Now the jail was full of actual criminals, it became necessary to move Canaday. After thinking about it for a short time, Hank decided that the only feasible location was Artly's hotel. Unfortunately, the rooms were all upstairs, and Hank didn't believe Canaday could make it. So he confiscated Artly's bedroom, telling the man to use one of the hotel rooms in the meantime. Artly wasn't overly thrilled about the arrangement, but the hotel was mostly vacant anyway.
Hank was right, Canaday couldn't make it across the street, much less upstairs. Steve and Jake mostly carried him between them, and then Hank inspected the wound that had been reopened, wondering how much blood a man could lose before he died, and how close to the limit Canaday had already come.
Then Jake redressed the wound on Canaday, while Steve saw to the one in Hank's arm.
"I think that bullet needs to come out," Steve told Hank.
"And who's gonna get it out? You?"
"Doc's out of town," Steve replied, "So unless you'd rather Artly do it..."
"What am I? Chopped liver?" Jake protested.
"Which one of us has steadier hands, huh?" Steve shot back.
"I can't believe I'm hearing this," Hank said, not especially wanting either of them to operate.
They were decent deputies and good friends, but in his opinion they had no business practicing more than basic first aid level medicine.
"If that bullet had hit a little more to the right, you wouldn't be hearing anything," Steve remarked.
"You mean left," Hank said.
"What?"
"If it were more to the right, he would've missed me entirely."
"No, more to the right... wait..." Steve looked perplexed, and Hank enjoyed it.
They were of course talking about left and right from different perspectives. From the perspective of the shooter, Steve was right. But from his own perspective, Hank was right... or left.
"And you want to know why he doesn't want you to operate on him."
This low muttered remark came from Canaday, who was lying on his side, facing the wall so Jake could get at the wound on his back. He'd made no protest or complaint during his relocation, in fact he'd said nothing at all since the fight in the sheriff's office until now.
"I don't remember asking your opinion," Steve said, somewhat irritably.
"Oh, go make some coffee," Jake told him, "It's one thing you can't do wrong."
"I thought you hated coffee," Hank said.
"I do," Jake replied, "That's why Steve can't ruin it."
"If you weren't tending to a wounded man, I'd smack you," Steve informed his brother.
"Thank God for small favors," Jake responded calmly.
"Look," Steve said, looking forthrightly at Hank, "The doc's gonna be tied up delivering babies for who knows how long. Wind's kicking up and it's dark out there, so chances are he won't make the trip back to town until the storm's gone. By then, you'll be sick as a dog, unless you let someone get the bullet out. So either pick one of us," he nodded at Jake, "Or I'll flip a coin and pick for you."
Hank looked at Jake, who glanced up from his work just long enough to show in his expression that he agreed with his brother. In the moment it took Hank to think it over, Jake had finished tying off the bandage on Canaday.
Hank sighed, "Alright. Fine. Jake, you go back to the office and keep an eye on our prisoners. Steve..."
He didn't have to finish the order. Jake was already out the door and gone, and Steve was brushing past him to go to the kitchen, where he could sterilize a knife using the fire in the stove, and boil some more water. That left Hank and Canaday alone in the room. Hank sighed and sat on the small wooden chair next to the bed. Canaday continued to lie on his side, staring at the wall.
"Brothers?" Canaday inquired.
"They are," Hank replied, "I'm not related."
"Exhausting, isn't it?"
"You could say that," Hank said, "You got brothers?"
"No," Canaday replied quickly, "No brothers," Hank heard what Canaday didn't say; that he had no family at all.
"Me neither," Hank told him, "Fact is, those two are the closest I've got to having family. But you know, I wouldn't trade them for any number blood relations."
Canaday said nothing to that, so Hank said it for him.
"That's how you feel about the Cartwrights, isn't it?"
Canaday was quiet for a long time, then he finally said quietly, "Yeah. I guess that's right."
Hank nodded to himself, then said, "I'll do what I can to get 'em back for you."
Canaday twitched, evidently surprised. He turned his head to look at Hank over his shoulder. There was a wary, almost suspicious look in his blue eyes, but he said nothing as he silently studied Hank, looking for something in Hank's face. Finally he turned back towards the wall.
"Thanks," it was spoken almost too softly to hear, but the relief contained in that single word was unmistakable.
Fortunately, it was not the first time Joe and Hoss had found themselves assisting in the delivery of a baby. They comprehended the importance of clean blankets and boiled water. In fact, they seemed better equipped to handle the situation than their mustached host, who seemed capable only of holding tightly to the woman's hand and brushing sweat from her forehead with his free one.
After giving them a 'who the hell are you?' look, the woman seemed content to let them help. She was obviously even better informed than either of the brothers, because she sometimes gave them instructions or corrections about what they ought to be doing, when she could spare the time and energy.
During a lull in activity, Hoss took the opportunity to ask if they could stable their horses in the barn. The man stared blankly as though he were being addressed in a foreign language, but the woman nodded her assent.
"Just be careful not to scare the youngsters," she managed to say.
Without discussion, Hoss went out to take care of the horses. In the small house, and in particular the tiny bedroom with a bed too large for its size in addition to other furniture, and also the large and mostly inert mustache, Joe was the better asset. Being small did have its advantages at times.
The wind was much worse, and Hoss could barely see. He staggered towards the barn, unable to tell clearly where he was going. The storm was getting well underway, but he wasn't sure if it was snowing or if it was merely the wind picking up old snow and throwing it around.
Evidently seeing him coming, Cochise moved from wherever he'd been huddled and shoved his muzzle into Hoss' hand, which had been outstretched to search for the barn. Already half numb with the biting cold, Hoss reached out and grabbed a handful of the pinto's mane. Cochise was only too eager to lead him to the closed barn door, wanting out of the icy wind just as badly as Hoss himself.
Hoss found Chub and Candy's horse pressed up against the barn door, positioned side by side, their tails turned to the wind.
"Some help you two are," Hoss remarked.
Chub flicked an ear in Hoss' direction, but didn't move. Unlike Cochise, Chub had never been terribly independent of mind, nor had he been encouraged to do tricks as Cochise had. Hoss led his horse into a stall like a normal person, Joe would dismount and tell Cochise to go to his stall, then follow the horse into the barn. Hoss' horse drank water in the morning like a regular animal, Joe shared his coffee with the pinto and asked his opinion on whether or not it had been made strong enough.
Joe had once said, "You may get a less obedient horse if you encourage him to be independent and make decisions, but you get a better and more intelligent friend out of the bargain."
For once, Hoss wasn't laughing about the Joe's odd handling. He was glad Cochise had come to find him. He would have found the barn eventually, but blowing snow was disorienting, especially when coupled with the darkness. He decided not to tell Joe about the incident, knowing his younger brother would be supremely smug about it and would probably never let him forget it.
Hoss opened the barn, and the three horses immediately hastened inside while he located a lamp he could light. The barn was somewhat full of horses. There was one empty stall, but all the occupied ones were doubled up. It took him a moment to realize that these were mares and yearlings he was looking at. He was long accustomed to foals being separated from their dams by the time they got to the age these ones were at. The yearlings shied away from him, but the mares all stuck their heads forward, looking for treats or attention, investigating the stranger with overt friendliness.
At first, he didn't pay much attention to them, busy with unsaddling the three horses he'd brought in and checking to make sure they hadn't been injured while out on the road or in the storm. But as he was looking about for grooming equipment, he found himself giving a second glance to the black mare.
He went to her, not sure what had attracted his interest. She had a dainty, elegant head, which she immediately stretched out so that he could pet her. Her liquid brown eyes looked at him with immediate and absolute trust, clearly this was a mare used to being well-loved by humans. Behind her, a skittish red yearling paced and blew, rolling his eyes nervously at the stranger.
Eventually, it came to Hoss that he'd seen this mare before. He remembered her dainty looks, but most especially her very sweet temperament. She was a beautiful little mare, but more than that she was very friendly and gentle, and seemed to love people on sight. He couldn't quite place when or where he'd met her. It had been a few years ago. Finally he left her alone to finish caring for the horses he'd brought in. He figured it would sooner or later come back to him where he'd seen her before.
There wasn't much he could do except leave the three horses loose in the barn; certainly they could not all fit in the single empty stall, though its bucket allowed them easy access to water. But the three were good and trusted horses. If any of them got into trouble, it would be Cochise, and he was smart enough not only to be a prankster, but to ensure his mischief was harmless.
Finding the way back to the house was much easier, even through the snow Hoss could faintly make out the glow of light through the frosted window in the living room, and he headed towards that until he all but fell onto the porch, then fumbled around until he found the door itself.
Inside, he found Joe sitting in the living room, looking extremely pleased with himself.
For a split second, Hoss thought Joe had somehow seen Cochise guiding Hoss to the barn, but then he saw the look was a lot more glowing than that. Before his brother spoke, Hoss had absorbed the meaning of that look, and he took a careful seat on a nearby chair.
"You took too long with those horses," Joe said, a very distracted looking smile on his face, "You missed the excitement," by which he clearly meant the actual birth; lastly he added, "It's a boy."
The announcement, though Hoss had anticipated it, still knocked the wind out of him. Even though these people were total strangers, there was just something about having babies that took precedence over everything. The expression Joe had said the baby was healthy, at least to look at.
A squeal from the other room confirmed a strong set of lungs on the new little one.
The two brothers were contentedly silent for some time, listening to the baby cry, then begin to make more pleasant gurgling sounds, then eventually the baby got quiet, probably eating or else sleeping. The mustache didn't emerge from the room, like as not he'd forgotten Hoss and Joe entirely. He could hardly be blamed for that, new fathers tended to have eyes only for their wives and children, and the boys could only assume that the man belonged to the woman and infant.
Finally, Hoss broke the silence, "What is it with babies and bein' born in storms? D'you s'pose there's somethin' in the air they like? Seems like babies are always bein' born in snow or thunder, and mostly at night too."
"I think babies have something against people sleeping," Joe remarked dryly, having also noticed a certain propensity of offspring to arrive in the middle of the night.
They both sighed, Joe lazing one end of the couch while Hoss leaned back in the chair. They gazed into the fire, transfixed by the crackling flames, enjoying the light and the warmth and security it provided on this stormy night. They tried not to worry about their pa, who was very likely out in it, knowing they could do nothing for him until the storm cleared. Because they were exhausted and caught up in the afterglow of a brand new life entering into the world, it wasn't too difficult to avoid worrying. In fact, it was almost impossible to connect the events of this night with all that had preceded it. Elodie felt a million miles away just now and -in this weather- it might as well have been.
Nobody would be able to follow them now, the storm would wipe out any trace of them.
Hoss found himself idly wondering if Deputy Mayer had anticipated the storm and been counting on its help. But, if he had, then surely he would have warned them about it. Being out in a blizzard, especially at night, was just as likely to kill as a bullet from a gun.
"Hoss," Joe said finally.
"Yeah?"
"You remember that Christmas we had a widow and her daughter staying with us?"
"Elizabeth and Susie May Griffon," Hoss recalled, "I recall you were sweet on Elizabeth."
Joe smiled a little at the memory, and he laughed quietly, "She liked my horse."
"I reckon she liked more about you than that," Hoss said.
"She liked that Susie May liked me," Joe admitted, "That little girl was a ball of energy. It was all I could do just to keep up with her," he smiled again, "She liked my horse too, but she couldn't say his name. She called him Spot. I don't think he minded."
"That horse don't care what you call him, jus' so long as you bring him a treat. Susie May liked to feed horses carrots, I think."
Joe nodded, "She was always taking them from the kitchen. Poor Hop Sing had a terrible time making anything involving carrots, because she'd take them all and give them to the horses."
"That was some of the strangest stew he ever fixed," Hoss said, wrinkling his nose a bit, "It just ain't right if it don't have any carrots in it."
"Well, it was supposed to be carrot stew," Joe reminded him, "I don't think I've ever seen Hop Sing more embarrassed or annoyed. But I think he may have purposely left a few of those carrots unsupervised," Hop Sing, despite being very temperamental, was actually quite fond of children, and he had a special soft spot for any who had suffered more than their share of grief, as a child who'd lost her father to an accident less than a month before Christmas.
"Remember when she decided to sing for us?" Hoss asked, knowing his brother did.
Elizabeth Griffon had a beautiful singing voice, and had often performed for her friends and family at parties. Susie May had inherited her mother's enthusiasm but, at four years old, she lacked the talent. But she had wanted to give the Cartwrights something because her mother had told her that was a good thing to do when people were kind to you, so she'd arranged to sing for them on Christmas Eve. Her voice was high, her tune carrying somewhat nonexistent, but her heart was in the right place. She'd put all her love for the Cartwrights into her singing, and they'd been touched by the gesture.
"What was that she sang instead of Joy to the World?" Joe asked, "Something involving dogs?"
Little Susie May had a knack for inventing her own lyrics when she couldn't remember the words to a song, and she remembered her improvised lyrics for later performances.
"Boing to the Squirrels, I think it was," Hoss said.
Joe nodded quietly, and they gazed into the fire without speaking for a couple of minutes.
Then Joe said, "That was a good Christmas."
"Yeah," Hoss agreed, "It sure was."
Studying the licking flames in the fireplace, Hoss found himself wondering if this Christmas might also somehow be a good one. With his father most likely out in a blizzard and Candy's whereabouts and condition now unaccounted for, he wasn't sure how it could be.
Then again, a lot of Christmases had seemed destined to be bad, or at least sorrowful. But, somehow, they had always ended up alright, though some had been rather bittersweet, such as the first Christmas after Joe's mother died. That one had been very sad... but not only that. Hoss remembered them all sitting around the fire that Christmas Eve, and he realized that was the night their tradition of reminiscing about past Christmases had begun. That alone made it a good Christmas, even though it was touched by grief, as were so many that had come after. He supposed that -in a strange way- being etched with sorrow was what made the joys of Christmas all the more clear and meaningful.