Fields of White

by BeckyS

© September 2002 – December 2003, 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 Carson Valley to the crest of the Sierra Nevada even at a sane pace, but if they could make it to the other side, they’d practically be on Ponderosa land where they might possibly be safe.

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 back over his shoulder, not really surprised that his oldest brother hadn’t appeared yet. Adam had raced into Joe’s resting spot at noon, his horse lathered and wild, his fatigue-lined eyes and rough, black-stubbled chin telling an eloquent story of impending disaster. Joe had ridden out to meet his brother and have what he hoped would be a casual, comfortable ride home with him, but now he scrambled to get his horse ready while Adam hunched over his saddle horn trying as hard as his horse to catch his breath.

"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 back 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 back 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 back 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 back 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 back 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 on the horse’s back. 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 gently 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 Lake Tahoe. A few evening stars began to twinkle on the horizon, resembling distant campfires.

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 were 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 back 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 back 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 back 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 the back of his head. 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 remember what Pa had said last summer when one of the ranch hands had caught a bullet in the leg. One phrase came back to him 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 Pa. He’ll take good care of you, get you well again."

"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 back onto 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 back 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 from the back.

"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 in back 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 back 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 San Francisco."

Blake froze.

"Now set him down, real gentle."

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 back. "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 gently. 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 gently 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 back 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 fort outta all that snow in that huge field out there. Just picture yourself making up snowballs, one after the other, piling them up in one of those pyramids you always build, gettin’ ready for Pa or Hoss or me to come out so you can nail us. Before you know it, you’re gonna be feelin’ a whole lot better."

Adam seemed to drop back 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 to the back of Adam’s saddle and extracted the slicker from it. He took out his pocketknife – a birthday gift from his father – 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 back to get to the rope across Adam’s back. He hesitated, though, to roll him onto his back, 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 back up over Adam’s back, gently 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 back 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 gently pulled 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 back in 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. Roy wouldn’t head out to the ranch until the storm blew itself out, so that meant he’d have some time to try to . . . what?

Get Adam home?

Then what?

Blake and his posse, including the hot-tempered Jesse, would follow Roy and would try to take Adam back to wherever they came from. He had faith that Roy would do his best to keep that from happening, but what if Adam had actually been involved in something – innocently, of course – that required him to go? He didn’t trust them to take care of him.

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. Then he rolled his brother gently onto his side and eased him carefully onto his back.

"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 bit 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 Pa."

"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 back 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, Pa."

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, Pa. This is gonna be a good, solid blow for the next day or two. We get caught out in it, and it’ll be Joe tryin’ to find us."

"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, Pa." He took his father’s coat and hung it back on its peg. Once Ben went around the corner to the kitchen, he leaned an arm on the door, buried his head against his forearm. "Hang on, buddy," he whispered. "Wherever you are, hang on."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Adam was dreaming of snow. Soft flakes drifted down to be caught on his tongue, others swirled around him in a gentle 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 get back 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 back 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 back 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 back onto the bed. 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 back 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 back in 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 Roy to show them the way to the house. Maybe we could even make it by lunch," he added wistfully.

Adam didn’t really notice Joe’s comment about food. His mind grabbed onto his mention of the sheriff. Roy can validate the deed . . . Roy’s an officer of the law and knows me. Pa can show him the family Bible . . . but he was forgetting something. It was just within his grasp when Joe distracted him by bundling him up in shirt and coat. He felt his little brother’s slim strength under his arm, helping him to his feet. It took all his energy and attention pulled together to get across the room, and then to climb up the mountain to his saddle. Why had he wanted such a tall horse? There must have been a reason . . .

"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. The knife was his birthday gift from his father, and 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 back 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 back 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 Roy . . ."

"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 Markleesville. 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 Markleesville 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 back 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 back. 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 back 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 Roy, thank God – by the stairs. Maybe he could pull this off after all. His throat tightened, making it difficult to speak. "All right," he rasped. "I’ll talk."

"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 Roy ducking behind the blue chair as the bullet blasted a hole through it, just missing his head.

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 Roy knocked the chair out of his way as he surged forward to help Ben. Adam’s inert body still pinned Jesse and Blake, but they were already getting free.

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 backs 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, gently rolling him onto his back. 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 Markleesville, 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 back 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, Pa."

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 Markleesville, 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. "Roy, I want you to arrest these men."

"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."

Roy rubbed at his moustache. "Happen a local jury’d likely believe the Cartwrights before they’d take on what some stranger gunman from down south said."

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 Markleesville, not here."

"Don’t much matter, now," Roy said. "Man’s dead, and died in my territory. I’ll just send a messenger to Sheriff Watson, let him know he can tear up them wanted posters. You fellers, though; that’s something different. And even if you was right and you didn’t mean to kill him, fact is that you was responsible."

"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 Roy, raising one hand. "It’s a reasonable request."

Ben turned on him. "You can’t mean you’d let this . . . butcher . . . anywhere near—"

Roy cut him off again. "You just settle down a bit." He turned to Blake. "An’ you, too. Jest stay put right where you are. I ain’t sayin’ you ain’t got some kinda legal claim to be dealt with, but I’m the sheriff around here and it’s gonna be handled my way."

"Roy—"

"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, Roy was right. For what they’d done to Adam, they would pay . . . and he wouldn’t allow his self-righteous desire for revenge to create loopholes a lawyer could let them slip through.

Roy turned back to Blake. "Now, what are these papers, and what’s your interest in them?"

"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 Markleesville." 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 Markleesville 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."

"Roy," Ben said with steel in his voice, "I’ll allow you to go upstairs and search Stoddard’s body, but these men are staying down here with me."

Roy rubbed at his moustache. "All right, but I’ll be taking everyone’s guns before I go."

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 Roy waited patiently. Jesse scowled, but handed it to Roy.

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.

Roy locked the drawer and pocketed the key. "That’s fine, then. And there’ll be no funny business while I’m upstairs, either, y’hear?" he warned. "I won’t be that far from the top of the steps, an’ that’s a fine view for shootin’ folks what get outta line."

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 Roy up the staircase, but he knew it was essential they keep to the story that Stoddard was dead. It seemed a long time before Roy returned, Hoss at his back. He searched Hoss’s face, and relaxed infinitesimally when he could detect no further grief. Roy’s announcement, though, brought him back to the present with a thump.

"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 back now and leaving you in peace."

"No," Ben breathed as he stepped forward.

Roy shook his head. "They got the right to leave, Ben. ‘Course I don’t have to give them back their weapons, seein’ as how they already committed violence in my territory."

"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.

"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 Markleesville. 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 back open.

"Roy, they’re going after Joe."

Hoss closed the door after peering outside and came back 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."

Roy had the gun rack unlocked. "Any horses in your barn, boy?" At Hoss’s sudden look of understanding, Roy tossed a rifle to him, which he caught in one hand. "Best go protect your property from horse-thieves."

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," Roy turned back to his friend, "you gonna stay here with Adam or go with me?"

"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.

Roy spent those few minutes shortening the stirrups on Chubb. His own horse had been released with the posse members, but he didn’t mind – Hoss’s horse was fresh and strong.

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. Roy took precious moments to carry the cowboy out to where the horses were scattered, then he took off after his friend.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

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 off to the back trail 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 back 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," Roy called.

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 back toward the road.

"You know where they’re headed? What we’re gonna do when we get there?"

Ben paused, torn between Roy’s good sense and the driving urgency that told him to hurry . . . hurry!

"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."

Roy ran a hand over his face. "Not good. Gonna be hard to find cover, if it gets into a shootin’ match."

"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.

Roy sighed and followed.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

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 Mexico, back to my son—

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 Mexico to marry ‘Berto?

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 back. "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 back 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 back on. 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 Roy would take care of Blake. He was closer, closer – close enough to see the wickedly long knife flash between the two bodies.

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 Roy, who had a rattled-looking Blake by one arm. Roy looked down at the body.

"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 back to town when that other feller gets here. The roan’s dead, but I found Jesse’s horse – Joe can ride him back 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, Pa. We got what we want, we got what Adam wanted."

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," Roy said, jerking on the man’s arm. "I’m gonna put you in the lean-to for a coupla minutes while I get things sorted out." He looked at Joe critically, and as he headed for the small structure, said, "Better get the boy inside and sat down for a bit. A swallow or two o’ whiskey wouldn’t be such a bad thing, neither." The two of them disappeared into the lean-to.

Joe looked up at his father. "Pa – I’m awful cold, Pa."

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, "Roy?"

The sheriff reappeared. "He ain’t gonna be goin’ nowhere for a while." He trudged back 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."

Roy took it and looked keenly at Joe. "This what them boys were all after?"

Joe nodded, weary beyond measure.

"Roy, if you don’t mind, let’s do this inside."

Roy nodded. The cabin was dark and cold, so, after getting Joe seated on the bunk, Ben got a fire started while Roy lit the lantern that was hanging on a rope from the ceiling. Then he unfolded the paper carefully, and Ben looked over his shoulder.

DEED Santa Maria Mining Company, Markleesville, Utah Territory. Owner: Isabella Rivera de la Vega Morales. For services rendered and upon terms agreed to, hereby transferred to Adam Stoddard `

"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.

Roy studied both sides of the paper. "I’m guessin’ Adam wanted me to get this into his right name. I can do that, seein’ as I’ve known him since he was a little feller, but what d’you think we’re supposed to do with it then?"

"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 Roy, his attention suddenly intensely focused.

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." Roy blew out a breath. "Mebbe if Adam is up to it tomorrow, I can ask him. Meantime, I’ll take care of the legal end of this."

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 Roy was vague and distracted, but the sheriff just waved at him on his way out the door.

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, Pa. I had to tie him down so he wouldn’t move while I dug . . . while I . . . ." He choked on the words, and his eyes gleamed wetly. "Oh, Pa—"

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? Roy had absolved him of blame – called it self-defense – and though Joe was glad not to have to face a trial, that didn’t stop the memories.

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.

Roy had sent messengers down to Markleesville and through the countryside down there, finally tracking down the boy Berto. Isabella’s son. Joe remembered her now, a beautiful woman his brother had danced with and walked out with and, he believed, loved. She’d left when Joe was still young, and he’d quickly forgotten her. He was sorry for that, now. It seemed wrong not to have more memories of her, now that she was dead. Berto would be all right, though. He would go live with his uncle, and between Señor Morales and Adam, Joe knew they had made sure the boy would never lack for money. It seemed little enough.

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 back under the coverlet. 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. Roy took the deed to the judge, got it transferred to your name, all right and proper. It’s been recorded, and it’s in the safe downstairs."

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