The story title comes into this chapter. More seeing both sides of conversations. Sorry if dialogue isn't your thing, but I've gotten very little feedback to work with, so I'm just doing what I like. *bitter smirk*
Doc was glad to arrive in Pierceville, a small community in the midst of completing their second post office. The first had been lost to a fire that spread from the general store when Indians had attacked a few years prior. The people were wary and tough. The downside, in Doc's opinion, was that they were not prone to gambling. Still, it was good to stretch their legs and have a long rest while the stagecoach driver and shotgun man took care of business and helped their replacements hitch a fresh team of horses to the coach.
The soldiers kept track of Jackson during this time, allowing Doc and the Earps to fully relax. They bought a proper lunch at the one eatery in town.
"You want me to ride while you two drive the next stretch?" James asked.
"It'll be the longest so far," Wyatt said, looking a little concerned. "It might be near dark when we get to Lakin."
"I'm not an old man, Wyatt."
Doc smiled a little but said nothing. He knew his preference might not be the fairest option, so he told himself to stay out of it and let the others decide.
"If I start getting saddle sore, I'll call a halt and we can swap," James continued. "Besides, it may actually be a nice change from the buckboard bounce for a while."
"All right, if you're sure," Wyatt said.
Doc's face betrayed nothing, but he was elated. Now that the traveling arrangements had been made, he said, "Wyatt, there's something I wanted to speak with you about anyway."
"Oh?" Wyatt glanced at James.
"Something you can't discuss in front of me?" James guessed.
"Oh, I could," Doc said carelessly. "I just doubt Wyatt would care for it to go any further than the two of us."
Wyatt looked irritated. "Just go ahead. James is my brother, damn it."
Doc shrugged. "As you say, Wyatt. It's about Frankie Bell."
"What about her?"
"It has come to my attention that, as she is not a woman of means, paying off her twenty-dollar fine will be a burden on her."
"She had it coming," Wyatt muttered, but he looked agitated - perhaps guilty.
"She got a slap in addition to the fine. I would think the pain and humiliation ought to have offset the amount a bit."
"He has a point," James put in. "You got off with a dollar fine. It isn't really fair."
"What do you want me to do?" Wyatt's voice was a little strained, but not defensive. "Appeal to the judge? Get Charlie to retract the charge?"
Doc shook his head. "That wouldn't improve Miss Bell's reputation at this point. I'd be satisfied if you helped her pay the fine. In fact, I think that's the most fitting thing, considering you're really the reason she got into trouble in the first place."
Wyatt stared at the table a while. He glanced at James.
"You oughtta help her out," James said.
With a sigh, Wyatt said, "All right. I'll help her pay the fine. But then I don't want to hear about this again."
"Fair enough." Doc smiled. "Consider it behind us. A thing we don't discuss."
"Good."
Pierceville seemed to sink into the landscape behind them. Doc watched Wyatt's hands, which held the sets of reins as naturally as they would a knife and fork. They were strong hands, a little rough from honest work. The strips of leather were laced between his fingers in such a way that he could use his thumb to adjust them without having to appeal to his other hand for assistance.
"You ever handled a coach and four?" Doc asked, picturing Wyatt in a black suit and high silk hat. The image made him smile a little.
"I used to ride shotgun for Wells Fargo," Wyatt replied. "Had to take over for the driver a few times. Does that count?"
Doc looked ahead at the stagecoach and pictured Wyatt taking command of a runaway team. "Near enough. You enjoy driving? You seem quite practiced at it."
"I like it all right. Reminds me of living on a farm."
"You grew up on one?"
"We had a farm in Iowa. I was about two years old when we settled there. Did most of my growing up there, outside a town called Pella. Pa wanted to go to California, but my sister Martha got sick on the way, so that's where we stopped."
The sister they lost, Doc recalled from his conversation with James. "How old was she?"
"Three years older than me. She never got strong again. Died when she was about ten or eleven."
"That must have been hard." It was still a topic he didn't like, but somehow Doc didn't mind so much when he was discussing it with Wyatt.
"'Bout killed my ma." Wyatt fell silent for a moment. "But then... a couple years later, Virginia was born. And when she was three, along comes Adelia. James met her when he got sent home from the war. She was about two years old when he first saw her. He, Newt and Virg enlisted the month before she was born. Those two didn't meet her until she was waist high."
"That's quite a span of years," Doc mused. "James mentioned how prolific your father has been."
"Prolific?" Wyatt chuckled, reminding Doc how much he loved the sound. "In fathering children, you mean?"
"Mm. Ten, he said."
As the silence stretched out, Doc played their exchange over in his mind. Three of Wyatt's brothers had been in the war, but no one said anything about any of them dying. In fact, James had mentioned two girls having died, and eight out of the ten Earp children as "still living." "You were fortunate in the war," he commented.
"What?"
"No one in your immediate family was killed. It was the same for me."
"Oh. I see. Yes, we were mighty relieved when they were all discharged at last."
"But James was wounded... that's what afflicts his left arm?"
"Yeah. We were afraid he wouldn't be able to use it at all, but it's come back, mostly. He gets along fine."
"That's good." Doc meant it. Maybe they were all a bunch of damned Yankees, but he had made up his mind that Wyatt was his friend. Any brother of Wyatt's was welcome to life and liberty as far as he was concerned.
"You were too young to join up," Wyatt commented.
"Yes. I had plenty to worry about at home, anyway." Why did I say that? Discussing Wyatt's family was one thing, but his own was another.
"Oh? What was there for a boy of... ten... to worry about?"
Why'd I tell him my age? Oh yeah, he pried it out of me last night, damn him. He took a slow breath. "My mother... she fell ill toward the end of the war."
"I'm sorry." After a silence, Wyatt asked, "Did she recover?"
"No. Much as I shall not." And here we are, back at the other topic I abhor.
Another silence, this one longer.
"Do you... do you know how long you've got?"
Doc shrugged. "As I told you, I outlived everyone's expectations some time ago. I couldn't begin to guess."
"How long have you been sick?"
Leave it alone. Doc sighed. "About five years. Wyatt, I'd like it if this became another thing we don't discuss."
Wyatt waited so long to answer that Doc half expected an argument. But Wyatt just said, "All right."
"Oh, I could," Doc said carelessly. "I just doubt Wyatt would care for it to go any further than the two of us."
You want James to hear it, Wyatt's thoughts accused. You think he'll be on your side of whatever it is. "Just go ahead. James is my brother, damn it."
Doc shrugged. "As you say, Wyatt. It's about Frankie Bell."
"What about her?"
Doc made his case, and predictably, James backed him up.
"You oughtta help her out," James said.
With a sigh, Wyatt said, "All right. I'll help her pay the fine. But then I don't want to hear about this again."
"Fair enough." Doc smiled. "Consider it behind us. A thing we don't discuss."
"Good." Maybe getting these two together wasn't a good idea... they're allying against me. At least I'll have plenty of money when we get through with this job.
Once they were on their way, Wyatt found himself at a loss for how to begin a conversation with Doc. He was still smarting a little from being scolded by the younger man. Fortunately, Doc began a conversation himself.
"You ever handled a coach and four?" Doc was watching Wyatt's hands and smiling a little.
"I used to ride shotgun for Wells Fargo," Wyatt replied. "Had to take over for the driver a few times. Does that count?"
"Near enough. You enjoy driving? You seem quite practiced at it."
Practiced a ton... to get Pa to trust me with the buckboard. "I like it all right. Reminds me of living on a farm."
"You grew up on one?"
"We had a farm in Iowa. I was about two years old when we settled there." Wyatt didn't remember the trip from Illinois to Iowa, but he had heard his family tell the story many times. "Did most of my growing up there, outside a town called Pella. Pa wanted to go to California, but my sister Martha got sick on the way, so that's where we stopped."
"How old was she?"
"Three years older than me. She never got strong again. Died when she was about ten or eleven." It was easy to say if he didn't think about it.
"That must have been hard."
Damn. Now he was thinking about it. "'Bout killed my ma." Wyatt took a moment to push down the memories. He remembered how all of them had rejoiced when his next sibling was born a girl. It was like Martha had come back to them in another form. "But then... a couple years later, Virginia was born." He went on about his elder brothers' introductions to their youngest sister.
"That's quite a span of years. James mentioned how prolific your father has been."
"Prolific?" Doc's meaning sank in, causing Wyatt to chuckle. "In fathering children, you mean?"
"Mm. Ten, he said."
Wyatt wanted to say something clever in response, but the only remotely clever things he thought of were inappropriate.
"You were fortunate in the war," Doc commented.
"What?" Wyatt felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Were they about to have a fight over the civil war? Would Doc attack him physically? He had heard that his friend had a short fuse, and even witnessed him lashing out at someone once or twice.
"No one in your immediate family was killed. It was the same for me."
"Oh." Wyatt felt a little sweat oozing from his pores even as he relaxed. "I see. Yes, we were mighty relieved when they were all discharged at last."
"But James was wounded... that's what afflicts his left arm?"
"Yeah. We were afraid he wouldn't be able to use it at all, but it's come back, mostly. He gets along fine."
"That's good." Doc sounded like he meant it.
I should have known he wouldn't hold the war against me just because our families were on opposite sides, he scolded himself. "You were too young to join up."
"Yes. I had plenty to worry about at home, anyway," Doc commented.
"Oh? What was there for a boy of..." Wyat recalled that Doc was three years younger than him. "...ten... to worry about?"
Doc took a slow breath. "My mother... she fell ill toward the end of the war." The words were heavy, holding much more than they actually said.
"I'm sorry." Wyatt waited for him to go on, but it didn't seem like he would. Finally, he asked, "Did she recover?"
"No. Much as I shall not." He said it without a trace of feeling. Maybe he answered without thinking about it, like Wyatt trying not to think about Martha's death.
Wyatt wondered if he should change the subject. He didn't want to cause his friend pain. But he found himself worrying, in spite of Doc's assurance that he wouldn't "drop dead" on this trip. "Do you... do you know how long you've got?" he ventured.
Doc shrugged. "As I told you, I outlived everyone's expectations some time ago. I couldn't begin to guess."
"How long have you been sick?"
Doc sighed. "About five years. Wyatt, I'd like it if this became another thing we don't discuss."
It must be becoming difficult for Doc to continue separating his feelings from the discussion. Wyatt wished he could say that he wouldn't think any less of Doc for getting upset, but that wouldn't be proper. Doc wanted to move on, anyway. "All right."
The boys are becoming emotionally closer than they realize.
Is anyone reading this?