And the Devil Makes Five

Chapter 7 – Heartache Tonight

Bret looked down into the old well and scowled. They'd been digging for over a week and were so far down it was going to be impossible to go much further. And he was still trying to figure out how one man could have dug this out by himself. A thought eventually occurred to him – Rafael never said he buried the gold alone.

At the moment it was Bart down in the well. They'd had to take turns down there, digging out a bucket at a time and sending it back up, a slow process at best. Each turn lasted about twenty minutes; it was difficult to see and work under those conditions. Just as Bart was getting ready to come up, he hit something and yelled. Even Doc came scurrying over to the well to see just what his friend found.

Bart sat on his haunches and brushed the dirt away from something that looked like the lid of a chest or strongbox. It wouldn't open until it could be gotten out of the well so he went about digging down further to loose the ground's hold on the container. He was able to free the chest from the packed-in dirt, but there was a lock on the clasp; space in the well was too confined to get the lock open. Bart untied the rope from one of the buckets and knotted it around the chest, then the remaining Mavericks hauled it up to the top and pulled it out.

Beau worked on the lock with a pick and tried to get the chest open while Bret strained to help pull Bart out of the well by himself. Without warning a strange rumbling sound echoed across the desert landscape and the earth beneath their feet began to shake and buck – almost like a wild, untamed stallion. Bret made a grab for his brother, but the ground shook and rolled so violently that he found himself flat on his back while the unexpected earthquake played out.

Slowly the earth's shuddering decreased in intensity until it sank into small rumbles and Bret was able to get first to his knees and then his feet. Beau struggled to stand and ran for the well. The top lip had cracked and broken and the above ground edifice was full of fissures and crumbling structure. So much dirt and dust was coming up from the bottom that nothing else, including Bart, could be seen.

"Bart! Bart! Are you alright? Can you hear me?" Bret coughed and spit as his lungs were filled with the dirty air.

Beau covered his mouth with his arm and pointed through the slowly clearing dust clouds. "Down there, near the bottom," he directed his cousin's gaze. Sure enough, Bret could see patches of Bart's red shirt, mostly buried by piles of crumbled rock and soil.

"Bart!" he yelled again. Nothing at the bottom of the well was moving. Doc was there with them now, and the three men stared helplessly into the gloom of the collapsed well. Bret ran for the supplies and returned with a rope. "Hold onto this, I'm goin' down," he told Beau as he wrapped the other end of the rope around his waist. Beau did the same and braced himself to help hold Bret's weight as he climbed down inside what was left of the well they'd spent a week excavating. The descent was quick; the climb back up would not be.

He started digging his brother out. He used his hands for the most part, and the more he dug, the more hopeless it seemed. Bart was sprawled on the bottom of the well, face up, and was unconscious and not moving. Bret couldn't tell if his brother was breathing or not as he continued to fling debris frantically. At last he got enough dirt off to find Bart's wrist and feel for a pulse – it was weak and thready, but it was there.

"Bret? Is he alive?"

"He's breathin'. That's about all." Bret kept scooping dirt and crumbled adobe off Bart until he could finally pick him up and put his brother across his back. Bret battled for long minutes up the inside wall, unable to get a foothold and make any significant headway. He managed to change direction and fought to climb out with the added weight of an unconscious man on his shoulders. A small aftershock hit and he clung to the wall for dear life. Once it passed he renewed his efforts to make progress upward and finally got close enough to the top that Beau and Doc could get hold of Bart's wounded and battered body. Grabbing and clawing to get his cousin out of the darkness of the crumbling shaft, Beau at long last managed to get Bart back on firm ground. With Doc's help Bret soon followed.

Bret was correct; Bart was breathing but not much else. Dirty, bloody and bruised, still unconscious and with lungs filled with debris, there was little they could do to help. Bret pulled away from Doc's grasp and stumbled over to Bart's side. Beau had used one of the canteens to wet a handkerchief and was trying to wipe some of the grime and blood from his cousin's face. Bret instinctively felt again for his brothers' pulse; it was slow but steadier than it had been at first.

Once again Bret was worried about a head injury. Ever since the pistol-whipping in Montana that was always his first thought, and he had no way to determine what might have happened as Bart lost his hold and fell in the now virtually collapsed well. He paid particular attention to the web of cuts around Bart's hairline, worried more about a concussion than almost anything else. The small moan that escaped Bart's lips was a most welcome sound and Bret prayed it meant an upward move on his brother's part toward consciousness. Without turning back towards Doc he could hear the clatter of the pick tearing at the locked chest; 'good,' he thought, 'that gives Doc something productive to do.'

Beau was talking softly to Bart as he continued to wipe off his cousin's face and neck, remembering all the time he and Bret and Jody had spent in one-sided conversations with the youngest Maverick in Montana. He was just as concerned as Bret; he'd heard the litany of all the abuse Bart had taken over the past three or four years and wondered at the fact that his cousin was as strong and healthy as he was. And now this. 'Why not me, down in that well?' he thought. 'Why does misery seem to have it in for Bart?'

Beau studied Bret and saw the concern etched on his face and the worry in his eyes. Bret had been momma and sometimes pappy to his younger brother since Bart was five years old; it would be a difficult habit to break if something actually claimed that life. He stopped what he was doing for a moment and reached out to rest his hand on Bret's shoulder. The oldest of the three gamblers never took his eyes off his brother, but a smile creased his lips and Beau knew the support he was offering was appreciated. It was impossible to imagine his life without both Maverick brothers in it. He gave a squeeze before letting go and Bret finally looked at him. There was more than just worry there; there was apprehension and unease, disquiet and fear. For Bart and Beau. For someone that seemed as happy-go-lucky as Bret Maverick, there was way more at play than he showed to the world.

The noise from the attempted lock-picker suddenly ceased and both Maverick's realized at the same moment that Doc had succeeded in opening the chest. What they were not prepared for was the gasp that went up from the usually taciturn gunfighter. He turned the strongbox to face the Mavericks and they understood his reaction – inside were the most beautiful perfectly matched set of gold and jewel-encrusted chalices either of them had ever seen.

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It was past dawn and Bart still hadn't regained consciousness. Bret and Beau agreed the best thing to do would be to get him back to camp where they could keep watch on him; the problem was how to get him there. It was decided that the preferred method was via wagon – somebody had to go into Santa Pietro and buy one. Beau volunteered, as he knew Bret would never leave Bart long enough to make the trip there and back, and it could take Doc three days before returning if he saw the cantina. Beau mounted his horse and rode out; in almost no time he was back in the small village.

He went straight to the general store, there was no doubt in his mind that he could get anything he wanted from Esteban. While he was making arrangements with the owner for the wagon and horses, Carmenita came in and asked about his two 'friends.' She'd seen him ride into town as if he was on fire and wondered what propelled him to such great haste.

"There was an accident, Señorita - un accidente – and my cousin was injured – injuriado – and we need a wagon to transport him."

"Bart or Bret?" Carmenita asked.

Beau shook his head in amazement. Obviously those two had made quite an impression on the young barmaid. "Bart," he answered.

'Oh no,' she thought, 'the dancing eyes!' "He is gravemente herido?"

"We aren't sure," he told her as he paid Esteban for the purchase.

"Who takes care of?"

"We do," came his reply.

Carmenita shook her head and black curls fell everywhere. "No." She grabbed Beau's hand and marched next door to the cantina, dragging the reluctant Texan with the English accent behind her. After a long Spanish filled string of conversation with the bartender, Carmenita led Beau back outside. There, as arranged, sat the wagon and horses. The barmaid let go of Beau's hand and pointed at his horse. "Ride. I drive wagon."

Without further argument Beau mounted his horse and set off, back towards the spot where he'd left everyone. Carmenita drove the wagon like a crazy woman and they were back at the well in short order. Bret looked up from his brother's side and was astonished to see the petite barmaid jump down from the wagon's seat.

Beau shrugged his shoulders. "Never argue with a woman," he offered.

Bret shook his head. "You don't know that by now?"

Carmenita came over and crouched down by Bart, gently laying a hand on his forehead. She took in the bruises and cuts on his handsome face and looked over at Bret. "Not siesta."

"No, Carmenita, not a siesta. Inconsciente." He didn't try to explain what had caused the unconsciousness.

Doc, who had been napping with his hat low on his face, was awake as soon as he heard the female voice. They'd been holding out on him. No wonder the eagerness to go to Santa Pietro. The only question Doc had was why hadn't somebody told him?

The chalices had been left in the strongbox and the lid was closed. Beau picked it up and put it in the wagon bed, hoping to get Bart loaded in next. Bret and Carmenita were still talking about Bart and Doc was now awake and mobile. Beau crossed the desert sands to stand behind the girl; she was shaking her head 'no.' "Cousin Bret?"

Bret looked up at him. "Yep, let's get him in the wagon. She insists on coming back with us. Hitch my horse up to the back, I saw her tearing through the desert to get here. I'll drive. She can sit in the wagon with Bart."

Beau nodded. "Okay. Let me move the . . . . uh . . . . things under the seat."

"Good idea. Doc, a little help here?"

Doc hurried over to the young woman. He tipped his hat and offered his arm to her, which she took. "Señorita, my name is Doc."

"Doctor?" she repeated.

"No, just Doc." He walked her towards the wagon as Beau hurried back to help Bret pick up the still-unconscious Bart and load him in. Once that was accomplished Doc helped Carmenita up into the back, where she sat on the bed of the wagon and tended to Bart. Doc grabbed his horse and mounted, as did Beau, and Bret slapped the reins. The strange procession started, and much slower than it had arrived, the wagon and riders made their way south across the barren desert.

Gravement herido – Seriously wounded

Inconsciente - Unconscious

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