Death Has Its Price

Chapter 5 – The Man In the Mask

Doc opened his eyes to his customary hangover, only somehow this one was different. Then he remembered and looked around the room. He was alone; there was no Bart Maverick there to harangue him into getting up at this ungodly hour and going to get coffee. He started to sit up in bed and felt the pain in his body, and in his heart, and the events of twenty-four hours ago came rushing back at him.

Yesterday his best friend had thrown a pillow at him to get him out of bed. Today his best friend was dead. Well, he didn't know that for sure, but the odds were against finding Bart alive. If the rock slide hadn't killed him, exposure to the overnight elements and whatever injuries he'd suffered probably had. The group Doc organized last night to go out and search had given their word they'd try again today, but he knew in his heart of hearts that it was probably too late to rescue his friend

All he could do now was wait. Wait to see if the search party could find the body. Wait for his devastated brother to get to Apache Junction. Wait to see if Bret blamed him for Bart's death. Because he certainly blamed himself. Bart had suggested taking the long way to Mountain City, but Doc talked him into riding through the Superstition Mountains rather than riding around to save the extra three days travel time. If only he'd listened . . . . . .

Doc got dressed as best he could with the broken arm and went to the sheriff's office, where the search party had agreed to meet. Several men were already there waiting for him to arrive, and when he did, he wasted no time. He offered a five hundred dollar reward to whoever found Bart Maverick, alive or dead. Maybe it would provide some comfort to Bret to be able to bury his brother. At least that way there would be no doubt.

The men that had gathered rode off, five hundred reasons worth of willing to search for another day. Doc didn't know what to do with himself for a minute and then decided to send another telegram to see if Bret had left Montana yet. There was a reply to the one he'd had sent yesterday, it simply read:

On my way.

How's my brother?

Bret

Doc was relieved that he didn't have to send a wire back announcing they'd been unable to locate Bart. Then he realized he should contact Beau and keep him up-to-date. That could wait until later; maybe he'd have better news to tell Cousin Beau.

Who was he kidding? It was just through some stroke of misfortune that Doc was alive; he should have been the one to perish in the slide, not Bart. He didn't want to think about that anymore, so the best course of action seemed to take him in the direction of the saloon. There he bought and paid for two bottles of whiskey, the best they had, and he retired to his hotel room to hold a private wake for his friend.

Two days later Doc was still holed up in his room, morosely drinking to either remember Bart or forget him – he wasn't sure which at that exact moment. The search party had returned empty handed; the only thing they'd been able to find was the missing man's hat – it looked just like it had been through a rock slide. The sheriff let it be known, courtesy of Doc Holliday, that there was a thousand dollar reward for anybody who turned up positive proof that Bart was dead – in other words, find his body and bring it back. There were plenty of men out searching after that first day, but so far no one had found him. By the third day he'd received another wire from Bret – he was in New Mexico and would be in Apache Junction tomorrow.

Doc walked the floor that night, unable to sleep. There was no doubt in his mind that Bart was gone – and he was going to have to be the one to tell Bret what happened. He quit drinking, sure that he needed to be sober to do so.

But when the stage arrived from Salt Flats, New Mexico, and the oldest Maverick got off, Doc lost his nerve. He could stare down the barrel of a Colt revolver and never flinch, but he couldn't tell Bret what had happened. He left that task to Doctor Boyer, the full-time doctor and part-time coroner of Apache Junction.

The doctor laid it out, pure and simple, for the man that had come such a long way to hear such terrible news. His brother Bart was dead, he had to be, they'd searched for days with no trace of him. All that could be found was his horse, with a snapped neck, and his hat mangled almost beyond recognition. Doc muttered something about a prank that he and Bart played on someone in town and presented Bret with all that remained of his brother, the wallet engraved with 'Bart Maverick' on the outside, and Bret's last letter.

Bret heard the words, but they had no meaning. Bart dead? It couldn't be. He'd know it, deep inside. There would be pain, and anguish, and an insufferable empty space where Bart was supposed to be. Instead everything was as it had been before. Bret heard the words, but they made no sense at all. Avalanche? Days long search? Dead horse? Bart's hat? The words just kept coming, and he finally could take no more, and bolted from the room. Outside he fought to get air into his lungs. This was some cruel and horrible joke that the fates were trying to play on him. Punishing him for all the times he'd stepped in and spoiled their plans to destroy the youngest of the brothers Maverick.

Bart Maverick was still out there somewhere, alive, waiting for his brother to find him and bring him home. And by God, if it was the last thing he ever did on this earth, Bret Maverick would do just that.

XXXXXXXX

Doc had gone out the back door of Doctor Boyer's office, and when Bret regained his composure and returned from outside he had already fled, back to his hotel room and the safety of a whiskey bottle. It didn't take an expert to track Doc down, there was only one hotel in town and he was most certainly registered there. Bret didn't knock, just walked in to find Doc well into a new bottle, hiding from the world as usual.

"You couldn't tell me, Doc? You had to have somebody else do it? You were his friend and you couldn't do me the courtesy of telling me yourself?" Bret was quiet and calm, but there was an edge in his voice that few had ever heard. He was standing in front of Doc Holliday, the man that claimed Bart as his best friend, and he was angry. "I need you to tell me what happened, Doc. Now."

Doc shook his head, already drunk again and still sorrowful. "It's my fault. All my fault. Goin' to Mountain City and I had to take the short cut. He'd still be alive if we'd gone the long way. Damn it. Hate spendin' time in the saddle. More than halfway across the mountains when the slide started. I don't know what happened to him, Bret. I got taken out by a tree and never saw him go down. Found his horse, but not him."

Doc stopped talking and Bret had never seen him look so miserable. "Looked as best I could. Sent searchers up three different times, and they couldn't find him either. I . . . . . . .I'm never gonna forgive myself." Doc put his bottle down and lowered his head into his hand. "I'm sorry. So sorry. I just . . . . . he never tried to change me. Just accepted me as I was . . . that's why . . . . . " He trailed off into nothing.

Bret stood and watched the man who'd stared down some of the fastest guns in the west and never blinked. Doc was a mess right now, and Bret was having a hard time feeling anything but sorry for him. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, and nothing but an ache where his heart was supposed to be.

"Stop it, Doc. He's not dead."

Doc looked up at Bret. "I wish."

"He's not."

"How can you be so sure?"

That was easy to answer. "Because I'd know if he was."

'When was Bret going to believe him?' Doc wandered. 'The Mavericks are stubborn, not crazy.' "He's gone, Bret. You weren't there. He couldn't have made it out alive."

"Did you see him, Doc? Did you see him dead after you were knocked out?"

There was no answer for a few minutes, as Doc took another drink. Then, finally, a hesitant response. "No."

"That's what I thought. He's out there somewhere, Doc, and I gotta find him. No matter how long it takes."

"Then . . . . . I gotta . . . . . help . . . . . find him . . . . . too." That was the last word Doc spoke; he finally passed out and slumped down in his chair. Bret shook his head and did what he'd done for his brother, only not because of intoxication – put him to bed. He took the glass out of the dentist's hand and set it on the dresser, then took Doc's boots off and picked him up, carrying him three feet to the bed.

Bret stood over the bed and looked at the prone form of the most uncaring, ill-tempered man on the face of the earth. A stone-cold killer who cared for nothing and no-one. The man so miserable over the death of his friend that he'd just drunk himself into a stupor. Doc Holliday was a mask that John Henry Holliday wore, similar to the Bret Maverick mask that he showed to the world at large. Few people ever saw the vulnerable, sad man hidden in the shadows. Bret had, and it wasn't a pretty sight.