No bad day could ever compare to Joe’s bad day. Next time you have a bad day, read this and suddenly it won’t seem so bad after all! 😉

Rated: K+  WC  6400

• See old reviews on last page

He Had a Bad Day

 

XxXxX

1

She slit his throat. Joe couldn’t believe it. She actually slit his throat. How could she do that? Why would she do that? He’d thought she was going to help him. Maybe breathe some air into his starving lungs, or at least give him a sweet good-bye kiss. But no. She leaned up real close, so close he could smell tea on her breath, and then she smiled that come hither smile of hers, rubbed her hand through his hair…and slit his throat.

There had really been no point. He figured he was probably already dying anyway. Broken ribs were one thing, but when one of those messed-up ribs is on the verge of puncturing a lung that had already been messed-up itself, thanks to all the water he’d inhaled in the river…well, not even a world-class doctor like Doc Martin was likely to fix a thing like that. And if that weren’t enough, that bullet in his thigh seemed to have nicked an artery. It was a small nick, based on the fact he hadn’t bled out yet, but a nick, nonetheless.

Of course, he wouldn’t have ended up with messed up lungs if Cochise hadn’t caught his foot in a gopher hole and thrown Little Joe right into a raging river at the point of a flash flood. And he wouldn’t have ended up with broken ribs then neither. But the way that river had bounced him around from rock to rock…well, broken bones were inevitable. It wasn’t only his ribs he’d broken, either. But a broken ankle and a busted arm weren’t going to kill him.

He couldn’t blame the bullet on the river, though. No. He would never have ended up with that bullet in him if he hadn’t dropped his gun, and he wouldn’t have dropped his gun if he hadn’t pinched the heck of his finger in the trigger, and he wouldn’t have pinched his finger if the trigger hadn’t jammed, and the trigger wouldn’t have jammed if he’d had his own gun to start with.

Now for that he had to blame Jesse Mueller. Old Jesse just plain insisted Joe’s gun needed some fine tuning. He wouldn’t give Joe a moment’s peace until Joe agreed to let him tune it up. He kept saying Joe could end up dead or dying in the street on account of his gun not firing faster than whatever low-life varmint was gunning for him that day, and it would all be Jesse’s fault for not making sure Joe got his gun all tuned up. So Joe had given Jesse his own gun, and he’d gotten a loaner to hold him over until his gun was all shiny and new again.

Trouble was, that loaner was in worse shape than Joe’s, so when Harley Jones found him in the alley behind Doc Martin’s office all fired up about Joe stealing his girl, the hawk-nosed spinster Eunice Barfinender, and then Joe laughed on account of the fact she drank whiskey like it was water and was always smoking cigars…well, Harley got mad and drew on Joe.

Now, normally, that would not have been a problem. Joe was faster than anyone, and Harley was about as slow on the draw as anyone could be. But Joe was feeling like a drowned rat, wheezing like a hundred-year-old geezer, and walking like Stumpy Wilson, that cowboy who got his foot blown off when he got into that fight with his buddy Pesky Petersen over the best uses for pulque. Joe certainly hadn’t been in any shape for drawing on anyone, especially with his shooting arm broken. And then that dang trigger jammed, and, well….

When Greta Thompson sauntered by in that tight-fitting, red satin dress of hers, he dared to hope that maybe, just maybe he could survive after all, what with Doc Martin being just the other side of that wall over there. But then she did what she did, slitting his throat and all.

He supposed he should be thankful she had such a delicate touch. Seems she must have missed his jugular; otherwise, well, he probably wouldn’t have so much time to think back on what had to have been the worst day of his life. Probably the worst day anyone could possibly have.

XxXxX

2

Winston Thornapple figured this had to be about the best day of his whole life, although it hadn’t started out that way. He’d been awfully upset when all the other boys got to funnin’ him for crying on account of that dumb old Mary Margaret O’Donnell punching him in the stomach. But now all the other boys were looking at him like he’d just gunned down Big Bad Bart, the most notorious outlaw in the territory. What really happened was almost as good: Winston Thornapple had found a real live dead man.

“Show us!” Gilbert Smithers demanded, his eyes as wide as wide can be.

“Yeah! You got to show us!” Karl Johansson added.

Winston was grinning from ear to ear the whole way back to that alley. When he stopped at the edge of the street and turned to tell the boys this was the place, he saw that they’d towed a whole crowd right along with them. Every kid from the schoolhouse was there. Miss Jones was sure gonna be angry, but that was okay. Winston could handle getting in trouble. Nothing was going to ruin this day.

“You sure he’s really dead?” Bobby Beauregard asked.

“‘Course he’s dead!” Mary Margaret answered, putting her hands on her hips and rolling her eyes like Bobby was the dumbest kid in town. “Look at all that blood! No one can bleed all that blood and not be dead.”

“I don’t know,” Bruce Hawthorne leaned into the alleyway, even though he made sure to keep his feet planted right where they were.

“Did ya’ touch him?” Jerry Finkleman asked.

“Naw,” Winston answered. “Why would I want to touch him?”

“To prove he was dead, silly!” Prudence Maryweather declared.

“Yeah!” Gilbert said. “You gotta prove to us he’s dead!”

Dang. Winston’s best day was starting to cloud over already. “Why do I gotta prove it?”

“You’re the one who found him,” Jerry said.

“Yeah!” Gilbert added. “You’re the one who found him!”

“Well!” Mary Margaret crossed her arms in front of her, and pulled her mouth down, sort of angry-like. “If you were too chicken to check before, I’m sure there isn’t any way you’re going to be any braver now.”

Karl pushed his shoulder. “You ain’t, are you? Chicken?”

Winston looked at all the kids, and then looked at the dead man, and then looked back at the kids again. He sure didn’t want to touch a dead man. Wasn’t that supposed to be bad luck or something? But if he didn’t, they would start funnin’ him again. Was there some other way to prove the dead man was dead?

Bobby kicked a stone into Winston’s ankle. “Aw, you’re too yellow.”

“Yeah!” Gilbert agreed. “You’re yellow. That’s what you are.”

But they didn’t bother Winston now, because that stone had given him an idea. He squatted down to pick up a handful of stones, and then rose back to his feet, took a deep breath, and threw one right at the dead man.

“You missed him!” Karl complained. “You throw like a girl!”

Gritting his teeth, Winston threw another stone.

“You hit him right in the face!” Rebecca Parker exclaimed, clapping her hands in front of her.

Winston liked Rebecca Parker, and seeing her smiling at him like that, like he was a great big hero, well, it made him smile, too…right up until Mary Margaret ruined the day again.

“Aw, he isn’t dead at all! He twitched.”

“What do you mean, ‘he twitched?'” Winston asked.

“He twitched. When you threw that stone at him, his cheek twitched.”

“No it didn’t, neither!’

“It most certainly did.”

“Do it again,” Bobby told him. “I want to see if he twitches.”

“He ain’t gonna twitch,” Winston argued, “on account of the fact he’s already dead.”

“He most certainly is going to twitch,” Mary Margaret insisted.

Gritting his teeth, Winston took another deep breath, and then threw another stone.

“There!” Mary Margaret said. “You see? He did it again. He twitched.”

Winston still hadn’t seen the dead man twitch, so he threw another stone, and still another. He must have thrown ten or fifteen little stones before everyone saw a whole lot more than twitching. The dead man raised his hand, like he was swatting at flies.

Prudence and Rebecca screamed and ran back toward the schoolhouse. Most of the other kids just stared, with their mouths hanging open—Winston included—until Gilbert whispered, “You reckon he’s a ghost?”

“‘Course he ain’t no ghost,” Jerry whispered back. “Ghosts don’t look like that.”

“What do ghosts look like then?” Gilbert asked.

“How should I know?” Jerry answered. “I ain’t never seen one.”

“Then how do you know he ain’t one?”

“I don’t know. He just ain’t.”

“You bunch of no account cowards!” Mary Margaret chided. And then she did something none of the rest of them was willing to do; she pushed right past Winston and walked on into that alley until she was close enough to that dead man to see his face.

“Oh, my heavens!” She exclaimed then. “It’s Little Joe Cartwright!” She turned to her classmates, put her hands on her hips and shouted. “Didn’t you hear me? It’s Little Joe Cartwright, and he ain’t dead yet, but he’s sure gonna be if one of you idiots doesn’t run and fetch Doc Martin! Well, go on, then! He can’t die before I’ve had a chance to grow up enough to make him want to marry me!”

And just like that Winston Thornapple’s best day ever was ruined again, all on account of Mary Margaret and her big mouth, blabbing on to the whole town that she had single-handedly saved Little Joe Cartwright right when he was on the brink of death.

Only…it wasn’t long after that his ruined best day turned out best again, all on account of him being the first to discover Little Joe Cartwright had been the victim of some sort of dastardly crime. When Sheriff Coffee escorted him to the jailhouse with a hand draped across his shoulder, telling him how important it was for him to remember everything he saw…well, Winston could feel the eyes of every boy in town staring after him in envy.

XxXxX

3

Doctor Paul Martin wasn’t one to complain, but he was about as tired as he could be when they brought in Little Joe Cartwright looking like he was on the very brink of death.

“What on earth caused all this?” Paul asked, frustrated.

“Don’t know,” Petey Parker said while he and Jesse Mueller set Joe down on the doc’s operating table. “Kids found ‘im like that.”

“Well….” Paul let out a heavy sigh as the two men showed themselves out. “I suppose I’d better get to work.” But he sure was tired. Agnes Frimple had kept him up all night with that baby of hers; it had been too stubborn to get born…maybe more stubborn than that young man lying on Paul’s table right now. “You are a stubborn one, aren’t you, Little Joe?”

Surprised to see young Joe’s eyes come open, Paul’s eyes widened as well.

“Doc?” Joe said softly.

He sure did look pitiful. Joe’s eyes and those acrobatic brows of his gave him about the most pitiful look the doc had ever seen. It was the kind of look that made all the young ladies swoon and all the young men want to draw on him. It was also the kind of look that made Ben give in when he shouldn’t, letting Little Joe have far too much rein. In fact, that’s probably why Joe’s here right now, Paul decided. Ben let him do what he ought not to have done. And now Paul was going to have to suffer for it, too.

“Poppycock!” Paul pounded his fist on the table in front of him, emitting a pain-wracked moan from his young patient. “Oh, uh, sorry Little Joe.” He cleared his throat and then set about doing what was necessary to stem the flow of blood.

But ‘what was necessary’ was about all he was going to do, right then. There was a lot of hard work ahead of him with this particular patient; and Paul needed a rest and a good, solid meal before he could devote himself to fixing everything that needed to be fixed. Once bandages and tourniquets were in place, Paul patted Joe lightly on his arm, pulling his hand back in a hurry when Joe’s cry reminded him that particular arm was broken. “Sorry, Joe,” he said for the second time. “Tell you what, son. I’ll be back in a little while.” He yawned. “A little nap and some food, and I’ll be as good as new.”

“Doc?” Joe said, a confused look further accentuating the pitiful one.

“Oh, don’t you worry, son! I won’t be long.” He patted Joe’s broken ankle, apologized again, and slipped out the door.

XxXxX

Struggling not to cough, Joe forced himself up onto his good arm. Minutes later, when the room stopped spinning, he tried to get a good look around him. Surely the doc couldn’t have gone far. He wouldn’t have; would he? Maybe…maybe he went to send someone after Joe’s Pa. Yeah. That must be what he was doing.

Convincing himself he was right where he needed to be, Joe started to lay back down. But then he had to cough again; and this time he couldn’t do anything to fight it. He coughed until the pain was so great he very nearly passed out. But he didn’t. He didn’t pass out. He fought against it, knowing that with everything he’d been through already, he didn’t dare. Somehow, he just didn’t trust that his bad day hadn’t quite gotten bad enough yet.

Even as he had that thought, he chuckled. How could it possibly get any worse?

XxXxX