Summary:  He used what he had at hand to save himself; now he pleaded, “Don’t let him kill me.”

Rating: T (1,460 words)

 

Dear Readers —  This story was written almost fifteen years ago for my own pleasure, and I’m happy to share for others to enjoy.  I know some readers may wish there was more, but this how I saw fit to write this story.  Since I no longer write Bonanza fan fiction, I ask that you honor my request to not post comments asking for the story to continue.

 

The Least Dreaded

 

A weapon.  He had to find a weapon.

Joe’s eyes darted around the room.  He knew he had only moments before one of the gang came upstairs and found him.  The gunrack might as well be in San Francisco for all the good it was going to do him up here.  To make things worse, he wasn’t even in his own room, where he had a set of bow and arrows that had been given to him by a friendly Paiute.  No, he was trapped in his oh-so-civilized eldest brother’s room.

The door creaked as it slowly opened . . .
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“Joe!” he heard from a distance.  A deep voice, full of concern, but not one he wanted to hear from, though he couldn’t quite figure out why.

Feather-light touches on his face, ribs, legs; a palm on his forehead, then strong arms lifted him and settled him onto something soft.

“Joe?”  The same voice, even more worried.  “Pa, I think he hears me, but he isn’t waking up.”

The words drilled into his head with spikes of pain.  He groaned.

“That’s it, son,” said a different deep voice.

“Pa,” he whispered.

“Adam, hand me a glass of water.”

He sipped, and the cool water eased his throat.  He opened his eyes to blurry shapes and squinted to try to bring them into focus.  His father was leaning over him, and he had momentary glimpses of a body in black appearing and disappearing.  He groaned again.  “Don’t let him kill me, Pa.”

“Shh,” Ben said.  “You’re safe, son; Roy is taking the gang back to town, to the jail.”  He smoothed a hand over Joe’s hair and smiled.  “I’m proud of you, Joseph.  All that ruckus up here distracted the rest of the gang, and Adam and I jumped them.  You took care of the man up here, and by that time, Hoss was back with Roy.”

“Pa, please,” he repeated, “don’t let him kill me.”

Ben looked over his shoulder at his eldest, worry creasing his brow.  “That blow to the head must be worse than I thought.  He’s still confused.  Maybe we should get the doctor out here after all.”

Joe looked up at his oldest brother, who had the strangest expression on his face.  Worry, relief, frustration, fury, all melded with a certain familiar resignation.

“He’s fine,” Adam said as he tucked more pillows under Joe’s head, propping him up a bit more.  “He means me.”

“What?”

Joe cleared his throat and peered up at Adam, hoping that he could at least delay the execution until he felt a bit better.  “I tried to use only your old textbooks, but I mighta got hold of some Shakespeare.  I know one of them was big enough that when it hit him in the face, it bought me enough time to grab your chair and break it over his head.”

“. . . complete works of John Donne . . .” Adam muttered.  He dropped the three-inch volume back on the floor and picked up a mashed roll of architectural drawings.  “What happened to these?” he asked as he tried to pull them apart.

Joe coughed, his voice suddenly escaping him.  “Um . . . rolled up like that, they’re good as a stick to the throat.”

Adam raised an eyebrow, then sighed and set them down on the floor – the only remaining flat space aside of the bed.  He gathered more bits and pieces and laid them on the coverlet.  “The drafting tools I can understand – sharp and pointy – I can even see how my wardrobe landed on the floor—”  He cut off suddenly and looked at Joe in concern.  “You weren’t under it, were you?”

Joe shook his head mournfully.  “Nope, and he wasn’t either.  Luckily for me, that was just when—”  Now he was the one to stop suddenly.

Adam narrowed his eyes in suspicion.  “When what, little brother?”

“Now, Adam,” Ben broke in.  “It was all in self-defense.  I’m sure whatever is broken can be replaced.”

“What?” Adam repeated, undeterred.

Joe pulled himself back on the bed.  He couldn’t get completely out of range, but he could sure try.  “Your—” His voice broke.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  “Your guitar.”

Adam sank back onto the bed and rubbed at the spot between his eyes.  “I should have guessed.  Of course.”

“I’m really sorry.”

Adam sighed.  “I know, little buddy.  Nothing you could have done any different.” He looked around the room.  “Where is it?”

Relieved at how well Adam was taking the news, but still worried what he’d do when he actually saw it, Joe pointed under the bed.

“Met the same fate as the chair, I suppose,” Adam muttered as he leaned down.  “Hope it was as useful.”  He pulled it out with a mournful scowl, but then stared at it in stunned surprise.  Except for three of the six strings being curled in rolls up by the head of the instrument, it was pristine.  The late afternoon sun shone through the window and turned the blond wood into burnished gold, a perfectly smooth and unmarred surface.  Adam turned it this way and that, examining every surface.  “Joe?”

“I’m sorry about the broken strings.  I had to have something that would distract him, something to catch him off guard.  I only had a few seconds, but I wound ‘em up as tight as I could and stuck it under the bed.  You shoulda heard the weird plunky twang they made when they broke.  That fella didn’t know what was going on, and I got the drop on him.  I lobbed that John Donne guy at his head along with whatever that is over there by the door—”

Adam turned his head sidewise to make out the title.  “Wordsworth,” he inserted, followed by a muttered, “Appropriate.  ‘Beware poetry in man – a weapon the more dangerous because the least dreaded!’ ”

Joe nodded, though he didn’t really understand what Adam was talking about.  “So then I jabbed him in the throat with those papers, and . . . well, I don’t remember much more.”  He rubbed at his head and pulled a shard of white porcelain from his hair.  “I think he must have gotten me with your water pitcher.”

Adam picked up a sharp, curved piece of white china.  “Shaving bowl,” he commented.

“That’s enough,” Ben said.  “Put it down before you cut yourself.  Joseph, let’s see if we can get you into your own room, and you can rest up for a while.”  He helped Joe to his feet, and for the first time, they both had a good look at the bedroom.

“Oh, Adam.” Joe swayed.

Adam just flapped a hand at him.  “Go lie down,” he sighed.  “I’ll deal with this.”

Ben started to steer him out the door, but he pulled back at the last minute.  “I – I’m sorry about the guitar.”

Adam shot him a queer look, then shook his head.  “Concussed, Pa.  Better get him to bed.”

“Come on, young man.” Ben chivied him down the hall with encouraging words.

Once he was settled in bed – minus the shards of porcelain, which Ben picked out very carefully – with a glass of water lightly laced with laudanum, he tried once more.   “Pa?”

“Hmm?”  Ben swirled the last bit of water in the bottom of the glass and handed it to him again.

He dutifully swallowed it down.  “Pa, d’you think Adam will forgive me?  I know he understands I had to use the books and the chair and all, but I didn’t mean any of that.”  He handed the glass back, then fiddled with the quilt.  “His guitar – see, I did that on purpose.”

“Of course I forgive you,” came a deep voice from the doorway.

He looked up to see his brother framed in the doorway.

 

“Joe, the important thing is that you’re safe – and that you did what you had to, to help us.”

“But . . .”

A slight smile quirked at Adam’s mouth and he pulled the instrument out from behind his back, newly strung.  “Had some extras in my desk drawer.  Once I pried it open, it only took a couple minutes to put them on.  If you can stand the sound of me tuning them, I’ll play for you to go to sleep.”

Joe swallowed hard and relaxed into his pillow.  “Thanks,” he said, and closed his eyes.  And as the first chords of an old French folk tune floated from his brother’s fingers and he settled into sleep, he wondered when Adam would think to ask why his youngest brother had been in his room in the first place . . . .

The End

 

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© June 2004, 2017

Note:  Adam slightly misquoted the Marquis De Custine, a French traveler and author.

From the Brandsters / Librarians — Any comments that do not respect the author’s wishes as posted above shall be removed.