by J. Rosemary Moss
Genre: Fan-Fiction (Bonanza)
Rating: Mature Content
LINK TO PART ONE: http://jrosemary.blogspot.com/2008/02/for-want-of-brother-part-one.html
~
It took a minute for my brain to catch up with that exchange. But I remembered last night, when Adam had unexpectedly asked me my views on the war. Now I understood why.
I shut my eyes for a moment and thought back to Jack Clayton and the shocked look on him when I pulled out my gun. His face had frozen in that expression as I kept cocking my Colt and firing over and over. And then I couldn’t see his face anymore—there was too much blood splattered on it.
Part of me never wanted to shoot a gun again. Back when I had told Adam that perhaps I had done enough shooting to last me a lifetime, I wasn’t kidding. But fighting for the Union, I reckoned, was different. I didn’t relish the thought of aiming a rifled musket at a Reb, nor of plunging a bayonet into his belly, but it wouldn’t be murder.
I reckon a Reb can bleed just as much as Jack Clayton, though.
And there was my own courage to consider. Hanging was one thing—death by bayonet was something else. But it was better to die fighting for a cause, I decided, than on the gallows. And I’d rather the army than prison.
In the end, though, it wouldn’t be my choice. Once I decided to turn myself in and not to accept Adam’s help in escaping, I’d sacrificed the right to determine my fate. Or maybe I sacrificed it back when I shot Jack Clayton. Either way, I understood that and accepted it. But I could appreciate the irony of my situation: my life was in the hands of Jack Clayton’s little brother.
I was so absorbed in these thoughts that I missed part of the conversation at hand. But it didn’t signify, for both Adam and Drew seemed to have drifted into silence. And when they did talk, it was only to discuss the valet duties that Adam had taken on for the morning--and probably until Drew had his real valet back at his beck and call.
They left the guestroom together—at which point Adam noticed the open door. He must have remembered shutting it, for he glared into Hoss’s room as he passed us with a look that threatened vengeance. Neither Hoss nor Joe looked concerned, but I felt differently. I had to figure out how to defend myself with my hands cuffed.
I had planned to take my breakfast upstairs, but at the last minute I changed my mind. I figured that Drew might as well get to know me before he begged a judge to put a noose around my neck. Why should he be content with feeling my face?
That was my thinking, at any event. But I got more than I bargained for.
Hop Sing set an extra long table for breakfast. Mr. Cartwright sat at the head of it, with Drew Clayton on one side of him and Sheriff Coffee on the other. Adam sat next to Drew and Joe sat next to Adam. Hoss sat next to Sheriff Coffee and I sat next to Hoss.
I saw no sign of Drew’s driver—nor had I noticed him in the house last night. I reckon the fellow was relegated to the bunkhouse.
The meal was peculiar only in that it seemed so normal. I suppose everyone had gotten used to the idea of a murderer, the brother of the victim and a sheriff all under the same roof. But we kept to safe topics of conversation: the storm, its effect on the livestock, news on the railroads, an upcoming wedding in Carson City and so forth.
What did feel odd, though, was the way Drew would glance in my direction—despite the fact that he couldn’t actually see me. I did my best to ignore him and the eerie whiteness of his eyes.
But as Hop Sing cleared the dishes, Drew spoke to me directly. “Do you play chess, Reuben?” he asked.
I swallowed my last bit of salted pork. “Yes, sir,” I answered. “A little, I mean. I know how the pieces move, but I’m only just learning the strategy.”
I could have kicked myself for calling him ‘sir’ again. That annoyed me almost as much as hearing him refer to me as a ‘boy.’ Drew couldn’t have been more than five years my senior.
“Well, let’s see what we can do to improve your game,” he said.
My mouth dropped open at that and everyone else fell silent. Was this some kind of peace offering? Not likely. I supposed it might be a test of some sort—either that, or he just wanted to destroy me anyway he could.
“Mr. Cartwright,” Drew continued, “may we use your board?”
Ben Cartwright looked apprehensive—I don’t think he liked this idea any more than I did. He sent me a questioning glance, but I just shrugged. I was too curious to turn Drew down.
“Certainly,” Mr. Cartwright said. “Adam, will you set it up?”
“Sure, Pa,” he answered.
Adam left the table and crossed over to the great room. I watched him bring out the board and the pieces. He didn’t look as disturbed by Drew’s request as everyone else did. I suppose that should have eased my mind. He knew Drew better than anyone else here, after all.
I turned back to Drew. “How—how do you manage to play?” I asked. “Do you have to feel all the pieces to see where they are?”
He smiled at that and shook his head. “No,” he said. “You just have to tell me which piece you’re moving on your turn—and where you’re moving it to. And you’ll have to move my pieces for me; I’ll tell you which square. Are you familiar with chess notation?”
“No,” I answered.
“Each square has a name and number—Queen’s Rook 3, for example. Adam can show you the board and explain how it works.”
I furrowed my brow as I took that in. If Drew wasn’t going to feel the pieces—and I could see how that would be awkward and messy—he’d have to keep track of every single move in his head. Even if the rest of us refreshed his memory from time to time, that’d be quite a feat.
“How do you want to choose colors?” Adam asked.
“Reuben can take white for the first match,” Drew answered.
He stood up as he spoke, took hold of his cane and made his way into the great room. Adam took his arm and led him to the correct chair. I sighed and excused myself from the table so that I could join them.
Drew demolished me in the first game—and he never once had to ask me or anyone else to remind him where each piece was. He carried all that information in his head.
He didn’t gloat about his victory, though, and that surprised me. He tutored me instead, explaining not only what I’d done wrong, but why it was wrong. And he wasn’t condescending or sneering about it. Adam, meanwhile, would add his two cents. Generally he agreed with Drew, but sometimes they got into arguments about what advice to give me.
We played for hours. Adam stayed with us the whole time, while the others took turns playing checkers along side us or braving the storm to check the barn and the bunkhouse. I got better with each game, but it would be a long while, I realized, before I could provide a challenge for the likes of Drew or Adam.
After Drew checkmated me for what must have been the tenth time, I sighed and leaned back in my chair. It was just me, Drew and Adam now. I was on one side of the chess table, Drew was on the other and Adam was sitting on the edge of the fireplace.
Hoss and Little Joe were in the bunkhouse. Sheriff Coffee and Mr. Cartwright, meanwhile, were sitting at the dining table drinking coffee. They weren’t far from us, but they were deep in their own conversation.
I stared at Drew long and hard—and then I decided to take advantage of our privacy in order to speak my mind. And this time I promised myself that I wouldn’t call him ‘sir.’
“I appreciate these lessons, Drew,” I said. “But what’s the point of them? You want me to hang as soon as possible—I won’t get good enough to give you a game before I reach the gallows.”
He gave me a wry but appreciative grin. “I know,” he owned. Then he paused and cocked his head at me. “Do you know what Adam wants for you?”
I sent Adam an apologetic glance—I reckon he was still sore about the spying.
“Yes,” I answered, turning back to Drew. “And I know you’re not keen to help him.”
“That’s true,” he said. “And even if I agreed to help Adam, I couldn’t guarantee you that his plan would work. We’d have a reasonable chance, that’s all. But I can’t promise you that you wouldn’t swing or end up in prison for the rest of your life.”
I glanced at Adam again, but his eyes were trained on Drew. I bit my lip and then addressed Drew.
“Do you still want me to swing?” I asked.
He mulled that over and then smiled a little. “Yes,” he said. “But I’ll be just as satisfied if a Confederate shell blows you to bits.”
I grinned back at him. “I couldn’t guarantee you that I’d get killed,” I told him, mimicking his voice. “We’d have a reasonable chance, that’s all.”
He and Adam both laughed at that. “I suppose your odds depend on how long the war lasts,” Drew commented. “But I’ll wager it’s going to be longer than anyone realizes.”
Adam nodded. “It’s not going to be a six month affair, as promised.”
“No, certainly not,” Drew agreed.
He paused for a moment, considering. At length he turned toward Adam. “My help won’t come for free,” he warned.
“I figured as much,” Adam said, leaning toward him. “What’s your price?”
Drew didn’t answer that directly. “Come Spring, I’m going to Washington in order to work for the government,” he said instead. “I’ve been offered a post there before, but—well, Jack was here. But there’s nothing to hold me in Virginia City now. And there might even be a diplomatic post in London in the offing.”
Adam frowned at that. “I can understand why you want to leave, but what about the mines you own?”
Drew took his time about answering that. “I can sell most of my shares—they’ll fetch a pretty penny already. I'm sure your father will gobble them up and then waste his money on new safety measures for the miners," he added dryly.
Adam smiled. "Probably."
"I’ll need the cash for new investments," Drew went on. "As for the remaining shares—well, I’ll need someone here to look after them. Someone I find capable.”
Adam folded his arms across his chest. “Is that what you want me to do for you?” he asked.
But Drew shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s a pity, because you’d be ideal. But I’ll need you with me, whether I land in Washington or London.”
Adam’s face went white at that. I reckon that was the last thing he expected to hear.
Drew must have sensed his shock. “Adam, I can’t do this on my own,” he said softly. “I need a business partner I can trust at my side.”
Adam was still too stunned to speak, so Drew kept at him. “There’s a world of opportunity back east and across the Atlantic,” he said. “You know what kind of money we can make during a war—think of the investments you can make on behalf of the Ponderosa. And all on the up and up, I mean. I’m not talking about profiteering.”
Adam shut his eyes for a moment and sighed. Then he found his voice. “I know,” he managed. “But I’m not your brother, Drew. I can’t spend the rest of my life helping you guard your business interests.”
“I don’t want the rest of your life,” Drew said. “I want three years of your partnership.”
That gave Adam pause. I could tell that he was tempted—three years didn’t sound all that long. And I knew what the chance (or maybe the excuse) to see London meant to him. Hell, I reckon he’d be happy even in Washington. At least he’d be reasonably close to New York and everything that a real city had to offer.
“That’s your price?” Adam asked, speaking up again.
Drew nodded. “Yes. Give me three years as my business partner and I’ll do everything in my power to dissuade a judge from sentencing Reuben to hang—and to have his sentence commuted to service in the Union Army.”
I gave Drew a skeptical look. “You don’t think the war’s going to last three years, do you?”
“No,” he answered, without looking my way. “But I’ll need Adam that long regardless. And perhaps a bit longer if we end up in England.”
Adam said nothing. He was looking out the window now. I glanced that way too, just in time to see Little Joe, all bundled up, making his way back toward the house.
“Well, Adam?” Drew prompted. “Do we have a deal?”
There was a spark of regret in Adam’s eyes as he stared at Little Joe. But he turned back to Drew with a resolute look on his face.
“Yes,” he answered. “I’ll talk to my family tonight.”
LINK TO PART NINETEEN: http://jrosemary.blogspot.com/2008/02/for-want-of-brother-part-nineteen.html
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