Chapter 8

The first man he ran into was not the marshal or sheriff, but an old miner living on his own. His gray, weathered shack lay just off the road, tucked up in a stretch of pines. It wasn't much, but Tommy saw smoke rising from the chimney and feverishly banged on the board and batten door. The crusty old miner slowly opening it, Tommy poured forth his story. He had to put out a hand as the miner began to close the door again.

"Get out!" cried the old fellow, his long beard and hair bobbing with excitement. He had a strong smell of whiskey on him. "I want no trouble with thieves. Or you, either!"

"I need a rope," said Tommy. "Just let me have a rope!"

"I'll get it for you, but you return it, hear?"

Tommy promised he would and waited on the door sill for the old-timer to open the door wider. He entered the dark cavern. Dust motes hung in the air. An aroma of everything ancient struck his nose, but he had too much on his mind to take any more than a passing notice of it.

"I've got some around 'ere—somewhere," said the befuddled proprietor of the shack, scratching his torn shirt about the midsection before going into a back room. He scrounged around in there and five minutes later came up with a length of rope, a half-shot piece all hair and wires.

Turning it over to see if it was the piece he wanted, he handed it to the boy. Tommy nodded and made off with it before the old man could remind him to "Bring it back again!"

Though the yell lit the silent skies, Tommy didn't hear it. He was many yards away, slipping down the pine slope. On his return trip, he didn't see either of the two outlaws. Had they just given up, or were they still looking for him?

He tied the horses' reins around two rocks as an old man had once shown him how to do, and for a minute, he stood between the brutes, turning his head from side to side and murmuring into their ears for dear life. He'd knew it'd be his life if they so much as whinnied—as it may already have been his friend Bret's.

Now he climbed back up the rocks to see to his friend. In less than ten minutes, he stood on the ridge-top, looking down into the river. He didn't like what he saw. Maverick had floated down the quick stream to a quiet eddy among the rocks, but his body had turned, face up, somehow, either by his own power or the water's.

Tommy rushed down among the boulders, leaping across the smaller rocks at each step. He glanced down at them for only a second to gauge his footing.

Once at the stream's edge, he knelt in the water, laying his shins and small ankles across the cold, slippery rocks that had slid down the steep slope into the stream. He tugged on Maverick's arm, calling him to awaken.

With all his might, he tried dragging him out of the water by his shirt, giving up only when he was winded and dizzy and the big man hadn't moved an inch. He sat back on his heels, then bent forward over his friend's body with its cold, pale face and, grasping his arm, tugged again.

"Mister! Mister!" he shouted over the rushing water just a few yards away. "Wake up! Oh, wake up!"

Through the pulling and shouting, Maverick groaned and tried to roll over. He was coming around at last, but still so dazed that he hit the side of his head on a rock near Tommy as he turned.

Wedged so tightly in among the boulders, guarded by even larger ones just beyond him, Maverick's limbs were unresponsive. He couldn't move unless he put forth a lot of will. He didn't have it. Tommy got around behind his head, sliding in the water between two rocks and nearly twisting an ankle. He put his hands under Maverick's arms and gave a mighty heave, but try as he might he couldn't budge him.

Then he remembered the rope. He could use one of the horses to pull Maverick out of the water. Rather tiredly, he got up and trod carefully across the rocks back to the bank, slipping some.

Hoping the card player didn't move around too much and slip out of his niche in the rocks, into the higher water, he struggled up the hill, sometimes on hands and knees, until he reached the ridge-top where he had left the rope. The road itself lay further down, more to the east.

Looking for the outlaws, he turned that way, then grabbed up the rope and pushed through the brush until he returned to the horses. Wrangling the farm mare out of the draw where he'd left them, he threw the rope around the mare's neck and brought her to the ridge-top.

Then, just as mindfully, he carefully eased her, step by step, down the craggy slope towards the river. Once there, he tied the other end of the rope around Maverick's torso—lifting him up was a whole job in itself! Stepping back to the mare, he began to talk into her large ear to start backing upon the uneven stones.

The mare balked at being pushed backward, and shied, neighing in an ear-splitting way, but all the while taking uncertain steps in the direction he wanted her to go. The weight of pulling Maverick when the rope tightened soon made her balk again.

She reared her head up and loudly whinnied. Tommy found out that he had to use more of his own muscle than he had at first thought. Taking a deep breath, he pulled back on the mare's head-gear with one hand, while pushing on the mare's flank with his other.

The mare danced sideways a couple for steps, then one back, then a couple more to the side, twisting Maverick off the rocks first one way, then the other. The card player groaned, but remained otherwise unconscious. Through the mare's agency, he began moving across the rocks, but for all he knew, he might have still been lying out in the middle of the stream hugging a rock.

When he had Maverick out far enough, far enough so that all danger of his drowning was past, though he still lay at the bottom of the slope, Tommy sat down and rested. He breathed deeply in and out, his small chest rising and falling in great heaves, while watching his friend for any sign of his waking up.

Some stirring, but that was all. He pondered how he, just a boy, would get him up the hill. He would have to leave that unsolved for later. He had done the important part, in just pulling the card player out of the water. Now Maverick would have to wake up and save himself the rest of the way. All that Tommy cold do now was to untie him from the horse and let him sleep.

Suddenly, his head whirled. He thought he heard a crunching of small pebbles far up on the hill. He stood and faced the ridge. The old miner appeared at the edge, throwing up a long, thin hand and lightening Tommy's heart considerably. The white-faced boy, all the blood gone out of him at the thought of the outlaws, waved back, smiling, then put his hands to his lips and called through them.

"He's alright, but he's too heavy for me to get up the hill."

"Use the horse! You got one!"

"Too many rocks, mister. I can't drag my friend over all these rocks in the way."

"Well, what do you expect me to do? Night'll be falling in a bit. Three or four hours." Hardly a 'bit.'

"I'm plannin' to sit here with him and hopefully he'll wake up before then. We've got to get back to town to get him a doctor."

"Looks like you may have a long wait. I'd come down and see to him, myself, if I thought I'd like to spend all winter in a cast."

"That's okay. I can tend him. We've got water, and a little food."

"I know what I'll do," said the graybeard.

Mostly talking to himself, he turned and vanished off the ridge. Tommy, still looking up that way, shivered as the wind gusted up. Night would indeed come, though the sun was still very high in the sky right then. He wondered what he'd do, how would he react when he heard the wolves, or coyotes, or cougars, or whatever lurked in these pines.

He looked back at the pale card player asleep, then he stepped over to the horse and unhooked the canteen from the saddle. Kneeling by his friend's head, he tilted the canteen to his lips, parting them and slipping some of the water in. Not that he needed much more than he'd already had!

Tommy got up again, feeling rather lonesome for a human voice, and brought out some of the wrapped bread and butter that had been in the saddlebags all day. He sat on the bank again and ate it, thoughtlessly, while watching his still friend for signs of movement.

"Come on, wake up, mister," he urged.

After a very long while, but before dark, the old man appeared above him again. There was the sound of horses, too. Tommy had fallen down beside Maverick, asleep against his arm, and started up when he heard them. He heard the wrangling of men's voices, too.

Turning in his spot on the ground, he grew anxious, widening his eyes and trying to drink it all in at once. Two or three men were approaching him. He found his feet and stood directly in their way, though offering but scant protection for his still-out friend.

"Who are you?" he snapped out.

"This the man who drowned?" asked one of the two men.

"He ain't drowned. Just out cold."

"Old man said he drowned. We're the undertaker's men. Has he got people around 'ere?"

"No, why?"

"Somebody has to pay to put 'im in the ground."

"Ain't no need for that! I tell you, he's alive."

"Then what're we doin' 'ere?" asked the other one. He hadn't spoken yet.

"Don't know. You want help, boy, gettin' 'im to the top?"

"Would you do that? For how much?"

"Pay us later. Guess you need some help."

Both men bent and lifted Maverick, one at his head, one at his feet, then began struggling up the slope with him.

"Gaw! He's sure heavy. Badly bruised, too. Stream do all that, boy?" asked one. He looked Maverick over and grunted as he altered his dead-weight in his arms for easier carrying. He was the man backing up.

"No, two men beat 'im up. I thought you was them, come back," said Tommy, in that instant lurching over a rock. It was getting dark out now. He landed on both hands. Picking himself up again, he brushed his hands against his jeans' seat and kept going.

"Naw, it wasn't us," answered the undertaker's man.

"It was thieves," Tommy spat out. "Robbed a store in Ellicott City, then robbed us, then beat 'im up. Beat 'im bad." Tommy reached out and put a hand under Maverick's head. It was all he could do, but he couldn't stay up beside the men, as he kept stumbling on the rocks. "Sheriff caught 'em once, then they got away," he added, recalling his part in their escape.

"They the ones took his boots?"

"Guess so. I hadn't seen that." Tommy looked transfixed now at Maverick's stocking feet. "Had no call to do that," he said, angry.

"Had no call to try drownin' him, either, but they did it," said one of the stoic men. Tommy only nodded.

Once at the top, they clambered back down to the road where the old man's wagon stood. The men fitted Maverick the best they could into the wagon bed. They pushed up his knees and threw his arm over them. He had never awakened, but did make some low, half-fitful moaning sounds. Tommy climbed up into the wagon beside him, and the trip back to Denver was long, tiring and hungry.

Several people poured out of the various saloons in the town when it became known that a wagon carrying Maverick—who'd been set upon by murderous thieves—had arrived. Taking a look at him, each drifted off to a knot of others to talk about highwaymen, card players running out of luck, where was the sheriff, and such like. The sheriff was finally found—where he was napping.

Awakened abruptly, he left the sanctity of the Denver jail and found himself in the street, surrounded by angry petitioners. When would the roads be safe? When would these outlaws be caught and locked up for good? He calmed down some of the more vocal ones with a threatening move towards his six-shooter. Others he simply plowed through as he moved toward the wagon.

"Take him over to the jail. He can use a cot there."

"What about where Doc lives?"

"Doc is only for townsfolk. He's from out o' town. By the looks of 'im, too, he can't be expected to pay Doc's fee. Take him where I said and leave him."

While those kind words lingered in the air, Maverick's body was lifted out of the wagon, carried in a three-man operation towards the jail, not far, and taken inside. The sheriff meanwhile turned to Tommy.

"Tell me where all this was."

"Out on the road, about two hours away. About four miles, sheriff."

"You men," he said, straightening up. "Get some horses and check out the area. Try not to spook the bad guys. I want to have 'em sittin' in jail by breakfast tomorrow!"

Sheriff Hardee, a medium-built man with a lot of grizzle in his bones, gathered up some of the posse himself, leaving Tommy in the darkening street looking after him. The boy turned around, thinking how alone he was, but soon found several pairs of hands reaching for him.

He was tired and let himself fall into them, waking up hours later at a loud and rowdy noise just outside the door, hearing it through the thin walls. He lay in the back room of a saloon, he could easily guess, the kind of place where Maverick played cards. The kind of place where ladies in bright, shiny dresses laughed and sometimes swore, where men threw glasses at the walls, where they laid hands on those—

Tommy felt himself being lightly pushed and pulled back and forth.

"Wake up, boy," came a soft, female voice. "Someone's here for you."

Tommy knew it couldn't be Bret, but he hoped it was. He squinted awake and looked up into the face of what seemed like a girl, with powder and rouge and dark eyelashes too long to be her own. He couldn't tell her age.

"What—what do you want?" he asked, drowsily. "I don't know you. Where's Bret?"

"Bret's—" and she said the name familiarly, "resting up in jail. There's a party to see you. Right here."

"He's still in jail? He needs a doc."

"We got up a small collection. Doc doesn't charge much. Only about two dollars, two-fifty. But we had enough. Guess the sheriff couldn't be bothered to fetch him over and pay it. Well, anyway. We got up some money. Two of us went to Doc's house and asked him to visit … ah, the jail." Tommy thought she was about to say Bret's name again, in that low, soft way.

"How is he?"

"Doc saw him, said he needs rest. Had too many blows all at once. His face—" Here she broke off and looked down.

"He'll be alright now?" asked Tommy.

She raised her glittery head again, with its small, feather and sequin hat on top of it. "Why shouldn't he be?" Then without further ado, she rustled Tommy out of bed. "You're goin' someplace."

"Where?" he asked, all suspicion now. She was addressing his suspender buckles and trouser buttons. He shied away.

"A lady has asked to see you. She sent a messenger. You be good to this lady. She's not too well. All the town knows that. You do, too, now. Remember to mind me."

The saloon girl finished buttoning one of Tommy's trouser buttons, while he made faces over it. "I can do that, myself," he said, trying to push her hand down.

"You better mind me," she warned again.

Next he was subjected to an all-out combing. His hair, naturally curly like his friend Bret's, light-brown while Bret's was very dark, like blue-black ink, was knotty for lack of a comb. A washcloth scoured his face with soap and too-warm water, then once rinsed out, came back for a second round. His hands were gone over, too, so that by the time Tommy was ready to go on stage, he felt the part of the very clean boy he was about to play.

"Drink this." The lip-painted she-devil thrust a glass of milk in his hand. "Here's a couple of cookies, too. Eat 'em quick and some out as soon as you're done."

She then left Tommy in peace. He drank down half the milk, ate a cookie, and returned to the milk, repeating the process. When he could delay no longer, he turned the handle of the door and came out, seeing a large, dark-skinned man in a black and white suit standing before him. The hand reaching out to cup his head had a white glove on it. Tommy dutifully started to come, but then stopped.

"Can I see my friend soon?" he asked of the man.

"Of course," he was assured, finding no assurance in the stranger's words.