A week passed; seven days filled with breakfasts and suppers, laughter and sadness, hard work and no poker. Bret and Bart spent the whole time waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. As the next week started they were ever more on guard, expecting an attack that was taking its own sweet time in arriving. Even the members of the cattle consortium wondered just what Nance Tesson was waiting for.
Ten days after the attempted laming of Molly's stallion, a trip to Yuma could no longer be delayed. Supplies were critically low and Bret made the decision, supported by Bart, that tomorrow was the day for the journey. All three were up early. Molly fixed coffee while Bret hitched the wagon and Bart saddled the horses. There was no desire for food, just a nervous anticipation of what was to come.
The ride into town was quiet and peaceful, with no signs of anyone or anything to disturb them. Molly drove the wagon with Bret riding beside her on Blackthorn and Bart bringing up the rear on Noble. The supply list for Mason's General Store was long, and by the time the shopping had been completed all had finally regained their appetites. Once again the Cantina served as the spot for food and respite from the ever-growing concern that there was an attack of some sort coming, and the longer it was delayed, the worse it was expected to be.
They were finishing their meal when Burns Wolcott and Jeremiah Bircken walked in and sat down. Jeremiah tipped his hat; there was no acknowledgment of any sort from Wolcott. Less than five minutes later Marshal Sanders made an appearance. Unlike the other two, he came to their table. "Molly, Hancock, Delacroix, must be a supply run, eh?"
"Marshal, how are you this mornin'?" Bret asked as Molly nodded and Bart said nothing.
"Fit as a fiddle, Mr. Delacroix. And yourself?"
Bret was tempted to laugh but resisted the urge. "Just fine." He put money on the table and turned to Molly. "Are you ready to go?"
"Yes. Conrad, nice to see you." Bart held Molly's chair and Sanders stepped aside as they left the Cantina.
Bart secured Noble to the back of the loaded wagon and helped Molly up, then climbed up himself to drive. Bret once again rode along next to them. Back inside the Cantina, Conrad took a seat at the table with Wolcott and Bircken. "What was that little farce?" Burns asked pointedly.
"Just that," the marshal answered. "I want it well-documented that we were all here and just as cordial as could be to them."
"Do you expect somethin' that we don't know about?" Jeremiah questioned.
"Nope, I know nothin' more than the two of you. I'm just bein' cautious."
"I wish Nance would make his move, whatever it's gonna be," Wolcott stated flatly.
"All in good time, gentlemen. All in good time," the head of the consortium replied.
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Nance Tesson was well aware of the fact that his three targets had finally taken a trip into Yuma proper. Once they passed the halfway point on the road into town he had a sizeable herd of cattle moved from his ranch towards Bircken's, slowly making their way down the road and forcing any travelers to take the long, more difficult way around. When his riders had the herd positioned just so they stopped their forward progress and waited, per the bosses instructions.
As soon as the lookout spotted Molly's wagon returning later in the day the cattle were once again started across the valley. The ranch owner directed Bart down the side road and he turned the horses and wagon to the alternate route. "It's gonna be rough," she warned her driver, "but it's passable. Just keep them following the road until we get to that old shack up ahead, then you have to veer left to get home."
Both Mavericks were suspicious of a trap, and Bret rode on to investigate the shack. It was entirely deserted, with no sign of anyone or anything having been in the area for quite a while. He rode back toward his brother and Molly and had just reached them when the sound of a rifle shot split the still air. Bart slapped the horse's reins and took off in the wagon, racing as fast as the team could manage along bumpy terrain. He assumed Bret to be right behind them, but it required every bit of his attention to get the horses and wagon back to the ranch in one piece. As they skidded to a halt in front of the house Bart realized his brother was missing.
"Where are you going?!" Molly screamed at him as he jumped on Noble and jerked the reins free of the wagon.
"After him!" Bart yelled back and wheeled the horse the way they'd come, ordering Molly to 'Get inside!" as he rode away. He found Blackthorn standing over his brother, who was sprawled on the ground face down. They were less than ten feet away from the shack. "BRET!"
There was no answer, but there was another rifle shot. This one missed but came within a few inches of Bart as he launched himself from Noble's back and onto the ground next to the motionless figure. No time to do any kind of inspection, as the rifle continued firing, so he heaved his brother from the ground, onto his own back, and ran for the building. Another bullet caught his left hand as he reached to push in the door, and the two Mavericks fell into the limited protection the ramshackle structure offered. The hand wound didn't feel serious and the only thing Bart was interested in was finding where Bret had been hit. There was a bloody gash on his forehead – the cause of his unconsciousness, no doubt – and a gradually spreading stain on his left shoulder. "Don't you know how to duck?" Bart asked shakily, as he peeled off his brother's jacket to check the wound itself.
It was bleeding slowly, which made him believe the bullet was still in there. Another shot came through a hole in the door and just missed. Bart dragged Bret out of the way, up against the wall, and pulled out his Colt. As far as he could tell there was only one shooter; that idea was proven wrong when a gunshot came from a different direction. This wasn't a rifle – it sounded like another .45. He got off two shots, one in each direction, and it was momentarily quiet outside. There was a muffled sound from his brother and he glanced to see eyes struggling to open. He reached down with the fingers of his wounded hand and touched Bret's right shoulder. "You're safe, Bret. I'm here."
"Here," came the murmured response. "Where's here?"
"Inside that shack we almost passed," Bart answered.
"Almost?"
"Molly and I passed. You, not so much."
Another shot from the rifle, and this one came in through the broken-out window and ricocheted off the wall. "Company?"
"Yeah," Bart answered. "Two of 'em, I think. How's the shoulder?"
"Hurts."
"Yeah, I know that feelin'."
Bret finally succeeded in opening his eyes and saw the blood on Bart's left hand. "You're hit."
"Not bad. They caught me as I opened the door to get us in here."
"Molly?"
"She's at the ranch. I got her home before I figured out you'd stopped to take a nap."
"Not . . . my idea."
"Hold on, pappy, I'll get us outta here."
"Got a handkerchief?"
Bart was momentarily speechless. Finally he answered, "Why? You need to blow your nose?"
Bret put out his right hand. "Give it . . . here. I'll wrap your hand."
Bart pulled out the kerchief with his bloody fingers and dropped it into Bret's outstretched hand. "Satisfied?"
"Hold still," the older brother instructed, as he attempted to wrap Bart's hand and tie a makeshift knot. "At least ya won't drip . . . blood."
"Will you settle down now?"
"Sure."
Ten or fifteen minutes went by before another shot was fired, and it came from a third direction. Either there were now three shooters or one of the original two had changed positions. Bart snuck a look out the window just in time to see someone unfamiliar looking run across the rut-filled road. He took a shot and missed and was met by an almost immediate hail of bullets. He glanced down at Bret, whose eyes were once again closed. "Not a good idea, son," the wounded man told him.
"Thanks. I'll remember that."
"Any hope . . . a gettin' outta here?"
Bart let out a breath. "Not anytime soon, I'm sorry to say."
"Okay," was the response. "I kinda figured."
XXXXXXXX
Molly could hear the gunfire and didn't know what to do. Hancock told her to stay inside, and she knew that was the safest place for her, but those were her foremen being shot at. And surely if one of them hadn't been hurt they would have come riding back. Just as she made up her mind to go help whether it was a good idea or not, a rifle shot took out her front window. She grabbed her own rifle from behind the door and returned fire, just to see if she could flush the shooter out. The response was swift and came at her from two different directions.
Whether she wanted to help or not, she wasn't going anywhere, either. Maybe that was the point of the whole matter; keep her pinned down while someone else took care of the two men that had become her trusted friends. Had Joe been shot? How badly was he hurt? Or, God forbid, was he dead? And what about Hancock? Had he gotten back in time to protect Joe? Somebody was alive – that much she knew, because shots could still be heard. But what condition either of them was in was a question she had no answer for. And now, just like Jamie and Joe, she would have to sit and wait.
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Time passed slowly, just as it always does when you've nothing to do but wait for time to pass. Bret's head hurt; so did his shoulder. And Bart's hand, whether it was serious or not, kept up its slow trickle of blood and nagging pain. Bret was in and out of consciousness, and Bart was content to let that occur; at least Bret wasn't in pain when he wasn't awake.
Bart knew well the strategy; it didn't take a genius to figure it out. Keep them pinned down and wondering when the next all-out assault would come, then wait until the cover of darkness to strike. This was not a robbery attempt; it was an attack on their very lives. And no matter what it took, Bart Maverick had no intention of losing the fight.