Fields of White
by BeckyS
© Feb 2004, as allowable
For Puchi, who writes a wonderful
Adam though she loves Joe best,
for Marian who is
always my inspiration for Joe,
and to all those who’ve thought that I
would only write Adam stories!
Special thanks to
one-who-shall-remain-nameless for pestering me
and other inspirations, including a
great conversation in an airport bar.
The tall sorrel blew hard, plumes of white breath clouding the air as he leaned
into the turn. He’d just about raced his heart out, and his rider knew there
weren’t many more miles left in either of them.
This was the hardest part of the journey, too – headed up the last few
hundred yards to Spooner Summit. It was
a long, hard climb from the
Ahead of him, his brother’s pinto skidded through a bend at the crest of the
trail, kicking clods of white into the air that shone against the bright blue
sky like sparkles floating in a music box globe. Fortunately, yesterday’s snow had been
relatively light; a full-fledged December storm in the Sierra Nevada mountains
was likely to leave multiple feet in its wake rather than the inches that now
covered the slate-stone hills, and they wouldn’t have had a chance. As it was, they had to keep as far ahead of
the five-man posse as they could since there was no possibility of hiding their
trail.
He urged his horse faster with legs and voice and gloved hands, trying to
encourage him. If they could just make
it over this ridge, the run down the other side could serve as enough of a rest
that his horse might be able to make it to the ranch. They headed up and into the same turn his
brother had just taken, but the sorrel had run farther and his rider was
heavier than the pinto’s, and when his hooves lost purchase on the slippery
trail, they went down hard in a flurry of legs, black dirt and white powder. In the sudden silence, the disturbed snow
floated back to earth, lightly dusting the motionless horse where it lay at the
top of a long, steep slope.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
The snow
was heavier on this side of the pass, with wind-sculpted drifts rising almost
as high as his horse’s belly. Joe
Cartwright risked a glance over his shoulder, not really surprised that his
oldest brother hadn’t appeared yet. Adam
had raced into Joe’s resting spot at
“What—?” Joe had asked as he finished tightening his cinch.
Adam cut him off. “Just get on your
horse, boy, and ride!”
Having just had his sixteenth birthday, that boy rankled, but deep down Joe trusted his brother implicitly so he
leaped into his saddle and kicked Cochise into a gallop. It wasn’t the way to treat a good horse, to
push him to his top speed without letting him warm his muscles first, but then
Adam hadn’t been treating Sport any better.
He knew well his brother’s views on the humane treatment of their
horses, so if Adam was running his favorite mount into the ground, there was
sure to be a very good reason.
He glanced over his shoulder again, and his worry doubled when he still didn’t
see Adam. In a split-second decision, he
reined his horse around. Cochise spun on
his hind legs in a half-rear, and they bounded up the steep trail. The horse skidded to a sudden halt near the
top, nearly unseating his rider as they slid to a stop next to Adam’s horse,
which lay on the snowy path, sides heaving from exhaustion.
Joe leaped from the saddle and looked round the countryside for his
brother. “Adam!” he cried, near-panic
making his heart jump.
He could just barely see the back of Adam’s head where he lay a good forty
yards down the hill off the north side of the trail, at the end of a long, deep
track. He’d slid through a drift and
part way out the other side, and was almost completely covered with snow. Making a quick decision, Joe grabbed his
rifle and saddlebags off his horse and slapped him on the rump. Startled and relieved of his rider’s weight,
the pinto bolted down the hill toward, Joe hoped, home. He knelt briefly by Adam’s horse and quickly
determined that the animal was simply exhausted, not injured. He grabbed his brother’s hat, which had
tumbled to a stop a few feet away, climbed over the horse’s belly to the
hillside, and gently, carefully, began pulling on the reins.
He was taking an appalling chance and he knew it, but he saw no other way to
quickly cover their tracks. Sport slid
slowly down the hill behind Joe, his hooves pushing against the ground just
enough to keep his descent under control.
When they had almost reached the drift where his brother lay face-down, Joe let go of the reins and started tossing
snow over the top of the drift onto his brother’s body until he was completely,
if lightly, covered. He quickly buried
his and Adam’s saddlebags as well as their hats, then clucked at the horse and
pulled up on the reins, encouraging him to stand. As soon as Sport was on his feet, though
shaking and shivering with legs splayed in exhaustion and head hanging limply
toward the ground, Joe dove into the drift as well. He pulled his legs up to his chest and lay
stone-still; silent, waiting, praying.
It didn’t take long. He could feel the
thudding of the horses’ hooves through the earth before he heard them, but soon
the thundering echoed in his ears. Why were they chasing Adam? He wasn’t supposed to have much cash with him
on this leg of his trip. What went wrong?
He hoped he’d have a chance to get the answer out of his brother.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
The group
of horses stopped at the top of the ridge, and he knew they were studying the
scene, trying to figure out what had happened.
He hoped it looked like Sport had fallen, and that he’d returned to take
his brother up on Cochise. That there
was only one set of bootprints should help, and he
was counting on the instinctive dislike of horsemen everywhere of walking – and
especially climbing – to deter them from actually coming down the hill. He heard muffled words, the stamp of horses’
feet, and a stream of foul words. Then
the jingle of spurs and bits, more stamping and shuffling, and they suddenly rode
off in a flurry of pounding hooves.
He listened carefully without moving for several minutes more, and was rewarded
when he heard a final curse, and a last horse raced down the trail. He let out a breath and rested his forehead
on his arm, going weak with relief. He
only allowed himself a moment, though, before climbing out of his hole. Grateful as he was that his brother hadn’t
moved and given them away, he was equally worried. He crouched on the down side of the hill to
Adam’s left and brushed the snow from his brother’s face and hair. “Adam,” he called softly.
No reaction, not even the flicker of an eyelid.
“C’mon, Adam, talk to me.”
Still nothing.
Joe sank down onto his knees, his eyes filled with despair. He pulled off a glove to feel for a pulse and
was almost as relieved by the warmth of his brother’s neck as he was by the
slow steady throbbing of life.
He turned Adam’s head carefully to the other side and discovered the reason for
his unconsciousness – there was a bloody and swollen abrasion that ran from his
right temple into the hair above his ear.
He was lucky he hadn’t lost an eye.
Joe climbed up to his hidey-hole and pulled out his snow-caked hat. He slapped it on his leg a couple of times to
shake off the snow and settled it on his head, then retrieved Adam’s hat and
their saddlebags. As he traipsed through
the drifts to his brother, he rummaged around in the pockets of his bags, his
hand closing on an extra shirt he’d packed.
He used it and small handfuls of snow to wash the blood off Adam’s face
as well as he could, then tied his bandanna around Adam’s forehead to try to
keep the wound clean. He rolled his brother gently toward him onto his side,
felt for broken ribs or other injuries and, finding none, rolled him the rest
of the way onto his back. He tucked his
hat under Adam’s head, not caring that it was getting crushed, and checked the
rest of him. This time he found what
appeared to be a dislocated left shoulder.
“If that and a bump on the head are
the worst of it, you got off pretty light, big brother.”
Maybe the snow had cushioned his fall.
He lifted the arm to see if it would move, but one knee hit an icy spot,
and he went sprawling. He instinctively
hung onto Adam’s wrist, and with a sickening snap that caught him by surprise,
the shoulder slipped into place.
Appalled at himself for not letting go, not thinking things through, he
suddenly realized how little he knew about taking care of injuries – he should
have left the shoulder alone, even if he had managed to fix it by accident.
He caught his breath on a near-sob and swiped at his face with his arm. He breathed deeply a few times to calm down,
then picked up Adam’s hat and examined it.
He was relieved to find it in good condition – Adam would need the warmth,
once he got him up on his horse. It was
only then that Joe realized he’d made the decision to try for home.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
It was hard
getting Adam loaded up onto his horse.
Joe’s feet kept slipping on the steep, snowy hill as he tried to raise his
brother’s inert body high enough to hoist him face-down over the saddle. He hoped he was right, that Adam didn’t have
any busted ribs. Sport was no problem;
he had picked his head up a little, but was still too weary to step away from
this awkward burden. If Adam had been
even slightly conscious, if Sport hadn’t been nearly broken down from the long,
hard run, Joe would have tried to mount behind his brother, but he knew he was
going to have to walk. He pulled Adam’s
bandanna from around his neck and tied it over his brother’s nose and mouth to
help keep them warm, then checked his gloves to make sure they were securely
covering his hands. The now-ruined shirt served as a way to tie Adam’s hat on,
the arms tying under his chin. A grin
teased at Joe’s mouth, but it would do – would keep Adam’s ears and neck warm,
too. He was determined to get Adam home,
not only in one piece, but without frostbite.
He slung the saddlebags over the animal’s rump on top of his brother’s, then
paused a moment, curious as to whether whatever those men had wanted was in one
of the pouches. He decided he’d better
get Adam home first; there would be plenty of time later to figure out what
those men were after, once they were safe.
He tossed snow over every bootprint he could find,
then pushed and prodded Sport around the area where he’d walked. Then he pulled his collar up high around his
neck, settled his hat as far down as it would go, tucked his chin down into his
coat, and led the horse through the drift and down the hill, carefully keeping
the animal directly behind so the hoofprints would
obscure his tracks.
He studied the hills, getting his bearings and trying to decide on the best
route, one that would get them out of sight of the trail as quickly as
possible. There was no telling when the
men would come up with Cochise, and though he was sure his horse wouldn’t let
them catch him, they’d see the empty saddle and know they’d somehow been
tricked. He squinted against the
dazzling white landscape and realized he’d have to take care against
snow-blindness as well.
He took his thoughts back to the summer, mentally adding leaves to the trees
and grass to the ground as he tried to decide on the best route. “Yeah, the roundup. Hoss rode over this way, and he told me that
night about a path he found through these rocks.”
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
Joe felt like he’d been walking through gullies and canyons for days. There’d been no sign of pursuit, and he
wondered if his tricks could have possibly worked. He’d tried everything his
brothers had ever taught him, even climbing up behind Adam for a brief trek
along the bed of a shimmering-cold stream.
He’d wanted badly to stay on the horse – his legs were warm for the
first time in hours – but he couldn’t afford to tire the animal. He needed him to carry his brother.
Joe’s gloved hands were stiff with cold, now, and when he could feel his feet
they ached in their boots from the unaccustomed walking. He’d begun to worry about his own nose
getting frostbitten when he heard the first moan.
“Adam?” He stopped Sport and went to his
brother’s head, lifting it carefully to see if he was waking up. He was rewarded with something that sounded
like a pained sigh. In spite of his own discomfort, he grinned. “That’s it, brother. Wake up just a little
more.”
“Joe?” Adam tried to raise his head, and his left eyelid twitched halfway open.
“Just stay put. Don’t try to move or
you’ll slide right off your horse, and that won’t feel too good. I’ll find us a good spot to settle for a
while, get you warmed up.”
“Yeah.” His eye
closed again, and he relaxed into his brother’s palm.
Not sure whether Adam was actually taking his advice or if he had just passed
out again, Joe cast around in his memory for any nearby shelter. He was pretty sure they’d crossed over onto
Ponderosa land by now, even if just barely, so there should be a line shack
somewhere close by.
“C’mon, think!” he muttered to
himself. “Which way?
The house is north, but the line shack might be to the west. Yeah, it is.”
He sighed. He hated to go the
wrong direction, but when he looked out over the land, he realized the sun was
setting. “Adam isn’t gonna last a night in the open.
All right, west it is.”
He traipsed on through the gathering darkness, and even though he was cold
and desperately worried about his brother, he couldn’t help but appreciate the
beauty of the land. The fields of snow
that lay before him were a pristine white, the very air seemed to turn golden,
and the snow-capped mountains were touched with a delicate rose. The sky was darkening to a pure, deep,
velvety blue, the very color of the depths of
He thought of his father and his other brother, Hoss, home and warm in front of
the huge hearth. He wondered if they
realized yet that the rest of the family was in trouble. His sudden impulse to meet his oldest brother
and ride back with him no longer looked like such a good idea. When Ben had said that Adam might not be
close enough to home for them to make it home that night, Joe had laughed and
told him not to worry – they could take care of themselves.
Now, how he wished those words unsaid. He could only hope Cochise had made it home.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
Heavy
snow-laden clouds were playing tag with the stars by the time Joe led his tiny
cavalcade up a small hill to the line shack.
The building was easy to find, the dark angular shape sitting as it was
at the edge of a bright white moonlit snowfield, casting a deep shadow on the
rocks behind. A small lean-to for animals had been built up against the
building on the left, and a small arroyo gathered water from the heights in a
stream several yards downhill to the right.
Joe ignored the lean-to, though, and headed straight for the door that
was set into the right of the front wall.
Sport was stumbling with fatigue, but followed Joe willingly up the one step
onto the small porch and through the door.
Joe told himself that it would be easier to unload Adam straight onto
the cot that was set against the far wall. Once he was inside, though, he
realized a second benefit: even though they’d have to put up with the barn
smell and mess, the trade-off was the warmth the animal would generate.
Besides, the horse needed care as well, and it wasn’t as if he and his brother
had never bedded down in a barn overnight.
Just enough light came through the single glass window from the winter night
sky that he could find the lantern hanging to the left of the doorway. He propped his rifle by the door and lit the
wick, placed the lantern on the counter next to the fireplace, then slid Adam
off the saddle onto the cot. He moved
the horse to the front left corner of the small room, then strung a rope from
the lantern hook by the front door to a nail in the middle of the left wall,
neatly sectioning off a make-shift stall.
There was kindling as well as a few logs to the right of the door, and
he started a fire, then took the lantern outside and hung it on a peg driven
into the side of the lean-to. A pair of
buckets were quickly filled with snow – one for the horse and one for his own
and Adam’s needs – and taken into the cabin to sit next to the fire where
they’d melt. Another trip for two
armfuls of straw inside to spread under Sport, then one more to retrieve a
feedbag, which he filled with oats from the storage bin and slung over his
shoulder. He grabbed the lantern on his
way to the shack.
He moved one of the partially melted buckets of snow to where Sport could reach
it, then removed the horse’s bridle to strap the
feedbag on. The saddlebags he tossed on
the floor near Adam’s cot and winced at the noise they made, hoping it hadn’t
disturbed his brother. On the other
hand, he thought as he pulled the saddle from the horse’s back, maybe
it’s not such a good thing that it didn’t bother him.
He set the saddle near, but not too close, to the
fire – intending to use it later as a pillow – and took the blanket to
Adam. Between the fire and the horse,
the shack had warmed up a bit, so he opened his brother’s coat to try to make
him more comfortable. He lifted him,
pulling him forward until his head rested limply on his shoulder. He slid the coat down and had just gotten one
of Adam’s long arms free when he made two startling discoveries: his brother’s
holster was gone, and he’d been shot.
Joe rubbed his blood-sticky fingers together, and his heart began to thud
heavily. “Adam?” he called softly, his voice wavering ever so slightly.
There was no response, just the slight tickle of his brother’s breath on his
neck. Joe slid the coat off the rest of
the way, then eased Adam down onto the single
pillow. He rolled him slightly away,
onto his left side, and pulled the black shirt loose so that he could examine
the wound. The bullet had hit him in the
back, just above the waist. If the
shooter had been just a bit off, it would have missed him entirely. Or
caught him in the spine,
said a small voice in his mind. From the
angry look of the wound, Joe guessed the bullet was still in there.
He’d been acting on pure instinct so far, instinct trained into him by his
family through years of living in the midst of a wilderness. Accidentally fixing Adam’s shoulder had been
more than he ever wanted to have to do. This was something different. Never before had he been responsible for
someone else’s very life.
He tried to bring to mind what Pa had
said last summer when one of the ranch hands had caught a bullet in the
leg. He remembered one phrase vividly: have to
cut it out.
He dropped his head onto one hand.
He couldn’t, he just couldn’t.
“Joe?” The single word came on a breath of air, insubstantial, not at all his
brother’s normal voice.
Joe eased him down onto his back. Adam
gazed at him blearily, through pain-shrouded eyes.
“I’m right here,” Joe reassured him.
“Where are we?”
“McGregor Ridge line shack.”
Adam closed his eyes. “Too far . . .”
Joe grabbed at his shoulders, fear churning inside. “Adam?
Adam, you stay with me! Don’t you
leave me, you hear?”
Adam shook his head slightly. “Not if I
can help—” He
broke off with a low moan of pain.
Joe dipped his bandana in the melting snow in the bucket by the fire, and
dabbed at his brother’s forehead. He
hadn’t had a lot of experience with illness, but he could feel the heat of
fever rising from Adam’s skin. “I’m gonna get you home, Adam; home to
“Stoddard!” The
voice came suddenly from outside.
Joe’s head whipped around to look at the door.
“Stoddard, we know you’re in there! Come
on out, peaceful!”
Joe felt a hand suddenly grip his arm, hard.
“What—?”
Adam spoke quietly, with reed-thin strength.
“You don’t know me, Joe. You
don’t know anything about this. You just
found me on the road, haven’t even had a chance to talk to me.”
Joe shook his head. “No, Adam—”
His grip tightened. “Promise me,
Joe! I’m just a stranger you took in –
you never saw me before!”
“Adam, what’s going on? Tell me—”
“Stoddard! You got to the count of ten!”
Stoddard? That’s
the name of Adam’s grandfather! But
his thoughts were interrupted.
Straining, Adam raised himself on his elbow.
“Joe, please!”
“One!”
He slowly nodded. He had to. He didn’t know what was going on, but Adam
apparently did so he’d best do what he wanted.
“All right.
But you’d better explain this real good when I get back, brother!”
“Four!”
“Be glad to,” he gasped, “if we’re both still here.”
Joe grimaced and pressed him gently into the pillow. “I will be, and you’d better be, too,” he
warned and rose.
Adam pulled again at his arm. “Remember
. . . stranger!”
“I got it,” he said, irritated, but the look in his brother’s eyes stopped
him. It was one he’d never seen before,
and he took a few precious seconds to sort out what it was. Then it hit him. Underneath the exhaustion and pain was . . .
trust. Absolute and complete trust that
Joe could help him, could get him out of whatever mess this was he’d found
himself in, that he was too hurt to deal with
himself. It was a look that Joe was sure
he’d worn himself many times when looking at his father, and yes, his oldest
brother, and it stunned him to see Adam turn it on him. He tucked Adam’s coat around his body to help
keep him warm, and his voice softened. “You just rest and let me handle this.”
Adam nodded and closed his eyes, but Joe noticed he didn’t really relax.
“Seven!” they heard from outside.
He grabbed up the rifle – grateful his brothers had found one of the newer
repeating models to give him for his last birthday – and slowly, carefully
opened the door. It opened inward, and
as it moved under his hand he made sure he made no quick movements. He held the rifle to his side where it hid in
the shadows until the men outside realized he wasn’t this Stoddard they were
looking for.
“Nine!” one of the men toward the front of the group yelled out.
Joe stepped forward onto the small porch and immediately moved one pace to the
side so he wouldn’t be backlit from the lantern inside the cabin. “My name’s not Stoddard,” he called. Now that they’d gotten a good look at him, he
raised the rifle to waist height. The
barrel gleamed in the bright moonlight.
“And you’re trespassing.”
He saw them shifting in their saddles and made a quick count. Five, and three of
them looked like they were about done in.
The one who’d been yelling, a man who had a certain look of substance to
him, nudged his buckskin forward into the rectangle of light from the cabin
door, and Joe cocked the rifle. He
pulled up quickly. “Now, look here, boy;
we don’t mean any trouble to you. We’re
after an outlaw, and his tracks show he’s in that cabin.”
“Mister, I don’t think you heard what I said.”
Joe stood square in front of the building, the rifle now pointed at the
man’s gut. “You’re trespassing.”
He raised his hands, reins still held in the right one. “Just let us collect that fella,
and we’ll be on our way.”
“You’re not collecting anyone, not here.”
“Stop yammerin’, Blake; he’s just a kid. Let’s just get what we came for an’ get outa here. It’s gonna start snowin’ again
soon.”
Joe eyed the slim cowboy on what appeared to be a mouse-colored grulla. Could he . .
.? If it worked, it might turn the
tide. He judged the distance carefully,
remembering all the lessons his father had taught him, everything he’d learned
from the long hours of practice he’d put in learning all those fancy tricks to
impress his friends.
He waited for them to make the first move, for that would take just a moment of
their concentration . . . now! Not even raising the rifle, his finger
smoothly pulled the trigger and the weapon leapt in his hands. The dirt and snow in front of the grulla kicked up and the horse reared, nearly unseating his
rider. The other horses stepped and
crow-hopped nervously, and by the time the men all had their mounts under
control, Joe had cocked the rifle again and had it pointed at the leader.
He took a deep breath, trying to relax so that his voice would come out low and
calm. “No one’s taking anyone from
here.”
Someone to the rear called out, “You don’t know what he done—!”
“Doesn’t matter,” Joe interrupted. “I
wouldn’t turn a snake over to you. Which
one of you is the coward that shot an unarmed man in the back?”
“What’re you talking about!” demanded someone else.
“Just what I said,” he replied, his voice and rifle still steady. “He’s not wearing a holster, there wasn’t any
rifle in his scabbard, and he’s got a bullet in his back. Anyone here want to explain that to me?”
The three towards the rear of the group shot uneasy glances at each other, but
the cowboy who’d called him a kid and the man who seemed to be in charge just
glared at him.
“We’re still gonna take ‘im
in,” yelled the cowboy.
“No,” and ever so slowly Joe raised his rifle and tucked the butt against his
shoulder, “you’re not. He’s in no shape
to go anywhere, and once I get him fixed up a bit, I’ll be taking him with me.
You folks don’t seem to understand what I mean by trespassing. You’re on Ponderosa land.”
The man in front seemed suddenly even more washed out in the gray light, and
two behind him shifted uncomfortably in their saddles.
“That’s right,” Joe continued. “Ben Cartwright’s Ponderosa.
And I can tell you my father’s not one to let an illegal posse take a
wounded man from his property.
Especially if he thinks that man might never make it back to a sheriff.”
The leader shifted in his saddle, and Joe had a sense that something he’d said
changed the situation, gave him an edge.
He wished he knew what it was.
“All right, boy,” said the leader, and there was a thread of reasonableness in
his tone. “How do I know Stoddard isn’t
making you say all this? How do I know
he doesn’t have a gun pointed at you, or is maybe holding someone hostage
inside?”
The temptation was strong to tell him that no one was making him do anything;
that there was only one man in the world he trusted more than his brothers, but
Adam’s words rang strongly in his mind. You don’t know me.
“That’s a reasonable question,” he finally answered grudgingly. “I’ll take one of you – just one – inside and
show you. Then you’ll clear out of
here. I’d suggest you head for
town. There’s gonna
be a storm coming through here in a few hours, and you aren’t gonna want to get caught outside in it.”
The three men toward the back looked up at the sky, and one on a skittish dun
nodded. “He’s right, Blake. We don’t have a lot of time.”
“All right.
Just let me make sure you’re not under duress, and we’ll go
peaceably. For now.
We’ll be talkin’ with the sheriff, though.”
“Fair enough,” Joe said, and he lowered the rifle slightly, but kept it aimed
in his direction.
The man on the grulla flipped the thong off his
pistol. “This is all a load of—”
“Jesse!” Blake called out sharply. “Stay
put, keep your mouth shut, and leave that gun where it is. Think what would happen if you took out a
Cartwright!” He turned his horse
slightly so Joe could see every move he made, stepped slowly down from the
saddle and held his hands out to his sides, reins in one hand.
So that’s it! Blake’s heard of Pa.
Guess I’m safe for now, but Adam isn’t. Gotta be
careful . . . . “Take your gun out
slowly, and drop it on the ground.”
Blake pulled his gun from his holster, but looked a bit pained at dropping it
into the snow.
“Do it!” Joe commanded sharply.
He sighed, but did as he was told. Joe
took one step backwards into the cabin.
“Come on in. Slow.”
Blake dropped the reins to ground-tie his horse, then walked toward Joe
carefully, every motion showing that he was well aware the young man in front
of him was only a hair trigger away from putting a bullet in him. He stepped into the room, and his eyes fell
on the man lying on the cot. With a
growl of anger, he rushed over to Adam, batted his coat to the floor, and
grabbed him by the front of his shirt, hauling him half off the thin
mattress. “Where is it!” he roared. “What did you do with it?”
Adam’s eyes were open, but they were unfocused, glazed. He barely had a chance to say, “What—?” when
the man backhanded him across the face, and he went suddenly limp.
“Where is it?” he repeated, ready to hit him again, but suddenly found the
muzzle of Joe’s rifle pushed into his cheek.
“You make one more move,” Joe said, his voice deadly quiet, “and I will blow
your head all the way to
Blake froze.
“Now set him down, real easy.”
He lowered Adam slowly to the bed. “He’s
a killer, boy. You don’t know what
you’re protecting.”
“He’s worth a hell of a lot more than what I’m looking at right now,” he said
with disgust as he pushed Blake toward the door, the rifle prodding him in the
spine. “You think you have a claim
against him, you go ahead and tell it to the sheriff. His name is Roy Coffee. You tell him your Mr. Stoddard is out at the
Ponderosa, under the protection of Ben Cartwright. And mister?”
Blake was in the doorway by now, and he turned to face Joe. “Yeah?” he asked,
his voice not quite as commanding as before.
“You make damn well sure you got your facts straight. Now, get out of here!” He never took his gaze from Blake’s eyes, but
pushed him suddenly in the chest, and Blake went sprawling on the ground. Joe fired the rifle once into the air, then
started shooting towards the hooves of all the horses. Blake scrambled to his feet and ran for his
mount. Joe stopped firing long enough
for the man to get in his saddle, then let loose
again.
“You haven’t seen the last of us!” Blake yelled, but Joe just shot the hat off
his head in answer. Blake wheeled his
horse around and pounded off after the rest of the men.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
Once he was
sure they were gone, he rushed back into the cabin. He took brief seconds to make sure the door
was securely latched with the loop string on the inside, then
in two quick strides was kneeling at his brother’s side.
Adam hadn’t moved from where Blake left him.
His face was turned away, and Joe took his chin gently to turn it
towards him. Blake’s hand had left a
vivid welt on his cheekbone, just below the gash from his slide down the
mountain, and had knocked him senseless again.
Joe felt cold anger rise again in his heart. He was tempted to take Sport and chase the
man down, to give him a taste of the brutal treatment he seemed so fond of
handing out, but his brother needed him.
His hands shook as he dipped the cloth in the cool water again. He pressed it against the ugly bruise with
his right hand and laid his left on Adam’s forehead, feeling his rising
fever.
He prayed that Pa and Hoss would find Cochise, would backtrack
him to the line shack, but who knew when they’d arrive, if at all? Adam was in bad shape and getting worse.
“Adam?” He tried to rouse him by shaking
his shoulders, but carefully. He called
his name again, and this time unshed tears thickened his voice, almost choking
him. He laid his cheek against his
brother’s broad chest, grabbed him tight with his arms and prayed harder than
he’d ever prayed in his life. “Please,
God – please help me. I don’t know what
to do. Please, someone tell me what to
do . . .”
He gradually became aware of the strong, steady thumping of Adam’s heart, the
even breaths that lifted his chest. A
calm stillness entered his soul, and he finally faced facts. The bullet had to come out, and he was the
only one here to do it.
He slid to the floor next to the cot and considered his options. Adam was out of it, so if he did the job now,
his brother wouldn’t feel it. His hands
were shaking, though, from cold or fear or even lack of food, he didn’t
know. He tucked them under his armpits
as he tried to decide what to do. A
delay of a few more minutes or so likely wouldn’t hurt, but would give him a
chance to steady himself and get completely ready.
He’d need more water and bandages, as well as a thin-bladed sharp knife, if he
could find one. He suddenly remembered
that Adam, intrigued by his father’s stories of the less than spacious cabins
on shipboard, had built small storage boxes under the bunks of the line
shacks. They left canned goods and such
on the shelves – anyone in need was welcome to stop the night and have a meal –
but there were a few things Adam had thought should be available for
emergencies, yet would be prime targets for theft. Such as a bottle of
whiskey.
Joe considered how he was going to get into the box, which was actually built
into the wall, and whose outer edge served as a support for the middle of the
cot. Its lid was the mattress board,
which he was going to be hard put to raise with his brother lying unconscious
on top of it.
He sighed deeply and looked around the small room. Not really so small, he mused, but certainly
crowded with a horse and two men, one injured and one near-frantic. “No, I’m not gonna
panic,” he muttered. “I can’t. Think, Joe.
What’ve you got to work with?” A
saddle, a horse – yeah, that was real useful – an empty rifle scabbard, cupboards
holding a few dishes and some canned tomatoes—
“Wait, there was a rope . . .”
He scrambled to his feet and flipped the saddle over. Adam’s lariat was still tied in place. He undid the leather thongs that held it in
place and unwound the rope. He dug
around at the side of the cot and found the frame’s handhold hidden under the
thin, overlapping mattress. It was a
moment’s work to toss one end of the rope over a rafter and tie the other end
to the handhold. He pulled
experimentally on the loose end and saw the mattress frame rise slightly,
tilting Adam just enough that his head flopped to the other side. Good! He slid his brother to the far side of the
cot, against the wall, then pulled on the rope
again. He raised the side of the
mattress as high as he could without squashing his brother, and tied the free
end of the rope in a loose knot on the handhold as well. He then scooted underneath and, although he
couldn’t see into the box, quickly unloaded everything he could feel.
He untied the rope and slowly lowered the mattress again, checked Adam
carefully, and breathed a sigh of relief that his brother hadn’t even seemed to
notice. A mixed blessing.
There was quite an assortment of items spread on the floor, and Joe took
quick inventory. Yes, the expected
bottle of whiskey, which would be useful for cleaning the wound as well as
acting as a painkiller if Adam woke. A kit of bandages, along with a few small tins and glass pots that
strongly resembled the contents of Hop Sing’s
medicine chest. They were
labeled, fortunately in Adam’s bold script rather than Chinese. Liniment, headache powder, a stomach settler,
a greasy ointment Joe recognized by the smell from the last time he’d scraped
an elbow raw falling from a horse – all could be useful.
There were some lengths of rawhide strips for repairing bridles and such, tools
for fence work and, finally, a rolled piece of leather which, when opened,
proved to contain a selection of awls, knives and other implements. His stomach flipped, and he swallowed hard.
He had everything he needed. Except, perhaps, courage.
A soft, deep moan drew his attention to the cot. He checked again for fever, appalled to find
how quickly it was rising. “We’re out of
time, aren’t we, Adam? It has to be
now.” But Adam was waking up. How would he ever keep him still? His heart aching, he did the only thing
possible. He unbuttoned his brother’s ruined shirt, rolled him onto his
stomach, then pushed the shirt up as high as he
could. He spread-eagled Adam’s arms and
legs, and tied him firmly hand and foot to the four corners of the cot frame
with rawhide strips. He was careful to
make sure Adam’s wrists were protected by his gloves, but he also made sure
there was no real slack. Then he took
the end of the rope, fed it down the wall side of the bed and pulled it out
from the bottom. Eyes blurred by tears
that he refused to let fall, he pulled the other end tight across Adam’s back
and tied one of his best knots, in hopes the restraint would help keep his
brother in place once he felt the cut of the knife.
Adam moaned again.
“It’s all right,” he said, one hand on Adam’s shoulder. “I’m gonna take
care of everything. You just go on back
to sleep for a while. Dream
about building a
Adam seemed to drop off again, and Joe prayed he’d stay that way. He’d never tried to get a bullet out of
someone before, and he knew it was going to be hard enough without hearing his
brother’s cries of pain. He tried to
remember everything anyone had ever said about dealing with wounds, from Hop Sing’s laments over one more injury to his boys to the men
talking about castrating the young bulls at roundup. He didn’t know why, but Young Johnny – who’d
been old as long as he could remember – always held his cutting knife over the
fire before working on each young animal, so after he’d chosen the two
thinnest, sharpest knives, he took them to the fireplace and held them in the
flames until they changed color from the intense heat.
He set them carefully to one side and dragged the bucket of now-melted snow to
the cot. He retrieved a couple of bowls
and dipped them into the water, then placed the kit with the bandages in easy
reach. He then lit and hung a lantern
from the rope that was still draped over the rafter. He slid it just a bit to the side so he could
have the best possible illumination on what he had to do. “Is that everything?” he asked himself.
He tried to think through all he intended to do, picture every move. Pa had taught his sons that technique, to
review a process over and over in their minds until they were sure. His mind froze, though, on the first moment
he would press the knife to his brother’s skin. He could see the blood welling,
flowing down Adam’s side to the bedding, soaking it dark red— “Stop it!” he commanded himself. This wasn’t helping.
It was likely to happen, though, so he grabbed the rolled bedding that had been
tied onto the skirt of Adam’s saddle and extracted the slicker from it. He took out his pocketknife – one of his
father’s birthday gifts to him – and sawed the slicker in half. He pushed it under Adam on each side of the
bed. He had to be practical; there was
only one mattress, and if it got blood-soaked, there would be nowhere else to
put him.
He started talking, making himself believe.
“Enough stalling. You
have to do it, and it has to be now, before Adam wakes up again. Soak the wound with a wet bandage,
clean it off good so you can see what you’re doing. Just a little bleeding – well, that’ll
change, you know it will. Be ready for
it.
“Get the knives, set one aside. Try to
figure the angle, yeah, poke a finger just a bit down in there; better than a
knife that could cut in the wrong direction.
No shaking. Keep your hands
steady. Yeah, that’s where it’ll
be. Wonder how close he was to the gun,
how deep the bullet is. Please, God,
please not deep.
“The bleeding’s starting up a bit. Wipe
it up, get that knife in there, see if you can find
the bullet. Don’t mess around, Joe; get
it done!
“Ease it in – God, Adam, stay still, don’t wake up, not now! – something hard in there.
A rib?
No, ribs are higher, could it be?
Take the other knife, hold the wound open; something down there, not too
far . . .
“How do I get it out? Gotta get one knife under . . . just a little under, push
it up against the other . . . sweat in my eyes . . . don’t lose the bullet,
don’t lose it, ease it up . . . gently . . .
His breath came in gasps. “So much blood! Can’t see it any more, there’s too much
blood! Where is it – please, I can’t
have lost it!
“No! Calm . . . you can do it . . . Pa
believes you can control yourself, prove him right . . . more, a little more,
is it coming? Is it almost out? Don’t move, Adam, please, don’t move, not
yet, let me get it, oh, God, it won’t come, gonna
have to cut . . . more blood, so much blood, I’m sorry, Adam, I’m sorry, I’m
sorry, I’m sorry . . .”
The small, bloody piece of metal slowly rose to the surface, delicately
balanced between the two knives. As soon
as Joe was sure it was completely out, he grabbed it and flung it across the
room. Hands shaking in earnest now, he
pulled the cork from the bottle of whiskey and poured the pungent liquid over
the bleeding wound. Adam cried out in
pain, pulling at his bonds, but he’d been tied well and couldn’t move away from
Joe’s hands.
Tears coursed down Joe’s face as he pressed clean wadding against the wound and
held it there, trying to stop the bleeding.
His brother’s moans ripped through his heart. “It’s all over, Adam,” he wept, choking on
the words. “The bullet’s out – I did the
best I could, and I got it out. I hope
to God I did it right.” He snagged the
blanket with one hand, still pressing on the wound with the other, and drew the
warmth over Adam’s back.
Shattered by fear and body-aching fatigue, he dropped to sit on the floor next
to the cot among the blood-soaked bandages, bowls filled with reddened water,
and the now-filthy knives. He stared at
his blood-stained hand that was stroking his brother’s hair almost with a will
of its own . . . but it was a very long time before he stopped shaking.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
“Is’bella . . .”
Joe dragged himself up from the darkness of exhausted sleep. The cold light of a bleak winter morning greeted
him.
“Is’bella, no . . .”
“Adam?” Stiff with cold, he raised himself onto his knees. With horror,
he realized his brother was still tied down. He grabbed one of the
blood-stained knives and swiftly cut through all the rawhide thongs, flipping
the blanket up to get to the rope across Adam’s back. He hesitated, though, to
roll him over, afraid of what the movement might do to the wound. It seemed to have stopped bleeding, and he
wondered if he should try to change the bandage. It seemed to be stuck. Maybe
he should wait to change it. It might be harder to get off later, but he just
didn’t think he could manage if the bleeding started up again. With some difficulty, he worked a roll of
bandages under Adam to tie the wadding in place over the wound, then he tucked Adam’s shirttails back in his pants to help
hold it.
He pulled the blanket up over Adam’s back, smoothed it free of wrinkles. He sighed deeply and looked around the
room. “What a mess,” he muttered. Well, that was something he knew how to take
care of.
He opened the door of the cabin to dump the bowls of reddened water and was
shocked to find a raging snowstorm that obscured the wide field in front of the
small cabin. Cold air blew into the
cabin, and Sport’s ears pricked. The
horse looked at Joe and shook his head, his mane tossing wildly. Joe couldn’t help but grin. “No, boy. We’re not going out in that. Not yet, anyway!”
Quickly, he dumped the water and stepped back inside. He refilled one of the bowls from the bucket
and tried to wash his hands. They
wouldn’t come completely clean, but at least he wouldn’t leave red marks on
everything he touched. He slowly eased
the ruined sections of slicker from under Adam’s body, bundled them into a ball
with the used bandages and threw the whole mess into the same corner the bullet
had landed in last night. He refilled
the bowls and set them by the bed, then braved the outside again to get more
snow in the buckets. He scooted through
the door again and set them by the fire.
The cabin was almost as cold as the outdoors, so he added a few more
sticks of wood to build up the flames, and the room began to warm again.
He returned to Adam’s side and laid his hand against his forehead. Still feverish, still out cold. The welt where Blake had hit him was even
more livid. Joe unscrewed the lid to one
of Hop Sing’s pots and gently smoothed the pungent
ointment over the torn skin.
“Wish you’d wake up, tell me what’s going on.”
He smeared another gob over the bruise Adam had gotten on his slide down
the hill. “Why are those men chasing
you? Why are they calling you by your
grandfather’s name? What do you have
that Blake wants so bad?” He closed up the tin and studied his
brother.
“Adam?” he called softly, but there was no response. “C’mon, Adam, wake up!”
Frustrated, he rose and took a turn around the room. He knew where his brother had been – they’d
received a letter from someone Pa called an old family friend, asking for
business advice. Joe wasn’t familiar
with the name, but it had brought a smile to Adam’s face so he wasn’t surprised
when their father suggested that he make a trip to find out the situation and
see what, if anything, they could do to help.
It had been two weeks since Adam rode out, and three days ago they’d
received a telegram saying he was almost finished and would be returning.
Had something gone wrong in the final stages of whatever he’d been doing? Were the men who’d been chasing him involved
somehow?
Thanks to the storm, they were safe for the moment. Only a fool would brave this kind of weather,
and though he knew those men had somehow been mistaken, he didn’t take any of
them for fools. They would be settled in
some nice warm hotel room in town, all set for a good, hot meal and then a talk
with Roy Coffee.
Get Adam home?
Then what?
Blake and his posse, including the hot-tempered Jesse, would follow
He looked across the room at his brother.
Adam wasn’t going anywhere. Even from this distance, Joe could see his
flushed face. He crossed to his side and
sat on the edge of the cot, soaked a rag in cool water and mopped at his
brother’s forehead. The cloth heated so
quickly that Joe
knew his troubles weren’t over yet.
Thirsty himself, he knew Adam needed water, too. He’d have to shift him onto his back to get
any into him, though. He retrieved a
blue tin cup from one of the shelves, dipped it into the bucket of water and
set it on the floor near the cot.
Everything organized, he rolled his brother carefully onto his side,
paused a moment to reassure himself, and then eased him over the rest of the
way.
“Adam, wake up,” he called, squeezing his bare shoulder.
He heard a soft groan.
“That’s it – time to get up.”
“No,” Adam breathed, the word almost lost in the howling of the wind outside.
Joe dampened the rag again and dabbed at Adam’s face and neck. “How can you be so hot when the cabin’s so
darn cold?” Adam shivered, and Joe
pulled the blanket up tighter around his neck.
“Burning up, but feeling like you’ll never get warm. A bad fever.” He wondered if any of the other little pots
of medicine would help. “First, though,
get you a drink.”
He slid an arm under his brother’s shoulders, raising him just enough that he’d
be able to drink, and shifted so he sat partly behind him. But even that slight
movement must have hurt, because Adam groaned again.
“I have some water for you, Adam, but you have to wake up enough to drink it.”
The long black eyelashes flickered.
“That’s it, wake up. C’mon, Adam, you gotta wake up
for me.” A thread of desperation
strained his voice.
Adam blinked, frowned slightly, and said, “Joe?”
“You’re awake!” Joe’s heart lifted, and he heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe now they could figure out what to
do. “Yeah, it’s me, and I have some
water for you. Take it slow . . .” He held the cup to
Adam’s dry lips and poured a few drops at a time into his mouth. Adam swallowed, so he gave him a bit more.
“Where’s Berto?”
“Who?” asked Joe.
“ ’s he all right?” he slurred.
“I don’t know – tell me what’s going on.”
Adam looked around the room, not quite focusing on anything. “The deed—” He tried to sit up, but Joe held him
in place against his chest easily.
“What deed? Who’s Berto?” The name was vaguely familiar, but he
couldn’t bring anyone’s image to mind.
He shook his brother lightly.
“Adam, what’s going on?”
“Gotta get Pa . . . get Pa to—” He wrenched himself out of Joe’s
grasp, but the movement must have hurt because he raised a hand to his forehead
and groaned.
Joe shifted around to face him, holding him up by one shoulder. “Adam!” He tried to get his brother’s
attention. “Adam, look at me.”
Adam blinked and squinted, but Joe could see his eyes weren’t tracking
right. “Joe?” he asked again. “Where’s Pa?
Need him . . .”
He frowned. “Need him for
something . . .”
Joe’s frustration boiled over. “Daggonit, Adam, tell me what’s going on!”
“Don’t know where . . . where . . .” His voice started to fade, and his
eyelids drooped. “Joe? Where . . . ?” He slumped suddenly. Joe caught him in his arms and swore as he
laid him gently back on the cot.
“How’m I supposed to figure out what to do when you
won’t tell me what happened? You’re
always telling me to grow up, take on more responsibility and make decisions,
but you gotta help me here. What if I choose wrong and mess everything
up? Adam, tell me what to do!”
But his brother was once more still and silent.
“Adam?” he whispered, anguished.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
Cochise stumbled into the yard of the ranch house just as the storm began to
break. Finding the door to the barn
closed, he whinnied loudly and pawed at the ground.
“What’re you doin’ out here, fella?”
asked Young Johnny. The old man was in
charge of the barn today, a rotation he didn’t mind at all. The Cartwrights had always been good to him, from the first day he rode up and asked for a job. The ranch hands had sent him to a
dark-haired, somber-eyed young man they called Mr. Adam, and he’d been the one
to hire him, saying his father was ill.
The moment Young Johnny met Mr. Cartwright, he recognized the illness –
a sickness of the heart – and bunkhouse gossip had filled in the gaps in the
family’s tragic history. It was a wonder they carried on at all, losing a third
Mrs. Cartwright like that.
He stroked the pinto’s neck, noting that he wasn’t hot – as if he’d been
running – and lifted the tied-off reins over the horse’s head to lead him into
the barn. He closed the door carefully
behind him and led the horse to his stall, wondering what had happened to his
rider. Little Joe hadn’t been much more
than a baby when Young Johnny had first met him, and he knew Mr. Cartwright
would be devastated if anything had happened to the boy. To any of his boys, in
fact. He didn’t take the time to
unsaddle the horse, just made sure he had hay and a bit of water.
The door to the barn opened and let in a blast of cold air.
“Hoss, that you?” he called.
“Sure is,” Hoss answered. “Thought I heard a horse come in.”
Young Johnny eased his way out of Cochise’s
stall. He jerked his head in the horse’s
direction. “Come walkin’
up, nice as you please, askin’ to be let in the
door.” He answered what he knew would be
the next questions. “No sign o’ Joe or
Adam, nor Adam’s horse neither.”
Hoss grimaced. “What kinda
shape’s he in?”
“Tired, but okay.
Didn’t fall or nothin’ I can tell. Saddle ain’t wet, bedroll’s still tied on tight. Messy, but tight.”
“Messy? Joe ain’t
as neat about his knots as Pa an’ Adam, but I wouldn’t call him messy.”
“Well, these is about the worst knots I ever seen him tie. Like he was in a right big
hurry.”
Hoss slid into the stall next to his brother’s horse and shook his head at the
hasty job Joe had made of tying his bedroll on the saddle. “I see what you mean.” He undid the cinch and handed the saddle over
to Young Johnny, then ran his hands over the hair on Cochise’s
back. “He’s dry now, but he sweated up a
storm somewheres along the line.”
“That ain’t like Joe, neither. He knows better than to run a horse into a
sweat in this kind o’ weather. Somethin’s real wrong.”
Hoss nodded. “You take care o’ him for
me? I gotta go
talk to
“Sure thing.
I’ll brush him down good, walk him out a bit.” He looked at Hoss speculatively. “You gonna be wantin’
Buck and Chubb?”
“Storm’s gonna get worse before it gets better, but
once it starts to ease up a bit, you know Pa’s gonna
want to head on out.”
“I’ll get ‘em grained up for you, then. Brush ‘em out. They’ll be ready when you want ‘em.”
Hoss slapped him on the shoulder.
“Thanks. I’ll let you know what
we’re gonna do.”
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
“Pa! Hey, Pa!”
Hoss called out as soon as he was in the house.
He pulled off his coat and hung it on the rack by the door. “Pa!” he boomed again toward the stairs.
Ben appeared on the top landing. “What’s
all the shouting about?”
“Joe’s horse come home without him.”
“What?” Ben exclaimed and rattled down the stairs.
“Ain’t no real sign o’ trouble – Cochise is fine,
didn’t fall or nothin’ – but he come in alone.”
Ben headed for his coat. “Well, what are
you standing around for? Get some
supplies packed up.”
“Pa, we cain’t go out in this. It’s gettin’ worse already, and it ain’t
gonna let up.
We’ll never find him.”
Ben paused with one arm in the sleeve of his coat. “Hoss, isn’t there time to
at least look around close?”
Against every bit of common sense, Hoss forced out a weak, “Sure,
A fierce gust of wind rattled the window panes and howled against the sturdy
framework of the house.
“No,” Ben said softly. “No, we can’t,
can we?”
Hoss hung his head sadly. “I don’t think
so,
“He could be hurt—”
“I know that, an’ it bothers me, too.
But I figger he’s holed up somewheres. He knows these mountains near as good as any of us.
‘Sides, he most likely met up with Adam, an’ they’ll just wait out the
weather in one of the south line shacks.”
Ben sighed and slid his arm back out of the sleeve. “I know you’re right; it’s just so hard to
leave him out there.”
“For me, too.”
Hoss scrunched up his face in thought.
“Tell you what – why’nt
you go ask Hop Sing to get us a good dinner ready while I start gettin’ our supplies together in case the storm breaks
sooner.” He knew it was the right answer
when he saw his father’s shoulders relax.
“All right, son. Give Buck and Chubb a
good meal, too. They’re going to need
it.”
“Young Johnny’s already takin’ care of it,
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
Adam was dreaming of snow. Soft flakes
drifted down to be caught on his tongue, others
swirled around him in a soft spiral that teased him into dizziness. He was standing in the middle of a white,
silent field that extended to the horizon in each direction, and then he rose
like a bird, except he could see himself – a small shadowy dot against an
expanse of colorless flatness. Until a
thread of crimson began to creep from the blackness to stain the snow in
erratic tendrils that twined around the small darkness, encircling and
overwhelming it, turning the pure white a deep, spreading red. He lifted away, embracing the frigid
whiteness and allowing it to pull him back into reality, even though it meant
returning to the world of pain and cold.
He could hear the sounds of someone moving around; the faint rattle of tin
dishes on wood, the shuffle of boots on the floor, the thud of wood hitting the
floor, and the soft swear words from a voice he knew but couldn’t place. He knew he’d been shot; he could remember the
searing impact that had spun him to the ground as well as the frantic scramble
for his horse, but couldn’t recall the reasons for any of it. He wondered what had been so desperately
important.
“Adam?” the soft voice said, and he realized he’d been hearing it as a steady
monologue for several minutes.
“I’m gonna go outside for a few minutes to see how
deep the snow is. It’s been blowing for
a day and a half, now, so it might be bad.”
The voice sighed. “Sure wish you
were up to a snowball fight. There’s a
great field out there.”
It was quiet for a few moments, and he finally pulled a name together with the
voice. Joe. Wanting to play in the
snow. He always knows the best
places, too. An image came to mind
of the two of them building a small structure of walls and trenches, and piling
snowball after snowball into a neat mountain.
“When I finish out there, I’ll check your wound; see if I can get that fever
down a bit.”
No answer seemed to be required – which was a good thing, he reflected, since
he didn’t seem to have the energy to do anything but breathe. The voice faded in.
“. . . we’re gonna have to
leave soon, or those men will be back.
Whatever it is you took from them, they want it real bad, and I don’t wanna be here when they ride in. You just rest up, ‘cause
it’s gonna be a long, hard ride home.”
He had something someone wanted . . . an image came to mind of a beautiful
black-haired, black-eyed woman writing on a paper, writing his name, but there
was something wrong with it; she was writing it wrong . . .
For services rendered and upon terms agreed to, hereby transferred to Adam
Stoddard `
She hadn’t finished his name. The bullet
had seen to that. Isabella – oh,
Isabella, I’m sorry I left you, sorry I couldn’t fix everything—
The paper; where was the paper?
He finally dragged his eyes open and realized he hadn’t been lying in the dark
at all. He looked around the small room,
trying to figure out where he was. A
small cabin, made smaller by the presence of a . . . horse? His horse. Why was
his horse inside the cabin? Joe had been
here, too. Where was he now?
He looked around some more, not moving anything but his eyes – the rest of him
was too tired, too heavy. His eye fell
on the saddle that was lying upended on the floor, the saddle blanket tossed
haphazardly over it. He squinted, trying
to bring them into focus, and gradually realized they were his own. There was just the slightest edge of white
paper sticking out from a discreet pocket hidden in the blanket.
The deed!
What had Joe been saying? . . . those men
will be back . . .
He couldn’t let them get the deed.
If they came in here, they’d see it first thing. Where was Joe? He had to get him to hide it . . .
He turned his head on the pillow, but couldn’t find his brother. Oh, yeah, Adam thought. Joe said he
was going outside. He couldn’t
remember how long it had been. Time
seemed to be sliding by, and he couldn’t latch onto it. Joe should be finished by now, shouldn’t he? What if Blake and his posse are back and have
him—
He had to get up, had to hide the deed somewhere else, then he had to find his
gun.
Sitting up didn’t seem to be an option, so he rolled onto his side, grunting
once at the sharp stabbing pain in his back that was echoed by dull throbbing
in his shoulder and head. It worked,
though, and he was able to push himself upright. The room spun, but he held tight to the cot
frame until it settled. Sliding to the
floor was easy – too easy, and he wondered how he’d ever get onto the bed
again. Later. Get the deed, then worry about it later.
The opening in the blanket was well-hidden in the woven pattern. He pulled the paper out slowly,
carefully. He looked around the room and
finally recognized it as one of the line shacks they’d built last summer. He remembered that he’d been particularly
pleased with them – he didn’t get to use his architectural skills very often,
so had made an exercise out of the project.
His brothers had laughed at how much time and effort he'd spent on the
drawings, but his father had encouraged him, perhaps realizing that Adam had to
use his skills or they’d atrophy like a broken leg that was never
exercised.
He’d been exacting in his requirements for the planks they’d cut at their mill,
to the point where the men had rolled their eyes behind his back. He didn’t care, and once the hands had seen
how easily the building went up and how snug it was inside, he’d received more
than one apologetic grin. After all,
they'd be the ones sleeping there during cold and rain. The old-timers had been told about the secret
box under the cot—
The box!
That was it. He could hide the
paper in the box.
He dragged himself over to the cot and stared at it. There was a rope attached to the frame. He followed it upward and discovered it was
looped over one of the rafters. Too foggy
to try to figure out why it was there, he nonetheless took immediate advantage
and hauled on it. His shoulder complained
viciously and the sharp pain in his back narrowed his vision, but the edge of
the cot lifted so he ignored the pain and tied the rope off. He scooted close enough to drop the paper in,
then heard the sound of boots on the front step. He hurriedly undid the slip knot, the cot
settled into place, and he was leaning against it, breathing hard, when the
door opened.
“Adam!” Joe slammed the door shut and in
two long strides was kneeling next to him.
“What are you doing out of bed?”
“Bed?” Actually,
that sounded kind of nice. His warm,
soft bed; big enough to accommodate his long frame, two plump pillows instead
of one hard, flat one, Hop Sing bringing a hot cup of coffee – he felt a cool
hand on his forehead and realized Joe was still talking to him.
“. . . can’t leave you alone for more than two
minutes. Well, if you’re awake enough to
get up, then we’d better head home, let Pa deal with you.”
“Pa?” He looked around. “Is Pa here?
Need him to—”
He tried to stand, but only succeeded in getting to one knee
before wobbling dizzily.
Joe helped him sit on the bed while admonishing, “Now, stay put, willya? I gotta get Sport saddled.
The weather’s clearing up, and we gotta get
home before those men get
Adam didn’t really notice Joe’s comment about food. His mind grabbed onto his mention of the
sheriff.
“Hang on, brother. I’ll get up behind
you in just a minute.”
Hunched over the saddle horn to the point he was nearly lying on his horse’s
neck, he managed to stay put as Joe led Sport through the doorway, down a
lurching step, and out into the bright sunshine, but it was more by instinct
than intent. Joe’s brilliantly white
snowfield hurt his eyes, so he shut them tight.
He sat there, alone, for what seemed an age until he suddenly felt his
brother arrive behind him. A strong arm
around his waist pulled him somewhat upright His hat appeared on his head, which
was better, but it was still too bright.
He groaned and tried to shade his eyes with his hand. He was so tired.
Then he felt a cloth brush his face and blessed darkness descended. He felt something being tied around his head,
and when he touched his face, he discovered Joe had blindfolded him. “Smart kid,” he murmured. “Thanks.”
He could hear in Joe’s voice the grin he must be wearing. “So you finally admit it, huh? Your little brother is good for something.”
Feelings welled up, almost overcoming him – love for this most precious child,
gratitude for the strength he hadn’t known the boy had, strength of mind, body,
and heart. But not a
boy. Not anymore. “Not my little brother,” he mumbled.
“What?” Joe exclaimed in his ear. “Of
course I’m your brother. You feelin’ all right?”
“Not what I meant. Not a boy – a
man. You grew up on me sometime. Didn’t notice. Sorry.”
And as he sank down into the comfort of sleep, he thought he felt a
tightening of the grip around his waist, and a faint smile graced his lips.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
A man. Tears pricked at his
eyes at the treasured words. Did Adam
know, could
he know how much they meant to him? The
same comment from Hoss wouldn’t have meant near as much. Hoss was his friend, his equal, always had
been and always would be. If Hoss was a
man, well, then, Joe must be, too.
His father’s view was more complicated.
Sometimes Joe thought Pa didn’t believe any of them were grown up. “Just
wait till he sees what kinda shape you’ve got
yourself into,” he grinned. “He’ll send
you off to bed, just like you were six years old.” A chuckle bubbled up in his chest at the
image. He’d seen it before – his
fully-grown, college-educated businessman of a brother reduced to school-boy
status by a single glare from their father’s deep brown eyes.
Pa knew his boys; knew what it took to grow into a man. He knew Joe was working on it, and he
expected just as much as what someone of Joe’s age could reasonably give. He didn’t look for Hoss’ strength or Adam’s
sharp mind – he knew Joe’s gifts would become apparent, and he was patient
enough to wait for them to develop. Even
though Joe sometimes chafed under his father’s view, he was grateful for his
understanding.
But Adam . . .
His brother muttered something in his sleep, and Joe readjusted his hold around
his waist, distracted from his musings by practicalities. He was uncomfortable, riding on Sport’s rump,
but at least he was warm. It was hard to
see over Adam’s shoulder, even though he was slumped, but that also meant he
made a wonderful windbreak. Joe’s arms
were beginning to ache with the strain of holding him, though, and they were
only about half-way home. He kicked
himself mentally for leaving the rope in the cabin and tried to think of
something he could use instead. He couldn’t
figure out a way to use their belts – neither of them had enough extra length
to make looping them together feasible.
The leather thongs that hung from everyone’s saddles weren’t long enough
or strong enough – but maybe he could use them to tie their belts
together.
Sport continued to amble his way home as Joe tried to pull the rope-like
lengths of leather from their holes in the pommel. It was awkward, since he
couldn’t really see what he was doing, and his gloves made his fingers clumsy. In frustration, he jerked them off with his
teeth and tucked them in the front of his jacket for now, then went back to
work. He pulled on one end of the
string, lengthening it but careful not to pull it all the way out; he didn’t
need their saddle coming apart. When he
figured he had enough length, he fished out his pocketknife and sliced off what
he needed. He repeated the process on
the strings on the other side of the pommel, and by the time he finished, his
fingers were numb with cold. He fumbled
closing the knife, and what with trying to hang on to his brother and the
precious strips of leather, he almost dropped the knife.
He caught his breath at the near-loss.
It was a beautiful knife – the handle had an inlaid silver shield
engraved with the Ponderosa brand, flanked by his initials. It was one of the finest things he’d ever
owned, and the trust implicit in the gift lifted his heart every time he used
it. He tucked it safely into his pocket.
He tied the front of Adam’s belt to the saddlehorn, then pulled a second string to connect the back of it to his
own. He slipped his gloves on, grateful
for the body-warmth they held, and shook his arms out. He’d go beyond his strength to help his
brother, but knew this wouldn’t end when he got home. He had to be ready for anything, and
exhausting himself now might be fatal for Adam later. He had to protect him.
It was a strange twist in their relationship.
As long as he could remember, he’d sought his big brother’s notice and
approval. He’d delighted in Adam’s rare
playfulness, soaked up his tender touch with scrapes and bruises, learned
everything his oldest brother could teach him, and tested his strength against
him, both physical and mental. He’d
nagged to learn every dirty fighting technique Adam knew, and dragged him into
mock fistfights. He pestered Adam
constantly and always felt a shiver of victory when he could pull him from his
work. He used every weapon he had – grins,
sad eyes, giggles, sharp words – to catch Adam’s attention. He’d wondered on occasion why it was so
important to him, but until just this minute, he’d never realized. Adam saw life clearly. He viewed people without prejudice, making
his judgments based on their actions and what he could determine of their
motivations. He might love someone, but
how he felt would never blind him to their behavior.
If Adam saw him as a man, then he was – or at least he would be. Oh, he knew he still had a lot of growing to
do, a lot of wisdom to gain, but a knot of tension somewhere deep inside, a
gnawing he hadn’t realized was there, began to ease. He would get there. Adam had said so. “And,” Joe grinned, “we
all know that you’re never wrong. After
all, you’ve told us so often enough.”
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
Joe approached the ranch house cautiously.
Sure enough, even from a distance he could see the buckskin that Blake
had been riding was tied at the hitching post, along with the horses belonging
to Jesse and the other three members of the posse. He was thankful to see Roy Coffee’s horse as
well. He’d argued with himself the whole
way about what he’d do if Blake and Jesse beat him home, wondering briefly if
he should take Adam somewhere else, but he could feel the fever heat rising
from his brother’s body. He knew Adam
needed shelter and decent care, or it wouldn’t matter what those two had told
the sheriff. He trusted Pa and Hoss and
Roy to keep the situation under control, so he’d kept heading home.
He pulled Sport to a halt while he was still far enough away that no one in the
house would have heard him. “Adam?” He shifted his grip on his brother. “Adam, we’re just about home.”
There was no response.
“Adam, if you can hear me, we’re about five minutes from home. I’m not gonna tell
them who you are, and I won’t let Pa or Hoss either, but I sure wish you’d tell
me what’s going on.” He pulled his
brother up close to his chest and called his name again, this time sharply and
practically in his ear. He was rewarded
with a faint grunt that he could feel more than hear. “That’s it, brother. It’d be a whole lot better if you were awake
for this.”
“Huh?” Adam tried to lift his head, but
it fell forward again.
“C’mon, Adam . . . wake up and tell me what’s going on before we go on in.”
“. . . deed . . .”
Now Joe was the one to mutter, “Huh?”
“Get th’ deed. Get to Pa . . . he can prove . . .”
“What deed?” Sport shifted restlessly
under them and pulled at the reins, wanting to get to the barn. “Adam, tell me what you want me to do. We don’t have much time.”
“Paper . . . in my saddle blanket.” He raised a hand to his head and groaned.
“In that little pocket you put in?”
“Damn . . . took it out. Joe . . . gotta get it. Get it
to
“Get what paper? A
deed to what? And take it to Pa or
Roy? What are you talking about?” Adam didn’t answer, but Joe couldn’t stop
asking. “Is it in your saddle blanket or
not? C’mon, Adam where is it? What do I do with it?”
Sport whinnied angrily and shook his head.
Joe heard the faint answer from Cochise, coming from the barn. As grateful as he was to know that his
beloved pinto had gotten home, he could have done without the
announcement.
“Not much time,” he muttered. Anyone in
the house would have heard Cochise, and they’d be out in the yard in a
moment. He might have to move fast. He fumbled with the knots, but they’d
tightened during the ride. He berated
himself for not thinking ahead and pulled his pocketknife out again. He quickly sliced through the leather thongs
holding Adam in place, but this time it was nerves, not cold, that made him
fumble the knife as he snapped it shut.
It flew from his hands and he started to make a wild snatch for it, but
Adam began to topple and he grabbed his brother instead. His heart sank at the loss, but there was no
choice, really – much as he cared about the knife and what it stood for, Adam’s
safety overrode everything else. He set
the loss aside and set his mind to the upcoming confrontation. He loosened his gun in its holster, swallowed
once, took a deep breath, and then nudged Sport forward.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
Adam gradually noticed that they weren’t moving any more. He felt something warm tossed over him – a
blanket? – then
there were people talking and hands pulling at him. He hung onto the saddle horn with desperate
strength until he recognized one of the voices belonged to his brother
Hoss. He relaxed and let himself fall,
knowing those log-strong arms would catch him.
He smiled slightly at the irony – he was the eldest, the one who was supposed
to watch out for his younger brothers, yet they were the ones caring for
him.
“What’s goin’ on, Joe?” he heard Hoss ask. “We got a bunch o’ fellas
in the house goin’ on and on at Pa and Roy about
someone named Stoddard who stole somethin’ from them
and killed some little gal back down in Markleeville. Pa’s about to have a fit ‘cause that’s where
Adam went—”
“ ’s me,” Adam coughed. He pulled the bandana down
from his face to hang loosely around his neck and squinted up at his bigger
brother.
“What in tarnation happened to you?” Hoss’ eyes
widened as he took in the bruises and bloody scrapes on Adam’s face. “An’ whaddaya mean
it was you? You’d never kill no gal.”
“He was shot,” Joe answered grimly.
They’d made it to the porch by this time, Adam feeling a little steadier
on his feet. What Joe said next, though,
stopped Hoss in his tracks. “In the back.”
“What!”
“Didn’t kill her,” Adam muttered. “It
was Jesse.”
“Joe, what the heck is goin’ on?”
Joe shook his head in frustration. “Only
Adam knows, and I haven’t been able to get him to spit it out yet. His name’s Stoddard,
though—”
“O’ course it is!” Hoss interrupted.
Joe glared at him. “—and we don’t know
him.”
Adam wavered between them, unsteadily leaning toward the front door. His father . . . the warmth of the big
fireplace . . . it was a toss-up which he wanted more. “Go inside?
Find Pa . . . cold . . .”
Joe parked himself square in front of his oldest brother. “Tell me what to do, Adam. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Pa’s gotta prove I’m Stoddard . . . for the boy.”
Hoss fairly sputtered. “Them men inside, they got a wanted poster on Stoddard. A thousand dollars. You go in there sayin’
that’s who you are, an’ they’ll haul you back to Markleeville
for hangin’—”
Adam spun toward his brother. The world
tilted crazily, and he grabbed at the front of Hoss’ jacket, drawing himself up
with panicked strength that he knew would cost him dearly later. “Gotta
do it. Don’t tell them you know
me. They’ll kill you if they think
you’re in on this.”
Hoss blew out a long sigh. “In on what?”
he asked, sounding as exasperated as Joe.
He backed off, though. “All
right, if that’s the way you want it.
But you gotta tell us what this is all about.”
Adam sagged in relief and had just started to say, “The line shack—” when the
door crashed open and suddenly the porch was filled with men who grabbed at
them, pulling and pushing. They ripped
Adam from his brothers’ hands and dragged him inside. He stumbled and almost fell as he passed
through the doorway, but the men – he recognized Blake and Jesse at the
forefront – hauled him to his feet. Then
he heard the most welcome sound in the world:
his father’s bellow. No contest
now as to whether it was the fire or his father that was more welcome.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?
Let go of him!”
Joe rushed into the room and to their father’s side. He grabbed at his arm and, in what Adam
blearily recognized as an effort to fill him in under the guise of a very young
man’s babble, poured forth, “Pa, I found this man out on the road from Genoa –
calls himself Stoddard – these men shot him in the back—” That earned the strangers a deadly glare from
Ben. “I don’t know what they want, but
they can’t take him with them all the way to Markleeville. It’d kill him.”
He pointed at Blake. “That man, there;
he came into the line shack where I was trying to fix Stoddard up, and he asked
him all these questions, and when Stoddard couldn’t tell him – he’s too sick,
Pa – when he couldn’t tell him, he beat on him.”
Ben’s gaze shifted from anger to something Adam had rarely seen. His father was not only furious and sick with
fear for him – something Adam read easily by his expression and the way he
stood with both feet planted solidly – but he looked at these men as if they
weren’t even human. “Put him on the
settee,” he whispered in a voice that nevertheless carried through the large
room. “No one is taking an injured man from
my house until we get the doctor out here and he says he’s well enough to be
moved.”
Blake started sputtering. “Cartwright,
you don’t know what he’s done!”
Ben took a single step forward, fury radiating from him like the front edge of
a howling Sierra blizzard. His voice was
pure steel and deadly quiet. “I said
that no one . . . no one . . . is
going to remove Stoddard from my care.
Now put . . . him . . . down!”
The two cowboys who were all that kept Adam on his feet
shuffled forward, almost against their will. They were just about to ease him down when
someone grabbed him from behind, hauling him towards the big hearth. Something hit him in the lower back, and the
pain nearly brought him to his knees.
Everything was a confused mess, and he had a sudden dizzy vision of
himself lying in the middle of Joe’s snowfield, the tendrils of crimson growing
into a circle that expanded at an alarming rate. He felt a sudden hot
warmth inching down his back to his belt and realized he had very little time
left. Have to tell Pa . . . tell Joe . . . have to
make sure they know enough to carry on without me . . . take care of the boy .
. . .
When his vision finally cleared, he saw Joe and Hoss by the dining room
table, his father and Blake over by the desk, and – yes, that was
“You better believe you’ll talk,” came a voice by his
ear, and he realized it was Jesse who held him, who had a gun jammed in his
side. “Where . . . is . . . it?”
He suddenly found the whole situation unaccountably humorous and began to
laugh. Jesse, Blake – they thought they
could scare him. He would tell them just
exactly as much as he wanted his family to know. The trick would be to say it in such a way
that only the Cartwrights would understand.
What had he managed to tell Joe so far?
His gaze drifted over all the men on the room, carefully calculated to
land on his youngest brother at just the right time. “You think you have me cornered . . . you’ve
got me in a . . . box.” Joe’s brows
drew together at his stare. He paused, then shifted his gaze to the men by the desk. “Mr.
Cartwright.”
His father started, unused to hearing those words from that voice, but, bless
him, going along.
Adam chose his words cautiously. “Thank you, to you and your family for your care.”
“Of course, son.” Easy words from
an older man to a younger, a designation that would be misinterpreted by Blake
and his men, but that he was grateful to hear one last time.
“Would you make sure that my heirs do what’s right with my property?”
He could see the growing worry in his father’s face, was sure Ben understood
the meaning in what he said, what others would think referred to a stranger’s
personal effects that would need to be disposed of after trial and
hanging. No, he wouldn’t last to make it
to trial – Jesse would make sure of that – and probably not even to the end of
the day. The circle of dark red snow was
growing, covering more and more of the field of white, encroaching on his
vision again.
Jesse shook him, and the pain jarred him back to the present. “Tell us where it is.”
He smiled and let his gaze roam again. “Like I said, Jesse.
You think I’m . . . boxed in.” This time he saw Joe’s eyes widen. Good. He’s figured it out . . . they’ll take care of the boy. He wouldn’t be around to see it, but he’d
accomplished what he’d set out to do. He
could leave it in his family’s hands.
“Stoddard!”
Blake yelled.
He started to chuckle again, though it hurt desperately. ”C’mere,
Blake. I’ll tell you exactly what
you need to know.”
Blake took a step toward him, then two.
“Closer.” He held the greedy rancher
with his eyes, willed him closer. It was
getting harder to breathe; he was lightheaded from blood loss and victory. Soon Blake was right next to him, and he
twisted in Jesse’s grasp so that he faced the two of them. He could see Joe and Hoss in the distance
behind them, ready for whatever he was setting up. Joe took one step back, another, and then one
to the side so he was hidden by Hoss and Hop Sing. Yes, now was the time. He almost didn’t have enough air to say what
he wanted, and his voice was thick, choked.
“What you need to know . . .”
They leaned in, almost on top of him in their anxious greed.
“. . . you think you can make me say. But you can’t.”
The gun was jammed into his ribs again, and the room went as still as a winter
night. “I’ll kill you,” Jesse
threatened.
He smiled with a feral satisfaction.
“You already have.” And he let
the field of red take over, using his last bit of strength to make sure he fell
forward, taking Blake and Jesse with him.
His world was gone before they all hit the floor together.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
Hoss had just started to relax when the two cowboys followed Ben’s instructions
and helped Adam to the settee, but then the man named Jesse grabbed Adam and
dragged him over to the hearth. Adam
went white and his knees seemed to go out from under him, and Hoss surged forward,
but then he saw the gun pressed to his brother’s back. Jesse held Adam upright by the bandana that
was now twisted around Adam’s neck. Adam
coughed, choking, and Jesse eased up on his grip, just a bit.
Adam’s voice was raspy, but Hoss could hear every word. He recognized, even if others wouldn’t, the
warmth in his brother’s eyes as his gaze touched him while he spoke. There was a spark of humor, too; as if Adam
knew he’d already won and was merely playing out the hand for his own
entertainment.
Joe must have realized something was going on, too, because he gradually
stepped backwards. Hoss moved slightly
to the right and Hop Sing moved to the left to cover his younger brother’s
movements. He didn’t know what Joe had
in mind, but he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready for his
chance.
Adam drew Blake and Jesse to him, a spider weaving his web. The two leaders of the posse drew closer to
him, and in his excitement, Jesse tightened the bandana again. Adam could hardly speak, but Hoss still
didn’t dare move – not while the gun was jammed in Adam’s back.
When Jesse threatened to kill Adam, his brother just smiled. It was a look that Hoss had never seen on his
face before, but he knew what it meant.
Adam had won, though it might cost him his life. It was a price his brother accepted. Then he collapsed, taking Blake and Jesse
with him, and the world disintegrated into chaos. The red chair went over with the falling men,
a gun went off, and he had a quick view of
Hoss thumped two of the posse members to the floor with a swipe of one arm,
knocking a pistol toward the ceiling just before it fired. He saw from the corner of his eye that his
father had an arm around the neck of the third, and
With everything that was in him, Hoss wanted to go to his brother, but he knew
he had to give Joe as much time as possible to get away. He grabbed the two posse members he’d just
knocked down and rammed their heads together.
They fell, senseless, at his feet, and he moved on to Blake and
Jesse. His heartache fueled his anger,
and as soon as they were in reach, he simply grabbed them by the collars of
their coats and tossed them aside.
Tangled in dining room chairs and each other, they struggled to get up,
but all of his attention was now on his older brother.
“Adam!” he cried, carefully rolling him face up. His hand cupped his brother’s waxen face, and
his heart sank when Adam didn’t respond.
He leaned down to press an ear against his chest, and it was while he
was listening carefully that he suddenly thought of the consequences of what he
would say next. If Adam was dead, there
would be no place those men could hide from his vengeance, but if he was alive,
Blake would still insist on taking him to Markleeville,
and they’d just be back where they’d started . . .
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
Joe didn’t see what started the ruckus, but took full advantage of it. He knew where the paper was now, and as
everyone’s attention had been drawn to Adam, he’d slowly moved backwards, one
step at a time, until he was between the dining room table and the wall, and
was well hidden behind Hoss and Hop Sing.
He heard his brother’s final words, then there
was the sound of furniture turning over, the sharp snap of a gun being fired,
the wild bellow of his brother Hoss. He
shoved Hop Sing forward and ran.
On his mad, quiet dash through the kitchen, he grabbed Hop Sing’s
favorite carving knife in its leather scabbard from its peg on the wall next to
the worktable. He dropped the hanging
loop over his head and stuffed the scabbard down the front of his jacket. He still had his gun but no extra bullets,
and as much as he shrank from the thought of using the knife on a man, he knew
if it came down to Adam’s life or one of those men’s, he wouldn’t hesitate. And he had no illusions that they wouldn’t be
after him, just as soon as they figured out where he’d gone.
He knew he didn’t have time to saddle Cochise, and he wasn’t sure how rested
his horse would be anyway. The cold air
sliced into his lungs as he frantically tried to think of a way to hold off
Blake and his men as long as possible.
He needed to take the strongest, fastest horse he could find . . . his
quick eye picked out the best of those tied in front of the house, a big roan
one of the quiet men had been riding. He pulled out the knife and slashed through
the reins of all the others, then mounted and swung his hat at the rest. They milled uncertainly for a moment, but
when he whacked a particularly skittish one on the haunch, it bolted from the
yard and the others followed. His horse
bolted, too, but he encouraged the wild flight.
Snow flew at him in clumps from the herd in front, but he just ducked
his head into the roan’s mane and urged the animal to go faster. When he was about a half mile from the house,
he shouted at the loose horses, waving his arms until they scattered. It was the best he could do.
He kicked his horse into as fast a gallop as was safe, and settled in for the
long ride out to the line shack, working through everything he knew. Adam had tried hard to hand him all the pieces
– now it was up to him to put it all together and finish what his brother had
started. He knew Adam was in bad shape,
could even die. If this was going to be
his last request, Joe would do everything in his power to make it turn out the
way he wanted.
He hoped he’d understood Adam, that this deed he kept
worrying over was really in the box under the cot. How he could have gotten it there – no, he’d
been on the floor by the bed. As
determined as his brother was, he could have lifted the mattress just enough to
slide it in. It wouldn’t have been easy,
but then if he’d ever been afraid of a difficulty, Joe had never seen it.
He eased his horse’s pace a little, giving him a chance to gather his
strength. One thing about Blake, he
provided good horseflesh for his men.
Joe didn’t know how much of a lead he had, but Hoss would delay the men
as long as he could, and Joe had the advantage of knowing the quickest
route. Of course he was leaving a trail
a blind man could follow, but he knew when to rest his horse and when he could
go all out. He knew where the only
unfrozen water would be and the only uncovered grass. Most important of all, though, he needed
to do this. He had to succeed. Adam was counting on him, and he couldn’t let
him down.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
“He’s dead,
Sudden, tearing grief ripped through Ben Cartwright. He threw the man in his arms to the floor,
not caring that the cowboy cried out in pain when his head cracked against one
of the solid legs of the settee. He
crossed the room in just a few strides, but came up short when Hoss stood and
blocked his way.
“Let me—” he began heatedly, grabbing at his son’s arm to move him out of the
way, but Hoss cut him off.
“I’m the only one what knew him at all, Pa; I’m gonna
take care of him now.”
It dawned on him that Hoss’ face – his whole attitude – was one of
belligerence, not grief. He was also
standing so that it was impossible for anyone else in the room to get a good
look at Adam where he lay between the hearth and the red chair, which was still
on its side. Ben’s eyes narrowed, and his heart began to settle from its wild
hammering as he realized Hoss was trying to tell him something.
“What do you mean, you knew him?” Blake’s voice came from the floor as he
wobbled to his knees. His voice steadied
as he got to his feet and focused his attention on this new target. “You two friends or
something?”
Hoss turned his fierce gaze from Ben. “I
said I knew him. We’d share a few drinks
down Genoa-way whenever we’d happen to meet up there, and whatever you say
about what he done in Markleeville, he’s a good man
that didn’t deserve what you done to him.”
Ben took a deep breath, now sure of what Hoss was doing. He stepped in front of Blake, also not so
incidentally putting another barrier between the man and his eldest. Though he addressed the sheriff, his words
were aimed square at Blake. “
“What charges you want me to put down?” his friend asked calmly.
“Murder,” he answered simply.
“You can’t prove that!” Jesse said as Blake helped him to his feet. He shook his head to clear it.
“That’s right,” Blake said with a smirk.
“You don’t have any witnesses to say how that killer got shot.”
Ben could feel the anger rising, but he quashed it firmly. Adam still wasn’t safe. “I’m not talking about how he got into this
condition, I’m talking about how you treated him, knowing how badly hurt he
was.”
“And how are you going to prove we knew any such thing?” Jesse inserted. “Your word against mine in
a court of law.”
Blake frowned, and Ben had a sudden suspicion he’d been caught off guard.
“Local?” The posse leader jerked his
head in the direction of the floor where Hoss Cartwright was once more bent
over the body of the man he knew as Stoddard.
“He was wanted in Markleeville, not here.”
“Don’t much matter, now,”
“Pa?” Hoss inserted quietly. “It ain’t right to just leave him lyin’
on the floor like this.”
Ben spared a look at him, careful to let nothing more than regret show on his
face. “Take him upstairs, then; lay him
out in the first bedroom.” He searched
the room. “Hop Sing?”
The little Chinese cook stepped forward from where he’d taken cover in the
kitchen. “Yes, Mistah
Cartlight?”
“Help Hoss get Stoddard upstairs, then get some cloths and water and such to
clean him up a bit, do a proper laying out.”
Hop Sing nodded, and Ben moved out of the way so the
little cook could join Hoss. Two of the
other three posse members climbed to their feet, but the man Ben had flung to
the floor just groaned in quiet agony.
The others maintained a respectful silence while Hoss and Hop Sing made
their way upstairs with their burden, but as soon as they’d disappeared from
sight, Blake started up again.
“Sheriff, you have no cause to hold us.
We’re only trying to recover some stolen property.”
His righteous tone infuriated Ben, and again, he had to hold his temper on
tight rein. “And just what property
might that be?” he asked through a clenched jaw.
“Some papers he took from the poor widow-lady he killed.”
Widow? Did
he mean Isabella? And by Adam’s
hand? No, surely not!
Blake stepped forward, a conciliatory smile on his face that made Ben want
to shake his teeth loose. “You won’t
mind if I search the body.”
“Of all the sanctimonious—” Ben started to sputter.
“Hold off, Ben,” said
Ben turned on him. “You can’t mean you’d
let this . . . butcher . . . anywhere near—”
“
“Ben, I ain’t gonna tell
you again. I know you got a powerful lot
of reasons to be upset with these fellas, seein’ as how they went and killed a man in your house, but
I gotta respect their legal rights, too. This has got to be done right, and you know
it.”
Ben took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.
Yes,
“None of your business, lawman,” spat Jesse.
“Well, now, I say that it is. After all,
a man got kilt in my district over them, so I’d say that pretty much makes it
my business.”
Blake held a hand out to calm the gunman.
“It’s all right, Jesse. I’m sure
the sheriff, when he knows all the facts, will see we have the right to take
those papers back to Markleeville.” He stroked his chin. “Fact is, sheriff, we aren’t exactly sure
what they are. Jesse saw Stoddard
arguing with that poor widow-lady, waving them around in the air. One of them had “deed” written on it plain as
could be, but before Jesse could get to her to help out, Stoddard shot her and
took off with them. He came to me with
the story, and, well, all these good men rode along with us. Now all we want to do is get the papers back to
the lawyers in Markleeville for proper disposition.”
Even if his son hadn’t been involved, Ben would have known they were hiding
something. “Just five philanthropists,”
he said, his voice low and venomous.
Jesse and the two cowboys who were still standing looked confused, but Blake’s
expression lightened. “That’s
right. Just like you’re a leading
citizen up here, I try to do my best for my community.”
“
Blake and the two cowboys gave theirs up readily enough, Blake because he knew
the sheriff wouldn’t do the search until he got them and the cowboys out of
sheer confusion and a wish to stay on the side of the law, but Jesse
hesitated. “Give it over,” Blake said
while
The sheriff scooped up the gun that Hoss had knocked flying and put all of the
weapons in Ben’s gun cabinet. He held
his hand out for the key and Ben handed it over reluctantly. The entire situation was too unstable for him
to be happy not having access to his gun.
The two cowboys still on their feet looked less and less like they wanted any
part of Jesse and Blake. The taller of
the two hunkered down by the man on the floor and pressed his kerchief against
a bloody gash on his friend’s forehead, who groaned in misery. “You won’t get any trouble from us, sheriff.”
Jesse shot a glance of fury at him, but Blake calmed him with a touch on his
arm and a soft word.
Ben desperately wanted to follow
“Ain’t no papers on him. Not
even so much as a letter.” He looked at
Blake hard. “I dunno
what you thought you was chasin’
but you sure ain’t found it.”
Ben expected Blake to demand to search the body himself, but instead, Jesse
spoke up. “Where’s the boy?”
They all looked around the room, and only now did Ben realize he hadn’t seen
Joseph since Adam’s collapse. “He must
have run when the fighting started,” he said, trying to divert their attention
from what was obvious to him. “He’s
still young—” he added in false justification.
“He ran, all right,” said Jesse grimly. “Ran off to get them papers.
Stoddard musta told him something when they
were together.”
“Sheriff, Mr. Cartwright,” Blake said, “we’ll be
taking our guns now and leaving you in peace.”
“No,” Ben breathed as he stepped forward.
“I got a rifle on my horse that’ll do me just fine,” Jesse said as he stalked
to the door and slammed outside. Ben
sighed in relief that he was gone. One less threat to his eldest.
“All right,” said Blake. “You other men,
let’s get going.”
But the man who’d been kneeling on the floor shook his head and said, “I don’t
think so, Blake. Soon as Johnny, here,
feels a mite better, we’re headed into town for a good meal, then back to Markleeville. This
whole setup smells, and we don’t want no part of it no more.”
“Fine,” Blake growled. “We’ll go after
that young upstart on our own.” He strode to the door and jerked it open, then
slammed it so hard that it bounced open again.
“
Hoss closed the door after peering outside and turned to his father. “Not right away, they ain’t,” he grinned.
“What?”
“Ain’t no horses out there
to go after anyone on. Just some loose
reins hangin’ off the hitchin’
posts.”
Hoss was across the room in three strides.
“I’ll just do that, sheriff.”
The two cowboys had finally gotten their friend on his feet. “We’ll back you up on that,” the tall one
said, “this has gone too far.” They followed Hoss outside.
“Ben,”
“Adam,” Ben felt like he was caught in a whirlwind, “—how is he?”
“Ain’t too good, but it ain’t
hopeless neither, from what Hop Sing says.
What those fellers told me when they was in town about Adam – not knowin’ who he was o’ course – well, it was enough that I sent a message on
over to the Doc. He’ll be along any time
now, an’ between him an’ Hop Sing, they’ll take good care of him.”
Hearing that the doctor was on his way made Ben’s decision
much easier. Sudden anger
blossomed. “I am not letting those two
men shoot another one of my sons. Hoss
can watch over things here, help Hop Sing until Paul gets here.”
“Grab your coat then, an’ let’s get on our way.”
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
Blake and Jesse were enraged to discover their horses gone and three guns
protecting the mounts in the barn, but with cold determination Jesse managed to
catch Blake’s buckskin and a big black for himself, both still with rifles
tucked in their scabbards. Then they
lost more time, finding enough reins that weren’t cut or were at least long
enough to use. When they finally headed
out, they were both furious.
Ben and Roy didn’t get out immediately, either.
Although Buck and Chubb were ready, Ben found he couldn’t leave without
seeing for himself that Adam was still alive.
He stayed only a moment, long enough to feel the feverheat
radiating from his son’s body and to catch a glimpse of the ugly, swollen wound
as Hop Sing cleaned it. That Adam didn’t
protest, wasn’t even aware enough to flinch at what should have been
excruciating, told Ben how bad it was.
When Ben came out of the ranchhouse, he offered the
ex-posse members beds in the bunkhouse as he prepared to mount. The tall man took him up on the offer on
behalf of his two partners, but said he’d be going after the horses. Once he’d gathered a few, he’d follow them to
the line shack to back them up. “It’s
the least I can do,” he muttered.
Ben nodded once in acceptance, then climbed up into his saddle and booted his
horse to gallop.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
It was a race, now, and they all knew it.
Joe had a good head start, but he also knew it was likely that Blake and
Jesse would catch up with him before he got to the cabin. The snow was harder to get through than he’d
thought, and he was essentially blazing a trail that would make it easier on
his pursuers’ horses. The roan was
laboring even now, and he was still two miles from the cabin. He glanced over his shoulder at the flat
terrain behind him and thought he saw two horses – a buckskin
and a black – emerging from the last stand of trees. It could have been his father and Hoss, but
why would they be riding hell-for-leather after him? And he couldn’t believe that both of them
would leave Adam . . . unless he was dead.
A sob tore at his throat. No, he had to
believe that the two men were Blake and Jesse, as much as he was afraid of how
close they were. The alternative was too
terrible.
He broke through a last stand of trees onto the field in front of the
cabin. He planned his actions – he’d
pull out the rifle, vault off onto the small porch, haul the cot open, grab the
paper, and run back outside to his horse.
He should have just enough time to slip down the small bank to the
arroyo and be out of sight before the two men chasing him came through the
trees.
His plan fell apart when he was just fifty yards from the front stoop.
He pulled the rifle out of the scabbard, but then felt his horse slip and go
down on an icy patch. The rifle went
flying in one direction as he tumbled in the other. He lay for just a moment, buried in snow, as
he caught his breath. Then he scrabbled
to his knees, looked around quickly for the rifle, but it, too, must have been
buried in the snow. He’d never find it
in time. He had his pistol, though. The roan was lying on its side, still with
exhaustion or dead. He didn’t have time
to find out. It was eerily quiet around
him; no wind, no birds, nothing but the faint pounding of hooves.
No time, no time, no time . . . .
The litany repeated in his head with each pounding stride as he ran for the
cabin.
He slid to a halt, banging into the wall next to the door, got his feet back
under him, and shot through the door. He
slipped on some of the straw that was still scattered on the floor, but
regained his balance and nearly fell next to the bed. He gasped in thanks that the rope was still
attached to the frame. With one quick
pull, he had the box open. There it
is! Such a small
piece of paper for all this trouble and anguish. The words on the front caught his eye: “Deed,” then underneath, “Santa Maria Mining
Company.” A quick look inside showed him
a transfer of ownership, from Isabella Rivera de Vega Morales to Adam
Stoddard. There was a smudge after
“Stoddard,” as if someone had intended to write more, but got interrupted.
Now he understood. Men would do worse
than these had to get their hands on a producing mine. He stuffed the paper into the inside pocket
of his jacket and turned to the door, releasing the thong that held his pistol
in his holster. He opened the door
carefully.
They were here.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
“Pull up a minute,”
Ben reined his horse around, plumes of steaming breath pirouetting in the air
from the animal’s nostrils. “What’s
wrong?” Buck pawed at the snow with
impatience that clearly reflected his rider’s mood.
“Gotta give the horses a breather.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Ben growled as he turned his horse toward the
road.
“You know where they’re headed? What
we’re gonna do when we get there?”
Ben paused, torn between
“Give me two minutes to figure out some kinda
plan, an’ the horses’ll be good for another hour.”
“There’s only one place they could be headed – the McGregor Ridge line shack.”
“Don’t believe I’ve been out there – what’s the layout?”
Buck calmed as Ben started to think through the problem. “Trees until about 500 yards from the shack –
flat, open country ending at the bottom of a cliff. Adam tucked the building under the ridge, to
protect it from some of the weather we get up here. A bit of a downhill to a
creek off to the right.”
“You know it will.”
“With those men, I ‘spect you’re right. It’ll be like stormin’
a fort, comin’ up on ‘em.”
Ben’s eyes took on a hard glint. “I’d
storm hell for my boy.” He jerked his
horse back onto the trail and, with a swift kick of his heels to the buckskin’s
sides, took off down the road.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
Adam was dreaming of snow again. It fell
from a sky strangely as blue as the great lake of his home; soft, fluffy flakes
that drifted like cottonwood down on the breeze. He stood at the edge of a forest of tall
pine, their woody tang wafting through the fresh, crisp mountain air. More flakes fell, quickly, softly, silently,
until they obscured everything around him, cloaking him in pristine silence.
And then a speck of darkness appeared before him. It grew, and he realized it was a woman,
someone he knew, someone who wanted – needed – him to help.
Adam. It was a girl’s voice. Young, soft, yet full with
the promise of womanhood. Help
me, Adam. You are the only one I can
trust now.
They were suddenly in a building, a cozy room with an old desk, comfortable
overstuffed chairs, and a crackling fire that kept the icy cold at bay, and he
was watching the snow outside from a window near the woman. He heard the scratching of a pen on paper,
turned from his vigil to ask, How? What do you need? You know I’ll do whatever I can.
She stopped writing for a moment and looked up, and he could have drowned
in her liquid brown eyes – eyes he’d loved for longer than he could
remember. She was someone else’s,
though. Had been,
really, even before he’d met her all those years ago.
They will not take this from you, she’d said as she tapped the
parchment. From a
Mexican widow, yes, but not from a Cartwright. I will go back to
Stay! It had been an impulse, but a true one, from
the heart. Bring him here, too.
She was tempted, he could
tell. He had to convince her. Remember your sixteenth birthday, when you
told me you had to leave, to go back to
The grassy fields had been gay with flowers that long-ago day, the
breeze warm and teasing, but what passed between them was as old and strong as
the tallest of the pine trees that surrounded them.
You told me to listen for the beat of your heart. In all these years, did you listen for mine?
As you asked of me, she answered, I listened with care ‘en el silencio de la noche.’
Yes, how many times had he, too, listened and yearned in the silence of the
night. I still love you, always have—
He’d never know
what she might have answered, for a bullet shattered more than a window in that
brief moment. She collapsed in his arms,
and as they sank together to the floor, she gasped, Mi corazón
– you who have always held my heart – take care of my son. He is yours, now, as I could not be.
I will, he’d whispered to her closing eyes.
I promise.
But although she hadn’t heard him, his final words bound the two together in a
vow as they’d never been allowed in life.
Then Blake had busted in, and with Isabella still in his arms he hadn’t had a
chance to get his gun. The deed was
lying in plain sight, and when Blake saw what it was, he’d been distracted just
long enough. They’d fought and he’d hit
Blake hard enough to stun him for a moment.
Then he grabbed the paper and his coat, ran for his horse, and almost
got away clean – until he felt the sudden burning fire in his back that matched
the pain in his heart.
He moaned in anguish.
“Hush, now, big brother. Jus’ settle
down an’ it’ll be all right.”
Mi corazón. No, it wouldn’t. Nothing would ever be right again.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
There was no escape from the cabin, no back door, and the window was too small
and too high. I’ll have to have a
word with Adam about his perfect cabin, Joe said to himself. If we both survive, that is.
“Cartwright!”
He peeked out the door, but didn’t answer.
Blake was hunkered down behind the dead roan. He had a rifle resting on the saddle, barrel
pointed at the cabin. Jesse was nowhere
to be seen, but his horse was trotting off to the east, rifle scabbard also empty,
so he must have dismounted and run off somewhere. It was a sure bet he’d turn up soon.
“Cartwright! I’ll give you to the count
of ten!”
“That’s what you said last time,” yelled Joe.
“It didn’t do you any good then, and it won’t now either.” He wondered how long he could stall. Surely
Pa would be following soon? But he
hadn’t left any horses for him. Blake
and Jesse had retrieved two, but they wouldn’t have stopped to grab one for his
father. Sport and Cochise were too
tired, and Buck and Chubb must not have been available for some reason,
otherwise Jesse would have had no hesitation in taking them. Except that might be considered
horse-stealing, almost a worse crime than killing a man – which he could be accused
of, too, he realized.
His thoughts spun. One moment he was
sure Pa would ride up any minute, the next it occurred to him that if Adam
hadn’t made it, his father might not have been in any condition to ride. His eyes stung at the thought. No, he would just have to handle this on his
own.
He glanced around the room. No guns, aside of the pistol he wore on his hip – and it didn’t
have all that many bullets. The
pile of bloody cloth was still in the corner of the room, dirty plates from his
last meal still in the washbasin.
He was tired, so tired. Why else would
he be worrying about the mess the cabin was in when there were two men out
there determined to kill him. For he had
no illusions – if he didn’t give them what they wanted, he was dead. Of course, if he did hand it over, he
was probably still dead. They wouldn’t
want any witnesses, anyone who knew what was on that mysterious paper. He would simply have to fight it out.
He was good with a gun, he knew that, but he hadn’t killed before. Not a man.
Adam had told him once that there wasn’t a lot of difference between
killing a man and killing an animal . . . until after you pulled the
trigger. Well, he’d have to hope his big
brother was right, because he knew it was them or him.
A bullet embedded itself in the door, and a second ricocheted off something
outside.
Blake’s getting his range. That
was all right. Now he knew he was safe
behind the door. Since it opened on the
left, he’d have to stand behind it in order to shoot. He wondered if Blake knew that he was left-handed. He couldn’t peer around the door without
putting himself at risk. Maybe there was
a wide enough crack between the boards . . . no, Adam’s work wasn’t that
slipshod. He might be able to drill a
hole, though. There’d been an awl in
that leather-wrapped set of tools.
He shivered when he unrolled the wrapping, gory memories trying to invade his
thoughts. He pushed them aside. No time
right now. The awl went through the soft
pine with a few solid thwacks of a hammer, then he
twisted it around. He blew the wood
chips away and peeked through the hole. Too small. He could
only see the white snow. He scraped at
the sides of the hole, enlarging it as quickly as he could. He blew again, peeked again, and this time
saw Blake.
Good! He unlatched the door with
his right hand and, while looking through the hole, pulled it open just a few
inches. He snaked his gun through the
opening and fired.
Blake fell backwards at his second shot.
Got him! Joe almost crowed, but when he looked again, saw that Blake had
risen and was propped on the horse again, though this time with his head tucked
a little lower.
He tried to get a wider view, sure that Jesse was creeping up on the cabin, but
there was no way to tell. He latched the
door again and ran to the other side of the cabin to peer through the small
window. Nothing. Well, nothing he could see, anyway.
A fusillade of bullets pinged and thudded against the wall of the cabin. Joe jumped and couldn’t help cringing – even
though he was sure they couldn’t make it through the solid wood, his body
tensed with every hit. His head pounded
from the noise, and he realized his mouth was dry. When the shooting stopped, he looked in the
bucket he’d left by the fireplace – just this morning? – and found what turned out to be barely a mouthful of
snowmelt. He was grateful for the cool
wetness, even if there was only one swallow’s worth.
He went to the door, spotted Blake still in position, though leaning heavily to
one side, and opened the door again just a little. Blake fired at the same time as Joe, and
splinters of wood flew from the edge of the door. He pulled back, but not before he felt a line
of fire along his forearm.
Hissing with the pain, he leaned against the door, making sure to latch it
securely. At least he hadn’t dropped his
pistol, even though he only had two shots left.
He’d have to be careful with them, especially since it was his gun arm
that had been hit.
He shrugged out of his jacket and ripped the sleeve open with the awl. A deep furrow welled with dark red blood, but
it was, even so, a graze. No real damage
to the muscles, just hurt like hell. Joe’d had broken
bones and his share of scrapes and bumps and bruises, but he’d never been shot
before. He was surprised it didn’t
bother him more, not realizing how sheer terror could dampen pain. He quickly grabbed one of the bandages he’d
ripped up for his brother and wound it around his arm, tightening the knot with
the help of his teeth. It would have to
do for now. He pulled his jacket on
again. He had to pull hard to get the
sleeve on over the bandage, but he persisted.
He knew he’d need the warmth if he could break free of the cabin.
He patted at his chest where he’d stashed the deed in his jacket, relieved to
hear the soft crinkle of paper, but was distracted by a shadow passing over the
window. Jesse!
He peeked out the small hole in the door again.
No one in view, not even Blake. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the door open
one more time, put his pistol through the opening, but this time he felt a
tremendous jerk on the weapon. He held
on and was banged painfully against the door as it was shoved open. Then Jesse was on top of him. He fired the gun once, twice, but Jesse
twisted away.
Jesse swung at him with his rifle, and Joe ducked barely in time to miss having
his head bashed in. He barreled into
Jesse’s stomach and knocked him against the wall. The rifle flew into a corner, and now Joe
hoped he’d have a prayer of surviving.
He threw a right at Jesse’s chin, connecting solidly, but Jesse came
back with short punch to Joe’s gut. His
lungs nearly paralyzed, he had a brief memory of Adam yelling, Stand up!
during one of their mock battles.
Though it cost him, he stood, gasping for breath, and saw Jesse’s fists crashing
down. He stepped to the side and took
the blow on his right shoulder, on the big muscle. His right arm went numb, but he spun on one
heel and put his full weight behind his left hook. Jesse went down, and Joe dashed for the
door. He’d made it outside and to the
edge of the porch when Jesse tackled him from behind, and they both went
sprawling in the snow. Joe got to his
knees and grabbed at the scabbard that still hung around his neck. The knife was still there. He pulled it free just as Jesse jumped on
him. Jesse grabbed his wrist and twisted
so the blade was pointed at Joe’s gut, then leaned hard.
Joe clubbed at his head with his near-useless right arm while trying to shove
the knife back and away from his stomach.
Jesse’s grip was excruciating on his injured forearm, but Joe knew that
if he gave in to the pain, he’d be dead.
He pulled his knees up to his stomach and kicked out, and Jesse went
flying. Still holding the knife, Joe
tackled him, and they rolled over and over in the snow, leaving tracks of red
behind from bleeding noses and scrapes and Joe’s arm.
Then they rolled together down the hill and hit the bottom of the dry arroyo
hard, Joe’s body almost buried by Jesse’s.
Fluffy soft flakes of snow settled on them, the only movement, and the
pristine white slowly turned red around them.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
Ben and Roy broke through the trees just in time to see Jesse leap from the
porch and bring down Joe. Ben booted his
weary horse into a stumbling gallop, kicking snow in all directions. There was a horse on the ground in his way,
and a brief glance showed him Blake, leaning against the saddle, but he didn’t
hesitate, lifting Buck in an arcing jump over both. A small portion of his mind recognized that
the pounding of Chubb’s hooves behind him had stopped, so he assumed
Heart in his throat, he jumped from the saddle and slipped his way to the men
through the knee-high snow. He’d almost
reached them when Joe kicked Jesse away and then grabbed at him again and they
rolled over the edge of the arroyo’s banks and disappeared.
Ben’s steps obliterated the red-stained snow and he slid down the hill after
them to stand, appalled and heaving for air, over two men who lay like death in
a pool of blood.
“Joe!” he cried and knelt next to the two men.
He shoved Jesse off his boy and stroked the matted curls lightly with a
shaking hand, afraid of what he was about to find.
Then Joe’s head lifted slightly and turned to his father. His skin was as pale as the field around
them, his eyes huge, but he was alive.
Ben grabbed at his shoulders, pulled him into his lap as if he were six,
not sixteen, and held him tight to his chest.
“Are you all right, son? Please, God, be
all right!”
Joe was shaking; Ben could feel him trembling all over.
“Pa . . . Pa . . . .” It was all he
could seem to say.
“Did he get you, Joe? Did he hurt you?”
Ben pushed him back just a little so he could look him over. His jacket was open, his shirt gory with
blood.
Joe shook his head, and Ben almost collapsed with relief.
“Not okay . . . .” Joe gasped. “Not . .
. all right. Pa?”
Terrified, Ben searched Joe’s face, looking for the lines of pain and finding
them, but what he saw in his son’s eyes told him that the hurt wasn’t from
physical injury.
“Adam?” Joe asked, his hands bruising Ben’s arms.
Ben nodded and cupped his hand around the back of Joe’s neck. “He’s alive. Doc Martin should be with him by
now.”
“Thank God,” Joe said and slumped in his arms.
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
They left Jesse’s body where it was, being slowly covered by a light dusting of
new snow. Ben helped his son up the
slope, only pausing for a moment to shake his head at
“Nothing to be done,” said Ben. “We’ll
get a wagon out here later. Right now I
need to take care of Joe.”
“Blake’s about done in, too, but I think I can get him to town when that other
feller gets here. The roan’s dead, but I
found Jesse’s horse – Joe can ride him home and we’ll figure out what belongs
to who later.”
“Blake.” Ben’s voice was biting,
angry. “Was it worth it? Was it worth the lives of all of these
people?”
Blake raised his head, and a touch of his old arrogance surfaced. “What people?
Jesse? Stoddard? That Mex
woman?”
Ben surged forward and grabbed Blake by the coat. “People, Blake. People who had as much right to their lives
as you do.” He suddenly realized Joe had
a grip on his arm, was holding him back from striking.
“He’s not worth it,
Blake snorted. “Stoddard. He’s the cause of this. That no good drifter—”
Now it was Joe in his face. Low and
deadly, he broke in. “That ‘no good
drifter’ was named Adam . . . Stoddard . . . Cartwright.”
Blake jerked back.
“That’s right. My brother.”
“And my son,” spat Ben. “Your mistake was in thinking that, because a man was a
stranger, he was of no account. Maybe
you’ll do better, if you ever get out of jail, and think twice before attacking
anyone.”
“C’mon, you,”
Joe looked up at his father. “Pa – I’m awful cold,
Ben had an arm around Joe’s waist, holding him tight to his side, and he could
feel the shivers. They weren’t all, he
knew, from the freezing mountain air.
“Let’s get you inside and warmed up, then.” He called out, “
The sheriff reappeared. “He ain’t gonna be goin’ nowhere for a while.”
He trudged through the snow to the cabin door and jerked his head in the
direction of the dead horse. “Gotta get him a horse, get him back to town. I’ll check in with you tomorrow ‘bout
everything.”
Ben stepped up onto the porch, but Joe stopped and fumbled at his jacket.
“No – wait!” He pulled out a piece of paper.
“Joe?” asked Ben, remembering Blake’s demands for a document of some kind.
He handed it to the sheriff. “You gotta make this legal.”
Joe nodded, weary beyond measure.
“
DEED Santa Maria Mining Company,
“Now we know why they was calling him
Stoddard ‘stead of Cartwright,” Roy murmured.
The name on the deed merely confirmed Ben’s fears – it was Isabella who’d been
killed. What had that done to Adam? They had cared for each other desperately
once, with all the passion and devotion of first love. He must have been there when she died; had
he been, in some way, responsible, or at least a catalyst?
And what were the “terms agreed to”?
That Adam took them seriously was evident from his words to his father
about “making sure his heirs did what was right.” He’d meant for Ben, Hoss and Joe to take care
of this mine, but there had to be more to it.
“Joe?” Ben turned to his son. “Do you
know what Isabella wanted Adam to do?”
Joe was slumped against the wall, his eyes closed. “He was worried about a boy; I think his name
is Berto. He
said that you had to prove that he was Stoddard, for the boy. I think Blake and
those men saw the deed, figured that was his name. Decided to kill him, too.”
“Too?” asked
Joe opened his eyes. “Adam said Jesse
killed Isabella. Shot her.”
“Well, he got his just rewards, then, without botherin’
a jury and judge.”
Ben stared at the fire, and the memory of a beautiful young face danced in the
flames, with the teasing shadow of a young man’s grin that was seen all too
little these days. “Isabella called her
husband Bertito.
Berto could be their son.”
“Makes sense.”
Joe seemed to shrink down farther onto the bed, and his voice was a mere thread. “Thanks.
It’ll mean a lot to him.”
Ben looked at him sharply. Mostly
exhaustion, he deduced, but he’d better take a look at that arm, too. His “See you tomorrow, then,” to
Ben glanced around the room for supplies to tend Joe and, for the first time,
saw the mess. Dirtied straw, buckets by
the fire, bowls and tin cups that hadn’t been washed, pieces of leather hanging
from each corner of the bed, a pile of dirty laundry ominously streaked with
brown stains—
He drew a harsh breath.
Joe saw what he was looking at. “I did
the best I could,
Ben moved swiftly to sit at his side.
“It’s all right, son. You did
well.”
Joe leaned against him. “I was so
scared.”
He rubbed Joe’s back in slow circles as he took in the mute evidence of the
near-disaster his sons had been through.
“I’m proud of you, Joseph. So proud.”
~ * ~ *
~ * ~
Two days. It had been two days since
he’d rescued his brother, and it felt a lifetime ago and yet as if it had just
happened. Joe stood at his brother’s
window, staring at the peaceful snowfields, but seeing only Jesse’s face when
the knife had slid, all too easily, into his stomach. He’d felt nothing but relief at the time –
knowing immediately that it was all over, that the fight was finished, that
Adam was finally safe. It was only later
that the nightmares began to haunt him.
How could it be so easy to kill a man, even a killer like Jesse?
Adam had been right. It was easy to
kill; not so easy to live with it.
But his brother was alive because of him, and so he couldn’t regret what he’d
done. He rubbed at his forehead. Paul Martin had told him he’d saved Adam’s
life by going after the bullet. As it
was, there’d been an infection that had kept Adam delirious until early this
morning when his fever finally broke.
Paul had squeezed his shoulder and said it could have been much worse.
He moved the rocking chair closer to Adam’s bed and sat down, studying his
brother. How long would he sleep? Joe had taken this after-lunch shift at his
father’s request, who hoped, he knew, that he would be able to soothe Adam’s
worries when he woke. But he’d been up
here for three hours now, and Adam laid still and quiet, his chest rising and
falling in the steady, deep breathing of healing sleep, left arm bound to his
body to protect his shoulder while it mended from the dislocation. Joe rubbed at his face. He hadn’t known to do that.
He took his brother’s cold hand between his own, rubbed warmth back into it
then tucked it under the coverlet again.
Elbows on knees, fingers mussing his hair into wild curls, he waited.
A deep sigh drew his attention from his useless musings. A shift of the bedclothes,
a hitched breath, brow furrowed with awakening pain.
“Adam?” he said softly, and was rewarded by twitching eyelids. “That’s it, brother, wake
up. You’ve slept long enough for now.”
Another sigh, and Adam’s eyes opened halfway. “Joe?” he said on a breath of air.
“That’s right, it’s me. You’re gonna be okay – just gotta rest.”
“No,” he said, his voice marginally stronger.
“Pa’s gotta prove—”
“Shhh,” Joe interrupted the familiar phrase. “It’s all taken care of.
Adam opened his eyes the rest of the way, and a hint of a smile touched his
lips. “You did it. Knew you could.”
Joe ducked his head. “Yeah.” Then he straightened and shook his finger at
his brother. “An’ I don’t ever want to
have to do anything like that again, you hear?
You stay out of these messes.
You’re supposed to be the sensible, smart Cartwright—”
Now Adam really was laughing, though quietly, as if it hurt, but he had to let
it out anyway.
Joe grinned, too, then
asked, “How are you feeling?”
Adam’s brows crinkled, and he rubbed with his free hand at the deep lines
between them as if trying to smooth away the pain. “Confused. You say everything’s taken care of?”
“Yeah. Pa and Hoss and Sheriff Coffee helped out, but we got it all taken care
of for you.”
Now one black eyebrow rose. “Everything?”
Joe’s gaze dropped to the floor.
“Hardest thing I ever did, gettin’ that bullet
out of your back. Got you home, got the
deed from the cabin, fought Jesse—”
He broke off, not wanting to bring back the memories, but Adam filled in the
rest.
“To the death.”
His gaze rested on Joe. “Are you
all right?”
Joe knew he was asking about more than physical injuries. “Yeah. No. I
don’t know.” Then he leaned forward and
gripped his brother’s hand again. “I
will be. I wish I hadn’t had to do it,
but he didn’t give me a choice. It was
him or me, and if he got me I knew you’d be next.”
“You’ll be all right, in time. You’ll
find your way.” His gaze seemed to go
unfocused for a moment, and he whispered, “We both will.” Then his long fingers curled around Joe’s,
and he looked up at his little brother.
“Thanks.”
It was a simple word, simply said, but it held a new bond between them. They’d always loved each other, but Adam had
always held his hand in protection over Joe.
Now they both knew that Joe could – and would – do the same for him.
Adam was tiring fast, his eyelids drooping, but he seemed to have one more
thing to say. Joe leaned closer, and on
a final sleepy breath heard his brother say with satisfaction, “. . . a man.”
Joe could feel tears filling his eyes.
He looked up and saw his father standing in the doorway.
Ben nodded. “That’s right, Joseph. A man.”
The
End