It was almost eight o'clock when there was a knock on the door. Bart set his coffee cup down and picked up his Colt, following Molly to the front of the house. She opened the door slowly as Bart kept the gun pointed at whoever was behind it. He wasn't sure whether to be happy or disappointed that it was the marshal, but Molly opened the door wide. "Conrad, come in. I assume you're here to talk to me about the shootings."
Bart moved back and let the marshal in while holstering his gun. "A little paranoid there, aren't you, Hancock?" Sanders asked.
"Nope," Bart answered. "A lot paranoid. Just bein' cautious, marshal."
"Would you like some coffee, Conrad?" Molly was doing her best to appear cordial and unsuspecting.
"I'd love some, Molly. I've got some questions to ask you. Can we talk in private?"
Bart nodded and went back to Bret's room but deliberately left the door open. Molly poured the marshal a cup of coffee and they sat down at the kitchen table.
"Is it Sanders?" Bret asked quietly.
"Yeah." Bart picked up his chair and moved it to the other side of the bed so that he could keep an eye on Molly while talking to his brother. He trusted Sanders not one little bit.
"Are you bein' paranoid?" That was an odd question coming from Bret.
"No, I'm not. He's the one behind the new plan, whatever it is."
"Did you get any sleep last night? Ya look worn out." Bret tried changing the subject, sort of. He shifted his position so that he could watch his brother.
"Some. Not much. I think there's gonna be another attack."
"Before - ?"
"Yeah. Sometime after the marshal leaves here today."
"So he's not the shooter?"
Bart took a sip of coffee and shook his head. "Nope. Or the mayor. That leaves Bircken, Wolcott, and Tesson. From what I've heard, Wolcott hasn't the patience for it."
"Bircken or Tesson?"
"Tesson. Bircken wouldn't get his hands dirty. He'd hire somebody to do it." Bart looked at his brother. "That was sure quick. Marshal's comin' this way."
Sanders had spoken to Molly for less than ten minutes, and he now stood in the doorway of Bret's room. "Delacroix. Can we talk?"
"Sure, marshal. Go right ahead."
"I meant in private."
Bret gave the marshal one of his brother's wry little smiles. "This is as private as its gonna get, Sanders."
Conrad shrugged. "If that's the way you want it. Tell me what you remember about the day you were shot."
"Not much, really. We were all on the way back to the ranch from that supply run to Yuma when somebody started shootin' at us. Hancock was drivin' the wagon an he got Molly outta there in a hurry. I heard another shot an felt the impact; the horse reared and when he came down I kept on goin'. Next thing I remember is bein' inside the shack with Hancock."
"Did you see anybody?"
"Nope, but I heard somebody outside. He was shootin' as he ran and Hancock got him. That was hours later."
"Is that it?"
"Heard somebody ride away, then Molly got there with the boys. That's about all."
Sanders paused, as if letting the information sink in. "And you have no idea who it was, or why they were shootin'?"
"None. Maybe you should ask your friends who was responsible." Bret said it in such an innocuous tone of voice that it rolled right off the marshal's back, as if he'd never even heard it.
"Alright. Thanks." Conrad turned and went back out into the main room. "Thanks, Molly. I'll let you know if I turn up anything. Take care." And he was gone before the girl had a chance to say a word. She came back into Bret's room, a cup of coffee in her hands.
"Does he think I'm stupid?" she asked, sounding as irritated as they'd ever heard her.
"He thinks everybody's stupid but him," Bart answered.
"He almost spoils my appetite. I'm goin' out to get some eggs," she announced.
"Not alone," came Bart's measured response.
"Yes, Mr. Guard Dog. Not alone," and she smiled and waited for Hancock to go with her. Bret watched the two of them leave and slipped his arm out of the sling. He flexed the shoulder gently and felt the tug on the stitches, then sat still before he could do any damage. Like it or not, as soon as Doc Bradley saw him tomorrow, he was out of this bed. He might not be able to do much work, but he could play guard dog just as well as his brother could.
XXXXXXXX
Doc Bradley was relatively pleased when he came to check on the injured man the following day. Much to his brother's astonishment Bret had actually done everything the doctor asked of him, and the stitches in the wound appeared to have performed their job.
"I'm not telling you to go out and start digging holes with that arm, but you should certainly be able to get out of bed and use it some," the doctor pronounced. "There's no sign of infection and it seems to be healing nicely."
"Wrong thing to tell him, Doc," Bart announced, causing Bret to break into a big grin.
"Thanks, Doc, that's just what I wanted to hear." He sat up straight in bed and his brother knew just what was coming as soon as the doctor left the room.
"You still need to take it easy, Mr. Delacroix. It's not healed, you know."
"Oh, I know, Doc," Bret answered as he slipped the sling off his arm carefully. He winced as if to show he took the doctor's pronouncement seriously.
Bart shook Bradley's hand. "Thanks for everything, Doctor. When do you wanna see him again?"
"If nothing else changes, sometime early next week. Keep it dry and clean and come into Yuma if you see any signs of an infection. When he comes to town, you come with him and I'll take those stitches out."
"Will do. Thanks again."
Doctor Bradley took his leave and no sooner was he gone than Bret threw the covers back on the bed. "Where's my pants, Hancock?"
"Excuse us, Molly. I need to talk to him," Bart apologized as he ushered Molly out of the bedroom and closed the door behind her. He turned around and glared at his brother. "I'd ask what you're doin' but I already know. Can't ya stay there one more day?"
"No. I can't do a lot, but I can do some. You're the one that needs sleep, anyway."
"I'm fine," Bart answered.
"I'd like ya to stay that way."
Bart shook his head before helping Bret put his pants back on. "You still gotta be careful."
"I will be. Now, what needs to be done around here?"
"Let's go out to the barn. Horses should be fed. I know a gelding that's probably losin' his mind. We can turn 'em out in the corral for a while."
Molly was standing expectantly by the front door. "Can I go with you? I'll go absolutely crazy if I don't get outside for a little while."
"Be safer if you stayed in here," Bret told her.
"Please? I promise to stay right by you."
"Get behind me," Bart told her. "And keep your eyes open for anything."
The three of them stepped out on the porch, with Bart carrying a shotgun and Bret his Colt. Molly stayed behind both of them and they hurried to the barn, where they were met by nickers, whinnies, and general cacophony. Bart fished the apple out of his pocket and fed it to Noble while Bret opened the doors for Blackthorn and the mare, who immediately rushed outside. Molly spent a few minutes with Galead and then opened his stall, too. Not to be left out, Noble swallowed what was left of his apple and quickly followed. The four horses romped and ran in the corral like they hadn't been out for weeks while Bart and Molly mucked out the stalls and Bret took care of providing food.
Molly stood at the window she'd had to replace and watched the horses run like little children. Bret came up behind her and stayed with her for a few minutes, and she leaned back into him. The movement wasn't lost on Bart. He wasn't sure just how far things might have gone between the ranch owner and his brother, but there were definitely feelings of some kind swirling around the two of them. "Need more hay," Bart announced as he pulled a bale down from the stack in a corner of the barn. There was no reaction from Bret or Molly.
"Let's leave them outside for a while, alright?" Molly asked, and Bret answered with an "Mmmhmm." Soon after Bret turned back to his brother. "You about done?"
"Yep," the reply came back. "I'll come out an bring 'em all in later."
"Molly, you ready?"
She sighed but turned to leave. "How long can this go on?" she asked.
Bart shook his head. "The choices are limited. Till they're dead or in jail."
'Or we're dead,' Bret thought but kept it to himself. Later that afternoon he would be wondering just how prophetic that thought might have been.