Don’t cross him, don’t boss him. He’s wild in his sorrow. He’s ridin’ an’ hidin’ his pain.

The Red Headed Stranger, by Willie Nelson.

It had happened so many times lately. A trail of seemingly pointless fistfights followed wherever his son set foot these past few weeks and Ben worried that it would soon progress to something more serious.

Or deadly.

It wasn’t like the random saddle tramps or miners in town owed his son any favours and would pull any punches just because his son was … whatever he was!

Ben wanted to say the word grieving, but he held back. He didn’t want to give rein to that thought just yet.

The ongoing rift between Little Joe and his best friend since they attended their first day of school together was tearing his son apart. It had taken days to figure out just what was driving his son’s behaviour when he was up one minute and down in a foul mood the next. Unfortunately, he’d been too late to stop Joe’s self-destructive behaviour before he’d damaged that bond with Mitch.

Ben watched as the dust slowly settled where Joe had just been. Hoss stood with his hands anchored on his hips and blood dribbling down his lip. It wouldn’t have taken much for him to pummel his smaller brother into the ground and once again Ben was grateful for his middle son’s calm temperament. It wasn’t as if Joseph wouldn’t have deserved it.

“What are we gonna do about him, Pa?”

Hoss took a swallow from the canteen his father handed him and spat the bloodied water onto the ground. He swiped his hand across his lip and frowned at the blood that came away. Joe had one mean left hook! No, at the moment, Joe was just plain mean.

“Don’t cross him.” Ben tried to smile at Hoss. It didn’t take much these days. “Don’t boss him.”

“Pa, I don’t boss him, but he’s just …”

“He’s wild in his sorrow.” Ben turned once again to look where his son had so recklessly ridden off to at a full gallop.

“He’s ridin’ an’ hidin’ his pain.”

Ben nodded as Hoss began to gather up the tools and place them in the back of the buckboard.

“This can’t go on.”

It was well after nine o’clock before Ben got to see his youngest son again. This time, as Joe nudged the front door open, Ben stared in horror at the state Joe was in. His shirt was torn into strips and his face looked like it had gone three rounds with a bull. He stumbled to his feet as Joe hung his hat on the rack and began to unbuckle his gunbelt.

“Joseph! Son … this has to stop!”

Joe held up a hand and nodded. “It’s alright, Pa. I’m done fightin’.”

Ben stared as Joe crossed the room and held out a hand towards Hoss. “I’m sorry, Hoss. I had no business hittin’ you.”

Hoss reached for his brother’s outstretched hand and gripped onto it. “What do ya mean, you’re done fightin’?”

“I saw Mitch today. We … we sorted things.”