Chapter Thirty-Two
Speaking of nearly continuous travel...
"He-ey! Why are we turn--?!" Dave Fisher paused in mid-question for, as he pulled his horse up alongside of Mr. Adams', the answer became quite apparent. His terribly tired traveling companion had just nodded off--again! "He-ey! Wake up!" the Senator urged and gave his so-called guide a not so gentle nudge, "You keep fallin' asleep like this, an' you'll get us lost for sure!"
"I warned yah!" the groggy gentleman reminded his grumpy companion, "Before we even started! I said: 'I ain' slept in two days!' It ain't my fault I cain't keep my eyes open!" he tacked on, following an unforgiving silence, "It ai-ain't my fault!"
"You're right," the Senator glumly conceded, "It's MY fault! I'm the one who 'smooth-talked' Jim inta comin' here! His quick draw--an' even quicker thinkin'--kept him alive the first five years, so I figured he could handle this, too! He said he was tired a' Marshalin' an' wanted ta call it quits. But I-I wouldn' listen! No-o, I had ta go an trick 'im inta takin' this assignment here, in the Strip! I got Jim inta this jam! An' I'm gonna do everything I possibly kin ta get 'im out of it! ALIVE!" Dave added, his voice an equal mixture of guilt, exasperation, and anger.
"It ain't all yore fault," Mr. Adams announced, following another brief bout of silence, "I mean, Mareck would prob'ly be gone by now, an' we prob'ly wouldn't even be here if I hadn' a' 'drugged' his beer. An'," the old man added, "if it's any consolation ta you...Miss Dulcey once told me that Jim once told her that--when it came to his job--he had no regrets..."
The Senator acknowledged the man's statement with a slight, unseen smile--which didn't last. It wasn't any 'consolation' to him. If anything, Charley's words only made the Marshal's 'old friend from back East' feel that much worse! "How much further is it?" Dave wondered as his guide began heading off into the darkness once again.
"I figure we're about four or five miles southeast a' Gault's Spring," Mr. Adams answered as he carefully corrected their errant course, "The Fort's another fifteen miles or so due east from there."
If the Senator had any complaints about the remaining distance, he didn't voice them. In fact, no one said anything for several miles.
"Sa-ay," Charley said at last, as the light from a quarter moon--and the lack of loud sounds--threatened to lull him right on back to sleep, "Why is it you always call the Marshal 'James' to his face...an' yet it's jes' plain old 'Jim' when he ain' around?"
"It's a lo-ong story," the saddle sore Senator wearily replied. He was feeling bone tired--i.e., too weary to even talk.
"That's okay, 'cuz we got a lo-ong ride ahead a' us. An' if yer expecting the both a' us ta stay awake," Mr. Adams added hintingly, "one a' us had better start talkin'!"
The Senator managed another unseen smile of sorts and then--begrudgingly--began talkin'. "I first met Jim Crown on my thirteenth birthday. He was the best birthday present I ever got! I mean, what more could any boy ask for, than for someone his own age ta get inta trouble with?!" the story teller teased. And--as they rode along--the years rolled back...
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Suddenly, Dave Fisher found himself standing in the open doorway of his family's ranch house, peering out from behind his mother's billowing skirt, at a rather curious sight. A young man, whose face was unfamiliar to him, was approaching on horseback. The fellah wore a black, felt hat--like that of a cowboy--pulled low across his eyes in response to the angle of blindingly bright rays from a late afternoon sun. The rest of the gentleman's garb was of buckskin. And, if it weren't for the way he packed his pistol--slung low on his hip like a gunslinger--the boy might have mistaken their visitor for a 'mountain man' or maybe even an 'army scout'. What made the stranger really stand out though--and the whole sight seem so peculiar--was that there happened to be a big, black bird perched upon his left shoulder. The fellah also had another horse in tow. And to it was attached a blanket travoise of some sort. Dave judged the make-shift stretcher's load to be a light one--on account a' how the poles didn't leave much of a rut as they were dragged through the dust of the ranch yard.
"Daniel!" his mother called out, keeping her shouted voice low, "Go fetch yore father!"
The boy's older brother nodded his acknowledgement of their mother's anxious order and then disappeared out the back door.
Dave frowned. 'Daniel' was always being sent off on exciting errands--while he got to sit in the house and hide!
"Davey!" Mrs. Fisher's frantic voice boomed as she pulled the front door shut and then barred it, "Fetch me that rifle!"
"Dav-id!" the boy corrected, but then eagerly obeyed--practically running to his father's gun rack. Then he walked carefully back over to his mother and proudly proffered the requested weapon to her.
The woman shot her eager to please, very careful and youngest offspring an appreciative glance before stepping over to one of the ranch house's open front windows.
Dav-id followed her--on all fours--and then raised his head up to the level of the window's ledge to have himself another little look-see.
There stood the stranger! Him and his raven--not two feet from their front porch!
"Hal-lo in the hou-ouse!"
David heard the man call out as his head was shoved back down. Well, the fellah's occupation might still be a mystery to him, but his distinctive dra-awl was definitely that of a fellow Texan's!
"Who are you?!" his mother called back, "What do you want?!"
"The name's Thatcher, Ma-am. Wes' Thatcher," came back the good-mannered young Texan's po-lite reply, "An' what I wa-ant is a doctor. You folks happen ta have one here 'bouts?"
"...whe-ere...are we...Uncle Wes'?" someone wondered suddenly, in a much weaker voice--that of a boy's--and, by the sound of it, another fellow Texan's.
"I have absolutely no idea, J.R.," the boy's uncle sadly replied, but then promptly perked up, "Hopefully, we're some place close to a place that has a doctor!"
Neither David or his mother liked the sound of the boy's voice. They sensed that something had to be very wrong with him, for his whispered words had come in little clumps. The woman's mothering instincts immediately clicked in--over-riding any fear she may have had initially. The situation no longer presented any danger...least ways, not to her and her family.
David watched approvingly as his courageous mom set her rifle down and then unbarred the door.
"What's wrong with the boy?!" the woman wondered anxiously as she came scurrying out of the house and onto the porch.
"...Ahhh---ahhhh!" the kid on the travoise cried as the horse that was hauling him shied.
"Whoa-oah, B.B.!" the boy's uncle commanded, giving the lead in his left hand a hard yank.
"Sorry, Mister," David's mom apologized as she and her son carefully retraced their steps a ways, "we didn't mean ta scare yore horse..."
"No need ta apologize, Ma-am," Mister Thatcher assured the woman as his right hand reached for and then removed his hat, "T'aint yore fault ole' 'Bear Bait' was born without brains." The friendly--and forgiving--young fellow flashed them both a warm smile. Then he slapped his hat back on his head and turned around in his seat, "J.R.? You all right back there?" he called out rather anxiously.
"...yea-ah!" his nephew gasped back--not too convincingly.
"Hang on, boy..." the boy's uncle gently urged and then turned back around to face the ranch folks again. "Please, Ma-am," he pleaded, a sudden sense of urgency in his voice, "if you could jes' point us in the right direction? I got ta find the kid a doctor!"
"He si-ick?!" the woman wanted to know, her own sense of urgency heightened.
"No, Ma-am. It's his leg--," Mister Thatcher stopped talking at the sound of approaching riders.
A group of about ten rifle-toting cowboys came cantering into the ranch yard.
Wes' gripped the lead in his left hand and turned in their direction. There followed several anxious seconds as J.R.'s uncle and David's dad silently assessed one another.
"Dan," Mrs. Fisher finally spoke up, "this is Mister Thatcher. He's lookin' for a doctor. Seems there's somethin' wrong with his nephew's leg..."
Dan Fisher thought his wife's comments over for a few more tense moments before finally acknowledging his acceptance of the stranger--and his story--with a slight smile and nod.
"Mister Thatcher--" Mrs. Fisher began.
"Wes'," J.R.'s uncle corrected, "Ma-am..."
"Very well, Wes'," the very obliging woman repeated, "this is my husband, Dan Fisher. That there's our oldest son, Daniel," she continued, motioning to the sixteen-year-old mounted beside the boss man. "This is our youngest boy, Davey."
"Dav-id!" their youngest piped up suddenly, looking and sounding slightly peeved.
"Dav-id!" the boy's pa blurted, sounding equally peeved, "Don't interrupt yore mother!"
"Yes, sir..." David sheepishly replied and shot his ma a look which said that he was really repentant--even though he really wasn't.
"My name's Angela," Mrs. Fisher finished and flashed their good-natured guest a genuinely warm smile. But then her gaze shifted back to the make-shift stretcher and her deeply concerned look returned, "About the boy's leg...is it busted?"
"Appears ta be, Ma-am..." Wes solemnly stated, "In about two or three places..." he added even more solemnly and then watched as Angela inhaled a gasp of sheer horror.
"How'd it happen?!" the woman wondered as she and her husband and the rest of the men in his little group exchanged grim glances.
"We, uh, came across some Comancheros a ways back..." J.R's Uncle Wes' began.
And David noted that this latest little announcement caused the grown-ups in his little audience to exchange even grimmer glances.
"B.B. here, was packin' our gear. An' when the shootin' started, he snapped his lead an' proceeded ta stampede! Well, we were pinned down an' jest about out a' bullets, when my nephew, here, got the brainy notion ta ride out an' retrieve our extra rifles an' ammunition. He made it out all right, but when he tried ta make it back ta me...they shot his horse out from under 'im...dropped the animal right in its tracks...ended up landin' with one a' his legs underneath it..." Wes' Thatcher went on to explain and swung his head in J.R.'s direction, "The kid dug his-self free--somehow--an' then crawled the last hundred yards or so, draggin' two buffalo guns, four boxes a' spare cartridges--an' the worst busted le-eg I ever laid eyes on..." the boy's uncle quickly and quietly concluded.
The grown-ups glanced at one another again...and then down at the kid--er, young man lying motionless on the make-shift stretcher.
David--who had been completely dumb-struck upon hearing of J.R.'s heroic deeds--couldn't wait to see this courageous kid for himself. But he would have to wait--on account a' how his mother was still holding him prisoner up on the porch.
"Da-an..." a still somewhat shocked Angela Fisher said--when she got her voice back again, "You'd bes' send someone for the doctor! If the boy's leg is broke ba-ad, it won' do for Wes' ta go draggin' 'im all the way inta to-own!"
"Daniel! Go fetch the Doctor!" Dan Fisher ordered, "Gaspar! Reed! Give Wes' an' I a hand with the boy, here. He'll be more comfortable inside!" the ranch owner reasoned and motioned for the boy's uncle to make himself at home. "Davey! Take a hold a' them horses! The rest a' you boys kin get back ta work!"
The dismissed men turned their mounts around and began heading for the main gate.
The remaining two dismounted.
Daniel flashed his baby brother a smug smile. Then he, too, swung his horse around and lit off out of the yard after the doctor.
'Davey'--whose patience had just about run out--suddenly felt extremely frustrated! Not only had he just been delegated another boring, trivial task, but his father had forgot their little agreement--and had addressed him, yet again--as little 'Davey'! And after he'd just spent the better part of a week convincing them all that he should--henceforth--be called DAVID! Which--the birthday boy believed--sounded so much more...mature.
"Beat it, B.J.!" Wes' Thatcher requested softly.
And David watched, in amazement, as the raven suddenly launched itself from the man's shoulder, sailed lazily across the yard and then came to roost again on the top rail of their closest corral.
"Appreciate yore hospitality..." Mister Thatcher stated sincerely and stepped stiffly down from his saddle. "We're much obliged ta you folks...much obliged..." he repeated gratefully and handed his reins--and the pack horse's lead rope--over to the young--and obviously not very thrilled to have been volunteered to be--wrangler.
'What're you thankin' me for?' 'Davey' wondered bitterly to himself, 'I ain't done nothin' for you's! An', by the looks a' things, I won't never get a chance to, neither!' And then, frustrated even further by this latest bitter realization, the birthday boy 'whacked' at his boots with the ends of the reins...and spooked the antsy pack animal--again!
"...Ahhh-ahhh!" J.R. screamed as, once again, the jittery jughead jumped and jerked his stretcher, increasing his already unbearable agony by at least ten-fold!
David heard the boy's cry and cringed, knowing it was his careless action that had caused the poor kid's pain.
"DAVEY!" Dan Fisher shouted sharply, "I thought I told you ta hold on ta that horse!"
'Davey' cringed again as his apparently very unhappy pa's sharp words hit him with about the same force as a sharp slap in the face.
"Reed! See ta those horses!" his father ordered angrily.
Reed nodded and carefully stepped up to relieve little 'Davey' of his duties.
"...It ain't...yore son's fault...Si-ir..." the boy with the badly busted leg remarked in a whisper--when he finally recovered, "...we'd a' put a bullet...in that animal's brain by now...only...he ain't got one..." the kid finished lightly and--somehow--managed an amused 'gasp'.
The boss man smiled and turned back in his innocent? son's direction, "David, run on down ta the Cook Shack an' fetch Old Dan for me! Oh, an' ask 'im ta bring a bottle a' laudenum along with him! Yah think you kin handle that?"
"Yes, pa!" David readily replied and appeared extremely grateful to have been given a chance to redeem himself.
"Goo-ood!" his no longer angry father exclaimed, "Then go-o!"
"That's not a bad idea, Dan..." David heard his mother say, as he quickly and carefully took his leave, "...deadenin' the pain before movin' 'im."
David completed his mission a' mercy and returned at a trot--dragging Old Dan in tow. He stood beside his father and stared disbelievingly down at the boy with the busted leg. Why, J.R. was no older then he was! The hero's handsome, youthful face was deeply tanned and filled with pain. His hair was black and nearly shoulder length, still, it looked clean--combed even! His clothes, while dust-covered, did not appear dirty. His dark eyes were tear-filled and appeared unfocused. David couldn't distinguish their exact color because the kid kept opening and closing them as he drifted alternately in and out of consciousness. The pant leg below the boy's left knee had been completely cut away to allow his busted, black-and-blue and badly swollen limb to be splinted.
One look was all it took for the old cook to come to a conclusion, "Unh-uh! No, sir! Ain' no wa-ay I'm touchin' tha-at!" Old Dan diagnosed, "I set plenty a' broken bones before, but that leg, there, is rea-eal BA-AD! You bes' send for the doctor!"
"Already did," his boss assured him. "Kin you at least do somethin' for the pai-ain? It'll be...awhile before Doc Lieberg gets here...an' we wanna move 'im inside--where he'll be safer..." Dan Fisher added, giving the brainless beast a' burden an evil eye.
"I got some laudenum left..." the cook glumly confessed, "But I don' know how much good it'll do 'im! Someone's been takin' the stuff for one ache or another an' then waterin' it down so's I wouldn' notice! An' I didn', neither--'til jes' no-ow! When I need it! Lookee, here!" he bellered and held the doctored bottle up to the sun, "See how light it looks?! Normally, yah cain' see through it! Man! This really burns my biscuits!"
"Well...do what yah kin for 'im," his boss suggested, "An' in the future, we'll jes' have ta keep that stuff under lock an' key!"
"That won' be necessary," the cook calmly said, calmly stooping to calmly administer the 'diluted' laudenum, "I know of a sure-fire way ta fix 'em!" he added--rather evilly.
"What does it taste like?" David inquired curiously as he stooped down beside Old Dan.
"...watered-down...whiskey..." the boy with the busted leg gasped between glugs.
The grown-ups turned to one another, looking somewhat amused.
David was once again dumb-struck. How on earth would J.R. know what 'whiskey' tasted like?! 'Watered-down' or not?! Why-y, he was just a boy! Like hi-im! Well...not exactly like hi-im. J.R. apparently got to lead an 'exciting' existence. While he--on the other hand--led a very 'dull' one. "What does it feel like ta be a hero?" David wondered wistfully.
And it was J.R.'s turn to be dumb-struck. How on earth would he know what it felt like to be a 'hero'?! He was just a ki-id! He shot his questioner an 'Are you askin' me-e?!' look, which--following a nod to the affirmative--gradually turned to one of thoughtfulness. "...we-ell..." the boy with the badly busted leg answered at long last, between several more long swallows, "...i-it...hurts like...he-ell!"
The grown-ups exchanged amused glances again. A few of them even grinned outright.
J.R. managed another amused gasp, "...beggin'...yore pardon...Ma-am..."
David watched in wide-eyed wonder as the very well-mannered, lucky young man took one last swallow...and then passed out co-old.
"All right, you kin move 'im now," Old Dan said as he straightened stiffly to his feet, "But be careful! What I got down 'im was mostly water!" There then followed some mumbled expletives--for which the old fellow did not apologize.
The unconscious kid was carried carefully into the main ranch house and placed carefully down on little Davey's bed.
David didn't mind however, for he had sudden hopes of sleepin' out in the bunkhouse with the rest a' the boys! Though--knowing his mother as he did--he was more apt to end up on a cot in the parlor!
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Speakin' a' his ma...
Angela Fisher devoted herself entirely to takin' care of J.R. and seein' to it that he was as comfortable as a boy with a badly busted leg and watered-down painkiller could possibly be. The poor woman was kept so busy, she completely forgot about both dinner a-and Dave's birthday.
But again, her youngest boy didn't seem to mind one bit. David simply ate half the cake she had baked for him for supper and then followed his pa and J.R.'s uncle all around the ranch...jes' enjoyin' their company an' listenin' to 'em talk. That little episode with the Comancheros was recounted. Only this time, in much greater--an even more interestin'--detail. The tall, young Texan--with the big, black raven perched once more upon his shoulder--proved to be quite the talker. And he and J.R.'s past proved to be equally as excitin' an interestin' ta hear about.
To replace the animal that had been shot out from under him, Wes' Thatcher bought his nephew the best horse that his money could buy. An', bein' as how he had a surprisin'ly large sum a' twenty dollar gold pieces in his pocket, he was able ta purchase the finest piece a' horseflesh on the entire ranch.
David had been told, from birth, not ta make pets outta the cattle or ta get too attached ta any a' the horses. The DD was a workin' ranch an' not some retirement home for critters--his father would say. And the sole object of having the livestock was to sell it...at a profit--hopefully--and to thus make a living--comfortably. Yessir, the idea of 'sell for profit' had been drummed into little Davey's skull right from the cradle. Sti-ill, David found this particular sale surprising! The ranch boy stared in stunned silence as Wes' Thatcher wrote up the bill of sale. He continued watching--in wide-eyed wonder--as his father made his 'mark' upon it. "Wo-ow!" David found himself exclaiming, speaking what was on his mind. "Wo-ow!" he repeated as J.R.'s uncle proceeded to place ten of the twenty dollar gold pieces into his father's open palm. David wanted to say something adult-like, like 'Gee, Pa, I guess you really meant it when you said everything has it's price!' But 'Wo-ow!' seemed to be all that his still dazed and amazed mind could come up with, so he swallowed hard and said it again, "Wo-ow!"
The grown-ups exchanged handshakes--and grins.
The dumb-struck kid ducked as his pa placed a hand upon his head and tried to tussle his hair--the way that he always did...when David was just a 'kid'.
Their tour and transaction completed, the two men headed back to the house to check on J.R.'s condition...an' down about a pot an' a half a' hot, black coffee in the ranch house kitchen.
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By the time Daniel finally arrived with the doctor, it was wa-ay after dark. An' it was nearin' midnight when he was finally ready to leave. Dave knew--on account of how he held the pocket watch his pa had given him earlier that day up to the lamp light comin' from the hall...just outside the parlor, into which--despite all his pleas--he had been placed for the duration.
"The bone was already beginning to knit," he heard Doc Lieberg say, "I had to rebreak the leg in order to set it properly."
"Wo-ow! I'll betcha that must a' hurt like he-ell!" the eaves-dropping Dave naughtily realized as he lay there, grimacing in the dark.
"Will his leg be all right?!" Wes' Thatcher wanted to know.
"He's not going to lose it, if that's what you mean," Doc' Lieberg assured him. But then cautiously added, "As for how well the leg mends...it's busted up BA-AD! I did the best I could do--under the circumstances. Only time will tell if my 'best' was good enough..."
Speakin' a' time...
J.R.'s uncle apparently had it as his next priority for the very next question he posed was, "How soon will he be fit for travel?"
"You're not thinking of pulling out tonight, are you?!" Doc' Lieberg pondered rather lightheartedly, "The plaster hasn't even hardened!" There was a brief silence as Wes' Thatcher waited for a straighter answer. "If he were my nephew," the good doctor finally commented, "I wouldn't move him for at least a month! However, the leg may be strengthened enough to handle some stress within a week or two. I would not recommend moving him any time before then!" the physician professionally advised. Then, to his mother he said, "I'll be back out to check on him sometime tomorrow. Keep him quiet 'til then. A spoonful of this--every few hours or so--should do the trick."
"You're welcome ta spend the night," Dave's father invited.
"Thanks, but my wife is expecting me back tonight. And she'll worry herself sick if I don't show up."
"Thanks for everything you've done, Doctor," Wes' Thatcher told him, "J.R. an' I are indebted ta you. Speakin' a' whi-ich...what do we owe you for yore services?"
"There's no need to settle up no-ow," Doc' Lieberg replied, "I'll be checking on him from time to time. I'll see to it that you get a bill before you leave." An' with that last, light reassurance, the doctor left. The door closed. And the conversation turned even more interestin'.
"Here..." he heard Wes' say--apparently to his father--because it was his pa who responded.
"What's this for?"
"A month's room an' board for the boy," Wes' replied.
"But," Dave's pa continued, "there's gotta be better'n three hundred dollars here!"
"Whatever's left over after board an' doctor bills," Wes' suggested, "you's kin keep for yerselves...or give it ta the kid. I don' care--"
"I was hopin' you'd be agreeable ta workin' for yore room an' board," Dave's pa interrupted, "We're right in the middle a' round-up here, an' real short-handed..."
"Thanks for the job offer, Mr. Fisher," Wes' replied, "If I finish with my 'round-up' within the next few days, I'll be back ta help yah with yore's."
"You're leavin'?!" his mom practically shouted, sounding somewhat shocked.
"I hate ta keep imposin' on you people like this. An', if it weren't for what the Doc' jes' said," Wes' said, "me an' J.R. would be lightin' outta here tonight--tagether! The two a' us have been doggin' these desperadoes for nearly nine years, now--on both sides a' the border--an' through about ten different Territories. In a month, their trail's gonna be too cold for even me-e ta pick up again!"
"You're not bounty hunters!?" Angela Fisher suddenly exclaimed, sounding even more shocked--horrified even.
"No-o, Ma-am!" Wes' quickly assured her.
"Those men murdered their entire family, Angela," Dave's pa explained in the young man's defense, "Wes' here, vowed, on his folk's graves, that their killers would be brought ta justice."
"Soun's ta me like a real good job for the Rangers," the little lady logically declared.
"Yah might say J.R. an' me picked up where the law left off. Seems the Rangers are obliged ta stop at the Texas border. Besides, the Rangers claim they're too busy with rustlers right now ta be botherin' themselves with a bunch a' old, broken-down bandits."
"How big a bunch?" the woman wondered nervously, "An' how 'broken-down'?"
"There were fifteen when we firs' began followin' 'em," Wes' informed her, "Now--what with one thing an' another--an' with us whittlin' away at 'em over the years...I do believe that number's been dropped down ta around four. I ain' exactly sure how many they lost in this latest skirmish. Might a' been as many as seven...or as few as five. Guess I'll find out for sure when I pick up their trai--"
"They killed most a yore family," Angela interrupted in a further attempt to reason with the young fellow, "an' you killed most a' them! Cain't you jes' leave it at that? Soun's like you're the only 'family' that boy in there has left!"
"That reminds me," Wes' said, "if I ain' back in a month, will you see ta it that he gets these?"
David wanted desperately to see what 'these' were, but he didn't dare leave his cot ta go look. Becomin' thirteen, his ma had already reminded him, did not make him too old--or too big--ta be 'whooped' on. And he had already been told--twice--ta 'Go ta bed'!
"Well..." Dave heard his mother say with a sigh, "They managed ta shoot the boy's horse out from under him, so I reckon they cain't be so 'broke down' that their 'feeble little fingers' cain't still 'squeeze a trigger'. So you bes' be careful, yah hear?!"
"Thanks, Ma-am..." Wes' told her, "I intend ta be. Say goodbye ta J.R. for me...Tell 'im I said ta stay put 'til I come for him."
"I wi-ill..." Dave's mom promised, "So long, Wes' Thatcher. Take care..."
"So long," Wes' said, "An' thanks again for all yore hospitality."
There was a brief silence. '...probably for hand shakin',' Dave reckoned. The door opened and closed.
"I wish there was somethin' we could do, Dan..." he heard his mom wish wistfully.
"I kno-ow..." his pa acknowledged, "But I jes' cain't spare the men right now. Heck, if we weren't right in the middle a' round-up, I'd prob'ly ride off with him myself!...Those men are killers, Angie. I know how you feel about what he's doin', but it needs doin'! If 'somebody' had done it sooner--say ten years ago?--Wes' an' J.R.'s folks'd prob'ly still be here!"
"What he's doin' won't bring 'em back!" Dave's ma reminded his pa.
"No-o," his pa quietly admitted, "But it might save some other family from havin' ta go through what the two a' them did..."
Dave's ma either couldn't--or wouldn't--argue with that line a' reasonin'. An' it was real quiet, for a real long time. He heard his father's heavy footsteps in the hall. The lamp's light was extinguished and the parlor suddenly grew very, very dark. The sound of his mother's softer footsteps could be heard further off down the hall. She apparently planned ta spend the entire evenin' tendin' ta their new boarder's needs.
Still, David didn't mind in the least. He was too busy plannin' how he an' J.R. were gonna be spendin' the month. Course, the boy might not be too much fun ta begin with...but that was bound ta change...once he got so's where he could move around some. In the meantime, he'd come up with lots a' quiet things the two a' them could do together...like whittlin', an' talkin' an'...David dozed off right about then.
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But he was still dreamin' a' things for them ta do, when he was awakened by a loud 'bump'--or 'thump'--closely followed by a sharp cry--of pain. It was the same sound he'd caused J.R. ta make when he spooked the pack horse and jerked his leg--only more muffled this time. David threw back his blankets, fumbled around his unfamiliar surroundings for a match--found one--struck it and, after nearly knocking the glass chimney onto the floor, succeeded in getting one of the lamps in the parlor lit. He picked it up and used it to explore the hallway for the source of those disturbing sounds he'd heard.
Sure enough! It was J.R. who had cried out, all right. By the looks a' things, the boy had been hobbling down the hall in the dark and banged his busted leg into the lampstand. J.R.'s eyes were half-closed, partly from squinting in the lamp's sudden bright glare, an' partly from wincing in pain. Even in the lamp's soft glow, David could see that his face looked very pale--white almost.
"Quick!" the kid who was about to pass out from pain pleaded in a whisper, "Give me a hand!"
"What're you doin' up?!" Dave wondered, also in a whisper, as J.R.'s desperate plea spurred him to action, "You're not s'posed ta be out a' bed!" he said, latching onto the kid's left hand and draping his left arm about his neck, "I heard the Doctor talkin, an'--accordin' ta hi-im--you ain' even s'posed ta move for an entire week yet!" he chastised the A.W.O.L. boy with the badly busted limb. Using the lamp in his right hand to guide their way, David carried his crippled companion into the parlor and then carefully placed him down on the edge of his cot and the lamp back down on it's stand.
J.R. remained silent for a long, quiet while.
And Dave saw why. The boy was holding his breath to keep from crying out--in agony. "You jes' lie down right here..." Dave suggested, his face and voice filled with sympathy for the poor, suffering soul, "...an' I'll go get you yore medici--"
"No-o!" J.R. gasped in another whispered plea, "That stuff makes me sleepy..." he calmly explained and tried his darndest to assume a more composed appearance.
Dave took a quick peak at his new pocket watch and then turned back to his still hurting house-guest, "It's nearly three o'clock in the mornin', J.R.! Yer s'posed ta be sleepy!" he added with a roll of his own tired eyes.
"My Uncle's gone after those men," J.R. spoke solemnly--in a voice just above a whisper, "An' I'm goin' after him."
David stared down at the kid on the cot in total disbelief, "In a week or two--maybe..."
"A 'week or two'll' be too late!" Wes' Thatcher's nephew informed him.
"But, what about yore bum leg, J.R?" David wondered, "If you cain't even stand up, you sure ain't never gonna be able ta set a horse!"
"Maybe..." J.R. acknowledged, keeping his voice low so's not to wake anyone else, "Won' know for sure 'til I try. An' I got ta try! Plea-ease, David! Let me try!"
David could see the determination--an' down-right devotion--in the invalid's dark eyes and he could hear it in his pleading, surprisingly deep voice. The 'kid' part of his heart went out to J.R.. But it was the 'grown-up' part that won out, "Yore Uncle said ta stay put 'til he comes for you!"
"If I stay put," J.R. interjected, "he won' be-e comin' for me! 'Cuz he'll be dead! They'll kill him! They're prob'ly layin' for 'im right now, right back at the same place that they ambushed us the first time! I got ta go tanight, David!" their anxious ta leave house-guest restated, sounding more determined than ever, "I got ta try an' stop 'im," he added and attempted to rise from the cot.
David caught him under the arms--just as the kid caught his breath and began falling face first towards the floor, "An' jes' how do you intend ta do that," his rescuer inquired, his voice an equal mixture a' sympathy an' sarcasm, "when you cain' even make it ta the door, there?!" he added, an' eased the boy with the still badly busted leg carefully back down onto the cot.
"Now that yah mention it," the kid said when he had recovered enough to speak, "since yer already wide awake, anyways...would you mind givin' me a hand? Normally, I'd never even suggest such a thing...on account a' how it could get you in big trouble with yore folks...But these are what Uncle Wes' would call 'extenuatin' circumstances', here...An' I could sure use yore help!"
Bein' as how it was about three in the mornin', Dave's brain was workin' overtime, an' so it weren't really functionin' all that well. He had been feverishly tryin' ta figure out a way to make J.R. stay--when, suddenly, the opportunity presented itself for he an' the boy ta cram an entire month's worth a' 'mayhem an' mischief' inta one--bound ta be excitin'--(though brief) action-packed, ADULT excursion! "I'll help you on one condition," he found himself saying, "I get ta go with!"
And it was J.R.'s turn to stare up at him in total disbelief, "Ain' no way yer goin' with!"
"Why-y?!" David demanded--a bit too loudly.
"'Cu-uz!" their panic-stricken guest replied in a shouted whisper and motioned for the loud-mouthed kid to pipe down, "Yore folks have been rea-eal kind ta me! An' kidnappin' their youngest son, an' maybe even gettin' 'im kill't--ain' my idea a' how you repay people for their hospitality!"
"Maybe not," David admitted, "but these are 'extenuatin' circumstances', here'! Remember?" There was a long silence. David stood there, looking devious and smug, very, very smu-ug.
J.R. sat there, looking like he was seeing his host for the very first time.
In the lamp's soft glow, Dave almost thought he caught just the teeniest glint of amusement in the black-mailed boy's angry dark eyes.
"All right..." the cripple reluctantly conceded, "But at least leave 'em a note so's they won't be wond'rin where yer at!"
"Maybe you should write the note..." a delighted-looking Dave decided, "I-I wouldn' know what ta sa-ay...'sides, yer the one who--supposedly--knows where we're goin'!"
"You got a pencil an' some paper?" J.R. glumly wondered, his whispered voice filled with the sound a' surrender.
Dave dashed over to his father's roll-top desk and jerked one of it's many drawers open. "While yer busy writin' the note," he determined, retracing his steps and passing his partner the note pad and pencil he'd just procurred for him, "I'll be saddlin' us up some horses an' scroungin' us up somethin' ta eat!"
And then, before the boy with the badly busted leg could even begin to protest, David disappeared out the parlor door.
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"Are you CRAZY?!" J.R. practically shouted right out loud as he caught sight a' one a' the two horses Dave had saddled up for them, "Yer s'posed ta help me find my Uncle! Not help me get hu-ung!"
"What're you talkin' about?" Dave innocently inquired as he finished half-carrying the kid up to hi-is horse.
"This is yore father's horse!" his burden icily indicated. Even in the dark, there was no mistaking the pitch-black beast's perfect--an' beautiful--form.
"No it ain't," David honestly assured him.
"This is the same animal I saw yore father sittin' on when we arrived here yesterday afternoon!" the unconvinced kid commented angrily.
"My father sits on a lot a' animals around here," David calmly acknowledged and began easing the boy with the busted leg up onto his saddle. And it was J.R.'s saddle. There were two crowns emblazened on its stirrup leathers, J.R.'s bedroll was strapped to the back of it and his Winchester was shoved into its rifle boot. A-and it was no easy task getting the complaining cripple--and his heavy cast--up into its seat. "That don'...necessarily...mean anything!" Dave finished a bit breathlessly. Both boys were breathing hard. One from exertion and the other from excrutiating pai-ain. "I'm tellin' yah," Dave told the still highly skeptical--worried about being hung as a horse thief--boy, "This is not my father's horse! Trust me!" he tacked on when even this latest sincere reassurance seemed to fail. But David could sense that his new found partner--an' soon ta be friend--did not trust him...an' prob'ly would not trust 'im for even so much as the time a' day! David, however, was hoping that that would soon change. "Rambler rides double," the ranch boy announced, passing his partner the animal's reins, "so if yah start feelin' like yer about ta pass out, let me know...an' I'll ride with you a ways. Otherwise, yah might fall off--"
"David!" J.R. said softly, in an attempt to get the boy who was too busy talking and walking's attention--without waking everyone else in the house up.
"...an' break yore other leg--" David droned on and on and started tightening his cinch.
"Da-vi-id!" J.R. repeated, turning the volume up just a bit.
But again, the boy on the ground completely ignored him, "...or an arm," he calmly continued "...o-or yore--"
"Davey!" the boy with the badly busted left leg gasped in profound pain and was relieved to find that this 'annoying' comment had finally succeeded in capturing David's attention.
"The name's David Samuel Fisher!" David Samuel Fisher angrily snapped, stepping back up to the boy on the tall, black horse, "An' don't you EVER forget it again!"
"Don' worry...I won't!" J.R. promised. Then the overwhelming pain he was experiencing completely overwhelmed him...and he pitched forwards in his seat.
David saw him passing out and grabbed him just in time to save him from sailing--head first---off of his saddle, "...neck!" he announced to his now unconscious companion, stubbornly completing the comment he had been making earlier. And the reason for J.R.'s rather rude interruptions suddenly became apparent. The boy had said 'Davey' in a last ditch, desperate attempt ta get his attention! "I don' mind ridin' double if you don't..." the repentant ranch boy said, scrambling up into the seat behind his resourceful partner and pryin' the reins from his hands. He wrapped an arm around J.R.'s waist and straightened him back up in his saddle. Then, on account a' how his horse was carryin' most a' their supplies, David reached down with his other arm and snatched up its dangling reins as well. The boy sat there for a few moments--in the dark--drinking in all the excitement. Dave had been imagining moments like this for a long, lo-ong time. And now, here he was actually experiencing them! He found himself grinning with the grand realization that the actual experience truly was every bit as exileratin' as he had imagined it! Never once did Dave so much as even consider callin' it quits. The sensible thing would a' been ta carry his collapsed companion inta the house and go back ta bed. But--of all the feelings David Samuel Fisher was currently experiencing--sensibleness didn't seem ta be one of 'em. He was about ta head out in search a' great adventure! (Heck, the boy was so bored, he'd a' settled for any adventure at-ta-all! Great o-or sma-all!) An' nothin' was gonna stop 'im now! Well...maybe one thing would. Dave had no idea in which direction he should head out i-in! But then he borrowed some a' J.R.'s resourcefulness...turned Rambler around...an' went ridin' off in the same direction the DD's visitors had rode in from.