Cool wind brushed the rough cheek of a stout blonde man, the driver of the wagon which he directed skillfully through the three-hundred and more miles between Galveston and Laredo, a dry Protestant dirge upon his thin lips as he eyed his rather similar surroundings uneasily; spitting out those thick Germanic syllables, tinged with the dialect of far-away Saxony, Herman Beringer could not shake the feeling that something round abouts was not entirely right.

During the Civil War, the middle-aged Saxon had fought on the side of the Union, much like all of Galveston, using the skills he had learnt while growing up - most of them in some way connected to hunting in the dense German forests of his homeland - to scout and track for the blue-coated victors. Sadly Galveston had fallen to the Confederacy after a siege, knocking the port town and its inhabitants out of the war for good. With the defeat of the Confederacy, Herman had gathered up his family - his wife and three children - all as blonde and blue-eyed as himself, hitched up a wagon to his oxen and taken off in a south-easterly direction.

Now he was not the first German Texan, and nor would he be the last, but he would be one of those that would never actually make it to their destination. Yes, the years of childhood and military experience had moulded him well, and there was indeed something wrong with the spot he now found himself in; it was a trickling river around six or seven miles north of Laredo, no-one else around as far as the eye could see, and Herman made the fateful decision to bring his wagon to a halt that he and his family may gather water and rest.

What happened in the next half-an-hour or so would be plastered on the front pages of American papers the very next day.

One moment Herman was splashing about in the stream with his eldest son, an eleven year old with the sweetest smile, and the next a group of specks appeared on the horizon and began to close with them at considerable speed. At first he was unsure of what to do, his rifle laying on the riverbank, his wife and two other children playing unawares in the back of the covered wagon, and at least eight separate blotches getting larger with every passing moment.

"Hanz," he hissed urgently to his half-naked son, "look toward the south, do you see?"

Although confused, not seeing what his father had seen, Hanz Beringer nodded his hea and followed his father's pointed finger.

"Start running in that direction," commanded his Papa, "keep running until you come to a village, a town, or a ranch...do not turn back, and do not stop until then. Tell whoever is there that we are here, that we are under attack, you understand?"

Hanz did not really understand, but he had never refused an order from his idol; without thinking and without goodbyes he climbed out of the river on the other bank, his bare feet finding firm ground and beginning to pound earth in a southerly direction. He did as his father said, ignoring the screeches and whoops that reached his youthful ears, the screams and yells of his family, the gunshots and then the terrible silence that followed...and followed...and followed him all the way to the outskirts of Laredo itself.

By the time he reached the settlement he was half dead, having run with all he had, his trousers covered in a thick later of dust and his lips dried with dehydration, the topless form of this young boy causing ladies to move back in fear and men to cease their idle chattering.

"Help me!" He yelled in near unaccented English, "help..." at first he stumbled, nearly tripping, but righted himself long enough to yell again, and with a sharp intake of breath he fell to the ground in the main street of Laredo. He was not dead, for he continued to breath, but coaches halted and horses reared, voices rising that someone should do something for the clearly delirious...and clearly terrified...boy.

Collaboration between idlehands and RoadRash

McCall Ranch, early afternoon, one day prior to the attack on the Beringer wagon

He watched the large red ants climb over the stones tumbled in the dusty loam soil, carrying on with whatever mission held them to their mindless course. Benjamin Ross leaned back against the bark of the honey mesquite, the shadows of the feathery leaves dancing on his weary face. He held a small wooden box on his thigh, sitting with his left leg extended at a stiff angle. Calloused fingers tapped the carved lid, a crude cross worked into the oak that was held together with brass hinges and a lock. It once held a Bible at an old Mexican church, according to the man who had sold it to him, taken as a souvenir of the war. Inside held salvation for him, though no words were balm anymore. No promises of long dead men and their God, he had seen enough to know that.

Forgetting the ants, he unlocked the box and lifted the lid, the sunlight illuminating the glass vial and metal syringe nestled in the red velvet lining. There was a silk handkerchief, crinkled and stained, but it once was ivory with fine blue flowers stitched along the edges and the initials of a golden haired beauty from Houston. Benj had carried it through the war, even after the promise turned to ash once he received her letter to inform him of her impending nuptials. Ignoring the memories, he tossed it aside in favor of the thin leather belt coiled at the bottom of the box.

There was not much left in the vial, the last one he had from San Antonio and he cursed under his breath. Benj would need to find a new source or risk getting sick and he dreaded the feeling. A knot of anxiety tightened in his gut and he filled the syringe, forcing himself to be sparing. Just enough to stave off the pain of his leg and the inevitable agony of withdrawal. He rolled his sleeve of his rough work shirt, the blue faded with sweat and countless washings. He flexed, the ropey muscles of his forearm stood out he sought a vein that had not decided to call it quits. His right arm was marked with the evidence of his use, dark bruises along the inner elbow and no matter how much he searched, Benj could not find a good spot. Sighing, he rolled down his sleeve, it was useless to look at his left, it was much the same if not worse.

Finally he pushed his trousers down to expose his left thigh, finding a vein under the pale skin and injected his relief. Sinking back against the trunk of the tree, he breathed out, feeling the anxiety and cramps fade away as the floating bliss took him. Closing his eyes, Benj let it take him, pushing away thoughts of anything but the reprieve from the pain.

The sun had shifted, the shadows stretching along the grass as Ben finally mounted his grulla mare and followed the tracks of the stray cattle to the creek. The lean cow that seemed to be the leader of the runaways shook her long horns in irritation, snorting as he waved his hands to push them back from the lusher vegetation. His mustang cut off the wiley old cow, forcing her away from the creek until she finally gave up and the longhorns trotted after her. Benj patted his horse’s neck, “Good thing you’re better at this than me, old girl.”

Benj looked them over as he herded the cluster of cattle along, Joseph McCall’s cattle were longhorns, feral cattle rounded up when he returned from the war a few years back. A lean long legged breed descended from Spanish cattle, they were capable of surviving the rugged south Texas conditions. Each one was marked on their boney hip by the conjoined eights of the McCall brand. Among the dozen he was bringing in, he spotted two with a different marking.

“Shit...” he muttered, two red cows bore the lazy H, a brand from a ranch farther to the east. Likely they had wandered off and were missed by the hands but it was not a wise thing to be caught with another man’s property. Bringing them up to the main herd, he waved his coil of rope at the two heifers, forcing them apart from the group until they trotted off on their own.

Benj could see the lean familiar figure on the paint horse and waved at him, heading the pair of cows towards the foreman. “Mr. Cothran, we have some guests.”

Bill sat lazy in the saddle, the reins held loosely in his left hand, his right drumming idly on his thigh. He quirked a graying eyebrow as Benj approached, and leaned over to spit a stream of tobacco juice from the generous hunk he was gnawing.

“Guests, eh?” He gave Injun a nudge and the gelding wandered towards the returning cows, his perpetual frown deepening as he eyed the errant brands.

“Them’re Dominguez’s cows. Gotta be what, fifteen miles between them an’ us?”

Bill chewed for a few moments in silence, then spat again. It was unusual for just two cows to stray that far from their home range. While small groups would sometimes break off from a larger herd, it was rare that they would go wandering without the safety of numbers. Fearsome as longhorns were, they were still cattle, and there were still predators who would make a meal of them. Besides, Bill knew Dominguez, and he knew the men who worked his range. They were damned good hands, and wouldn’t have let their animals wander that far from the herd.

“Well, that ain’t right, that’s for sure. Ain’t no reason for his cattle to be this far west, especially just a couple of ‘em. They’d have stayed with a bigger group. Good eye, Benny. Took you damn long enough to get ‘em over here though.”

He stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled, drawing the attention of the two dark hands who were with them.

“Vasquez! Castillo! C’mere. Somethin’s afoot.”

As the two approached Bill pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his mop of hair, wiping the sweat on his trousers.

“Where’d you say these two were, Benny?”

Benj reached up and adjusted his battered black cavalry hat, his chestnut hair shaggy and unkempt under it. “Picked them up near Black Creek, must have wandered through the water for a bit as their tracks had disappeared, took a while to pick it back up.”

He lied casually, it came too easy these days to the former Ranger. Little things mostly, covering his habit from the prying eyes of his company. Rubbing the bridge of his nose with his gloved hand, he continued, “About two miles north.”

Gesturing back where he had come to the line of mesquite and huisache trees. “I didn’t see anything else, just the cattle tracks.”

As they spoke, another hand arrived trotting his horse quickly up to Bill, “Senor Cothran.”

The vaquero ignored Benj and directed his attention to the foreman, “We’re short five head, I counted them twice.”

Bill swore, silently begging forgiveness from God and his mother both, before nodding in acknowledgement of the news.

“Alright, Rios. Ride on back to the herd, keep watch on ‘em with the other guys. Benny, you think you can back-track these two if we go back to where you found our cows?”

Benj nodded, lifting the reins, “Sure thing, but we’re losing light.”

He turned his mare Lucy and tapped his heels to her flanks to canter back where he had come from. Following the path, they passed through brush, prickly pears snagging at their clothing. Deer liked to hide among them to eat the ripe fruit and as they rode by they flushed a few young whitetail bucks, sending them bounding through the trees. Soon the sound of running water could be heard and they emerged onto the banks of Black Creek.

Pointing down to where the sandstone bank dropped away to a gravelly wash that lead to a swath of lush grass, “I found them down there having a fine old time.”

Bill surveyed the scene quietly, the wheels turning behind his blue eyes. He pulled his Winchester 1866 from its scabbard and jacked a round into it, then slid it back into place. Behind him Castillo checked his revolvers in their holsters and Vasquez made sure his battered Spencer was loaded and ready.

“Benny, that rifle of yours loaded?”

“Always,” he patted the Henry rifle just behind him on his saddle, the Colt Navy pistol holstered on his hip. “I didn’t see any prints down this way but we can follow where the two red heifers came from. Across the creek most likely, going east. I’ll check.”

He crossed the water, the sturdy little mustang navigating the slick stones with ease and emerged on the other side. From his saddle he looked around, furrowing his brow. The light was fading as the sun began to set and he would need to get down and look closer. With a grunt, he dismounted, the movement awkward as his left leg could not bend like the other. Benj scanned the mud, making out the pair of tracks leading to the creek and followed them to the brush. He noted the broken branches and disturbed vegetation, they had definitely come from the east.

Standing straight, he continued to follow the game path, his gloved hand pushing aside the spiny mesquite limbs. He froze at the sound of a distant horse neighing, it came from in front of him rather than behind. Crouching as well as he could, he moved forward, his hand on the polished wood grip of his revolver. Benj slowly removed his hat, squinting in the light of the setting sun as he peered through the undergrowth. Ignoring the thorny branches, he stayed hidden as he spied the small camp.

Four men sat astride their horses, leaning back and chewing on jerky though Benj was too far to hear their murmured conversation. They were dressed in worn sturdy clothing and wide brim hats, like any cow hand, but their lack of a campfire and array of weapons made Benj suspicious. In the quiet of the falling evening, he could hear the occasional lowing of cattle but could not see them. Rustlers. His experience tracking outlaws told him they were up to no good. They did not behave like cowboys on the trail but as thieves trying to hide. Benj licked his chapped lips, his leg was starting to protest and throb at the bent position. He had seen enough and he backed away, careful not to disturb the foliage around him.

Moving as swiftly and silently as his bum leg would allow Benj made his way back to where he had left Lucy and waved at the trio, beckoning them to cross but put his finger to his lips.

Bill gave Injun a gentle nudge, slowly making his way through the shallow water of the stream and pulling alongside Benj. He drew his rifle from its scabbard, the two hands with him readying their weapons as well. Benny wouldn’t have shushed them if there wasn’t trouble, and trouble was what he’d expected from the start of things. Cattle didn’t just wander 15 miles without help. His heart was beginning to thump; it always did before things got violent. No amount of experience could make a man immune to that fear. Nevertheless, his voice was calm and even.

“C’mon boys, let’s go take a look.”

He slid from his horse and made his way slowly through the brush until he could see the camp. He studied the four distant men for a moment.

“Them fellas look like vaqueros to you?”

“No sir,” Castillo whispered.

“Dominguez start hirin’ white folks since I last saw him?”

Castillo shook his head. “No. Most of them are his primos.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Bill pulled back, wandering to his horse and pausing only to toss his tobacco before climbing back into the saddle.

Benj tongued the inside of his cheek, this would end badly but for which side was what concerned him. Rustlers were dangerous because in these parts they were killed on sight, hanged from the tallest tree if they wanted to be civilized. Feeling pleasantly light headed he listened to them speak in hushed voices and he slid the rifle from his saddle and cradled it in his arms, waiting for the foreman’s lead. There was a time when he would have made the call but those years had passed, he was no Ranger or officer, he was just a crippled ranch hand. Benj gazed through the tangle of mesquite at the men, if there was cattle then the four sitting around with the horses were not alone. At least one, maybe two would be with the herd.

Bill took a quick look at the men around him. Castillo’s face was blank, but Vasquez gave him a confident nod and hefted his rifle. He’d been in rough spots with the two Mexican hands before; he wasn’t worried about them. His gaze did linger on Benj, though. Despite his being a Ranger, Bill had never seen the new hand in action. They’d only been riding together for a few months. It was nowhere near the time required to build up solid trust in a man, especially when you were about to ride into a situation where lead would probably fly. Mentally shrugging away the thought, Bill gave Injun a nudge and started leading the group forward.

“We’re gonna get to the end of the brush here,” he said, “and then spur it on hard. I want to cover that ground fast. If they raise guns, shoot ‘em down. Otherwise, no killin’ unless it has to happen.”

Bill didn’t bother to wait for a response. He spurred hard the moment Injun’s nose reached the scrubline, leaning into the saddle and smoothly rolling with the mustang’s charging gait. His Winchester was at his shoulder, sights lined up with the body of the foremost rustler as Injun’s hooves pounded the earth beneath him.

The men turned almost as one, shouts of alarm ringing out as they pulled at their reins and turned their horses to meet Bill and his company. They had them dead to rights; only a fool would try and pull a weapon as things stood for them.

The Double Eight hands covered the ground quickly, and Bill slowed Injun to a stop with gentle pressure from his legs. He kept his rifle raised, taking quick stock of the men.

“Easy there, boys,” Bill said, his voice full of calm authority. “Let’s not let things get out of hand here.”

One of the rustlers edged his horse forwards, his hands spread out away from the guns holstered at his hips. He was tall, well built, probably in his middle thirties. There was a gleam in his eyes that Bill didn’t like, and he gave them all a cocky grin.

“Don’t want any trouble here, sir,” he said. “Just wonderin’ why you’re comin’ at us with guns out is all.”

Castillo and Vasquez fanned out, putting a bit of distance between them all and drawing beads on different men.

“Them ain’t your cattle,” Bill said simply, jerking his head towards the herd that was now visible. “Nobody runs Lazy H around here except Dominguez out East a ways, and he only hires Mexicans. Now, since none of you boys look to be the Spanish-speakin’ type, I’m gonna say that you stole them cows. You know what we do to rustlers, right?”

Two of the men twitched a little at that, obviously growing nervous. Their leader smiled, and the fourth stared at the armed Double Eight riders with wide eyes. Bill swore as he caught a glimpse of the fourth rustler. He was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and Bill knew him on sight.

“Samuel?” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Sam Lyons? What are you doin’ out here with these folk, boy? What would your mother think of this?”

The lad gulped but said nothing, his eyes fixated on the gun in Bill’s hand.

Benj leaned forward as Lucy bolted after Injun, the grulla mare cantering to catch up and he gripped his rifle in his hands. His left leg threatened to give, he could no longer balance up in the stirrups as he once did when he rode with the Rangers and then the cavalry. Luckily, it was a short distance and he pulled up, the mustang standing calm even as the tensions rose. He aimed casually at the leader, the one with the shit eating grin plastered on his face. Benj scanned the others and he could see the herd of cattle down in an arroyo grazing. There might be another rustler, maybe two if they had that many, it seemed about fifty or so. He could also see some of the brands, mostly the Lazy H but a few Double Eights as well.

At Bill’s words, Benj looked over at the young man. Samuel. He looked just as guileless as his brother had at that age. Forcing himself not to look at the kid and focus on the biggest threat, he could not keep the unwanted memories from bubbling to the surface in his drugged mind. His Sam, his younger and only brother, must have looked that terrified the moment the Union ball struck him. The letter said he had not suffered but Benj had seen enough war to know that was bullshit. Swallowing hard, he blinked at the flashes of his brother’s face overlapping the boy’s visage in front of him. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his face as he breathed harder. The logical corner of his mind knew it was just the trick of the morphine and memory but the idea this Sam was his Sam nagged at him.

Bill was still looking at Sam Lyons when he caught movement from the corner of his eye.
Vasquez shouted a warning, and then guns were crashing. Bill snapped his eyes back to the leader of the rustlers in time to see him pulling his revolver from its holster. His rifle was still centered, and he squeezed the trigger, the Winchester bucking against his shoulder. The target pitched backwards off his horse and hit the ground hard, his gun skittering off into the dust. The other two rustlers tumbled from their saddles as bullets tore through them.

There were shouts of surprise from among the herd of stolen cattle and Bill saw two men on horseback spur their way free, making a break south.

“Castillo! Vasquez! Vamos a agarralos!”

The vaquerros shouted and spurred their horses, tearing off after the two fugitives, and Bill turned his attention back to Sam. The boy was panicked, his eyes wide and terrified as he pawed at his holster. Bill worked the lever, another round cycling into the chamber with a crisp clack.

“Don’t do it boy!” Bill shouted, raising his weapon and thumbing back the hammer. “God dammit, don’t you do it!”

Sam fumbled his pistol into his hand, and Bill fired. The bullet caught Sam squarely in the chest, his horse reared, and he tumbled to the ground. Bill threw his rifle aside and leapt from the saddle, kneeling beside the young man. His heels dug weakly at the dirt for a moment, red spreading across his chest, and then he was still.

“God dammit, boy,” Bill said quietly, shaking his head. “What the hell am I gonna tell your momma?”

“Sam!”

Benj shouted his name when he saw the burst of red from the boy’s chest. He had shot one of the hands after firing at the leader. The man had been hit in the neck with a bullet from the .44 rifle and he bled out quickly in the dust. His head reeled and he dismounted with a grunt, his left leg buckling but he caught himself on the saddle. Limping over, he made sure the man was dead and the other hand lay crumpled where he had fallen off his horse, the pool of blood leaking from the hole in the man’s chest. He kicked the pistol out of his hand just to be sure and hobbled over to Bill and the boy.

He stood behind the foreman, watching the life fade from the boy’s wide green eyes. Benj looked away, looking at the trees gilded in the last of the sunlight. He took a deep breath, willing the image of his brother to leave the boy’s face, for the grass and stone to return and the pile of grey clad bodies to vanish like the ghosts they were. He had no idea if his brother died that way, only that he was shot in the chest. Benj had not been there, only a letter from one of his cousins spoke of Sam’s death in battle on some patch of Virginia soil. Shaking his head to try and clear it he looked over Bill’s shoulder, “The rest are dead. Want me to go and...check the cattle?”

Whatever he wanted was better than staring at the dying boy and having his mind play tricks on him.

Bill crouched silently beside the fallen boy, his mind elsewhere. Distant gunfire echoed back to the two cowboys, then faded. Several minutes later the returning forms of Vasquez and Castillo came into view. Finally Bill sighed and stood, walking to his saddle. He pulled his battered shotgun out of his rolled blanket and tossed it to Benj, then took down the blanket and shook it out.

“Round up the rustlers’ guns and horses. No sense leavin’ ‘em for the Apache to find. We’ll sell ‘em off in town. Then go help Vasquez and Castillo round up the cattle and get ‘em ready to drive back to the herd. I’ll take care of the boy.”

He brought the blanket over to Sam’s body, taking the pistol and tossing it into the dirt by Benj’s feet.

“Leave the rustlers to rot. We’re bringin’ Sam home to his folks,” he said quietly. “His momma will want him buried proper.”

Delicate fingers probed the remarkable saddle sore gently as light brown eyes examined the area around the wound. It wasn’t that bad, just the skin rubbed raw and oozing from sitting in the saddle too long with ones pants bunched against the riders skin and the side of the horse, or the girth, or the saddle depending on where the sore was located.

But Mr. Jones skin was fair and even soft to the touch asides from the hair and the specific sore. Harriet was willing to bet that Mr. Jones was rather new to the cowboy, Texas life style. In fact she wondered how he had managed to keep sores such as this one at bay this long. Harriet sat back from examining the wound and pressed her plump lips together thoughtfully.

“Well Mr. Jones color me impressed.” The nurse smiled kindly and stood, walking to the low table that supported the various jars of concoctions and medical supplies. “That is quite a saddle sore you have there… Must have been riding for some time to have developed one like that…” Mr. Jones flushed and murmured something vaguely affirmative, confirming Harriet’s belief that he had not been in the saddle all that long, and truly his skin was just used to a much more sensible usage than being rubbed and chaffed all day in jeans and leather.

“Not to worry…I’ll have you cleaned up in a jiffy and you’ll be able to get back to work. Might I suggest that you wrap the area’s most commonly affected by rubbing with some bandages before mounting up? Just for your days that will be spend continuously in the saddle?”

Mr. Jones looked grateful for the suggestion and listened intently as Harriet described the various body parts most regularly afflicted by such things while demonstrating how to wrap himself with the length of bandages provided. Harriet cleaned the current saddle sore, dressed it and with a word of thanks and payment Mr. Jones was on his way. She wished him luck, with skin as soft as his the nurse knew they would see each other weekly.

Washing her hands in the basin beside the window Harriet mused that most Texans and cowboys, from her experience, had skin as thick as the long horns they worked with, half the time they came in complaining of stomach pains only to find out they had three or four other bleeding scrapes and wounds that they were completely unaware of.

This trail of thought was cut off sharply as the square fell silent. Harriet’s work room in the doctors main studio was part of the main square and her window looked out onto the bustling streets. The silence in itself was more alarming than the cries for help. If the crowds went quiet, it was a sure sign of something ominous.

The nurse dried her hands on her apron as she peered out the window, wondering what was going on. A young boy half-dressed was stumbling into the square, hollering for help. Startled into action Harriet grabbed her plain white bonnet and pulled it onto her head, demurely covering her braided and coiled brown hair before rushing down the steps of the square’s buildings and towards the boy.

“What is the matter?” She asked softly, approaching with some caution as she slowed her gate. Just because he was a boy did not mean he wasn’t dangerous, still it seemed unlikely he was armed, dressed as he was, and the poor lamb seemed on the edge of fainting. Harriet was not a fighter and she could not help with the obvious horrors the boy was escaping but she could help him.

As he fainted Harriet felt even more sure of his inability to harm her and approached, kneeling beside his body and bringing a soft clean hand to his dirty cheek, throat and neck appraising as she went, eyes focused on the patient and nothing else. At least for the moment.

@Sterling

Hanz felt the cool compressions upon his skin, drifting in and out of consciousness with increasing rapidity, his bright blue eyes sometimes fluttering open to take in the plain but kindly face of a kneeling woman. Framed by the bright blue Texan sky, she was certainly ordinary and no real beauty, but those brown eyes of hers were full of warmth and genuine concern, genuine concern which must have been for him. Feeling the cloth against him bought the feeling of dryness within his mouth back to him, like a scorched desert parched of much needed rains.

At first he said nothing, bodily unable to form any words, his mind processing what he had heard and the words his father had told him...were they alive? Dead? Scalped and lef to rot? He did not know, but he knew the sound of Indians, and his father had spoken enough on the subject of the native savages. Within the state of Texas there lived a number of them, each split into further bands, but he had never been able to tell them apart.

Eventually he heard more voices about him, at a distance, most hushed and at least one or two women began weeping to look upon him.

"Eltern ... tot ... meine ganze Familie ist tot, helfen Sie mir ... helfen Sie mir."

He had spoken in his native tongue, not realising that this gentle lady probably spoke English, but quickly rectifying his mistake.

"My...family," he managed to croak, a thick accent making his words clog up his mouth, "river, attacked, hear...hear Indians..."

A cough and a wheeze were all that followed, one thin and sunburnt arm reaching out to point back the way he had come, before Hanz once more slipped into the blackness of unconsciousness, back to the place where his thirst and pain were meaningless and the toils of the waking world were completely absent.

@Jbcool

The nurse was relieved to see those bright blue eyes, even if it was briefly at first. Overheated, dehydrated and possibly in shock, the boy would probably survive, though whether he wished he hadn't by the end of it all... Harriet couldn't say. She was just looking about to see if someone could help her get the boy back into the offices when his raspy voice caught her attention (well everyone surroundings attention really).

Bending closer to listen to his words, the volume increase did not help. She spoke English, and having lived in Texas long enough to understand the importance of it had picked up a bit of Spanish. But whatever it was the boy was trying to tell her, Harriet had no clue. Ruefully Harriet was shaking her head to say she could not help him when the boy seemed to realize his mistake.

Smart little creature... To even in this horrible predicament know what was needed and adapt.

A small frown tucked into the corners of her mouth as the story came out. Texas was an unforgiving place at times, and it seemed this boys family had met some ill fortune on their way here. Rocking back on her heels Harriet kept her firm grip on the boys wrist as he passed out again. It was probably for the best.

The nurse watched as men crowded together, perhaps making some plan of action. There was nothing she could do there. She was no rough rider, no lawman. She could no more track down Indians or the boys family as she could break a bank safe or hit a target with her eyes shut.

What she could do was help the boy. Catching the eye of a bystander she finagled them into helping her carry the boy towards the offices so that she might tend to his ailments. A bath, some lotion on his burnt skin, plenty of water. Those were things Harriet could fix... The ache in his heart from what had happened? Well...After the war everyone seemed to have that ache. He would just learn to live with it.

Philip Taeorinn wasn’t much of a drinker. He drank occasionally, although that was more to forget than because he enjoyed the taste. But as he stood there, coated in his own sweat with the scorching rays of the southern sun beating down on him, a nice cold drink really wouldn’t have gone amiss.

“You’ll get used to it,” Deminora had assured him when they’d first set foot in Laredo. He hadn’t.

The sleeves of his work shirt were rolled up around his arms, and his jacket was tied around his waist, but there was only so many layers Philip could take off, and none of it seemed to be doing a damn thing to beat back the damnable heat.

“Remind me what you’re hoping to find here.” The ex-Pinkerton grumbled as his employer and him made their way through the open streets, each step of his boot-clad feet kicking up clumps of grainy soil.

“Some buried treasure would do nicely,” Deminora Corett replied in her thick southern drawl, her full hips swaying back and forth as she pressed onwards through the town “but I’ll settle for a small pot of gold.”

“I didn’t think money was an issue.” Philip grunted.

“It’s not,” she snapped “and that’s precisely how I’d like to keep it.”

The young Corett girl had the air of a southern lady about her, even though she was dressed down in the Texan heat. The way she carried herself, with graceful footfalls and an elegant posture, held an aura of finely groomed grace, which stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the hard-jawed figures who prowled the streets and back alleys.

Turning off into the main square, the pair was presented with the sight of a couple townsfolk carrying a rather withered looking boy between them.

“Probably best just to leave it, miss.” Philip grunted

“You’d be surprised what windows of opportunity these types of encounters can open up, Mr Taeorinn.” She shot back almost instantly, her eyes fixed squarely on the group.

“They can also end up in us both gettin’ killed, Miss.”

Deminora considered that for a moment, a look of a clam calculation bewitching her features.

“Say that young gentleman’s parents are of decent wealth, or political standing,” she reasoned “then they’ll have us to thank for returning their child to them, and it reasons that they’d be wanting to show their gratitude.”

“And if they’re just gutter trash?” Philip frowned.

“Then at least then the cunts will owe us a debt.”

With that Deminora went scampering off through the crowd, wadding straight up to fair skinned woman who seemed to be tending to the boy.

“What seems to happenin’ here, Miss?” she asked in her sweetest manner “Anythin’ we can do to help?”

With the boy between herself and a passerby Harriet was half way up the steps to the infirmary when a rather fancy looking woman and her companion approached. The brunette smiled politely at the two though she wanted to keep moving and get the boy indoors.

“The boy appeared in the square a few minutes ago, apparently there was trouble with his family’s caravan…” Harriet nodded towards the direction the boy had come, then lowering her voice even further in case the boy woke and would find her words disturbing “Indians attacked…”

Shaking her head at the tragedy of it all Harriet adjusted her grip about the young boys waist and nodded to her companion, hoping to resume her way into the infirmary. “It looks like some folk are going to go out and see if there are any survivors…” The nurse’s dark expression implied her expectation that there would be none. “I suppose if you’re wishing to help you could bring back the bodies…” If there were any… “ for a proper burial…I’ve got this young man well in hand. He’s not hurt just sun sick.”

Realizing this might be rude Harriet added “Of course if you prefer you could come into the infirmary with me…” The woman’s dress made Harriet think that she wasn’t used to physical work, or messy work, both of which was nursing. Still she had approached seemingly out of the good of her heart to help.

With that said Harriet had the boy inside her office and laid out on one of the tables, careful to rest his body down gently. The first thing she did was untie her bonnet, hang it on the hook by the door and wash her hands.

These tasks completed Harriet dampened a rag and started to wash the dust from his face, neck and chest, careful to examine every inch for further injuries she may have initially over looked. The look on the nurse’s face was that of tender consternation as she worked.

Bill took a large swallow of beer and leaned heavily against the bar, trying his best to tune out the discordant jangling of the saloon’s piano player. The grumpy cowboy would be the first to admit that he didn’t know spit about music, but he could tell a good song from a bad one as well as anybody. This was a bad one.

It was the middle of the day and there wasn’t much business, but there were a few long-time drunks and a few layabouts still wiling away the working hours in the smoke-choked confines of the saloon. If not for the previous day’s events Bill wouldn’t have dared waste precious daylight when there was work to be done. But the rest of the hands could hold things down; Bill, Vasquez, Castillo and Benny had been given the day to relax and do as they pleased. The two vaqueros were absorbed in a game of cards on the other end of the saloon, and Bill was working through his third (and likely final) beer. Benny was off at the general store, or would be if he was doing as he was told.

Bill started at the sudden ruckus outside, swearing quietly.

“Oh what the hell is it now,” he grumbled. He heaved himself to his feet, dropped a coin on the counter, and pushed his hat onto his head before heading out the batwing doors and into the sunlight.

Bill watched as Harriet fussed over the boy in the middle of the road, his impressive mustache twitching as he frowned. When she scooped the child up and carried him into her office, accompanied by two folk he didn’t recognize, the old cowboy stretched, grumbled, then finally crossed the road.

He passed the fancy-dressed duo on the way, pausing long enough to tip his hat to the lady.

“Miss.”

Then he followed Harriet into her office, removing his hat as he entered and holding it in his left hand.

“Miss Coleman,” he said, his deep voice soft to keep from waking the boy. “What’s the problem? Anythin’ I can do to be a help?”

Benjamin Ross stood in front of the small shelf looking over the array of bottles of patent medicine. He could feel the eyes of the shopkeeper on him and he did not dawdle too long. Hobbling away, he touched some of the folded fabric absently, plucking a shirt as if interested but it did not last long. He felt the dreaded wave of anxiety knot in the pit of his stomach as he went up to the counter.

“Got that list filled yet?” he asked, scratching at the prickly stubble on his jaw. Benj eyed the shelves behind the shopkeep and flicked his gaze back at the older man. “Make sure you get the right chaw, I don’t want Mr. Cothran riding my a...”

He broke off, irritated as the store owner switched the tobacco, as if he had not been filling the same damn order for how many years for the ranch foreman. Benj breathed deeply, trying to calm himself as the craving hit him. “Speaking of which, I see you ain’t got morphine stocked, you keep it back there?”

The shopkeeper paused and shrugged, “I’d have to check.”

He continued packing Mrs. McCall’s sewing supplies and Benj cleared his throat, “Can you check now?”

With a sigh, the shopkeeper turned and looked at a few shelves, “Nope, we must be out. What you need that for, son? Ain’t on the list.”

Benj bit his lower lip, gnawing at him for a moment, “Because Mrs. McCall forgot, she told me last minute like. You don’t have any at all? Can you order it?”

“Want to place a custom order, sure. Let me get the book,” the shopkeeper pulled out a well thumbed catalog and flipped through the pages. Adjusting his glasses, he kept moving the book back and forth to focus on the tiny print.

Staring at the shopkeeper, Benj could feel his molars grinding together, his fingers drumming on the counter, “I could look for you.”

“I got it, hold your horses.”

The shopkeeper wrote down the numbers, “How much did Mrs. McCall need?”

Benj leaned forward, “How much will five dollars buy?”

It was the bonus Mr. McCall had given him for helping recover the cattle and kill the rustlers. He pushed the coins for the supplies and then added his five dollars, “Whatever that’ll get me.”

Raising his eyebrows, “You? Don’t you mean Mrs. McCall? Stocking her pharmacopeia I imagine.”

Benj shifted his weight off his bad leg, not liking the penetrating gaze behind the thick spectacles.

“Yeah, that. Just order it, how long will it take?” he sniffed and rubbed his sleeve against his nose.

“I place the order on the next stage, could be a week or two.”

He swallowed hard, the knot clenching in his guts, “Can’t you put a rush on it?”

“It’ll come with the stage, that’s all I can say,” the shop owner replied, peering at him, “You alright, son? Look, Mrs. McCall usually just orders laudanum, why not take some of that for her now.”

Gritting his teeth he nodded sharply, “Put it in-”

The sudden shouting, high pitched and frantic came from the streets and the shopkeeper dropped what he was doing to hustle outside. Benj sighed raggedly and picked up the saddle bag crammed with goods. He took a bottle of the laudanum, slipping it into his pocket. It was weak and not nearly strong enough but it would maybe keep the worst of the sickness at bay. Fucking two weeks!

He made his way outside, limping along the wooden walkway, carefully stepping down onto the dirt road.The was a crowd clustered around, people gawking and he spotted Bill leave the saloon to follow some woman carrying a kid. Benj could not recall her name. His eyes were drawn away for a moment by the shapely figure in a fine gown until his memory snapped into place. The woman carrying the kid was a nurse, he had met her a few months back when she helped one of the hands. A nurse would have a better stock than the shopkeeper.

Benj hobbled after them, pushing through the crowd and he gave the young woman the once over, his grey blue eyes sparking with just a moment of curiosity but his real focus was on the nurse. He leaned against the doorway as Bill asked about helping, the young woman also offering her aid. Removing his hat, he thought about offering his services but Bill would speak for them so he remained silent and his gaze searched around the office.

That was the thing about small towns that were rather isolated. Everyone and their neighbor would come out to see the fuss over any piece of news. That wasn’t to say that this wretched attack was not worth fussing over, but had there been a loose pig in the square it would have drawn an equal crowd, though the atmosphere was sure to be a little less solemn. So Harriet didn’t look up as she heard boot heels clunking up the steps and into the infirmary, and she wasn’t surprised to see a shadow coming across her still open door.

Wiping away another layer of dirt and sweat with her damp cloth Harriet glanced up through her lashes to see who it was. It was Mr. Cothran, and a look through the window would show that his man Mr. Ross would be joining them soon.

Straightening up Harriet’s mouth twitched slightly at the titles Mr. Cothran still insisted on using. If she had told him once she had told him a hundred times he could call her Harriet. Still the cowboy refused to comply. “Mr. Cothran…” his ranch hand came to hover behind him, both men holding their hats off respectfully as they were indoors and at a sick bed. “Mr. Ross. I’m not sure there is much you can do here to help…This poor boy just appeared in the square… I believe his caravan was attacked by Indians. Do you know if anyone has made a party to search for his…” Her warm brown eyes drifted sadly to the child and then away “ families remains?” Perhaps if a group hadn’t been formed yet Mr. Cothran could gather up some men…And a cart for the bodies, if there were any…

Harriet moved to her basin and dipped the cloth in, wringing out the dirt and sweat . No blood. That was good. The nurse moved back to the boy and picked up one of his hands delicately, wiping down his arm and down each finger meticulously, expression softening as she tended to the boy.

As she was running the cloth over dirty finger tips her trained eye couldn’t help but stray but for a second to the awkward angle at which Mr. Cothran’s ranch hand Mr. Ross held his leg when standing. Being a nurse in the war Harriet was fairly certain he was one of the many battered and injured men resulting in the conflicts, but the way he still hobbled around made her think the treatment he had received may have been a little too late.

Eyes back to the task at hand Harriet kept her voice soft and sweet as to not rouse the child. “ I heard you boys got into a spot of trouble on your own yesterday…” Small towns, gossip travels fast. Taking the cloth back over to the basin to rinse it once more Harriet paused, looking up thoughtfully. “Perhaps, if you’re planning on going out and looking for this boy’s family Mr. Cothran, you could leave Mr. Ross with me to help with turning the child over and carrying him and such? He’s just a bit too large for me to handle on my own…If he remains to be unconscious…” She trailed off carefully, they understood.

This would also mean Harriet could spare Mr. Ross a ride out to the remains, surely being in the saddle was not comfortable for him. And then she might be able to persuade him to let her finally look at that leg! As she had been itching to do ever since she spotted Mr. Ross hobbling across the square and into the Saloon.

“Of course if you need Mr. Ross’ aid I am sure I can manage here on my own.” Sensible, practical, reliably Nurse Harriet. Of course she would manage on her own, and be courteous to Mr. Cothran. She started to wash the boys other arm to give the men the semblance of privacy to discuss the best course of action.

Harriet had always liked Mr. Cothran, despite his refusal to call her Harriet. He had been polite, took good care of his ranch hands always bringing them in when sick or injured and knew enough about Harriet to injure graciously about her few personal interests. She still didn’t know Mr. Ross very well, he mostly came in town to run errands.

The old cowboy nodded, the events of the previous day still fresh in his memory.

“Few rustlers. Nothing we ain’t used to dealin’ with, but…” He sighed. “The Lyons boy was runnin’ with them. Tried to draw on us. Had to put the poor kid down, damn it all. ‘Scuse the language, miss.”

When she mentioned Indians he grimaced. That would be an ugly business. The locals wouldn’t take kindly to a raid on white settlers, and they’d certainly want to call up a posse to deal with it. Hopefully they’d be able to get the cavalry garrison at Fort McIntosh to handle the actual retaliation. Bill didn’t relish the idea of dealing with a war party if he didn’t have to. Though no coward in any sense of the word, killing was something he did only when he had to. It was better to leave that to the boys who were paid to do it.

“Probably the Apache gettin’ riled up over somethin’. The bas...Snakes do it every now and again. I’ll round some folk up, see what’s what at the site. Maybe they just scalped ‘em and left ‘em behind.”

He thought for a moment, then glanced over at Benny.

“I’ll leave Benny here for you, Miss Coleman. He can help you with the boy, and I’d feel better knowin’ there’s a man with a gun around. If the Apache really have gone on the warpath, it can’t hurt to have some shooters around.”

Bill settled his hat on his head.

“I’ll be goin’ now, miss. Try to round some fellas up. I’ll come by and check up on you and the boy when it’s all done, let you know how things turned out.”

He turned and headed back to the street, slapping Benny on the shoulder as he did so.

“Take care of Miss Coleman.”

Walking back out into the road, he looked around at some of the people who were still gathered.

“Alright folks. Sounds like the boy’s family was hit by injuns. Apache most likely, maybe Comanche. I’m hopin’ to get some men together to go out and go see what happened. Any able-bodied men who’d be willin’ to volunteer, I’d appreciate it. Need men who can shoot and ride, and provide their own guns and horses.”

He glanced over at the well-dressed couple he'd seen earlier, nodding at the man with the coat around his waist.

"You're welcome to come along, if you can handle a gun."

Announcement made, crossed back into the saloon.

“Vasquez. Castillo. Vamanos. Formin’ up a posse. Sounds like some folk got themselves attack by injuns outside town. You can play cards later.”

The vaqueros tossed their cards on the table and hurried to join Bill, Vasquez quietly remarking, “We were losing anyway.”

A cool breeze blew through the town, drying sweat and giving a momentary reprieve from the heat.

Dahteste knocked back the shot of whiskey she’d measured into her flask’s cap, wincing for a moment as the liquid burned its way down her throat. She looked around, marveling at just how uneventful the town was right now. No shootouts, nobody pistol whipping the other, just the occasional tumbleweed rolling by or buzzard gliding lazily on the winds and warm updrafts. And no blue uniforms to despoil the barren wastes. Wiping the accumulated sweat and grit from her face and tilting her hat over her face she prepared for a nap, already reclining in her chair when she heard shouting.

Starting, she jammed the headgear down and jumped to her feet, looking down the cracked and dusty dirty road to see a young boy running into town, alone, and shirtless, and seemingly ready to collapse. She jumped down from the porch she’d been resting on, rushing towards the gathering crowd. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going to end happily, that much was obvious.

She initially hung on the outskirts of the crowd, but perked when she heard him mention an attack, and then Indians. Immediately shoving her way through the crowd she looked down on the boy and the woman who had apparently taken it onto herself to tend to him for the time being. “What happened?” She demanded of one of the onlookers, and received a shrug in return.

Sighing in exasperation, she made her way away from the crowd. She doubted she’d need any tracking skill to trace the boy’s route, but there appeared to be precious little movement to investigate things even as she unhitched her horse. It wouldn’t be much use waiting around for the boy to wake up, chances were he didn’t know a whole lot else anyway, and it was better to leave him and the woman attending to him alone for now.

Jumping into the saddle, she pulled her rifle from its saddle mount and confirmed that it was indeed loaded, her pistols sat on her sides, just in case. She rode past the crowd and scowled fiercely as she rode by, nobody else seemed in a hurry. Spurring her horse along, she cantered onto the trail, following the plain as day tracks the boy had left in his run.
__________

Smith rocked himself to his feet. He was reeling back from a blow to the jaw and had staggered back against the bar of the tavern he had entrenched himself within for the past week, dislocating several bottles of liquor from their homes on the counter and sending a slosh of the liquid down to the ground.

"Goddamn Smith, you need to learn to back down you crazy bastard. You can't win this one, just give up already." A tall, leanly muscled, ranch hand said behind a big, toothy, grin. "How many times 'ave we been through this? Once, twice, a week at least?" The taller man spat down at Smith's feet and laughed heartily.

Smith wasn't done though, he rarely backed down in a fight against guys like this- the ones who laughed in your face when they fought ya, and ganged up on you with their buddies when no-one was around to see it. Smith's hand found the neck of a bottle, and what happened next brought forth a rallying cheer from the on-lookers of the tavern.

Most people were fond of Smith in the town just out of sheer respect for what the man did for a living- he put people in their place, and in the turmoil of Texas that was a profession that many could respect. Lawmen didn't appreciate Smith, and the Union patrols occasionally gave him some trouble, but in general the townsfolk were fond of the man. Fond enough to cheer him on in a bar fight, at the least.

Smith brought the bottle up and took a long swig from it, before rocking forward onto his feet and spitting out a thick spray of the bottle's contents into the Ranch hand's eyes. Smith wasn't about to kill him or hit him with the bottle, but he was definitely going to knock him on his ass. Smith's now blinded opponent wasn't able to see the punch that connected square with the bottom of his jaw and sent him sprawling back, nor was he conscious enough after the blow landed to feel the pain of it. A resounding cheer went up in the tavern and Smith laughed harshly as he slowly picked his way away from the fight scene as his fallen foe's posse stepped in to clean up the mess.

The joviality in the tavern was rendered obsolete by the sudden bursting in of a short, squat, man. He burst into the tavern's door and shouted for the all-quiet.

"Hey, listen here! Boy, damn near dead he is, just ran into the town and collapsed- word's spreadin' that it's an Injun attack on his family. Nurse Harriet's got the boy in her care, and some of the other fellas are rounding up a posse to go and hunt the red-skins. I heard it happened up by the river- boy damn near died running here."

The tavern went quiet as the news set in. It was always grim to hear of these attacks, especially when children were involved- even if they survived it wasn't gonna be pretty. Smith stayed silent, but moved back to his seat where his rifle lay on the table. He downed the last of his drink and nodded to the bartender- Smith's tab wasn't crippling in its debt, but with how often Smith had to be dragged out after a fight or dashed out after hearing of bad news in town, it was a steadily climbing figure.

The man hoisted the old sniper's rifle up and slid its bandolier over his shoulder, before stepping out of the tavern and into the sun's light. He lifted his head and peered into the sky for a few seconds, before clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Indians were crafty, and even if he did track them down on his own it'd be tough to pin them down long enough to get a shot on them.

He had no doubt he could track them given enough time, given that others didn't beat him to the scene and ruin any of the tracks. He teetered on the edge of trying to round up a few people himself, before shrugging the feelings off and finding himself settling back into the hollowness and melancholy he often operated under.

He reached a hand down to the handle of his revolver and rested it there, turning on his heel as he swiftly marched himself away from the tavern, still a little woozy from the fight he was just in, but steadily clearing up as the sudden introduction of a task to complete interjected itself into his brain. His brain worked itself steadily as he walked, and soon he was striding with the quickness of purpose; He was going to head out to the river alone to try and find signs of the family, Indians, or combat- and then wait for others to show up and organize a hunt with them once he felt satisfied with his findings.

Now all Smith had to do was head to the river and find signs of combat- Indians often left behind rather gruesome visages, so Smith figured it wouldn't be too difficult to find the scene, even if he had set out alone.
__________

Dahteste gritted her teeth as dust blasted her face, bringing up a hand to wipe the muck off her brow again as she followed the trail to the river. Knowing what she did, where things had happened would be easy to determine.

Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed another figure, apparently another rider. She slowed the horse to a trot, making her way over to the man as she adjusted her hat to better block out the sun. “Hey! You going to investigate the river too?” She called over.

__________

Peering around beneath the brim of his hat, Smith settled his gaze on the approaching woman riding towards him. He appraised her for but a moment before reaching up and pulling the hat from his head, gripping it tightly in his hand as he sat up straighter in the saddle and nodded to the woman.

“The name’s Smith ma’am, Adam Smith- I heard talk of the attack and set out right as soon as I could. If you’re headed the same way I wouldn’t mind the company, ma’am, I just didn’t want the mob to crash the site before I could get a feel for what happened myself.” He placed the hat back upon his head and lowered his face once more. The man opted to shield his face after that initial greeting, He was watching his surroundings, not the woman, for threats. She had a few very obvious dangers on her, but it wasn’t obvious dangers Smith was worried about. Indian attacks put the man on edge- they were crafty and fought with many of the same tactics Smith did when he had the chance to employ them.

He set his horse back to its trot, expecting the woman to tag along after his introduction.

Dahteste watched him for a moment, the man seemed extremely familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She spurred her own horse along, coming to trot alongside him as they made their way to the river. “If we meet anybody who isn’t white, let me try to do the talking, if talking can be done. I speak the language.” She surveyed the land in front of her, looking for signs of the river and the attack.

She had absolutely zero hope that they would find anybody alive, but she did hope that there would be enough evidence left to track down the raiding party, what would happen then she couldn’t say.

She looked towards her recent companion, not able to shake the feeling of familiarity. Eventually she broke the monotony, “You look familiar.” She said plainly, “And the name. Adam Smith. Were you perchance a part of General Lee’s Army?”
__________
“Aye, that I was. I served as a sharpshooter and skirmisher.” He spoke shortly, as if the subject was one of disinterest for him- an object of the past, one he didn’t like being identified by. He looked at his newfound companion once more, studying her. “How would that make me familiar to you, ma’am? I spent a majority of my life in the woods, some bar, or hiding behind an army. I’m afraid my memory’s not that great after these years spent covered in gunpowder, so if we’ve met in the past I do not mean any insult to you.” He offered the last apologetically, and simultaneously as an afterthought- and the lilt in his speech made it apparent it didn’t occur to him to apologize for possibly forgetting the woman until after he’d already said his piece.

He coughed into a fist as he finished speaking, and reflexively adjusted his hat- a defensive mechanism of his, that told of his lack of social skills.
__________
Dahteste’s eyes widened in surprise. “So it is you! Fancy that.” Not saying anything for several moments more, she looked ahead, still not seeing any sign of the river and unsure of when they would find it. The boy had looked completely exhausted, and even if much of that was trauma from his family being slaughtered, he had nonetheless assuredly run a good distance. The tracks he had left in the ground were plain as day - rocks kicked up by a mad run, the scuffs in the dirt itself, the odd bush here and there trampled down. She was confident they would reach the river in less than half an hour, if that.

She rode along in silence for a few more moments, “You might know me as Duncan Grey.” She said plainly, “The one who arrived on the evening of Spotsylvania carrying a Sharps.”
__________

Smith’s silence carried for a minute, and for a while it seemed as if he had missed the comment entirely. Then he looked up and studied Dahteste closely, as if scrutinizing her appearance. He looked her up and down once solidly- similar the once-over males typically give most women, but this one was far more analytical and scrutinizing than simply a masculine gesture.

“...I’ll be damned. I can almost see it too- I never talked to Duncan much ‘cept over a hand of cards or in some down time, but I can’t deny I can see him in you now. Or I suppose, you in him. Huh. Who’da thunk a woman was parading around in the army all that time.” He let out a low whistle as if appreciating the act.

“Can’t say I’d have taken that news well three years ago, but now I don’t damn well care if someone was a woman or not if they could hit a shot at five hundred yards consistently.” He chuckled at that, shaking his head and looking at Dahteste once more. “Duncan Grey…” He muttered, staring at her incredulously. “I can’t believe it.”

Overall, the news seemed to tickle him into a very...very amused state. He let his humor fade soon enough, and his demeanor shifted from one of nostalgia and humor back into the hollowness he exuded in his typical moods. He was focused on the tracks now.

“You speak indian?” He asked, recalling her earlier declaration. “I’ll let ya do whatever you want, but I won’t get near them myself- I’ve had to hunt them down far too much for me to have any sort of trust in a conversation.”

“I speak the Apache language, yes.” She gave him a look before continuing, “And unfortunately this will probably end in gunfire, but if there is a chance for peaceful resolution, I’d like to take it.”

She carried on riding for another minute, “But yes, I’m the one you would’ve known as Duncan. Seems like it’s been ages since then.” Not a woman of many words, at least for the moment, she continued riding in silence as the ground passed by beneath the horses’ hooves.

Suddenly she perked up in the saddle, looking ahead to something in the distance. “Wait, I think that’s the river.” Spurring the horse along to a brisk canter, she left Adam in the dust for a moment as she neared the river, giving the area around a quick visual sweep. Nothing seemed off, aside from the scene of the attack itself, and she slung herself off the horse, pulling her rifle out of its mount as she crept down to the site.

Carnage. That was the best word to describe what she saw, the corpses of a man and some bullocks, all filled with arrows, a wrecked wagon, and… little else. Blood leaked from the carcasses, and it seemed the carrion birds hadn’t made it to the scene yet, or they’d been scared off by her arrival. However, she could only find the one body, and the boy had made mention of his family. Closer inspection revealed that the man has been scalped, and his rifle had been fired. She called up to Adam, “Can you see any tracks? There’s only one man here, scalped. Anyone else was either run down somewhere else or carried off.”
__________

“Give me a few to look around.” Adam called up to her, dismounting his horse a bit further away and walking the beast up rather than riding directly up to the scene. He was much slower-going at this than Dahteste was, and he seemed to absorb the carnage in a slow sweep. He paused at the edge of the attack site and simply observed it with his eyes, his jaw moving as he mumbled to himself silently. After a few moments of this careful deliberation, the man began to slowly pace through the area, guiding his horse carefully alongside him, and studied the ground closely for a while. Every so often he would lift his head and look at the arrow filled bullocks, then off in the distance. He was walking through the attack in his head.

“The boy ran to town before the attack was fully under way.” Adam concluded. “His pa must’ve sent him scrambling when he caught wind of the danger.” He worked his jaw again, and finally just clenched it tight. “Must’ve come from the north then, ‘cos he sent the boy running south. The boy’s tracks were in a straight line too, probably just ran straight until he couldn’t run anymore. But I’m tracking the wrong people- We already know what happened to the boy.” Smith grimaced and continued cautiously walking through the attack site, studying the wagon and- finally- the body that was scalped.

Smith crouches down to look at the body, and inhales deeply to steady himself.

“You hear anything else from the boy before you rode out, or did ya just spring to action like I did when you first caught wind?” Adam asked evenly. “I can make out that there were definitely more people here than just this man, but there’s too much damage to distinguish anything specific.” He looks over a shoulder, away from the body. “I can make out some tracks heading away, and seein’ as we’re the first ones to get here, I think it’s safe to say it’s the indians and missing bodies we’re looking for.”

Dahteste nodded, “I left once he’d fallen unconscious. So no, nothing more. He just mentioned the river.”

She climbed back up to her horse, turning to Adam, “I say we give it a little while before we ride off like knights in dusty leather, there’s probably a posse forming up already, we can meet up with them and guide them along the tracks.”

Indians. Benjamin’s jaw tightened reflexively, he had dealt with enough of their wily tactics and heartless raids to feel little hope for the boy’s family. If they were lucky, they were all dead and God help the women folk. He touched the butt of his pistol, ready for the order to mount up and hunt the renegades. Even with the Union 2nd Cavalry based in town, he would not trust them to be able to competently track the savages. As he moved to put his hat on, Bill ordered him to stay with the nurse and the boy.

His eyes flickered with protest at being left behind but he replied, “Yes, sir, Mr. Cothran. They’ll be fine.”

Grinding his teeth as he watched the men gather in the dusty street, checking weapons and mounting their horses before they prepared to head out to the scene of the ambush. By all rights he should be with them, he had hunted Indians before. Apache, Comanche, even Kiowa once. A frown formed under his scruffy beard, maybe Bill trusted him to find a few cows but warfare was another story. The older man likely thought him a liability with his crippled leg. He turned away, hobbling a few steps over to the table where the sunburned, exhausted boy lay and he looked him over. The kid had guts and if he lived he would need every ounce of them to survive without his family.

The well dressed young woman and her companion would do as they would and he paid them no mind. Rubbing a hand along the thick chestnut hair hanging shaggy and unkempt from being under his hat, he finally turned to Miss Coleman and cleared his throat, “What would you have me do, ma’am?”

Harriet never minded cussing. Her brothers had done a fair share of it (whenever out of ear shot of their father) and in the army she had heard even more. She barely waved off the apology from Mr. Cothran before the nurse was back to thinking about what her next course of action should be for the boy once he was clean.

These thoughts were interrupted as Mr. Cothran came to a decision about his ranch hand. Harriet’s soft brown eyes moved from him to Mr. Ross with a smile of thanks. “That’s very kind of you Mr. Cothran, and you Mr. Ross for missing out on the action to stay here with me and the boy…” Though she knew it wasn’t really Mr. Ross’ choice in the matter, better to be gracious . “Yes.” She agreed. “Better safe than sorry.” A motto every nurse knew and believed in.

“Be careful yourself Mr. Cothran…” Her wide eyes met his briefly before nodding and turning back to her work. Hopefully the boy’s family could be found and given a proper burial.

Harriet was quiet as she continued to bathe the boy’s torso, cleansing his skin and finding no more injuries. It seemed that Mr. Ross was a bit put out about not getting to join the hunting party. The nurse did not comment on this, men liked to hunt and fight and do things. It was normal that he would rather be off riding than tending to a nurse and a scared boy.

After a quick sulk Mr. Ross was recovered . Harriet smiled in a friendly manner, her tone apologetic. “I really do appreciate your staying Mr. Ross. I know it’s not much fun to be left behind with me and the boy…” She grinned sympathetically and put the dirty cloth aside, turning to her various drawers to pull out a clean one and dipping it in the clean basin. “No good deed goes unpunished or so they say…”

Turning back she gestured to the lad. “If you could just lift him up, lean him forward over your arm so that I might wash his back?” Harriet moved to brace the child’s upper body, adjusting Mr. Ross’ grip and the positioning of the boy until it was precisely what she wanted before going to work. Again, the boy was just dirty.

“Well…Physically he seems to be in perfect health…” Of course mentally…That wouldn’t be the case.

The nurse was quiet for some time, bathing the lad and concentrating on her work, occasionally changing Mr. Ross’ grip but otherwise absorbed. Off came the trousers and a clean white night gown was produced, slipped over the boy’s head and he was ready.

“If you wouldn’t mind picking him up now Mr. Ross, I have a patient’s room with a cot made up. We can put him there and let him rest…” Harriet dried her hands in her starched white apron as she spoke, then gestured to the door off her examination room. Once the boy was in Mr. Ross’ arms Harriet opened the door for him, fluffed the pillow before the boy was set down and then draped a very light shawl over him.

Maternally she brushed a few stray strands of hair away from the lost boys face before turning to leave the room. Shutting the door softly Harriet smiled her thanks up at Mr. Ross, small hand coming to grip his elbow in gratitude.

“Poor lamb…But then life is hard…I think you and I must know that by now Mr. Ross, to have lived as long as we have…” But then he was quite a bit older than she. This thought hovered in the air, about the unfairness of life and how rough it was before Harriet shook her head, reaching up to smooth her plain brown hair back into its practical pinned and braided style. No point in moping about something that couldn’t be changed.

“And now it’s your turn.” Harriet’s expression was no nonsense. “How may I help you Mr. Ross? Any ailments I could take a look at while we wait? Or perhaps just some coffee?” Not that Harriet was a particularly good cook, but it was almost impossible to mess up coffee.

Benj picked up the boy so the nurse could wash him, the skin of his back reddened and starting to blister along his thin shoulders. He did not weigh much but he handled him gingerly, following Harriet’s orders. At her word, he carried the boy to the bed, laying him down carefully as she tucked him in. Benj never married and as far as he knew did not have any children but it would be a cold hearted bastard not to feel some sympathy for the boy. Knowing what the posse would likely find, he hoped there was some family that might come and get him.

He stepped out the door, glancing once more at the sleeping child before the nurse shut the door. Benj felt her hand on his elbow, firm with a gentle strength and he looked over at her. Her comments made him nod, life was hard and it was unfair, unforgiving for the weak.

“That it is, ma’am,” he agreed, inhaling deeply as he felt the slow knot of anxiety twist in his stomach. Reaching up, he wiped away a droplet of sweat and limped after her as she made her way into the office.

“I could use a cup of coffee, thank you,” he replied, leaning against the table to extend his stiff left leg and take the weight off of it. “Ah, well...my wounds are old, Miss Coleman. Doc said there ain’t much to be done about it, except treat the pain."

He glanced around her office once more, then looked directly at her. She was a plain woman but not unattractive, though he had never bothered to notice before. The nurse had an air of confidence and capability about her, he remembered that from the nurses at the hospital where he recovered. It had not been a real hospital but a large plantation home with cots lined in the bottom floor rooms. Since he had been an officer, he was given one of the beds. While he feared the doctors and their saws, the nurses were always a comfort. Benj found himself starting to relax a little, despite the distant gnawing craving to go fetch his box and find a secluded spot.

"You wondering about my leg, I suppose?" Benj said, "I broke it in the war, nothing to brag about."

Harriet nodded, folding her hands neatly before her apron as she watched Mr. Ross stretch out his leg, expert eyes roaming over the angle and the relief his face showed as the weight was taken off the limb. Her warm gaze lingered a moment longer before her soft mouth pressed into a thoughtful expression. Nothing to do but treat the pain? She didn’t much care for that assessment.

“I’ll fetch us some coffee then Mr. Ross…”

As Harriet left the cowboy in her examination room she bustled into the kitchen at the back of suits of offices. All medical personnel needed hot water and the likes. A kitchen was typical for this building’s use. Bringing the water to boil and setting two cups, spoons, sugar and milk on a tray in a sterile and practical manner (rather than how another lady might set it artfully) Harriet had her mind on Mr. Ross’ leg.

She didn’t wish to think or speak ill of other doctors, but in her experience with the Army often times they were just doing what they could with too little supplies and too little time. And then afterwards…? Well they could just dole out medicines and send a broken man on his way. But Harriet’s own brothers had been injured (mentally and physically) from the war and the diagnosis of ‘nothing we can do’ was one that stuck in her throat.

Experimenting with her brothers injuries Harriet had found several small comforts that the doctors had never mentioned to her brothers that made their daily life a little easier. But it wasn’t as if Mr. Ross had come to her asking her for help…Really she’d be poking her nose into his business…

Harriet’s office was tidy, orderly and small. Obviously the real doctor would have a larger room, newer table and supplies. Still it was clear Harriet took great pride in her vocation. The drawers that must hold the more valuable supplies were locked, the key probably with the nurse.

The Coffee made the brunette made her way back to Mr. Ross, setting the tray down before brushing a piece of her soft hair away from her face. “There we are Mr. Ross…” she gestured that the man could serve himself before picking up her own cup.

“I apologize if I was bringing up an uncomfortable topic with your leg Mr. Ross. Professional curiosity is all…” She smiled politely and looked down into her cup. “My own brothers came back injured… I often think it is the injury to spirit that does the greater damage, not the physical limitations… But…” Harriet sighed and took a sip of her coffee experimentally. “There is not much I can do for that asides offer my friendship…”

The nurse set her cup down and moved around to her counter tops, tidying up what little disorder she had created earlier in the day. “Do you like working on a ranch Mr. Ross? I find Mr. Cothran to be a very ah…” Harriet smiled and straightened a jar of cotton swabs “politely stubborn man. He must be an interesting employer…”

The room as spic and span as it could be she turned back to face Mr. Ross, leaning against the counter top and watching him as he tried the coffee. Was it edible? Brows rose slightly at his first sip and a little line of worry between her brows disappeared as Mr. Ross did not choke on it and then die.

This confirmed, Harriet couldn’t help but tilt her chin down and examine his leg from afar. It was with a inquisitive countenance rather than pity or even disgust as some veterans would get from their deformities. Had it broken below the knee or above? The way he held it and the way he walked made Harriet think there was something off with his actual knee as well, though that could be the way it was held due to the bone’s regrowth…

“The boy appeared in the square a few minutes ago, apparently there was trouble with his family’s caravan…”

Deminora considered that for a moment. The promise of a caravan was enticing, although it could be anything from a traveler’s wagon to part of a larger supply line. The vagueness of the aforementioned ‘trouble’ was unsettling to her, and she had no way of measuring just quite how perilous a situation she’d potentially be entering herself into.

“Indians attacked…”

“I’ve dealt with redskins in the past,” Philip grumbled over her shoulder “they ain’t got much by way of arms, but if you let them get the drop on you you’ll end up with a spear in ya neck and an axe in ya belly.”

“It looks like some folk are going to go out and see if there are any survivors. I suppose if you’re wishing to help you could bring back the bodies for a proper burial…I’ve got this young man well in hand. He’s not hurt just sun sick. Of course if you prefer you could come into the infirmary with me.”

The nurse then vanished into her office, leaving the odd-looking pair out in the sun-blasted square.

“What are we thinkin’?” the hired gun asked in his gruff voice, scratching away at the stubble on his chin.

“Depends on if it's worth the hassle or not.” Deminora gave a loose shrug, gazing blankly into nothingness.

“You have to realize that you’re risking life and limb here, Miss Corett.” Philip said firmly “There’s no two ways about it; when you go riding off into the wilderness you’re takin’ a gamble on your soul.”

Deminora whirled around, her billowy skirt fluttering around her ankles.

“If I bow my head and move on every time something dangerous comes around then we won’t be getting very far.” She tossed her head back, her auburn tresses tumbling down her shoulders “I’m gonna have to risk my hide at some point, Mister Taeorinn. Might as well start here.”

The young lady strode elegantly back over to where the rabble of townsfolk were gathered, her expensive shoes clattering against the ground.

“What are you planning to do, Miss?”

“I’m a Corett.” she declared boldly “the South is in my blood.”

A grey haired figure, with skin bewitched to a dark tan, was standing at the heart of the gathering, calling out to those who had the good grace to listen.

“Alright folks. Sounds like the boy’s family was hit by injuns. Apache most likely, maybe Comanche. I’m hopin’ to get some men together to go out and go see what happened. Any able-bodied men who’d be willin’ to volunteer, I’d appreciate it. Need men who can shoot and ride, and provide their own guns and horses.”

He was making his way across the square, probably to really up more support, when his eyes fell upon Deminora and Philip.

"You're welcome to come along, if you can handle a gun."

Then he vanished into a nearby Saloon.

“There’s our opportunity then, Mister Taeroinn.” Deminora gave an artfully sculpted smile “Let's go kill us some savages.”

(collaboration between Sterling and idlehands)

Doctor's Office, Laredo

The coffee was not bad, it was strong and bitter with a kick. He sipped it politely, not bothering to add milk or sugar as those were luxuries he had got used to doing without on the trail. Benj looked into his mug as she spoke about his injury, his dark image visible in the thick brew. Of course she would be interested, it was her nature as a healer.

“You don’t have to apologize, Miss Coleman,” he said, “Most people act like they don’t see it or they stare.”

Benj looked her over, at the stray hairs escaping her sensible braid and her warm compassionate eyes. It was not surprising her brothers had served, but what side was the question. He had spent enough time in Tennessee to mark her accent as something from the mid south. There was enough disputed territory that the battles there were truly often brother against brother, blood against blood.

He swirled the coffee, muttering as he watched his reflection distort, “The soul does take a battering in war. No man comes home the same as he left, even if he’s got all his limbs intact. If you were nurse in the war, then you saw enough to understand.”

When she changed subjects, he breathed out a soft sigh and glanced at the young woman. “I like it well enough. Mr. Cothran is a fair man, knows his business. Him and the McCalls have been kind to give me a chance at being a ranch hand.”

“I imagine it is quite different than the work you were doing before… Though I have noticed a similarity between soldiers and cattle…” Harriet smiled, obviously teasing just a little.

The last part tasted almost as bitter on his tongue as the coffee. Not that there was anything wrong with working cattle, it was a fine profession and one many a man did in the area. But it was not being a Ranger, following in his father’s path as he had before the war. Keeping the peace and bringing men to justice was a difficult job but one he had found rewarding. Not that the Texas Rangers were around anymore, not in any official capacity. The Union army had seen to that, disbanding the legendary lawmen once they returned to establish order in the rebellious state. He ran a hand through his thick hair, rubbing the back of his neck and looked back at the nurse.

“He’s a widower, Mr. Cothran is,” he mentioned. Harriet was a single woman, if she was not interested in the older man for herself, then she might have some spinster friend looking for a husband. “If that’s something you were wondering.”

The nurse startled at this comment, brown eyes widening first in surprise and then amusement. “I did actually know that about Mr. Cothran… A sad thing to lose a wife.” Not that Harriet would truly know...She had never been married, though she had lost two brothers in the war. “ I quite imagine if he wanted another wife he could find one easily enough. Having a ranch and all he’s fairly respectable.”

The nurse smoothed down her apron idly and re clasped her hands. “Perhaps one of the Addison’s…” She named a pair of sisters who were very fresh and bright eyed, with curly blonde hair and big blue eyes Harriet had tended to several fellows who had gone to blows over the girls. “Though I rather think Mr. Cothran is too busy for such things…”

How on earth had they come to this topic? Shaking her head Harriet looked down at his leg once more.

Benj followed her gaze down to his leg and he shifted it back, feeling the grinding in his knee. “I’m guessing you want to take a look see for yourself, Miss Coleman? Ain’t much to see but an ugly scar.”

Stifling another yawn, he set his coffee aside in case she wanted to see. It was not something he liked to show off but if she was sympathetic it would be easier to get her to give him what he needed. The chance she could do anything for it was extremely small, he had broken it more than three years prior.

She was torn. She did want to see it...but she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable….But she did want to see it. Harriet obviously had some sort of inner battle before nodding. “If you wouldn’t mind, I admit I would like to see. A scar? Did they operate? How did it break? Where did it break? How long were you in hospital?”

Once Harriet had admitted her curiosity the questions flowed out of her as she took a step closer.

Harriet collected the coffee, bringing it to the countertop where it would be safely out of the way.

Benj paused only a moment as she peppered him with questions, the flashes of memory sparking in his fogged mind. It was not something he spoke of often, no one asked at the ranch except Mr. McCall when he hired him and Benj did not socialize much in town. He bent and began to roll up his pants, answering her as he did, “It was the Battle of Bentonville, right near the end of the war. We went up against Sherman’s boys, we mighta had a chance but something went wrong. I don’t really know, but they flanked us hard and...”

Harriet knelt to look at his leg as the pant leg was being rolled up. As he trailed off she looked up, eyes widening in an unspoken question.

He paused, surely the talk of war and tactics would bore her and he stood up, his leg exposed. The jagged scar along his pale hard flesh was still red, in some places nearly an inch wide. It ran from his calf to his knee, the muscle knotted and beneath it the bone had twisted as it had not healed straight and his knee was stiff from the tendon damage.

She was quiet as she inspected the wound. The actual scar had that bright puffy quality that new ones did. Tilting her head to see it from various angles the nurse’s lips parted in thoughtful contemplation.

“Looks like a limb of a live oak,” he observed, “To answer your questions, a blue coat shot my horse out from under me. I kicked out of the stirrup but could not clear the saddle and he rolled over on me, my leg planted against the ground and snapped the bones in my lower leg and later my knee swelled up like a melon. One of my men dragged me off the battlefield and left me at the doc’s tent. He had his hands full, to be sure. I was bleeding pretty bad, I could...see the bone splinters poking at my pant leg.”

Clean hands moved slowly and gently up over the ankle, fingers running over the bones in his lower leg before easing up over his skin so lightly it almost seemed like it was hovering rather than touching. “Sounds like a painful event.” Was her only remark, eyes focused on the leg before her and the challenges it posed. She didn’t think it looked like a limb of live oak. It looked like a hard life and a brave soul.

He closed his eyes for a moment, furrowing his brow, “I don’t know exactly what he did, something with a saw chain and taking out bone fragments. There were so many wounded. At one point he was so exhausted he called for his big saw just to take the leg off so he could move on. Soon as his back was turned, I rolled off the table and crawled away. I didn’t want him taking my leg. I’d be useless if he did.”

But he might have been in less pain now if the leg had been removed. Harriet’s hands moved up past the calf muscles to rest behind the knee.

“I hid and had the blacksmith bind my leg tight, cost me a bottle of good whiskey but the doc never came looking for me,” he sniffed and finally looked her in the eyes, “He was up to his elbows in blood, one stubborn soldier wasn’t worth him wasting time looking for.”

Harriet rocked back on her heels to peer up at Mr. Ross furthermore. “Mmm I remember those days… It was hard to remember your own name let alone all of the injured men…” Lashes fluttered as she blinked rapidly, pushing the memories away. Those memories didn’t haunt the nurse as she was sure his did him, but now was not the time to hear the screams and smell the blood and taste the fear.

He took a few deep breaths, as if the long speech had winded him and waited for her assessment. Benj raised his eyebrows slightly at the nurse, meeting her gaze as she spoke of working in the war. He had guessed as much, though she seemed young, there was a steely strength under her soft features. He said no more about it as she trailed off, those were wounds he was not wanting to open right now more than he already had.

“Well Mr. Ross. It sounds like you did a very good job of injuring this leg… And I’m surprised you’re able to really walk as well as you do…”

Harriet gestured to his knotted calf muscles. “I imagine the muscles in the rest of your leg are just as tense… I’d guess you are practically holding yourself up with your strength of will and body rather than the bone… “ He was probably exhausted by the end of each day.

Frowning Harriet tilted her chin further, eyes moving back to his leg. In fact… How was he able to go on day in and day out? Her lips twitched, mouth turning to the side as a little hum escaped her lips.

“May I?” She wanted to know, pressing her fingers into base of his ankle.

If he agreed Harriet would very carefully start massaging the knotted muscles, hoping that with some pressure and massage they could relax some. It was a short term remedy.

Medicines… The man must be heavily medicated. Physically strong, stubborn and medicated. That was how he got through the days. Or at least Harriet would be willing to bet on it.

“I used a crutch for nearly a year but then I wanted to get back to making my own way,” he said as she examined him, “I suppose when you want to do something bad enough, you just do it.”

Harriet nodded. Yes. The human spirit could do incredible things.

He shrugged, leaving it at that. Her hands were gentle and firm as she massaged the tight muscles of his scarred calf. Benj watched her for a moment and grunted slightly, “Riding ain’t too bad but bending it or walking too long makes it hurt. ”

Another nod, hands still busy. “I’d imagine you’d best be suited for stationary work where you could utilize your upper body…”

It was a bit of an understatement as the bones of his knee rubbed together, the cartilage all but gone and the twisted bone ached constantly. The morphine was all that helped, not to mention the rush he used to get lost in. Now he hardly noticed it, dosing himself more to keep the withdrawal sickness at bay and to dull the agony of his leg.

“Not much stationary work on a ranch, ma’am,” he replied, watching her as her hands moved over the disfigured leg. “Work has to get done, one way or the other.”

Hands working slowly and methodically Harriet massaged, keeping her fingers moving in small circles as she felt each knot and worked on it until it lessened to some degree. Eyes focused on the task at hand and mind racing off in a hundred different directions Harriet’s hands just kept working, moving up his calf towards his knee.

“You know, I’ve often thought that massage is over looked...The doctor is a nice enough man here but…” the nurse shrugged. He thought she was a simple woman and didn’t take much stock in her opinions in medical treatments. She didn’t want to say anything rude though about the man and trailed off, hands still moving up to the base of his knee.

“Truth be told, I don’t really care for doctors,” Benj said, his unruly chestnut hair falling forward as he tilted his head down watching her work. “Nurses were always a comfort though. Something about a woman’s touch in times like those.”

“And extremely hot baths. When I was a little girl, I grew up on a farm, I loved hot baths. Now I know why. I used to feel like all my troubles would melt away in the bath… I was right. My body at least would relax and feel better…”

Without thinking Harriet’s hands move to the top of Mr. Ross’ thigh, working in circles just above the knee and then to the back side. She had been right! His entire leg was a mess.

He cleared his throat at the mention of a hot bath, those were too long associated with brothels in his mind and he shifted uncomfortably as her hand strayed higher. Hot baths were an occasional thing at the ranch, they mostly bathed in the creek or washed out of a basin. Benj always made sure that he was alone when he did so as he was not eager to find out Mr. Cothran’s reaction at the sight of his arms. Morphine was a common drug but the addiction was still seen as a shameful thing, a deficiency in character.

“Are you on a regular medicine then, Mr. Ross? To keep you as mobile as you are?” Frowning she dug her thumb into a particularly impressive knot, bending her neck to bring her focus on the problem area.

Benj jerked his head slightly when she mentioned medicine and he skirted around the issue, slipping out a white lie, “Sometimes I take some laudanum, if it’s too much to bear.”

The brunette bit the inside of her cheek. That seemed unlikely, however it wasn’t her place to call Mr. Ross a liar. Trying to be more comforting she added nonchalantly “With a wound like this I would think you’d need something a touch stronger than Laudanum…”

“Where did you grow up Mr. Ross?” She asked, trying to keep the polite conversation going as she worked.

“And what did you do before the War?”

Hands moving a bit higher.

“Do you like Texas well enough? I’ve found Laredo to be a surprisingly enterprising town myself…”

@idlehands

((( Continued scene with Sterling and Idle))))

He could feel her hands working higher past his knee at the tense muscle of his lean meat of his thigh. It was bunched as he kept it tense to compensate for the weakness of his lower leg. It had been some time since he last felt a female hand on any part of his body and it reacted as it would. Feeling himself stir despite willing himself to ignore it, he tried to answer her rapid fire questions.

“Well, I, ah, was born in San Antonio and I do like Texas well enough, Miss Coleman,” Benj inhaled sharply, turning his hip so he was more sideways to hide anything that might offend the nurse. A blush crept up his suntanned face, “I was...a Texas Ranger before the war. Like my father before me.”

“Really? A native Texan then. Must be used to the heat by now then…” She grinned at the typical joke made about Texas. Hands moving higher.

“A ranger? I’ve heard stories about the Texas Rangers but of course they were ...well not really around by the time I came to Texas. I’m from Kentucky myself.”

Harriet was halfway up the man’s upper leg before she realized she might be making him uncomfortable. Hands slowing the nurse looked up to see Mr. Ross’ expression, finally taking her ministrations away and folding her hands neatly before herself once more, though this was almost impossible considering her proximity to his leg, having had to move forward to continue the massage.

It was clear that Harriet Coleman enjoyed being a nurse and could get caught up in being helpful.

Benj tried not to look down at her, his face hot with embarrassment, “That uh, massaging was nice. It does make me feel, well my leg feel better.”

He closed his eyes briefly, a rare smile touching his face as he laughed internally at himself. The dimple that creased the right side of his face was mostly hidden under the scruffy reddish beard. “Thank you, Nurse Coleman, ma’am. You’re most kind.”

Her mouth perked in good humor. “I’m sorry if I ah… Rubbed a little too much Mr. Ross.” The nurse primly and pointedly kept her eyes fixed on his face. “I sometimes get caught up in the treatment and lose thought of anything but the task at hand…” trying to hide her smile her own cheeks dimpled slightly before Harriet looked away.

There was no where to back up with the table behind him and she was directly before so he stood awkwardly with hands crossed below his belt buckle and he forced himself to look away from the doe eyes and think of a number of distasteful things. It had been awhile since he had bothered to feel anything of this nature, the morphine dulled his emotions and desires as well as the pain but coming off of it he became more sensitive. After a few deep breaths, he returned to less embarrassing state and rubbed his hand over his mouth, unable to look her in the face.

Realizing she had effectively trapped the man Harriet shuffled backwards before pressing her hand to the floor to gain purchase on the table in an attempt to haul herself up.

“Now where did I put my coffee?” She asked aloud, straightening her apron once back on her feet.

Benj had forgotten the coffee and his manners, too disconcerted after the encounter. After he settled himself, the knot of anxiety started to come back. He would have to come back and ask the much less attentive doctor for morphine. Nurse Coleman did not seem the kind to dole out medicine like penny candy. He smoothed down his pant leg, tugging it over his boot, “I should...um, probably get my rifle. Just in case.”

He shuffled out the door, ducking his head as he limped past the gathering posse to gather his Henry rifle from the saddle and gave Lucy a pat on the neck. The mustang stood dozing in the shade, her back hoof tilted. She turned and butted her long nose against his shoulder, “Nope, not this time girl.”

Hefting his rifle, he paused, looking at the saddle back and he reached in, feeling the wood grain of the box but left it. Benj doubted he could hide much from Harriet Coleman’s observant gaze.

(Within 4 hours of 24 counts as before the end of tomorrow, right?)

It was a long ride to Laredo, but pleasant. Just windy enough to keep the sun from boiling Moses and his fellow travelers. But he probably wouldn't have boiled anyway. Maybe burst into flames. He was far too dry and dusty a man to boil alive. And perhaps his fellows would have burst into flames as well. Had it not been for a barrel of cider in the back,there would have been nothing to drink. aside from riverwater, but Moses insisted that nobody even touch that substance when he was around.

Many quiet days and cold nights passed, conversation swooped by very briefly and very rarely, like a small bird. Moses found himself enjoying the solitude, but the other travelers grew restless. Cards were played, some was won and lost, and over the course of events for that week, it would be safe to assume that positively nothing of any conceivable import transpired. And that was exactly how Moses liked to travel.

When he had finally made it to Laredo one evening, he made his place at the local Inn, renting a room and putting locking up his secondary cavalry guns. In the morning, he need simply get up and follow procedure. Discreetly let the local sheriff know about his position as a Pinkerton agent, maybe have a few drinks, and wait until his help was needed... But that was not at all what happened. The morning was well gone by the time Moses awoke, and when that happened, he awoke not to the crow of the rooster but the cries of a young boy, the swoons of women, and the awkward reactionary mumblings of the general populace.

Naturally, he had to respond as quickly as possible. He got dressed in a hurry, didn't have time for his waistcoat, a fine shirt and some suspenders would have to be enough. He put on his hat, his boots, his belt, holstered his gun and ran outside to see a little blonde boy crying out for help in the street. He had two choices: Take the law into his own hands by helping this boy without documentation or authorization by the police force, or tell the police his business in Laredo wait for the dust to clear. Moses had seen people take the law into their own hands before, and he believed, to some degree, that the more intelligent people who held the law in their proverbial hands, the less likely the law is to die a horrible death of corruption.

Moses turned to the jailhouse, intent on finding the sheriff; the boy would have to wait. There was due process in the matters of Justice.