. "You've slept since eleven-thirty."

Bart could still barely keep his eyes open. "Go play poker."

Bret hesitated. "I don't want to leave you alone."

"Why?" Bart said. "I'm not going anywhere. Just fill the glass again and let me sleep."

Bret hesitated again,

"Go play," Bart said. "Win us some money and we'll leave on a train."

Bret thought for a minute. That was a good idea…they'd get a train compartment that would be just as comfortable as this hotel room. It sure beat waiting for Bart to be well enough to travel by stagecoach, which would probably take a week or more.

Bart saw that he'd struck a cord. "Go," he said again. "Take my money too."

Bret sighed, reaching over to grab the pitcher of water and fill the glass. "Fine. I'll be back as soon as I win."

Bart nodded and closed his eyes.

Bret stood, but not before checking his brother's fever and finding it still unchanged. He was relieved that it hadn't risen in all this time, which made him confident that it wasn't likely to get any higher after all. He gave his brother another clean handkerchief, made sure he was comfortable, took the money, and headed downstairs.

It was a relief to get out of the hotel room, Bret had to admit.

The clerk saw him, and smiled. "How's your brother doing?"

Bret sighed. "Still not well, but he forced me to come play."

The clerk nodded. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Bret said. There was a sign that said 'Poker Competition' with an arrow pointing to a room, so Bret headed inside where a man was speaking.

"Good afternoon, everyone," said the man. "My name is Charlie Smith. Sit yourselves down and I'll explain the rules."

Bret found the nearest seat and sat.

"Poker is poker, and I know that you all know how to play it," said Smith. "But as for this competition, the winner of each game and his competitor are the only ones who advance. In other words, there will be four to each game, and whoever folds is out for good. The winner and the man who calls him get to play again the next day."

That made sense to Bret, since those two players were obviously the most skilled.

"Everyone have your five hundred dollars to start with?" Smith asked next.

Everyone nodded.

Bret had a thousand dollars in his pocket. The entrance fee was five hundred, and you had to enter the competition with at least five hundred to bet with. Both brothers had broken the thousand dollar bill pinned inside their jacket pocket for this game, and Bret hoped that he could at least replace them, especially considering that he was also using the money that his brother had planned to enter with.

Smith then called attendance, to make sure that every registered player was present. "Bret Maverick," he eventually said.

"Here," said Bret, raising his hand. "My brother Bart won't be playing, though. He's here, but not feeling well."

"Oh," said Smith. "That's a shame." He wrote something down before calling the next name.

Soon, the tables were filled with four men each, and after introducing themselves to each other, the playing began.

Bret was glad to see 'guards' watching each table to ensure that no cheating was being done. Once his cards were dealt, he found himself with an ace, two queens, a king, and a three. It was an excellent start, and he put on his poker face before tossing three hundred in chips in the middle of the table.

Everyone else did the same.

Bret asked for one card and ditched the three. If the card he got to replace it didn't improve his hand, then he knew that he would have to sacrifice his ace, as the two queens were his strength, and the king was the next card following.

He was dealt a nine.

All four men stayed in the game, each one afraid to fold and lose their chance of playing again. The bets rose and Bret tried to keep the ace one more time, throwing down only the nine. He was dealt a seven after that, and sighed inwardly.

The bets rose as they continued to play, and Bret threw down his seven and ace, praying that he would get something good. To his shock, he was dealt another queen and a four.

Bret now had three of a kind. He threw in more chips and asked for one card, tossing down the four. When he received another king, he could have fallen to the floor. There were only three other hands that beat a full house, and he was willing to bet that no one at his table had one of them. Even if one of them had a full house too, his was queen's high, so the other player would have to have three aces and the other two kings to beat him, which was not likely.

Bret threw in the rest of his chips and asked for no more cards.

Everyone looked at him, and two of the players immediately folded. The remaining player, a man named Gus Peters, looked at Bret with confidence and pushed all of his chips into the middle of the table.

Bret inwardly gulped. He'd been counting on winning this game for Bart's sake. He had no more chips, and there were only two things left that he could do: fold, which would make Peters the winner, or call and hope that he had the better hand. "I call," he said.

Peters had hoped that Bret would fold, but smiled and laid down his cards. He had a straight, with the king high.

Bret almost fainted. He had won. He laid his cards down, displaying his three queens and two kings. "Full house for me," he said nonchalantly, raking in the chips. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him: he had been the one to call and the winner of the game, which meant that Peters couldn't play again!

Peters seemed to come to the same realization, and jumped up from the table, storming off.

Bret swept the chips into his hat, guessing that there was over seven thousand dollars there; Peters had brought a lot of money to the table, and had bet every chip he had.

Peters suddenly came back with Smith. "He called and won!" he complained, pointing at Bret.

Smith frowned. "I didn't think of that," he admitted. "Which cards were yours?"

Peters showed him his straight, which was a respectable hand.

"I'll have to change the rules," said Smith. "The final two players in the game get to advance, or else this could be a very short competition!"

Peters was relieved. "Thanks." He looked at Bret. "I'll be seeing you tomorrow." With that, he left.

Bret watched him go. No you won't, he thought. He stood and took his hat full of chips over to the 'banker', and cashed them in.

Bart was awake when Bret came back in, having just coughed his lungs out again and sneezed hard enough to make his head spin. "How much did you win?" he asked, never thinking that Bret could've lost.

"You won't believe it," Bret said, putting down the fresh pitcher of water that he'd brought up and rushing over to sit in the chair beside the bed. "Eight thousand dollars!"

Bart's eyes were closed, but they popped open. "Eight thousand?"

Bret nodded, taking the money out of his pocket and fanning out the bills to show him.

Bart smiled. "I knew I could count on you, brother Bret."

Bret chuckled, before standing and taking a thousand dollar bill and pinning it in the inside pocket of Bart's jacket. He then did the same with his own, before splitting the rest and putting it inside both of their wallets. "The man I beat was a sore loser," he remarked.

"I'm sure," said Bart. "That's a lot of money to lose."

"Yeah," Bret nodded. He came back and felt his brother's forehead, before frowning.

"What?" Bart asked.

Bret sat on the side of the bed and used the back of his hand to feel his brother's cheeks, before feeling his forehead again. "Your fever is higher."

Bart didn't expect to hear that. "Are you sure?"

Bret nodded, before standing and fetching a towel and the new pitcher of water. He poured some into the basin and wet the towel in it before placing it over Bart's forehead.

The water felt very cold to Bart, and he flinched. "Oh, Bret…"

"It's not as cold as it seems," Bret said. "Don't you give me any lip; it's staying there."

Bart sighed, which set him off coughing.

Bret echoed the sigh. He had a feeling that it was going to be a very long night.

TBC