Author's Notes: Picture it if you will. Curtis Wells: the year of the great flood (around June 1880) Heavy mountain snow pack and above normal temperatures cause a nearby river to rise rapidly, endangering the residents of Curtis Wells. Compounding matters, rain pours down in the streets of town. Water begins to lap onto the boardwalk, seeping under the doors of local businesses. Residents flee for their lives or for higher ground. Through this crisis, we have our two heroes -- Mosby and Call -- trying to preserve life and order among the citizens. Call has filled more sandbags than anyone, and he is dead tired. He falls asleep on the bench outside Creel's store, and there he remains until the rising floodwaters fill his boots and wake him up.
"Damned if I need a bath," Call spits as he pours water out of his boots. "I best see to the Hell Bitch."
Using his sawed-off as an oar, Call rows the bench over to the livery where he promptly saves the Hell Bitch. He saves more horses than anyone, and by now he is REALLY tired.
"Hell with this," he mutters. "Think I'll go bunk with Mattie."
He rows on over to the gun shop, but to his amazement, Mattie is not there. Then he remembers that she is in Miles City on a business trip.
Meanwhile, at the Ambrosia, barrels of the good stuff and barrels of the not-so-good-stuff are floating out from behind the bar, and amazingly enough, Mosby is astride one of them. He orders his men to save the picture of the lady behind the bar and to carry the roulette wheel upstairs. As he floats past the piano, Mosby realizes that it is too late to save the musical instrument. "At least I won't have to hire a new piano player this month," he observes dryly. Then he bobs on out the door.
"You there," he calls to a man holding onto the hitching post for dear life, "there are some barrels floating out of here. Get on one, for God's sake." Mosby is concerned for his citizens. It won't do to have them swept away, out of range for business.
He hopes in this time of crisis that all the ladies will be spared. His thoughts drift to Mattie. The woman is all alone, and she may need his help. He has been wary to ask her about her plans since she bit his head off the last time, so he is unaware that she is out of town. Using his big gun as a paddle, he sets sail for the gun shop. He does not see that Call's bench is docked around back. Floating through the door, Mosby gracefully leaps onto Mattie's stair landing.
"Mattie!" he yells in concern for the blond woman. "Are you all right?"
There is no answer. Hmmm, there's something fishy here, Mosby thinks to himself as he bounds up the stairs to her chambers, flinging open the door. "Mattie!"
"What the hell?" Call answers, having been asleep for only a few seconds. "What does a man have to do to get peace in this town?"
"Call? What the hell are you doing here? Where's Mattie?"
"Mattie's in Miles City. Don't give call for you to come in here and bother a man trying to get some shut-eye."
Mosby's eyes narrow in disgust. "Has it escaped your notice, Call, that there are flood waters rising outside this very minute? Why, the whole town's in danger."
"It's your town, Mosby," Call shrugs. "Ain't none of my concern." He replaces his hat over his face.
Mosby shakes his head at the blond man. He has a town to save. Mosby tries to return to his barrel, only to discover that the floodwaters have risen even higher, forcing him to flee back up the stairs. He slams the door shut to prevent the tide from entering the room. The two men realize in abject horror that they are trapped together until the waters recede.
Mosby sinks into a chair in the corner, mopping his brow. He cannot believe that God would conspire against him in such a manner. He takes out a soggy cigar and lights it somehow, taking a long pull to calm his frazzled nerves.
Call is shaking like he was after the shootout in THICKER THAN WATER. He needs a drink. He wonders if Mattie has some red-eye stashed somewhere.
Mosby stands up, straightening his vest. He clears his throat. "Well, Call, I suppose we're here for the duration. I suggest we make the best of it."
"Up a crick with out a paddle, huh Mosby?" Call smirks. He is not moving off the bed.
Mosby shakes his head. "Fine. You stay on one end of the room. I'll stay on the other. Agreed?"
"Fine by me, just so long as I get the bed side."
Mosby prefers it that way. Perhaps, he can use the mirror to signal for help.
Just when Call begins to drift out of consciousness, thunder crashes. He rises off the bed, perturbed. He can't seem to get any sleep without getting interrupted.
"This is your fault, ain't it Mosby?"
"Oh yes," Mosby snaps. "Now I'm responsible for the weather, I suppose. You've really gone off the deep end this time, Call."
"Nothing goes on in this town without your say so, Mosby. What? Someone didn't pay their taxes? Now the whole town has to suffer?"
"Go back to your bench, Call."
"Hell," Call spits. "I would, but it just floated down the alley. If it sinks, that'll be your fault, too."
Mosby rolls his eyes. He has better things to do than argue with Call. He strides over to the mirror, wondering how to set up a distress signal. He gets distracted when he sees the stunning image staring back at him. Mosby has never recalled a time when he looked more disheveled, and he knows that his distressed state will drive his female fans wild with desire. He ruffles his hair and rubs his lower lip. For good measure, he leans insolently against the wall.
Call has been watching him and snorts in disgust at his behavior. "You know I'm the star of the show, don't you, Mosby?"
"Why, Call, we both know I'm the handsomest man in town. Why, I'm stunnin.'"
"But I'm the star. You were just supposed to be in a few episodes and then leave."
"Why, I'm just so magnificent, they wrote me a bigger part."
"That don't cut no ice with me, Mosby. You tried to steal my woman."
"Give it a rest, Call. What Hannah and I felt for each other was bigger than us both." Mosby pats the big gun in his holster.
Call springs to his feet, his hand hovering menacingly over his big gun. "You take that back, you bastard."
"I understand you're the one with questionable lineage, Call."
Call's sea-blue eyes flush as waves of anger wash over him. "It's about time you and me had this out." He waves Mosby over to his side of the room with his big gun.
Mosby cannot ignore the challenge. They stand, ready to duel to the death, each of them fingering their big guns. "Are we gonna finish this?" Mosby asks.
"Been a long time coming. Bound to happen."
"Shame to have to kill you, Call."
Mosby and Call, not noticing that the water is still rising, are startled when Unbob bobs through the doorway and paddles over to them. "Mr. Mosby, I can't find my pigs! My pigs, Mr. Call! Help me find my pigs! You know, Blossom and Maggie they get right pernickity when they get their feet wet. What am I gonna do, Mr. Mosby? Miss Mattie's not here, and the sheriff's out of town, and I need someone to help me find my pigs! Pleeease!" he squeals.
Mosby and Call stare at each other for another uncertain moment and then bail from the fight. Mosby covers his big gun with his coat. Call makes the "safe" sign.
Miraculously, the floodwaters recede, leaving a sea of mud in their wake. Call, Mosby, and Unbob slip and slide down the slimy steps to the street below. Thankfully, they find Blossom and Maggie oinking contentedly in the mud before them. Tears of joy trickle down Unbob's face when he sees his two pets. He grunts happily and squelches off into the sunset with them.
Looking up, the two men see Amanda approaching. Her sodden dress clings to her figure, emphasizing her bosom even more than usual. Her hair is dripping, and her make-up is running down her face.
"That was a close one, Clay," she says to the town proprietor, batting her lashes at him.
Mosby whips out his handkerchief and hands it to Amanda so that she can wipe her streaming face. "My dear, I am relieved to see that your ample assets kept you afloat."
Amanda blows him a kiss and sashays back to the Lonesome Dove Hotel.
Call and Mosby regard each other. "Buy you a drink, Call? A little somethin' to wet your whistle?"
Call glares at him. "Shove off, Mosby. I choose my drinks and who I drink 'em with."
"That's our Mr. Call surly and unpleasant at any time of day." Mosby sighs. This morning's activities have left him feeling drained.
Just then a ten-foot high tidal wave thunders down the street, narrowly missing Mosby and washing over Call, covering him fore and aft in mud.
Mosby steps back in disgust to avoid getting his fine leather boots any more filthy. "I've avoided dirt yet again. Damned if I know why."
He doffs his hat to a couple of ladies passing by. The ladies turn to watch him walk back to the Ambrosia Club. Mosby rubs his lower lip thoughtfully. He knows he's a fine-looking specimen.
Call takes it all in stride. He regains his footing in the mire and heads to his bench, which has miraculously floated back to its customary position outside Creel's store.
Call sinks into it gratefully. Finally, the man has some peace.
The End
7/2002
