Between the Raindrops

One Thing Right

The camp was in chaos.

Uncle struggled to hitch the teams in their complicated leather harnesses, for once not complaining about lumbago. Grimshaw hollered orders, pecking at the terrified girls. Mary-Beth, Tilly and Karen scrambled back and forth, arms laden with bundles; clothes, photos, cosmetics. Even Dutch's pampered lover, Molly, was helping. All of them stressing to decide on the fly what could be should be taken and what could be spared. They stuffed chests haphazard, not bothering to fold or place any of it. Pearson lifted a bucket of apples with a grunt, moving far too slowly around Arthur as he hefted sacks of potatoes and buckets of flour into the chuckwagon. The cook suddenly lurched and fell to his left, and suddenly a stray apple was under Arthur's boot, nearly sending him crashing to the ground.

"Goddamnit, Pearson!"

"Sorry, Arthur!"

"Well, don't just stand there," he grumbled, kicking the mess from his path. "Pick 'em up!"

"But we don't have time!"

"But nothin'," Arthur snarled. "If you think yer gonna sustain folk on potatoes and booze—"

"I'm doing what I can, Mr. Morgan!"

"Doin' what you can to get in the way, you mean."

"Good to see love's done nothing to dull your humor," Pearson said. "Can you grab that crate over there?"

Arthur looked at the wooden crate. "You serious? We're aimin' to run fer our lives an you wanna pack more goddamn whiskey?" He checked the contents. "Oh... my apologies. This one's rum."

"What else can I do?" Pearson complained. "I can't go shopping now!"

Arthur growled and turned away, back to loading the wagon. At the head of the forming caravan, Emelia was still working on the wounded. She had managed to keep practicing as a doctor, as well as stock a pantry, learn to cook, and make their home.

Their lost home...

"You got one job, Pearson," Arthur snapped, turning back to the cook. "One job! And it shoulda been done!"

"I... Arthur, come on," Pearson tried weakly. "I didn't think we'd be... I didn't think it would be this bad!"

Arthur looked back, trying to find a glimpse of Emelia. She was lost in that wagon somewhere, helping to mend the gang's mistakes. The job...

"I ain't even been around lately," Arthur began, turning back to Pearson, "but the more I hear of it, the goddamn crazier it sounds!"

Dutch rode in then, greeted with a great commotion. Like a hero returned. The Count lathered in sweat, lungs heaving like bellows. The satchel of damned money gone.

"Dutch!" several cried.

Mary-Beth exhaled. "Oh, thank goodness!"

Those who could walk came to gather around him like bleating lambs, weary and uncertain.

"We all here?" Dutch demanded as he dismounted. He sagged a bit on the landing, holding unto the pommel and seat a moment, unsteady on his tired feet.

"We're still missing Sean and Mac," Lenny offered.

Dutch nodded somberly. "They... they will find us. What about Davey? Jenny...?"

"They have a chance," Lenny said. "Thanks to the doctor."

"So she is with us, is she?"

"Takin' care of John's leg right now."

Dutch nodded. "Good."