Chapter 19

Enough Is Enough

When Adam left the doctor’s office a good hour later, instead of heading straight back to Barnes’ Hardware and Grocery he directed his steps towards the Bucket of Blood saloon, fully intending just to stop by for a quick drink.

Face clean-shaven and hair cropped short by Virginia City’s supposedly softest hands, and his thumb wound drained of all nasty fluids, expertly cleaned and newly bandaged by Paul Martin, he should have felt perfectly fit to pick up his supplies at the store and hurry to Mrs. Hawkins’ to have a cup of tea with Juliet before making his way home. Unfortunately, Paul had not only provided him with professional wound care but also with a lecture about taking viciously festering non-healing wounds too lightly, childishly refusing to admit when one was hurting, and always seeking help only when it was almost too late. Without thinking Adam had mumbled that he hadn’t known anything was wrong, hadn’t been hurting that bad, and wouldn’t have come to “seek help” had Pa not made him; and that, naturally, had led to another round of “careless!” “burning the candle on both ends!” and “probably think you are indestructible!”, all seasoned with many a repetition of “young man!”

This had all Adam annoyed no end, particularly because he secretly knew the doctor was right. He had failed to take care of himself, and as a result would be unable to pull his full weight on the ranch for a few more days—or even weeks, as Paul had threatened him if he did not follow the doctor’s orders to the letter. Briefly he had thought about his conversation with Juliet about his injury (“It’s going to be fine, I swear.” “Be careful, I’ll hold you to that!”), and asked himself what Juliet would do if she’d realised he’d failed to keep his vow.

Considerably riled up already, Adam had not been ready to discuss his latest entanglements with professional gunfighters with Paul, who had neatly led their conversation from “just take care to administer iodine every morning and evening on this” to “I’m just glad I don’t have to treat any bullet wounds in you. I knew you were too smart to agree to commit suicide in the name of honour.” Anyhow he had had the feeling not even his old friend Paul Martin would understand that what Adam feared was not Langford Poole, or the prospect of being killed. Not that Adam didn’t fear death at all, or that he didn’t like living—living had become far more appealing these past few months than it had been for a long time, for whatever reasons—but he knew that death was an imperative of life, and his time would come inevitably, sooner or later, and only God knew when. No, what scared Adam, and he had seen this clearer than ever, what scared him was the idea of annihilating a life for no other reason than to prove he wasn’t a coward. Which in some people’s eyes, it had struck Adam with sudden clarity and made him chuckle, would look like cowardice: cowardice about living with the guilt of having taken a life.

His mind racing and his thumb still throbbing from the doctor’s ministrations, Adam fled the office as soon as Paul Martin had declared the treatment over and handed him a bottle of iodine, repeating his instructions for use yet again. He was in desperate need for a sip of something distinctively stronger than Mrs. Hawkins’ Lapsang Souchong tea; and the Bucket of Blood was the nearest place to get that.

Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. For the second time in less than one week Adam found his way blocked by H. Jarvis Raymond, who had just emerged from the saloon and now stood immobile in front of the swinging door, grinning from ear to ear.

“Adam Cartwright, just the man I was looking for! What a coincidence!”

“Raymond.” Adam knew the man actually had done nothing wrong, but the false tone alone was enough to make his blood boil. And somehow, out of its own volition, his right hand curled into a fist. “What,” he pressed out through his clenched teeth, “do you want?”

“My, are we in a bad mood yet again, Mr. Cartwright?” Raymond didn’t even stop grinning. “You didn’t happen to meet your friend Mr. Poole again, did you?”

Adam closed his eyes. No, he wouldn’t start to count. Raymond was not worth any rage; he was just a blathering idiot. Ignore him.

“Oh, I forgot, you and Mr. Poole aren’t friends. Forgive me my inconsideration.” And then Raymond had the gall to slap Adam on his shoulder. “You know what, Cartwright, my friend, I’m buying you a drink, for…redemption.”

One, two, three, four…. “Raymond, as a general rule I select my own friends; and I can’t remember picking you. So, please, do us both a favour and refrain from calling me friend,” Adam managed to say without raising his voice. “And no, thank you; I don’t need any redemption from you, and I don’t want a drink.” Not anymore.

Adam’s need for a drink was replaced by a much more urgent want for solitude (or maybe a cup of Lapsang Souchong, he thought with wry humour); he gave Raymond a last glance and wordlessly turned away.

But Jarvis Raymond was an idiot, a blathering idiot; and obviously he was determined to prove just that. “Oh, come on, Cartwright,” he spoke into Adam’s back. “Just because our dear Juliet has given me preference to you for the dance—”

Adam spun around, and with a satisfying crack his fist connected with Raymond’s face. The editor was thrown back against the swinging doors, struggling to catch hold on them and keep himself upright, but he couldn’t break his own momentum and staggered through the door and into the saloon with flailing arms. Adam listened to the sound of Raymond’s body crashing into a saloon table, and, smiling contently, took a deep breath and sauntered down the sidewalk towards Barnes’ Hardware and Grocery, silently humming Greensleeves.

In the saloon, several people helped Jarvis Raymond to his feet after he had stumbled into a table full of beer glasses and a dish of beef and beans. Raymond shook off the hands of the barkeep, who was trying to clean the editor’s jacket, and rushed out of the saloon to search the street. Some fifty yards away he saw Adam Cartwright strolling down the sidewalk with long swinging strides, as if nothing had happened. Raymond frowned, biting his lip, then shook his head and turned—only to run into Langford Poole.

“Problems, Raymond?” Poole asked smoothly. “Can I be of any help?”

“Not here,” Raymond hissed.

Poole sneered. “Here is as good a place as anywhere. I don’t hide, remember?”

“Oh, certainly, I know,” Raymond spat. “You’re an honourable man, after all.” He gripped the gunfighter’s arm. “Listen, Poole, this has gone on much too long. Let’s go and find a less public place; I have to tell you something that might…stir the pot a bit.”

Poole frowned at the editor. “Are you talking about that last reserve you mentioned the other day?”

“I’m talking about a sure way to get Cartwright out of hiding. A tiny little bit of information that will change everything.” Raymond looked like the cat about to swallow the canary. “Come on, Poole, let’s have a chat.”

___________________________________________________________________

Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing,
it is always from the noblest motives. ~ Oscar Wilde