Saturday Afternoon

by

Beppina

Pa, Hoss, Candy and I had ridden into town together. It was a Saturday, so only a few errands to run and then time for a beer, or three. Pa was having lunch with Mr Johnson, our new-to-town banker. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more boring man. Hoss was collecting some badly needed new boots; his current pair are way past their best. Candy and me? A quick trip to the post office and then — freedom to have a beer, a game of poker or maybe the company of a pretty girl for the afternoon. We’ve been stuck on the ranch for weeks, roundup, horses to break and a timber contract to get underway, and we were all getting short-tempered and needed some relaxation.

“Joe…” an urgent shout interrupted our joshing; Candy gave me a nudge to turn.

“Yeah?”

“The saloon, you’re needed in the saloon, now, Joe!”

“What the –?” My mind flew every which way.

Without a word, Candy and I jogged across the rutted street to the saloon. I burst through the batwing doors, causing a resounding thwack as one side slammed into the wall and snow-like dust and paint fluttered down.

Glancing around through the smoky fug, I couldn’t see my father in the room or the tall white hat indicating Hoss was here. A dozen or so men were crowded together around one table. On seeing me standing in the doorway, they parted company and stepped back in cautious silence. I moved forward, Candy at my elbow.

My heart stopped. My stomach lurched, and I dropped to my knees by my brother. “You’re supposed to be getting your boots, why d’you change your mind?”

“Hoss … Hoss…” I grabbed his hand; panic settled in. “Hoss, open your eyes. One of you men, get Doc Martin. Now.” I ordered anyone near me.

“I’ll get Ben—” Candy ran from the room.

Hoss was slumped back in the chair, one hand limp in his lap. His white hat crumpled on the floor. Blood pooled deep maroon against the off-white of his shirt. It seeped down into his lap, colouring his tan pants a muddy crimson. Still impaled to the hilt in my brother’s chest was a long bone-handled knife.

“Don’t try to move it, Joe.” A voice behind cautioned as a hand restrained my attempt to pull it out. “Wait for the doc. You could kill him if you try.”

I turned and glared. “I can’t leave it like this! What happened? Somebody tell me. Who did this?” No one replied.

I knelt at my brother’s side. I could see he was barely breathing. His chest was rising and falling in quick, jerky movements. The bleeding seemed to be slowing, but it was difficult to be sure. I wanted to get the knife, but something made me hesitate. Could that be stopping the blood?

“Move aside—let me through.” A familiar voice broke through the hubbub of muttering from the crowding onlookers as Doc Martin hurried to my side.

“Come on, folks,” another voice added to the burble, “the show’s over. Go about your business, now.” Sheriff Coffee pushed his way in. “Sam, get this bar cleared. This ain’t some sideshow. Any idea what happened, Joe?”

I shook my head. Words failed me as I watched Doc Martin examining around the knife stuck in Hoss’s chest. I held my breath as he ripped the shirt away from the blade, exposing the deep gash. I looked from the doc to my brother and back. My eyes kept returning to that damned knife.

Footsteps pounded across the wooden floorboards. My father’s voice was demanding and urgent, and at last he was by my side.

“What happened? Paul, is he going to be alright?”

“I can’t say, Ben. It’s in deep. There’s a lot of blood loss. I’m doing my best.”

“Joseph?”

“I don’t know, Pa. We weren’t here when it happened. No one has said anything.”

“I need to get him to my office, but if we move him…” Paul Martin shook his head.

“Do it in here!” My father demanded. “Push those tables together. Work on there.”

“Ben, it’s not sterile.”

“We can clean it sufficiently. Get your instruments ready.” My father was in full organise mode. Candy and I set to rearranging tables, finding clean sheets and getting the room as ready as we could, while Sam set to boiling plenty of water.

“OK, Ben, Boys, I need you to leave. Sam, scrub your hands and help me!” Paul was ready to operate. Pa and I were reluctant to desert Hoss; in fact, Pa refused point-blank until Roy led him away.

“You too, Joe, Candy. Go wait outside or in my office; jest get, and keep your pa out of the way. I’ll call you as soon as there’s news.”

I broke away from the sheriff and moved to my brother’s side, knelt to his head and put my lips to his ears.

“You make sure you hold on, Big Brother. You hear me? Me, Pa, n’ Candy’ll be waiting outside.” With a final squeeze of his hand, I left my brother in the Doctor’s hands.

Pa paced back and forth, wearing a dusty track across Roy Coffee’s floor. Candy flicked through the pile of wanted posters piled high on the desk. Me— I sat sketching the knife embedded in Hoss’s chest, trying to put a face to the owner. Hoss had to survive. He would tell me who’d tried to kill him and why. Pa would say leave it to Roy, but I would deal with it my way.

Footsteps pounded heavy on the boardwalk. The door flung open as Roy pushed his way in.

“Ben, Boys, Doc said you can go over…”

We didn’t hear his next words. As one, we ran across to the saloon.

“Slow down, Ben,” Doc ordered, holding Pa back. “He’s very weak and not out of the woods. But I think he’ll make it.”

The knife was placed in a bloody water-filled bowl, the blade hidden from sight.

Roy wanted patience. Pa wanted justice. I wanted a name!

But for now, I was just grateful my big brother was alive.

The End

Word Count 1028

General Audience

27.07.2026