"Bart?"
"Hmmm?"
"Is it time?"
"Time for what, Pappy?"
"Time to go home."
Bart looked down from his spot leaning against the bottom of the shattered window, worried about Bret. It was dark enough that he could barely see, but it looked like his brother's eyes were open again. Bret shifted his position slightly and winced as he did so; that bullet in his shoulder wasn't helping any. They'd been here all afternoon and evening, and now how long into the night? Bart pulled his watch out of his coat pocket and tried to read it. Almost one o'clock in the morning. What he wouldn't give right now for a drink of water. It had to be worse for Bret, and there was no way for him to help.
"Is there anything I can do for you, big brother? Any way I can help?"
"You got any . . . any cigars on ya?"
Bart shook his head, then realized that Bret probably couldn't see him in the dark. "Can't, Pappy. Can't give 'em a target. Anything else?"
"Talk to me. Don't wanna . . . think . . . about the . . . shoulder."
"Don't know what to talk about. Unless . . . there's one thing I never told you the truth about."
"Mexico."
"Yeah." Bart stared down at the ground, then over at Bret. He saw the look of pain in his brother's eyes, and knew he had to do something to ease the intensity of the hurt. Maybe if he could make Bret think about something else . . .
"It started the day we buried Caroline. I was so broken up inside that I had to go – get out of there as fast as I could. I hadn't gotten a mile away from the ranch when I pulled a bottle of whiskey out of my saddlebags . . ."
Bart spent the better part of the night telling his brother the story of drunken days and nights in Magdalena, his friendship with Melodia, the card cheating, the nights spent in the stall with his horse, including the last night when he tried . . . well, when he attempted to end all the pain. How he got sick, then sober, and Melodia put the idea of the school in his head. Trying to buy the land from Dorado, meeting and becoming friends with Alonzo, the nights spent in Nogales playing poker to win enough to pay for all the building materials; the robbery that almost broke him. Then the hard physical labor, the heat and the sweat as Zo taught him to do something with his hands besides play poker, and the accident that nearly derailed everything.
He explained Maxwell Auebechon, or rather René Gauthier, and his murderous brother Phillippe, the recovery of the stolen funds, the completion of the school, the birth and christening of Alonzo Bartley Sequestre. And finally, his return to the states to find and make amends to his own brother.
Bret was so quiet when he finished that he thought maybe his brother had passed out again. Finally, in a tired voice, he heard, "Why wouldn't ya tell me what happened down there?"
Bart sighed. He knew this moment would come, when he finally had to tell the whole truth about everything that transpired, and he'd put it off as long as he could. He let out another long breath and finally gave his answer. "I cheated, Bret. Not just one hand, and not just one person. Every game I played, every new opponent I faced. I used every dirty trick that Pappy ever taught us. Night after night after night, until the night I put the gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger. I took money away from other men like somebody owed it to me. And when I got sober enough to realize what I'd done, I wanted to die all over again. How could I do that and still call myself a Maverick?
"That's what I haven't been able to tell you all this time. Because I knew when I finally told you what I'd done, you wouldn't wanna call me brother anymore. I didn't wanna lose you." Sigh. "And now I have."
"Is that what you think of me? That I'd disown you over poker?"
"Pappy raised us to be honest."
The voice was weak, but the words were strong. "Momma raised us until she died, and then we raised ourselves. Pappy did the best he could, and that included teachin' us poker. But Pappy's the one that taught us how to cheat, too. Don't forget that. I'm not sayin' it was right, but after what led up to it, I understand it. Once you quit drinkin', did you cheat again?"
"No."
"And you paid for the whole school?"
"Yeah, and I helped build it until my hand got broken."
Bret was silent for a minute or more. When he finally spoke, there was sympathy and affection in his voice. "You did your best to pay your debt to the people a that town. You gave 'em somethin' they'll have for years and years, somethin' they wouldn't a had before. Somethin' that they needed. I'd say you did right by the people of Magdalena."
Bart let out the breath he'd been holding in. His voice was quiet, humble, hopeful. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Bret closed his eyes against the darkness. He was exhausted after what he'd told Bart, but it needed to be said. His brother couldn't spend the rest of his life trying to pay a debt he didn't owe. Now, after all this time, things finally made sense. Why Bart was always so ready to help strangers. To try and right every wrong that was committed against somebody that didn't deserve it. Maybe even jumping in front of Bret to take a bullet meant for the older Maverick and almost getting himself killed for doing it. He was always trying to make up for the 'crime' he'd committed against the people of a tiny town in Mexico.
Bret struggled to open his eyes. "Bart, I . . . "
Before he could say anything else, another round of shots rang out in the silent night air, and even Bret could hear the noise made by running feet. Bart waited and suddenly twisted sideways in the window and fired, and a soft grunt of 'ooof' was heard, followed by a loud 'thud' as a body hit the ground and lay still.
"One down, one to go," Bart whispered.
'Please, God, don't let us have to wait that long for the next one,' ran through Bret's mind.