Death Has Its Price

Chapter 10 – Back to Work

Bret left Apache Junction two days later, after instructing the Western Union clerk that he would be back sometime soon and to hold all wires until his return. He headed south towards Tucson, stopping at two or three small towns along the way and sitting in on games wherever he could find them. They weren't worth much, but they got his mind back on poker and away from the obvious.

By the time he got to Tucson he was ready for a hotel room, a bath and a shave. He signed in to the 'Tucson Silver Palace' and arranged for a bath, then was surprised to find a message waiting for him. 'Any word? Doc.'

He was wondering just how Doc knew where he was until he turned around to go upstairs and almost ran over the gunslinger. "Doc, didn't expect to find you here."

"This is about as far as I'm going for now." Doc looked like he'd slept in his clothes; knowing Doc, he probably had done just that. "Anything? Nothing? Speak, man."

"Doc, I need some space. Give me an hour, I'll meet you in the dining room and tell you everything. Good enough?"

Doc nodded. "Goin' across the street to the bar. I'll be back."

'Sure you will,' thought Bret. "Catch you later."

It was a little less than an hour when he came back downstairs, clean and shaven and starved. He walked into the dining room, never expecting Doc to be there, and was surprised that he was sitting at a table in the back of the room. Bret made his way to the table as Doc raised his cup to get the waitresses attention. She arrived with the coffee pot just as Bret got there; after filling Doc's cup only half-full she poured Bret a whole cup. "You know what you want?" she asked, setting down the pot and taking out a note pad.

"What's the special?"

"Venison steak, mashed potatoes, green beans. Dinner roll."

"And dessert?"

"Cherry pie."

Bret smiled at her. "Bring it all."

As usual, Doc just stared at him. "How can you - ?"

"I ate yesterday, Doc."

Doc's eyes opened wide. "So?"

Bret just shook his head. Doc would never understand. "No word. No change. No anything."

"No trace at all?"

"No trace at all."

"And you're here because – "

"Because I'm not independently wealthy and I need money to live."

"Aha. I see you've come down with my ailment."

Bret took a sip of coffee. "Yep. Not enough funds to keep going. I needed a break."

Doc pulled out his flask and 'repaired' his coffee. "You can stop looking, Bret. Nobody will blame you if you do."

A vehement shake of the head. "I'll blame me. He's out there Doc, I know he is."

"Maverick, be sensible about this. It's been almost three months since that afternoon. We lost him on that mountain; you're not gonna find him."

The waitress brought Bret's dinner and he started in on it. "That's where you're wrong, Doc. I will find him. If it takes me until the day I die."

Doc had no intention of arguing any further. If Bret insisted on being wrong, and stubborn, so be it. He changed the subject, to one no less disturbing. "Any word from Beau?"

Bret sighed. "Yeah, and it's not good. Doctors don't know what Georgia's got, but she just keeps gettin' sicker. I need to be in two places at once, and I can't. Beau needs me there, he's havin' a tough time of it."

"Then you need to go. Beau's alive, he needs your support."

"Bart's alive, Doc."

"I didn't say he wasn't. Besides, I can spend some time lookin' for him."

"We've had this discussion already. Unless you've inherited some money I don't know anything about . . . . . "

"As a matter of fact . . . . . well, it wasn't inherited, exactly."

Bret tried not to laugh. "What was it, exactly?"

There was a pause while Doc tried to think of an answer. "Ah . . . . a wedding gift?"

"You're gettin' married?"

"No, but he was. The operative word being 'was.' The wedding's been delayed, I believe."

"So you're telling me there's an unhappy bride somewhere?"

"My dear Bret, they're all unhappy, aren't they?"

It had been so long since he laughed genuinely that he'd forgotten how funny Doc truly was. "I don't know, Doc, but the grooms sure are!"

Doc put down his cup and got serious. "Really, you should go. I'll stay and keep looking."

The gambler sat there and rolled things over in his mind. He didn't want to leave until he'd found Bart, but Beau's last telegram had sounded desperate. He knew what the situation was in Arizona, and he understood . . . . . but he was falling apart as sure as he breathed. Jody was a wreck, too, and Beckham was frustrated that he couldn't stop whatever was attacking Georgia. Bret made up his mind, then and there, that he had to hold what passed as family together, for everyone's sake. Maybe Doc could be successful where Bret had so far failed. "Alright, I'll leave tomorrow. Tonight I need to make some money. Promise me you really will look for him, Doc."

He knew how hard Doc had grieved for his lost friend, so when Doc said, "I promise, Bret. I'll do my very best to find him," Bret Maverick believed him.

XXXXXXXX

The days seemed to pass at a more leisurely rate than usual. Ever since the nightmare caused by the lone aspirin, John's recovery had also slowed to a snail's pace. The only progress occurred in his foot, where the swelling finally went down and he was able to walk in slippers, then boots. The cut on his hand healed and he would have been able to wear regular clothes again if he'd had any. Everything he'd had on when he was rescued from the mountain was somewhere beyond destroyed, and Amy finally drove into Mountain City one afternoon and went shopping.

She warned John that she had no intention of dressing him all in black, and after enduring his arguments against any other color, she left with an idea in mind.

When she returned to the ranch later that day she'd provided a compromise – black pants, black shirt, and a buckskin jacket. Oh, and a tan hat. After some struggle to at least get the pants and half the shirt on, Amy came back in to help finish the job. The first thing she noticed was the scars that John had on his upper body, then she noticed how thin he was. The man needed someone to make sure he ate, even though she was sure his consumption caused a good deal of the weight issue.

Remarkably, everything fit. When he was dressed and up on his feet, Amy watched as he bowed his head for a moment and closed his eyes. A silent prayer of thanks? It appeared so, when he opened his eyes again he looked down at her and smiled, a big, happy grin. For the first time in weeks he almost felt human.

They got the jacket on him and he slipped his slowly healing broken arm back into the sling. His ribs were still tender, but not the way they'd been. Amy stood on tiptoes and put the hat on his head, then smiled back at him. "It fits you – I mean it looks good on you. Much better than just black would have. Bend down here for a minute."

He did as she asked and she arranged his collar underneath the jacket. Before he straightened he swept her up with his good arm and pulled her to him in a kiss. It was sweet, and tender, and not at all as she'd imagined. Suddenly he turned her loose and backed away from her. "I'm . . . . . I'm sorry, Amy."

She stared at him. After all these months . . . . . her first instinct was to kiss him back, her second instinct was to slap him. She did neither, just stood and stared. Then in a rush she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him for all she was worth. And John Holliday, ex-gunslinger, kissed her back.