Friends, the wait is over (for now). Enjoy

Chasing Strays Ch 13

Nausea swept through him as Slim tried and failed to lift his head. He groaned and swallowed hard before trying again. When he finally did manage it, he winced as his tender skull made contact with something rough and unyielding behind him. He clenched his jaw shut and tried hard not to be sick. He tried to bring his hand up to see if he was bleeding, but tight bands held him back.

"Tall boy's wakin' up," someone mumbled nearby.

Cold fury and fear settled like a stone in Slim's stomach as he remembered what had happened.

He forced his eyes open and steeled himself against the light.

Slim was, as he'd suspected, seated on the ground with his back against a tree. Ropes looped around his chest to hold him in place but thankfully, his hands and feet were not bound. Small favors. As his vision slowly cleared, he was able to make sense of the rest of the scene.

He recognized the small shack off to his right almost immediately. They were on the northernmost edge of the ranch, just off the old north Laramie road. The shack, originally built by an old prospector named Mo, had been there since before Slim's family had bought the place. Matt Sherman had let the old man keep his home even after it became part of the ranch. After Mo had died, Matt and Slim had turned the place into a sort of line shack. The place wasn't particularly well taken care of or well stocked, especially not this time of year, but apparently Slim's captors had found it adequate.

Leaning against the frame of the old building were three men, each looking more bored than the last. One of them Slim recognized as the cowboy who'd claimed to be looking for a job, but the name Slim had been given escaped him. Probably fake anyway. The cold, unfeeling grin on the cowboy's face was just as unsettling now as it had been back at the ranch house.

"Rise and shine, there, Mr. Boss Man," the cowboy said, nudging one of his partners. "You landowners are all the same. Sleeping the day away while the rest of us working folk carry all the weight."

The other two men sniggered at the joke. Slim held his tongue.

The man's eyes narrowed at Slim's lack of response. "Not so high and mighty now, are ya?" he asked, spitting tobacco juice onto the dirt. "'least you could do is say thank you, you know. We coulda just killed you, but instead we lugged your sorry ass all the way out here with us. That deserves a real thank you, don't you agree boys?"

Slim's head throbbed with the effort of keeping his mouth shut while the other two laughed at his expense.

The man spit again. "If no one else ever taught you manners, boy, I think I owe you a lesson."

He shoved his weight away from the shack and took a step in Slim's direction. Under the ropes, all Slim could do was tense up and brace for what he knew was coming.

The creak of the old hinges stopped the man short.

"Knock it off, Pete," the newcomer said, stepping out into the light.

"Aw, Sam, I was just havin' a little fun with ole Sherman here," the man said, jerking a thumb in Slim's direction.

"If you're that bored, do something useful and watch the other one," Sam snapped, gesturing inside. Pete followed his direction without another protest. As soon as he was out of the way, Slim could see Sam clearly for the first time.

Their so-called Doctor Watkins had loosened his string tie and ditched his jacket and glasses. Slim closed his eyes a moment and internally groaned in realization.

Stading there, plain as day, was none other than Sam Willet.

From bad to worse, he thought, as he forced his eyes open again. He couldn't worry about what he should have seen earlier. He couldn't afford to. Slim didn't know what would happen next or why the outlaws had singled them out in the first place, but he knew that the sooner he could get out of the situation, the better. Mike and Jess needed him. He tried to focus on his bonds, but his concussion had them slipping through his fingers before he could get a sense on either of them.

Sam Willet didn't spare Slim a glance as he walked out from the cabin, hands on hips, staring out over the prairie, looking for something beyond the horizon. Waiting for something, Slim reasoned. Or someone.

"He's supposed to be here, ain't he?" one of the other men asked.

Willet didn't respond. Slim's head throbbed and his body ached.

The other man leaning against the building shifted uneasily. "I wish he'd hurry up and get here," he told his buddy. "Gives me the willies."

"I don't even know how we got talked into this," the first man said, apparently giving up on an answer to his question. "After that thing with the wagon, we were supposed to be done. We were supposed to be paid and out of the territory. Instead, we wasted weeks planning this thing, and what have we got to show for it?"

His friend nodded solemnly. "Gives me the willies," he repeated with a shudder.

"Wonder what he'd gonna say if that kid don't start waking up soon."

Slim's attention sharpened.

The other man just shrugged. "Don't know," he said, "but I really don't wanna find out. It's gotta be the shock, though," he offered, "he'll come out of it soon. Pete said he caught him when he fell out of that tree, and there isn't a scratch on him."

Slim couldn't help the sigh that slid through his lips as his body deflated in relief. Mike was fine. Most likely zoned, but physically okay. He could deal with the zone after they were out of here.

Willet, hearing his sigh, turned his attention over to Slim. His gaze was calculating and cool, professional in every sense of the word.

"That's right, Mr. Sherman," he said, matter-of-factly. "No need to worry about the boy. You just sit tight right where you are and this will all be over soon," he finished with a nod.

Slim's head hurt too much to formulate any kind of response. It galled him that Willet was right. Slim really didn't have much choice besides waiting along with the rest of them. Any smart remarks would only serve to rile up his captors; that is, if Willet was even capable of getting "riled". It was obvious that every step of this plan had been organized and executed with ruthless efficiency. Slim fought against the feeling of resignation threatening to creep in.

Willet tipped his head to the side, considering Slim.

"I believe you've met our associate before, Mr. Sherman," he said after a while. Slim noticed both men against the cabin were listening intently now.

Slim shrugged as much as his restraints would allow. "I wouldn't know," Slim said, coughing against the dry feeling in his throat. Must have been out longer than I thought.

Willet stepped over to the horses and grabbed a canteen. Slim's own canteen off of his own saddle, he realized, unsure if he appreciated or resented the action. Willet unscrewed the cap and raised the metal to Slim's lips, gave him a few sips, and recapped it again without a word. His expression made it clear that it was out of necessity for conversation rather than kindness. Slim, for his part, was just thankful when the water didn't come back up.

"Our associate goes by the name Elias Williams. Blond hair, blue eyes, medium height and build. A few years older than you, a few years younger than me. His horse is a bit more memorable than the man himself," he said, almost conversationally. "I believe you had the pleasure of meeting him last week. Tuesday, was it?"

Slim's heart nearly stopped in his chest. It was a miracle he heard a single word after hearing Elias Williams. Jess had been right as usual. The stranger from that day at the ranch had indeed been related to Mike, and his name was Elias.

"Pleasure isn't the word I'd use," Slim finally ground out. Even to himself, his voice sounded strangled.

Willet gave him a bland smile. "An opinion we share, then," he replied. "He can be… quite persuasive, when he wants to be," Willet said. Behind him, the men against the shack both shifted around uncomfortably.

"Never talked me into anything," Slim said, jutting his chin forward in defiance and doing his best to ignore the pulsing of his headache. As far as Slim was concerned, Elias and his tricks could go to blazes.

"So he said," Willet commented idly. "Perhaps I better explain," he went on, in response to Slim's raised eyebrows. "Several weeks back, I was contacted by letter and paid a partial sum in advance to complete a fairly simple job. In the letter, the man explained how his wife had run away with her lover and taken their son with them. Like any reasonable father, he wanted his son back, but he was lacking the necessary skills needed to accomplish that task. This man, of course, was Elias Williams, although I did not learn his name until later."

Slim's headache flared again at the implication. Lacking the necessary skills, my ass, Slim thought. Elias had wanted his wife, Mike's mother, out of the way with no connection back to himself. Something in the story didn't exactly track, though. If Mike's mother had been running away from her husband named Williams, why had she, Mike, and her new man all gone by that surname? And if she'd run away with the new man after going west, why hadn't Mike remembered time spent with his father?

Slim was forced to table his questions as Willet continued.

"We were unable to locate the child, and Elias refused to pay the rest of the agreed sum. Considering that only half the task had been completed, we parted ways peaceably enough. That is, until one of my men overheard something interesting in a Cheyenne saloon. He heard one of the shotgun riders of the Overland Stage Company saying that one of the stage stop owners had taken in a boy after his folks had been killed in an Indian raid."

This time, the sick feeling in Slim's stomach had nothing to do with his concussion. There had been no reason in the beginning to hide Mike or come up with any kind of a cover story. It hadn't been any sort of secret. Now, Slim wondered if their ignorance would cost them all their lives.

"We got word to Elias as a professional courtesy, you understand, and offered to retrieve the child for another payment. Elias declined and went to fetch the boy himself. Apparently, though, he was unable to complete that task himself. Tell me, Mr. Sherman, why is that?"

Slim just glared at Willet, but for once, the other man seemed to be openly curious.

After it was clear his question would go unanswered, Willet crouched down in front of Slim. He steeples his fingers over his knees and looked directly at Slim.

"Elias came back to us, saying he'd changed his mind. Now, Mr. Sherman, I pride myself on careful planning. It's what's kept me in business so long. Planning is both a talent and a hobby of mine, and it is a task I've never delegated. When this man came to me with his own plan all laid out, I agreed to it without any protest at all. Tell me, Mr. Sherman, why he was able to convince me that his plan was the best and only way to get the job done, and why he was able to convince me that all this extra work, delivering both you and the boy, should be done for the originally agreed upon sum. Tell me why he was able to do all of that, but he couldn't manage to get that boy away from you on his own?"

If Slim's hands hadn't been tied down to his sides, he was sure they'd be shaking. Slim did his best not to gape at the man as his sluggish brain tried to work through everything he'd been told. The rumors about Willet hadn't been exaggerated, Slim now knew. He was every bit as smart as people claimed, and he knew he had Slim backed into a corner. Before he could come up with any kind of an answer that wouldn't get him or Mike shot, the men by the shack snapped to attention, their gazes locked on something in the distance.

"Showtime, boss."