Chapter 11 – Biscuits and Gravy

Twice Bret woke up and got water for his brother; once he had to wake Bart from some kind of a dream or nightmare. Just as promised he slept in two chairs; sitting in one with his legs propped up on the other. When every part of his body was stiff and sore he finally woke up to find Bart lying in bed watching him. Bret knew that no matter how bad he hurt from the night in the chairs, Bart felt worse.

"How are ya this mornin'?" the older brother asked the younger one.

"Is there a word for 'worse than miserable'?" Bart shot back.

"That good, huh? How much money did ya have on ya yesterday?"

"I ain't sure. Not all of it, maybe three, four hundred dollars. Is it gone?"

"Yeah, it's gone," Bret answered. "Any chance this coulda been a hold-up?"

"Maybe. But an awful strange one. Why would you beat somebody that was easy pickin's?"

"It seems trivial now, but how'd you do for ranch hands?"

"Nothin' from Braxton; at least four comin' Monday from Settler's Creek. Maybe six. But four for certain."

"Good job, son. See, I told ya, just be your charmin' self."

"Can you help me sit up?"

"I can do that," Bret assured his brother, and with a minimum of pain he did just that. "Molly was pretty shook up when she saw your scars. Wanted to know if they happened in the war."

"Ha. What'd you tell her?"

"The truth. That you've been through a lot."

"She's a real fine girl, Bret."

"Mmmhmmm."

"The kinda girl you settle down with."

"Mmmhmmm."

"Is that all you got to say?"

"Yep."

"So you're not interested."

Bret sat straight and looked at Bart in the morning light. His eye and cheek were a bright purple hue, and another dark spot had formed on his jaw. Almost the whole lower half of his face was swollen, and Bret could see bruises on his chest through the first two open buttons of his shirt. He had to be in pain, and his brother felt sorry for the misery that Bart was once again being subjected to. He didn't feel bad enough to lie to him. "I didn't say I wasn't interested."

"But not 'settle-down' interested."

"I'm not 'settle-down' interested in anyone. What is this, anyway? You just got the crap beat outta you yesterday; you want me to finish the job they started?"

"Whoa, brother, slow down. I'm just askin'."

Molly picked that moment to walk in carrying two full coffee cups. "Was that discord? Between you two?"

"Naw, nothin' serious," Bret told her as he accepted one of the cups. The other was about three-quarters full and easier for Bart to hold.

"Ouch," was his singular comment when he took the cup with his left hand. After just a moment he switched the weight to his right hand before drinking from it. "Thanks."

"I'm making eggs, ham and biscuits. I expect both of you to eat." She turned her gaze to Bart. "BOTH of you."

"Yes, ma'am," Bart answered meekly through swollen lips. "Are you makin' gravy?"

"For the biscuits? Of course. I have some aspirin that Doc Bradley left out here. Shall I bring you one?"

"No. I can't take 'em."

"Can't take them?"

"He's got an allergy to 'em," Bret explained as Bart swallowed coffee. "We almost . . . well, let's just say the way we found out wasn't good."

"Alright. Glad I asked before I brought it. I'll bring breakfast in when it's ready."

"Call me and I'll come help," Bret told her.

"You sure?" Bart asked after Molly left.

XXXXXXXX

Conrad was the first one there, this time at Nance's house. He wanted to make sure he got the full story about the 'encounter.' He knew better than to just walk into Nance Tesson's house without knocking, so he waited patiently for the front door to be answered. Eventually, Nance himself came. "Where's Manuela?" the marshal asked.

"Fixin' coffee," Nance answered. "Come in."

Sanders followed the big man back into his private office and took a chair. Manuela came bustling in with a coffee pot and six cups. She poured one each for Conrad and Nance, and then hurried back to the front door when the next man knocked.

The marshal raised an eyebrow. "Six cups?" he asked.

"Donny Worby," Nance stated petulantly. "Straight from the horse's mouth."

Burns was the next one through the door. "Conrad. Nance. Little chilly out there this mornin'."

Nance pulled a bottle out of the desk. "I can fix that, Burns."

"Sounds good to me," Wolcott answered as he poured coffee but left room for the brandy. He picked up the bottle Nance had set down and poured some into his cup just as there was another knock on the door. This time voices could be heard. Jeremiah and Branch came blustering into the room and filled the last two chairs. Donny would have to stand.

"How's the arm, Nance?" That came from Jeremiah.

"Gettin' better. Get your coffee so we can begin."

There was a knock on the office door, and Nance practically yelled, "Come in."

Donny Worby swaggered in and headed right for a coffee cup. He skipped the coffee, however, and poured straight brandy. "Boss?" he asked.

Worby wasn't a tall man, but he looked like he was made entirely of iron. Solid and strong, with a cruel expression permanently etched on his face, he was the kind of man you'd rather not have angry with you.

"Quiet down," Nance ordered the group, then looked at Donny. "Give us the story, Mr. Worby."

"Not much to tell. I caught him when it was almost dark, right where that stand of Mesquite trees meets the rock formation. Lassoed him like a steer, pulled him right off that big buckskin. He won't be walkin' around so cocky for a while. Did what you said, boss, tried not to break nothin'. Just gave him a real beatin'. Ran the gelding off, left him hog-tied on the road. Somebody musta come got him; he weren't there this mornin'."

"That's all, Donny, you can go. And take your cup with you."

"Aye, boss."

Once the enforcer was gone Nance himself asked a question. "What next?"

Jeremiah spoke up. "I'm gonna wait two days, then make Molly Hooper another offer."

"And if she doesn't accept it?" Burns asked.

"Then we take the next step. And get rid of her cowboys."

"I get to shoot 'em?" Nance asked, almost beside himself with anticipation. He'd been waiting to put a bullet in the one that had shot him.

"Yes, Nance, you'll get to extract your own personal revenge."

"Huh?"

"You get to shoot 'em."