Bret frowned and looked around the room. "Bart?" he said. He got no answer and headed into the bathing room, finding him not in there either. "Bart!" he exclaimed.

No answer.

Bret left the room and headed back downstairs. The clerk wasn't at his desk, and Bret pounded on the bell until he appeared.

"Mr. Maverick!" said the clerk. "What's the matter?"

"Did my brother come down here?" Bret demanded.

The clerk shrugged. "I don't know…I don't really remember what he looks like, I only saw him for a minute when you two arrived."

Bret sighed. "He's dressed similar to me, younger, thinner, beige hat..." He blinked. "If he has his hat."

The clerk shook his head. "I wasn't out here all this time, I'm sorry."

Bret walked away from the desk and looked inside the gambling room. The games were over for the day, and there was no one inside. A search of the dining room turned up nothing either.

"Why are you so worked up?" the clerk asked after Bret returned. "He must be feeling better and went out."

Bret shook his head and pushed his hat back. "He wasn't feeling better. There's no way he went out." Suddenly, he spotted something in the message box for his room. "What's that?"

"Oh!" said the clerk, pulling it out. "One of the other contestants asked me to leave this note for you."

Bret took the folded paper and opened it. He frowned and showed it to the clerk.

It was a blank piece of paper.

"What does it mean?" the clerk asked.

"Was it Gus Peters?" Bret asked.

The clerk thought back. "Yes, I think it was."

Bret crumbled the paper up. "It was a trick to find out which room I have, by watching to see which box you put this in."

The clerk looked shocked.

Bret left the hotel and looked around. People were going about their business, having no idea that an abduction had just taken place. He ran across the street to the sheriff's office, but found it empty. Looking up and down the street, he realized that he had no idea where to look for his brother. He quickly ran back to the hotel and went back inside. "Which room is Peters'?" he asked.

"Number 4," the clerk told him.

Bret bounded up the stairs and grabbed the handle to Peters' room. The door was locked, so he kicked it in, but found it empty. He checked his own room one more time before going back downstairs. "Peters wants his money back," he told the clerk.

"But what good is it to kidnap your brother?" the clerk asked.

Bret shook his head with a sigh, before leaving the hotel again. He had to find Bart…somehow.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A wagon bounced its way along with Bart tied up in the back. He had no idea where he was being brought, and lay limply, constantly coughing. He winced at the added pain that the motion was causing to his pounding head, and he was glad that his abductors hadn't knocked him out at least; his head hurt enough as it is.

"Shut up!" he heard.

Bart tried to stop coughing, succeeding after a few seconds. It wasn't easy to hold it in, but he somehow managed.

Eventually, the wagon stopped, and hands reached in to pull him out. He had no choice but to submit, and was surprised to see that it had started to rain. Soon he was being pulled inside a shack by two men, where he was pushed to the floor.

Bart landed against a wall, and was able to remain sitting up. He started coughing once more.

Peters turned to close the door, before looking at Bart again. "Shut up!" he repeated.

"I'd…love to…really," Bart said in-between painful coughs.

The other two men watched. "Lookit 'im," said one of them. "He's shaking like a coward!"

"I'm wet and cold," said Bart, hoarsely. "I'm from Texas, you nitwits. Plus I have a fever. Come a little closer so I can give you influenza; it's just what you deserve."

The men stepped back.

Bart chuckled, but it turned into more coughing and a sneeze, which made the men step back even more.

Gus ignored them and stepped forward, crouching before Bart. He either thought that Bart was exaggerating or even faking to keep them away from him…or maybe, like Bret, he never caught anything. It'd be a shame if it was the latter. "You know why you're here, right?" he asked.

Bart nodded. "Because you're a sore loser." A second later, he saw stars when Peters backhanded him.

"Because your brother didn't do the honorable thing by giving me a chance to win my money back!" Peters exclaimed.

Bart's eyes were closed tightly as his head painfully rang from the blow. It already hurt enough from his illness; being struck was exactly what he didn't need. "And harming me is honorable?" he countered.

"Why didn't he continue the competition?" Peters asked. "He took my money and ran."

"He didn't take anything," Bart said, opening his eyes. "He won it fair and square. He didn't play again because he was nursing me through a high fever…and that was honorable." It was slightly a lie, as Bret had decided not to play him again before Bart's fever had risen, but oh well. With that, he started coughing again.

Peters stood and looked down at him. "I want my money back."

"Then you shouldn't have played!" Bart said. "You expected to win the whole competition?"

The man hesitated.

"Didn't you win money today?" Bart asked, before it suddenly hit him. "You lost," he said. "You played today and lost."

"Yes, I played today and lost, and can't continue competing," said Peters. "Does that make you happy?"

Bart shook his head. "No, but it is funny," he said, with a chuckle.

Peters' face darkened. "Funny?! Why is it funny?" he demanded.

"Because you're wasting your time," Bart said, his voice getting hoarser the more he spoke. "You were destined to lose anyway. My brother beat you yesterday, so what makes you think you would've beat him today?"

Peters inwardly fumed. "I want my money back." He suddenly blinked. "How do I know that you don't have it?"

"Why would I have it?" Bart asked. "This is the first time I've been out of bed for two and a half days." He was suddenly relieved that he'd been dressed when his kidnappers had arrived, and not still in his nightshirt!

"Search him," Peters told his henchmen.

The two men hesitated slightly—not wanting to catch influenza—but obediently knelt and checked Bart's pockets.

Bart let them, since he didn't have the money, and when they were finished, Bart purposely started coughing again, just to see them jump—which they did.

Both men quickly stood again and backed away. "He doesn't have it," one of them said.

Peters sighed. "Too bad. That would've made things a lot easier." He looked at Bart. "Fine. You'll just have to remain my 'guest' until your brother brings me my money."

"Does he know that you took me?" Bart asked, wondering if a ransom note had been left.

Peters smiled. "I'm sure he's figured it out by now, and has been frantically searching for his poor, sick brother." He looked at the two men. "Don't let him out of your sight. I'll be back."

The two men nodded, taking out their guns and pointing them at him.

With that, Peters left.

Bart watched him go and sighed inwardly, shifting to try to get comfortable where he sat on the floor against the wall, wishing that his wrists weren't tied behind him. He could hear the rain falling and felt a chilly draft against his back, making him shiver. His head was throbbing and his throat was still killing him, nevermind the ache in his chest from the congestion that he could hear with every breath he took.

Closing his eyes, Bart wished they'd never come to San Francisco.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Bret was really getting upset. He couldn't find a single person who'd seen Bart leave the hotel, mainly because no one knew what Bart looked like—since literally no one had been introduced to him. Some of the gamblers knew Peters', but none of them saw him leave, either. Therefore, it was a shock to Bret to suddenly see Peters strolling along in the rain as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Bret hid in a nearby alley until Peters reached it. He then stepped out, gun drawn. "Where's my brother?"

"Well well well, Mr. Maverick," said Peters. "Fancy meeting you here. I haven't seen you since last night." The last bit held obvious sarcasm.

"Bart and I were just about to leave town," said Bret. "But he mysteriously disappeared. Now I'll ask again: where is he?"

"Safe," said Peters. "Until I get my money back."

"Fine," said Bret. "I have it all."

"Do you?" said Peters. "You didn't spend any of it?"

Bret frowned. "Not any of yours."

"Uh uh," said Peters. "I want it all…every dime that was in the pot."

"The rest of the money had nothing to do with you," said Bret.

"Either way," said Peters. "I want all of it. Isn't your poor sick brother worth it?"

Bret's face darkened. "You'd better not hurt him."

"And I won't," said Peters. "As long as you hand over eight thousand dollars."

"I spent some of it on train tickets," Bret said.

Peters *tsked*. "Then your brother will remain my prisoner until you can give me the full amount," he said, before turning and walking away.

Bret holstered his gun, walked forward, and grabbed Peters' arm, spinning him around.

"If you want me to shoot your brother when I get back there," said Peters. "Then by all means, hit me." At the look on Bret's face, he quickly clarified, "Oh, I didn't say kill him, I said shoot him…in the arm, the leg, who knows; it'll depend on my mood at the time."

Bret's fist was raised, and it wasn't easy to lower it, but he did.

"I'll be back at six o'clock," said Peters. "You better have my money."

"You better have my brother," Bret growled. "Unharmed."

"We'll see," said Peters. With that, he walked off.

TBC