[August 14th] [Bonanza-related] Through the Refiner's Fire, 4

[insaneladybug.livejournal.com]

Title: Through the Refiner's Fire, scene four
Day/Theme: August 14th - For a great unknown beyond the horizon
Series: Bonanza-related (based on the "Her Brother's Keeper" episode)
Character/Pairing: Carl Armory, James Jeffers, Claire Armory
Rating: T/PG-13

A friend finally had the time to watch the episode, and that excited me so much that the fourth segment flowed.

Now we are introduced to James Jeffers, a oneshot character played by Richard Anderson in The Wild Wild West episode "The Night of the Headless Woman". (It's a mannequin woman, by the way.) I refuse to believe that the character is the Big Bad of the episode; he's so kind that the transformation is not believable to me. I have an evil double theory, but ahem. Anyway, so Jeffers will likely be a semi-major player in the fic from this point on. Kind but no-nonsense, he won't put up with any manipulations should Carl start to backslide. Carl needs a bit of help now, but I definitely intend to keep Jeffers more in the background where Carl's transformation is concerned. It should be Carl's own decision, with Jeffers only giving a small push or advice as needed. And this takes place several years prior to the WWW episode.

Me being a Perry Mason fan, I'm just too tickled by the idea of characters played by Wesley Lau and Richard Anderson to interact!


By Lucky_Ladybug

It was the aggravated rumbling of Carl’s stomach that startled him awake the next day. Muttering to himself, he pushed himself up from the pillow.

He had dozed on his bed, on top of the covers. And it looked like he had never bothered to get out of his suit. He sat up, smoothing down the wrinkles in the sleeves.

Of course he had not bothered to get out of it. He had not even planned to go to sleep. He had paced the floor for hours in agony, wondering what to do and how to get the money and food they needed so badly. When he had sprawled across his bed at long last, shortly before dawn, he had intended for it to only be for a minute.

Instead, his exhaustion had apparently caught up with him. He had barely slept since Claire had been hurt. The stress of the past night had apparently been too much on top of everything else. According to the clock on the wall, it was past noon.

He had considered all manner of wild ideas before he had fallen asleep.

Perhaps he could wire some of their relatives back East. Surely if they knew Claire was injured and she needed food and medicine, they would do something.

But they were busy with their own lives and cared little for the two lonely waifs. They had all been too occupied to bother looking after Claire and Carl as children, so why should they be any more inclined now that the children were grown?

Carl was not even sure where they lived now. Some of them had moved; once or twice Claire had tried writing them and her letters had only come back.

. . . If things did not improve—and he had less and less hope that they would—maybe the only option left would be to wire Ben Cartwright. But that sounded like a bad idea for several reasons.

Ben might not even believe him, after the stunt he had pulled in Virginia City with Ben’s money. And if Ben did believe him, what if he did not just send the money but came out himself, either out of worry for Claire or to see if there really was a problem? The stress of the visit and being faced with her recent choices might be too much for Claire.

. . . Or was Carl really thinking that the stress might be too much for him? That was the dilemma he had hit upon last night, and now it was coming back in full force.

He ran his hands into his hair. He was terrified that if Claire saw Ben again, she would weaken and agree to marry him and somehow Carl would be forgotten. Ben would not want him living with them. He would probably see that Carl was put in a sanitarium somewhere. And Carl could not live like that. He could not.

Carl trembled. He could not deny Claire the help she needed because of that. And she would leave him anyway, if she died.

No, he was not going to allow her to die!

He stormed to the door but then paused. He did not even have the money to send a telegram. What had he been thinking? All of these thoughts of wiring relatives or Ben were pointless. There was not a cent in the house.

Maybe he could sell some of the furniture. It was nice; he could surely get a good price for the pieces.

But with his bad lungs, he could not even get any of it out to the wagon. And there was no one who would help him.

He slumped against the door, resting his forehead against the wood. He had backed himself into a corner.

“Oh Claire,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Maybe . . . maybe the only thing left to do was to steal something, just a bit of money or food, enough for them to get by for a while.

And what if he were caught? Even shot on sight?

Maybe he could try again to impress upon the bankers the importance of being allowed to access the money Claire had saved. If he could just make them realize Claire might die, surely they would waive the stipulations and rules and whatever Claire had set up!

He opened the door and stepped into the hall. That was what he would try. He had always been good at convincing people in the past. It should work now, when it really mattered.

He straightened his tie and combed out his hair before stopping to check on Claire. It looked like she was asleep, or at least, in a doze. He would not wake her. If this worked, he would return soon with money and food.

He slipped out of the house quietly, glancing down the street in the direction of the MacFarleys’ home. Maybe it would be better if he went the other way. He might be less likely to run into them. He could hope, anyway.

Unfortunately, it was a vain hope. As he neared the corner, a fist shot out of seemingly nowhere, striking him in the face. He stumbled back against a picket fence, his balance compromised.

“You should get worse than that, after the way you talked to my wife,” Mr. MacFarley snarled.

Carl gripped the fence post, squinting up at his new nemesis. He pushed himself to his feet.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did, I’ll admit that,” he said. “But your wife had no right to insult Claire. She’s done nothing to either of you.”

“Celia just doesn’t like seeing Claire stuck in the rut she’s in with you,” Mr. MacFarley retorted.

“Well, maybe not, but it’s not her business.” Carl pulled on the ends of his suit coat. “And Claire isn’t well right now, Mr. MacFarley. Your wife made it clear that you’re both aware of that. If you had a score to settle with me, you had no right to come pounding on the door when Claire might have heard.”

Mr. MacFarley glowered. “We heard about Claire feeling under the weather, it’s true. But I still have some doubts about how bad off she might be.”

Carl rocked back. “You don’t think she’s lying!” he gasped. “You can suspect me of it all you like, but not Claire. She doesn’t lie!”

“I don’t think she’s lying,” Mr. MacFarley agreed. “But I think you might twist the truth around and exaggerate to try to win some sympathy and some money. I’m just coming from the bank. I told them most emphatically not to let you get hold of anything Claire’s got saved there.”

Carl’s patience was crumbling and his horror growing. “That isn’t your business either!” he cried. He pushed past the disagreeable man, hurrying around the corner.

Mr. MacFarley looked after him but did not follow. “You won’t have any luck with them,” he called. “They don’t like you any more than I do. Probably less!”

Carl ignored him.

“Claire will thank me for it. You’ll see!”

That loosened Carl’s tongue. “She won’t be able to thank you!” he yelled back. “She’ll be dead!”

If Mr. MacFarley responded to that, Carl did not hear it.
****
Carl was not sure whether his bothersome neighbor’s words had made any difference, but he certainly did not have any luck with the bank. The men seemed sympathetic, but remained firm when it came to allowing Carl to take any of the money. They would not have any of that.

He trudged out of the bank thirty minutes later, pale and in a daze. There really weren’t any honest options left. He kept knowing that was true and yet he kept thinking of other possibilities anyway. And they continually failed.

When he had fled to Virginia City and had experienced his first attack there, the doctor had prompted him to send for Claire. Carl had protested, saying he did not want to take Claire away from her friends and everything she had in San Francisco.

It had only been partially true, really. Most of Claire’s friends had been fair-weather friends only, abandoning her because of Carl. The two decent friends she had were not in town at all, but had gone to Europe. They had tried to convince Claire to go with them, but of course she had not felt free to do so.

Mainly, he supposed, he had not wanted to drag Claire out to Nevada because of his guilt over what he had done to her then, leaving her to cope with his gambling debts. And, perhaps, he had feared Claire’s reproach and frustration if she came. He did not want Claire to be angry with him. That was something he could barely deal with.

He looked up and down the street. It was filled up with people, as it generally was at this time of day, but they paid him no heed. Why should they? They were complete strangers to him. And he could not even get the people he knew to pay attention.

Maybe stealing was the only option left. And he wouldn’t have to go after money; he could try his hand at food. If he came at night, and just took a fruit here and a vegetable there, maybe nothing would be missed.

He could almost hear Claire telling him it was just a short-term solution. What would he do the next night? And the next? And what if he were caught?

But by now even a short-term solution sounded good to him. He would worry about the future later. He turned and headed for home, determined in his plan. He would be back after dark.
****
Carl managed to slip out of the house that night without any trouble. He clutched an old burlap sack in one hand. He did not want to go seeking food anywhere near their house, where it somehow might be traced back to him. He walked for a while in the anonymity of the darkness, seeking a farther neighborhood.

He had not expected to be cornered and caught as he drew nigh to one of the last neighborhoods before the docks. But as he turned a corner, several shapes appeared in his path.

He took a step back. “What is this? What do you want?” He pulled out his empty pockets. “If you’re hoping to rob me, you’re out of luck.”

“Oh, we don’t want to rob you, Armory.”

Carl’s heart sank. He recognized the voice; it belonged to one of the men from the gambling parlor he had visited last night.

He had to admit, he had not thought about this problem even once today. He had been too caught up in worry over what he was going to do for Claire. Now here it was, staring him in the face. Terror began to rise in his heart. No, he did not want to be beaten a second time by gambling enforcers! He could not have that happen!

“We just want the money that’s rightfully coming to our boss,” a second man spoke.

“You can see I don’t have anything,” Carl objected. “And if you work me over, I won’t be in any condition to even get the money at all.”

“We know about your bad lungs. We don’t want to do anything serious to you . . . yet. We just want to leave you with a little warning.”

One of the men lunged without any kind of a warning, slamming his fist into Carl’s stomach. He gasped, doubling over in pain. As if his stomach hadn’t been bothering him more than enough today from his hunger.

Before he could straighten, two more heavy fists came down on his shoulder blades. His balance lost, he fell forward to the ground.

He was not a fighter. He never had been. He never could be; it was too strenuous. But he flailed in desperation, trying to strike back as the enforcers came at him, pounding and kicking and even stepping on him. There was very little he could do against so many.

And they either underestimated how serious his health problems were or they cared more about having fun beating him up. By the time they backed away, he was gasping and sputtering, scarcely able to breathe.

“Maybe we overdid it,” one of them frowned. “He doesn’t look so good.”

“All the better, if we don’t have to worry about him coming back again,” said another. “Let’s get out of here before someone finds him.”

They scattered, leaving Carl coughing and choking on the wooden walkway. He groaned, staring blankly up into the starry sky.

He remembered when he and Claire had been kids and she had tried to teach him about the stars and constellations. On the long nights when he could not sleep, she would take him to the window and they would watch the night sky.

“You see, Carl? That one there is part of Ursa Major, the Great Bear. It looks like a water dipper, doesn’t it? And that one over there looks like a smaller one. See that bright star right there? That’s the North Star. If you can find it, you can always find your way around at night.”

Carl blinked. His vision was growing dim. I can see it now, he said silently, unable to speak. But I’ve never felt more lost.

Oh Claire . . . ! Am I going to die here, like this? No one comes this way. No one will find me in time, let alone someone who will know what to do. I can’t breathe, Claire. I can’t breathe!

I’m sorry, Claire. It was all for you, I swear it was. I know you’ll likely never believe that, but it’s the honest truth. I’ve tried so hard to help you, but no one will give me a chance. I squandered every chance I had in the past. There’s no more left to give. And now you’re suffering for it.

What will you do when you wake up and I’m not there? When someone finally brings news that my body has been found? Will you be free of your burden at long last? Or will it only make everything worse? Will you blame yourself?

Dear God, no. Oh please, help me somehow, someway. I know I’m unworthy. I know I probably deserve to die. But Claire! She’s been through so much because of me. If I put her through anything more . . .

His thoughts and sight faded altogether into the darkness.
****
When Carl fell unconscious and his tense muscles went slack, his breathing usually began to ease at least somewhat. But he was always still hurt from his attacks and needed help. Now, after having been so cruelly beaten, he needed it more than ever. But he did not really expect that he would receive it.

“Dear Lord,” a shocked voice exclaimed in horror. “What happened to you? Can you hear me?”

Carl’s sore eyes fluttered. An unfamiliar man was peering down at him. It was too dark to see any facial features, but he could sense that this was an ally. This man would not leave him battered and beaten by the wayside. Somehow, someway, he had come to help.

“Who . . . ?” He dissolved into a coughing fit.

“You’d better not try to talk,” the Good Samaritan said. “Just lie still. It doesn’t look like you have any broken bones, but I should get you to a doctor to be sure.

“Charleston!” he barked, turning to face the driver of his stagecoach. “Help me get this man inside. He’s hurt.”

Charleston leaped down in concern. “What happened to him, Mr. Jeffers?” he gasped.

“Well, I’m not sure, but if I were to make an educated guess I’d say he angered the wrong people. He’s been badly beaten. He can’t seem to catch his breath very well, either.” Mr. Jeffers loosened Carl’s tie and collar.

“We’ll have to be very careful with him, Sir,” Charleston said.

“I know that,” Jeffers growled. “Just help me with him.”

Carl cringed as he was lifted by the two men, who tried to be as gentle as possible. Soon he had been placed on one of the plush seats of the coach. Mr. Jeffers knelt beside him, further examining his injuries.

“Can you tell me your name?” he asked. “Don’t say anything else. Just that, if you can.”

Carl was not sure if even that was too much. But he tried. “Carl,” he rasped. “Carl Armory. . . .”

“Armory. . . .” Jeffers stared off into the distance. “I heard that name somewhere recently. Wasn’t there a Claire Armory who was hurt by a frightened carriage horse? There was something about it in the newspaper.”

Carl gave a weak nod. “Sister. . . .”

Jeffers shook his head. “Your family’s been having a rash of bad luck lately,” he said with sympathy.

It was more like a rash of bad luck all their lives. But Carl kept silent. He tried to focus on breathing. It was painful now, with his bruised ribs. He was alive, but how would he ever help Claire in his condition? Not that he had managed to do any good anyway.

“Charleston!” Jeffers was leaning out of the coach door now. “Do you know where the Armorys live?”

“. . . I’ve heard of them, Mr. Jeffers,” the driver answered with surprised hesitance. “I think I know their neighborhood, at least. The girl works at a hotel in town. Her brother is a ne’er-do-well, not worth much.”

Carl shut his eyes in shame.

“If that’s him we’ve got aboard, he must have been up to his old tricks again,” Charleston continued. “He’s a gambler and a drinker. He doesn’t work; claims he’s got some lung condition. Drives his poor sister up the wall.”

“Nevermind about the local gossip,” Jeffers snapped. “I don’t care about that. And anyway, have you considered that maybe he does have some sort of lung condition?”

“. . . I hadn’t considered it, Mr. Jeffers.”

“It would fit with the trouble he’s having breathing. If you think you know the right neighborhood, take us there now.”

“Yes, Sir!”

Carl opened his eyes again, surprised. This man, whoever he was, was no-nonsense and all business. Yet at the same time he was kind, kinder than any of the people Carl had encountered upon his and Claire’s return to San Francisco.

“It’s a strange thing about how we stumbled on him, Mr. Jeffers,” Charleston said as he shut the coach door and climbed into the box. “We don’t normally come down this street.”

“I know,” Jeffers frowned, leaning back. “Tonight I just had the feeling that, for some reason, we needed to.”

He looked to Carl, who was watching him. “You were lucky tonight, Mr. Armory,” he said, shaking his head. “Or Someone was watching out for you, however you want to look at it.”

Carl could not help but recall his frantic, pleading prayer. Had it been answered in this way? In any case, he had to agree that his luck had turned. But, he wondered as the vehicle got going, would it last?

What about Claire? What about their complete lack of money and food? What would happen when these people got him home and Claire saw how badly he was hurt? That could make her so much worse.

Jeffers seemed to sense his distress. Or maybe it showed on his face. He would not be surprised.

“It’s going to be alright, Mr. Armory,” Jeffers told him. “I promise, I’ll do whatever I can.”

Carl did not want to take advantage of someone again. He had been trying so hard to break all of his wretched habits. But no matter what he did, he seemed to keep slipping back.

Somehow, though, he had the feeling Mr. Jeffers would not put up with any of that.

He was both anxious for and dreading the arrival home.