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AMG

WHI oznacza "what happened instead", czyli zmieniamy coś w odcinku.
Tu wybitnie kulało mi zakończenie.

Kto bywa na Boomers, może rozpoznać Smile

[I nadal nie mam tytułu. Zapraszam do pracy twórczej]

The tension in the air was palpable. The acting sheriffs – the Cartwright brothers – said they’d hang the Farmer, but would they go through with it? Would they allow their father to be hung?

Then there was some commotion, and Joe Cartwright appeared together with his middle brother. Joe was dragging a young man with him, despite the latter’s loud protests, then threw the man bodily to the stairs of the sheriff’s office.

“O’Neill, one of Bryant’s men,” offered someone from the crowd. That immediately roused Joe Cartwright, who grabbed the man again.

“What did you do to my Pa!”

O’Neill’s wild laughter was stopped by some voice from behind him. “It’s five o’clock.”

A hollow thump of the trapdoor was heard. It was over.

Everything was over.

The silence was shattered by O’Neill’s disbelieving, “You hung him. You hung the Farmer...”

“We told you we was gonna do, boy.” Hoss Cartwright’s face looked like carved in stone. In fact, all his body seemed to have turned to stone.

O’Neill’s first instinct was to fight his way out of Joe’s grip, then the knowledge of the reality prevailed, and he burst into laughter once again.

“Alright! Alright! You wanna know where your Pa is? I’ll tell you where he is. He’s down in the old stable, hanging by the end of the rope!”

An angry fist silenced him, then the brothers turned in unison to head in the stated direction. Hoss threw a look over his shoulder at the dark shape in the door and almost instinctively yelled, “Take care of Perkins!” before following Joe at a dead run.

There was nothing to take care of. It’s not like he’s going to resurrect. Yet Adam retreated to the office in reflex action, almost languidly looking for the rifle. He ought to take the gun with him.

ania2784

Bardzo przepraszam, ale co Ty właściwie chcesz zrobić Benowi???

AMG

To nie ja. Proszę oglądnąć odcinek. Zaczynam od opisu sceny z odcinka (pod koniec), to się zorientujecie, gdzie jesteśmy.

AMG

To jeszcze dorzucę trochę materiału do "przerobienia" przez weekend Smile

Uczciwie nadmieniam, że jest trochę brzydkich słow (ale nie tych brzydkich na f), żeby nie było, że demoralizuję młodzież czy starszą młodzież.

Upon wakening, he found himself blindfolded. Surmising instinctively he’d been captured, he decided to play dead just yet. Slight movements of the wrists told him he was tied as well. He was lying on something hard and smooth, most likely a wooden floor. There were steps, and a voice that sent thrills of hatred through him.

“Wake him up.”

His body cringed under the shock of cold water, and gone was the pretence of unconsciousness. He was roughly raised to a sitting position, and the hated voice sounded right in front of him.

“Oh, poor Cartwright boys can’t manage without their Papa?”

A hand grabbed his hair and pulled his head higher up. “Wish he could see you now... and I wish you could have seen him dangling from that rope, swaying right and left, left and right, right and left...”

Stop it. Within a second, he thought of spitting, yelling, fighting, then remained as he was, immobile despite the painful pull on his scalp. It was of no use. Nothing was of any use anymore.

“I think he was trying to call you,” wondered the voice, adding a studied pretence of authenticity to the words. “It was something beginning with A... But then I cannot know for sure, I’m afraid, he started choking and gurgling something awful, so I just didn’t catch all of it.”

There was silence, probably Bryant was waiting for a reaction. To hell with you. He wasn’t going to comply, if just to piss the man off. Kill me right off and be done with it.

“Poor old man, it almost seemed as if he was trying to hold out for you to get there... Took him an awful long time to finally stop kicking and gurgling, and choking, and you know, hoping to see all three of you appear to save him. You could see it in his eyes.”

Another period of silence, lengthening, stretching, pulling on his nerves, straining them to the point of physical pain. Shoot me. Please shoot me.

The hold on his hair loosened. Bryant sighed, then groaned, the sound changing location and ending somewhere above his head. Musta got up. Not easy for a fat man. “While your two loving brothers look for your body, I will take over Virginia City.”

Like the hell they’ll care. It was almost physical relief to hear the familiar, greedy tone, devoid of any faked emotion. In silence, he was shoved back to the floor, and steps shuffled around him. Two men. Bryant and some other man. If he were free, he could try taking them on.

What for?

The steps stopped almost out of his earshot – they’d left the wooden planks and softened – on ground or sand, most likely. He though he heard whispers, but try as he might, he was unable to catch anything distinct. Some other sounds reached him, then the steps came closer and he was raised to stand on his own two legs. Hands ran over his body, pulling out whatever was left in his pockets, then he was pulled to stumble along the man holding him. There was a shout somewhere outside, then pain, and his last conscious thought was: I killed my own father.

AMG

Nie wiem, jak z zainteresowaniem, ale liczba wyświetleń mówi, że jakieś jeszcze jest Smile

Wklejam więc kolejną część. Jeśli robię to za szybko/za wolno, dajcie znać.

Judging by the temperature, noon was approaching. The second noon if he was counting right.

As if anything could be right any more.

Would they stop, or not? Yesterday they did.

If he doesn’t take the blindfold off, I’ll soon be blind as a bat.

The horse stopped. So they were going to have a break, after all. The bulk behind him disappeared, then he was pulled down from the horse in the usual dismounting procedure. The strong, capable hands half-pulled, half-pushed him forward, then down to the ground. He carefully ticked off the seconds to the first sounds of the fire, then another round to the smell of coffee. Alright, so maybe in their household this would not be called coffee, but it was wet, hot, and had a similar enough aroma to pass. He’d had a sip or two to form his opinion about the taste of the liquid.

Fascinatingly enough, the man ate every meal in five to six minutes. Even taking into account some small slip in measuring off the seconds, each meal time was strikingly fitted within the boundary. He then wondered briefly, how could he make sure he had the exact length of a second right? The plate was scraped, then grated slightly against some small stones, and the smell of coffee came in a stronger wave. He stood a good chance of getting a sip in about three minutes. Ten... Eleven... There had to be a way to get the seconds right. Fifteen... He was going by gut feeling, which had never failed him before... Twenty five... But he had never been as meticulous as to count in seconds.

Gut feeling be damned. Reason be damned. Everything be damned.

Twenty... That was a guess on his part, he’d stopped counting for a moment. Now... Thirty five... God, what am I doing? Forty... The bandanna stung at his eyes, although they were closed, and he felt his angry tears dissolve in the cloth. It’s most likely dirty. That must have been why his eyes stung. The dirt must have gotten into them.

He was almost startled when the smell of coffee tickled his nose. He took a few sips like an obedient child, then the cup was removed. Steps shuffled around the make-shift camp. Sand was kicked over the fire, which hissed angrily, almost like a snake. A minute or two later, he was pulled up by his arms.

I won’t be able to move my arms if you don’t untie me. I haven’t moved them for over a full day.

Now he’d either be lifted on a horse, or allowed to relieve himself. With the small amounts of liquid he was taking in, the latter was less and less of a problem, but it would have been nice, nevertheless.

Feeling the man’s hands, he forced his body to relax. It never got easier. At least the man was quiet. He seemed uninterested, just doing his job.

What is his job, anyway? What is he supposed to do with me?

Relieved of the pressure, he waited for his guide’s hands to lead him back to the horse. Lifted like a sack of grain, he fought to catch his balance on the horse’s back for the few precious seconds when the man wasn’t holding him upright.

A part of him was curious. Another part was screaming to stop this nonsensical torture. Where were they going? What for? Was there anything at the end of this road, or would a bullet just pierce his head at some point?

Maybe they wanted to leave his body somewhere far, so that his brothers would lose precious time in looking for him. They’d better be busy fighting off Bryant. It was logical; it was easier to travel with a living person than with a body, which would finally start to stink, and was generally clumsy to handle.

Satisfied with his own answer, he rocked on with the horse’s movements. His mind was blissfully blank for a moment. Then memories appeared before his eyes, and he squeezed his eyelids until he saw bright flashes of colour, and focused on counting. Poetry was gone from his head. All he had left were the seconds. The tiny seconds trickling away from his life, until there would be no more seconds left.

Please shoot me now. He was tired. Dreadfully tired. He’d tried to ask questions, get some answers, but he soon learned not to. With his head ringing, he knew after half an hour that it was unwise to open his mouth unless he was allowed to drink some coffee at a given moment.

How long would they be riding? How much longer could he stand? He felt the blindfold get moist, and was immediately angry with himself. It was no use. In a surge of anger, he moved his wrists impatiently. A hand grabbed his shoulder in a vice-like grip, startling a moan out of him. Knowing better than to protest aloud, he forced his muscles to slacken. Patience.

It took the hand almost a quarter of an hour to loosen the grip. Bruises he couldn’t see, but he felt them acutely.

AMG

To może byśmy popchnęli akcję do przodu? (O ile to ktoś jeszcze czyta...)

He didn’t know what time it was. That third day was as miserable as it could get, cold throughout, without a ray of sunlight on his face.

Before they continued their way after breakfast, the man left the camp for a moment. He knew he had only a minute, two at the most, and rubbed his head hard against the tree behind him. Get that damn blindfold off! He felt the cloth shift, hope surged within him –

then he was thrown to the ground, a knee pressed ruthlessly into the middle of his back. The cloth around his head was pulled, then tightened against his eyes, and he protested aloud, unable to get out from under the man.

“No, please, don’t...”

A hand snaked around his neck, and to his horror, strong fingers pressed on the two vital points under his jaw. He struggled until the world dimmed around him...

Stefka

I znowu dwa zdania i koniec... Confused

AMG, gdzieś Ty się tego uczyła? Ja poczekam, aż już skończysz, wtedy sobie spokojnie przeczytam, bez niepotrzebnych nerwów....

AMG

AMG

Poza tym to wersja anglojęzyczna, a nie każdy z obecnych na forum jest biegły w obcym czytaniu. Pomyślałam więc, że krótszy kawałek lepiej przejdzie Smile

Basia

Ja chyba nie chcę wiedzieć co dalej...... no chyba że dalej to już jest tylko akcja ratunkowa i happy end.

AMG

Żeby się dowiedzieć, musisz czytać dalej...
A ponieważ ostatnio było krótko, to dorzucam dalszą część.

He was vaguely aware of a pull on his wrists, and thought he recalled something cold and soothing pass over his face, but it took him a long moment to get his bearings. The steps were close, though not approaching him. Something felt different. A slight movement of the head made him realise there was now a different cloth around his head. It was smoother and thinner than the previous one, not thin enough to let him see through – tight enough to keep his eyes closed – but felt nicer and cleaner against his skin. Pleasantly surprised with this unexpected change, he lay there quietly, waiting to be raised and loaded upon the horse. There was nothing more he could do.

Wonder what Joe and Hoss are doing...

He blocked the possible answers from wording in his head. It was better to focus on the sounds around him and play a guessing game. The man approached him, and he guessed correctly that he’d be helped up. The movements made him realise one more change. Something felt different around his wrists. Softer than the rope from before. He though it was broader, too.

Could it be he was tied with a bandanna now?

He stumbled on his way to the horse. It was difficult to catch your balance in the pitch-black reality he was living in right now, and he felt light-headed from the exertion of the struggle. He practically lay on the horse’s neck while waiting for the other man to mount. He felt the horse move nervously under him, and pressed himself closer to its body, the only choice he had if he wanted to stay on top.

He though briefly of sliding down and making things difficult for the man, but he had no certainty of being killed on the spot. The ride would then be much more uncomfortable – Could it? – and he still didn’t know where they were heading and how long it would take them to get there.
Maybe there was no set destination. Maybe the only destination was a bullet waiting patiently for him in the chamber of the gun.

Just do it. Just do it and let it all stop.

Could travelling be a torture? Oh, yes, and a refined one.

AMG

Nie wiem, czy ktoś to jeszcze czyta.
Ale z drugiej strony głupio zostawiać głównego bohatera tak w zawieszeniu...

The day wore on, chilly, wet, and as miserable as it had begun. He wasn’t sure what time it was. He thought it was past noon, and his sense of time rarely misled him, but this time he lacked confidence in his skills. They hadn’t stopped yet. Maybe they wouldn’t.

Seventy five... Seventy six... Would they stop when he got to one thousand?

The deluge the rain had turned into was a mercy. His blindfold was wet throughout, and it didn’t matter anymore if he could control his tears or not. He opened his lips, catching all the water he could get. He hadn’t been given coffee this morning, a form of punishment, as he guessed, and his throat was parched and the tongue stiff.

One hundred fifty five...

The rain slowed down at somewhere about nine hundred, then took another five minutes to stop. The horse’s hooves plopped around in the puddles, and wet grass swished with the wind. Then the plopping of the hooves stopped, and the bulk behind him dismounted.

Noon?

He was pulled down, then steadied on his feet as he stood, waiting. With the chilling wind, it felt like open space, but he couldn’t imaging stopping with a bound prisoner in a place for everyone to see from far. He sensed no support around, so he kept on standing and waiting.

The steps went around him, and the wet ground squished under the booted feet. Hope we’re not sitting down on *that* . Not that it made much difference, wet as he was.

The horse snorted behind him, then groaned slightly and started moving on. What the...

Astonished, he kept standing and listening to the sound of hooves dying in the distance. There was no sound about him. No steps. No breathing.

“Hello?...” he risked a sound.

Nothing.

Slowly, he sank to the ground. The wind chilled his wet body, and he hunched together against it, while working on his ties. In contrast to a rope, the wet bandanna slid from around his wrists with relative ease. He reached to finally tear off the offending blindfold.

It was another blessing of the weather. He didn’t think his eyes could bear direct sunlight, even the dimmed half-light was hurtful.

Fighting against the limitations to his vision, he could finally state he was all alone. Open space, just as it had felt. Within some more minutes of struggle, he thought he recognised the area. True enough, about three days away from Virginia City. To his right there was surely a small town, a few miles away. To his left, not much further than the town, there should be a forest. And a stream.

It would be better to go to the stream. He needed to drink.

He struggled to a standing position, surprised with how light-headed he felt. He had no means of transport but for his legs, so he started walking. The effort cleansed his head of any worded thoughts, and he focused on the refreshing feeling.

Within two yards, he tripped and went down on his knees. A single effort to raise himself, and he fell face-forward to the ground, crying. Oh, Pa... Oh, Pa...

Zofia

I co dalej???

AMG

Hurra, ktoś to czyta! Laughing

AMG

No, to z tej radości dorzucam dalszą część Smile

The man came closer in careful steps. The unmoving shape resembled a human more and more with each step. Finally the man knelt down by the dark form.

“What’s wrong with you, fella?” he murmured, one hand making a superficial inventory of the body. Finding no injury, he turned the lying man to his back. Only then did he finally stick the gun back in the holster. He’d been afraid of an ambush, but the other man was unarmed, and his body limp.

Just then, the lying man moved slightly, and opened his eyes with a small sigh.

“You’re alright, mister?”

The red-rimmed eyes fought to focus on the one asking the question, then the brows were drawn together in an effort to concentrate. “I’m fine,” was finally offered on a breath.

“Right.” Trite question, stupid answer. The man was clearly far from fine. “I’m Dirk Johnson,” he spoke slowly, trying to see if the man could follow him. “What’s your name?”

The man blinked, his brows still drawn together, until his eyes lost some of the glazed look, replaced by a lucid one. “John.” Then he seemed to realise Johnson was waiting for more, and added, “Smith.” It didn’t look like he had much breath left to elaborate, so Johnson let it go.

“Are you hurt? Can you stand up?”

“No... I...” Smith closed his eyes, took a deep, slow breath, then opened his eyes on releasing the air. “I don’t think I’m hurt,” he spoke with some conviction. “Dizzy... Thirsty.”

“Do you think you can get up?”

“I’ll... try.”

With Johnson’s assistance, Smith managed to sit up, then laboriously clamber up to a standing position. His legs were shaky, but with the strong arm supporting him he took one step after another, and finally reached the solitary wagon with only one stop to catch his breath.

“Climb up.”

Yet Smith shook his head. “Just a drink. I need to go...”

“Ain’t nowhere you’re going on foot.” Johnson looked at his eyes carefully. “You look sick. There is a doctor in town.”

“No... I’m not sick. ‘M not hurt.” His eyes closed and Dirk barely had time to catch him before he collapsed.

Swearing under his breath, the man pulled Smith over to the back of the wagon. “Gimme a blanket,” he demanded breathlessly.

There was some noise from inside, and a youthful face of a girl appeared. She looked a little scared, but held a blanket in her hands. “Who is he?”

“Someone in need of a doctor.” Johnson puffed, trying to lift the limp body, but then Smith raised his head. Still dazed, he was nonetheless able to successfully assist the efforts of his saviour. The girl covered him with the blanket and looked at Johnson enquiringly.

“Give him some water.”

Smith swallowed the liquid greedily, a mute testimony of how thirsty he was. He then raised his head and sought the inside of the wagon with his eyes.

The girl beside him was still in her teens, with a freckled face and in a modest dress. He noticed a boy of four or five huddled in the corner, and finally Johnson’s silhouette in the driving seat.

“I don’t need a doctor.”

Johnson threw him a look over his shoulder. “You certainly do, mister, by the looks of it.”

Smith lay back, but his eyes remained open and lucid.

“I don’t think I have any money,” he finally said.

“You been robbed?”

The man took some time processing the simple question, before he replied with a single, “Yes.”

Johnson shook his head silently. The man was badly off, too weak to stand or even to answer simple questions. Lying there without a horse in sight, without a jacket, hat, or gun belt, he must have been ambushed and robbed. Maybe he was having trouble remembering things. Dirk hadn’t taken a good look at his head, but he thought he’d seen bruises on the man’s face.

“Lottie,” he turned again. “Wash his face and see if he’d like to eat something.”

The girl – maybe his daughter, or sister – listened immediately, bustling about. Smith closed his eyes when the cool rag passed over his skin, and just lay there quietly. She thought he found it pleasant, and didn’t haste in her work, for his sake. His eyes were red-rimmed and had dark circles underneath. The stubble proved he hadn’t shaved in several days, so maybe he had been travelling, like they were. It saddened her to see the shadows of bruises on his face. Some bruises were yellowing, some still dark and blue. She knew the nature of bruises, and wondered if he had been beaten more than once within a few days. Maybe he’d been in a fight, and the ambush only added to the collection...

When she finally put the rag away, she found herself looking into his eyes. Red and tired, they still captivated her with their look.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Yar welcome.” She smiled at him kindly, and turned to reach for some bundle, knowing she would treasure that look like you did the sight of a clear rainbow.

Pulling out a biscuit, she offered it to him, still with the gentle smile. He carefully raised himself on one elbow and reached for the food, answering with a shadow of a smile. He took a bite, but gagged on the crumbs and almost spit everything out. Swallowing the water offered to him in that instant, he shook his head wearily. “I can’t...”

“Ya jist rest,” she said quietly, and replaced the moist rag on his forehead. He gave a her a grateful half-smile and closed his eyes.

“Watch if he don’t need something,” she instructed the boy quietly, and climbed the driver’s seat to share her discoveries and thoughts with Dirk.