Chapter 7 On The Ranch

The day after the wedding, Sunday, the Harbinger clan treated Bret to a visit with a local insurer. After a paltry physical examination by a most reluctant Flager, the family insurer, a Mr. Albright, wrote a $25,000 Perpetual Life Insurance on him, ignoring the groom's obvious drawbacks (two bullet wounds).

With that kind of money, Corrie's son could be schooled back east, or her daughter given a first-rate marriage. With earnings from the bank of six percent per annum over the course of eighteen years—why that would be a phenomenal sum!

It didn't look good though for Bret's longevity. That afternoon, lying in a wagon of straw, he was taken out to the Harbinger ranch, ensconced in bed and left to dream about his fate.

That following Wednesday, as soon as he had arrived in Omaha, Bart quietly sought out Dr. Flagler, the man who had wired him in Abilene. Flagler told him the 'good' news.

"He's hitched!" Bart laughed. "I never thought I'd live to see it."

"Sober up, Mr. Maverick. One of Bret's new brothers-in-law, Charlie Harbinger, already put two bullets in him. He actually shot him," Flagler said. "Twice! And then there's the 'policy.'"

"Policy?"

"Perpetual Life Insurance, for twenty-five grand. Bret's worth a lot more dead than alive right now."

Bart did 'sober up.' "I've taken a false identity," he relayed. "I'm now a notions drummer. An itinerant salesman. It seems to fit me, for just like Bret, I'm a frequent rover myself."

"And you see where it got him," said Flagler, throwing medical supplies in a bag. Bart tagged along as Doc went out to the Harbingers to visit both his patients. In the living room of the huge, rambling two-story dwelling, he showed the family his catalog and sample wares, while Doc and his male patient visited in a back room off the kitchen.

They weren't exactly alone. Clancy was with them. When Flagler reappeared, having already seen to Corrie, it was time to go, though Bart had yet to see his brother. No one would have let the representative from the Peoria Notions Co. in to see a sick family member, so he was out of luck anyway.

Flagler and Bart Maverick rode out, but then Bart left the Doc in a copse of oaks and sneaked back in, hiding behind a tree outside Bret's bedroom. Flagler had raised Bret's window for air and, secretively, for the two brothers to meet. Hoping to forestall Clancy's eager attentions towards Bret, he had given strict orders that Bret was to be left alone that day.

Bart, raising the window a mite more, climbed over the sill and, seeing Bret watching him, put his fingers to his lips. With Clancy in the room, Flagler couldn't have warned him Bart was there. He looked up, inquiringly, as if seeing a ghost, then broke into a wide smile.

"Flagler said you'd been shot," Bart hurriedly began. "Pretty bad?"

"My leg. It bothers me some, and I limp. Doc says I will for a few weeks. He's just being kind."

Hovering over the bed, Bart asked, "What's this all about, Bret?"

"I'm afraid I got myself into a bit of a pickle with these folks."

"I understand that. But from what I gather, you weren't responsible for the way this turned out."

"If you mean, are you going to be an uncle any time soon, then no, you aren't."

"But Bret—haven't you told them?"

"Till I'm blue. Nobody believes me. Except maybe Flagler, and you."

"Bret, how do you know?"

"What a question, brother Bart! How does any man know?"

"You're sure?"

"Bart, Corrie—that's the girl—and I had a couple of picnics. Nothing serious. She got this way, the man's gone, now she's married to me."

Bart shook his head, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. "Dr. Flagler said you hadn't gone into the notion of marryin' with a calm spirit." He laughed outright. "Did you fight hard?"

"As hard as two bullets would let me. And Charlie. If you haven't met him—then don't. He's not the sort for meetin' folks."

Bret was rubbing his hand across the back of his neck when the two Mavericks heard a noise in the stone hall outside the door, as if several men were coming down the corridor.

"Lay down, Bret!" said Bart. "I'll get out. Harbingers coming."

Bret lay back and composed himself like the dead, lacking only the lily on the breast. He closed his eyes as Bart hastily got up and exited by the window again, hiding behind the tree. Harsh voices filled the room behind him, making him wonder what was happening to Bret.

A few minutes after the voices ceased, Bart left the area and hiked back through the woods to his horse. Flagler was squatting by a pond scooping up water to drink. Both men climbed on board their horses and then hightailed it. In his hotel room back in town, Bart lay down in the heat of the afternoon and slept a dreamful sleep. How could he get Bret out of this mess, without getting himself in?

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An astonishing amount of work could be accomplished by a half-lame gambler with a hole in his side. He mended harness, raked out the barn, soaped saddles—countless tasks, from sunup to sundown, while over the thousands of flat Nebraska acres, Harbinger cattle fattened on new spring grass.

He was a good hand, saying nary a word, just obeying. As two more weeks passed, he kept an eye out for Bart, an uncertain eye, looking towards the endless plains until one afternoon Bart appeared with a boxful of goods Corrie had ordered from the Peoria Notions Co.

By finger and eye, lonely for finery and gewgaws, Corrie examined each item. A hat with feathers, a lacy parasol, embroidered table linen. An hour or so before supper, the men came in.

John Whitelock, as Bart now called himself, stayed for a meal of roast beef and potatoes, with the freshest of bread. But amid jokes and racy stories, Bart thought about Bret. He didn't sleep in the house any longer, Flagler had said, but in the barn, where the Harbingers stabled their work horses.

After dinner, and over a brandy, the men sat and talked and smoked. Corrie excused herself, saying she had some knitting to do—all of the men could guess what. Baby booties!

Bart clamped a cigar between his teeth and sucked in. Taking it out again, he held it between his slim long fingers. "Ah, I think I might roam about. I'd like to see the corrals and visit with the horses for a while, if that's alright?" he asked.

"Go ahead, Mr. Whitelock," said the patriarch of the family, Charles Sr. "I have a man working in the big barn. He can show you around. Just don't ask him too many questions, okay?"

"Will do. Convict, huh?"

"No, but we'll just say he don't go off much by hisself. He's a homebody."

Bart smirked inwardly at that, and outwardly as if in agreement. "I read you."

Built before Noah's flood, it seemed, it was a huge barn, straw-strewn and mice-infested. Bart strode softly through one of the big wagon doors which had been left open for air and, in the very dim light of a solitary lantern with scratched glass, caught sight of Bret soaping a saddle.

"Bret?"

"Over here, Bart. Flagler was out today, said you'd be comin' by. It's been two weeks, fellow." Bret had paused in what he was doing, an oily rag in one hand, and the saddle under the other. The oval tin of soap was sitting on the stall rail next to the saddle.

"I know. I had to do a lot of thinkin'."

"Musta been a lot."

"Don't worry, Bret. You're in no way forgotten. I think I know what we can do."

"Well?"

"First, how's the leg?"

"Is that a question out of sympathy, or have you got a plan where I'll need it?" Bret eyed him frankly in the huge, darkish room, a room filled with drifting straw dust.

"Both. There's a boat on its way up the Missouri. It turns around again at Yankton, then heads back down to Omaha. From there, it keeps on east to St. Louis."

"So we wait for the boat to making a landing in town, then board 'er?"

Bart nodded. "That was my plan."

"I can't get away from here to catch a boat. I'm always watched. And I wonder when Old Mr. C.'s going to try to collect the insurance—the reward for my being his son-in-law. I fear for my life, Bart. That's the fear I've lived with ever since you were here last."

Bret hesitated, drew breath, and continued. "Night and day, I don't know what they're plannin'. Even Clancy acts like a stranger. The men—they're on Charlie's side, not mine. No man on this ranch will help us."

"Dr. Flagler might, if I put it to him."

"He might," said Bret, tiredly. "Look, I have to finish this saddle before hitting the sack. You'll be staying a while?"

"Just tonight. The old man said to ask you to show me around. Can you do it? I might need to know the lay of the land."

Sensible suggestion, but Bret sighed again. "Of course. I see your point. But on the day of the—you know what—where will I meet you?" He did not need to put a word to it. "Here, or in town?"

"I'm thinkin' about right here, Bret."

"When?"

"Don't know yet. Let's go out and look over things. Your leg bother you to walk?"

"Well, sure it does. But it'll have to do its bit. I don't want a lily in my hand just yet! Come on!"

Bret put up his things and walked out of the big barn with his brother. Bart looked down at his limp, but Bret seemed not to notice it. He was living with pain in both leg and side, but not letting his guard down by revealing it to the Harbingers.

Only at night, when he curled up in the straw, could he sigh out and close his eyes to rest. Every other waking minute, he was on the alert. Maybe too alert. Tiring himself out.

He and Bart came to a place where a stream flowed lazily through a clearing of cottonwood trees and seep willows, sometimes being lost in the occasional marshy slough. Leaning against the trees, they talked for a long time, until the shadows of deep night fell.

After some time, Bart realized he might be missed by the Harbingers, so they walked back. Leaving Bret at the barn door, Bart was worried about him. How could he have missed the signs, he asked himself. His brother was on the knife's edge of collapse. Days for him were like eternities to anyone else.

Bret had said as much under the cottonwood trees at the stream. "I feel like it's the end of all things, Bart."

Bart had sloughed off the comment as just that of a tired man, but now he knew there was something deeper in it. If he didn't rescue his brother soon, he might not have a brother to rescue. And it might not be all the Harbingers' doing.

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A few more days passed. Hard at it around the ranch, Bret kept looking up at the short, low hills of the Harbinger place, waiting, not sure for how long, until Bart came back to the ranch. At last, with another crate of goods balanced on his saddle, goods purchased out of his catalog by the family, Bart showed up. He'd been delayed in waiting on the shipment by stage.

Again he visited affably with the Harbingers. After they paid him for the goods, plus a commission for handling the sale, he sat down to another meal, smoked a cigar and drank a brandy or two with the men, and finally said it was time to go back to town. If not for an early appointment in the morning, he said, he'd be glad to stay the night again.

Waving farewell to Corrie, her pa and her two brothers, he rode away, supposedly forever. But he paused to wait in the cottonwood grove where he and Bret had first discussed the escape. Deep twilight, then dark came. He heard a low crackle of fallen twigs and looked up.

Bret was there, carrying a small bag over his shoulder. Hearing the commotion in the house when Bart arrived, he had begun to gather his things together, what few they were.

"Glad you could get away. Any trouble?" asked Bart.

"No, none. Not even a dog yip. Guess they know me by now." Meaning the dogs.

"You've practically slept with them all this time!"

Bret laughed. "Shall we be on our way?"

"You can ride. I'll lead the mare."

"Lead?" asked Bret. "You're going to walk? Where's my horse?"

"I didn't want to draw suspicion, one man and two horses."

Bret sighed. "What happens when you want to ride?" He was teasing Bart, both men knowing Bret would only slow them down with his still bandy-leg if he walked.

Bart grinned widely in the dark. "I thought we'd switch up every half-mile."

Once out of the grove, they headed for the river and kept it in sight on their right as they plodded north. Omaha lay in that direction. Somewhere. Trees thinned, then thickened again. A bit of a moon shone. Bret rode the whole way, though they stopped once to rest the horse.

"I'm glad you brought a gun," said Bret, tapping the rifle in its boot. Bart stumbled in a marshy spot and nearly slipped. "Why don't you ride up here?" Bret asked him.

"Don't want to tire the horse."

"Nonsense, brother Bart. It's getting pretty level again. Come on."

"Be nice to ride."

Bart climbed up behind Bret, giving him the chance to take the reins for a change.

"I've just been so dull, sitting up here while you strove so mightily down there. Didn't have a thing to do," said Bret, sighing theatrically.

Bart swore under his breath, his own jeans ruined with the mud to be found so close to the river.

They had to rest the horse again. Getting off proved difficult for the man with the two wounds. During the miles' long ride, he—and they—had stiffened up. While the horse nibbled grass, the brothers sat quietly on a rise of ground, the river churning below.

"Why you didn't get another horse, Bart, I'll never know," said Bret, chewing on his beef sandwich.

"Wouldn't it have looked odd, Bret?"

"No, you're on the road. Carrying notions. Might need a change of mount." He took another pull of the tough, day-old bread.

"I never thought of it like that."

"You're not as smart as me." Bret turned and gestured at the horse, saying, "How long's this poor ol' thing got?"

"Another few days, I hope," said Bart.

Bret quoted something just then. "Their horses were flesh, and not spirit."

"Where did you get that, Bret?"

"I learned it in school."

"That day you went?"

Both laughed again, rather heartily under the circumstances, knowing that with morning the Harbingers would be out in search of Bret. Bart, too, if they could tie him in with the escape.