Summary:  A unspeakable tragedy threatens to break apart the close-knit Cartwright family.

Rated:  T  WC  14,500 

Story Notes:  A Summer 2011 Round Robin Challenge.  BB Fanfic writers were invited to submit an opening chapter.  Members voted on their favorite, with the top three forming the first link in their respective chain.  Each chain consisted of seven authors who collaborated to complete the story over the summer.

Participants in this chain were (in alphabetical order):  Bonzan, faust, frasrgrl, Freyakendra, idmarryhoss, Patina, Sklamb

 

The Destruction of Joe Cartwright 

He was cold, and every inch of his body throbbed with unrelenting pain.

Eighteen year old Joe Cartwright poked at the embers of his meager fire with a small branch. When he made camp for the night he didn’t want to risk being spotted on the off chance that he was being followed, so he kept his fire small, no matter how cold he was.

He had done everything he could to cover his tracks. When he left the house he took the road to Virginia City, but doubled back and headed in the opposite direction. When he crossed a stream, he would walk the horse either up or downstream before crossing. Joe headed for the hard, rocky ground of the hills, which would easily conceal his tracks making it even harder to follow. When he finally stopped for the night, he picked a spot that was almost completely surrounded by boulders. It not only created a natural wind break, but concealed his small fire.

Knowing that he had to eat if he wanted to continue, Joe choked down some cold biscuits he had pilfered from Hop Sing’s kitchen and chased them down with strong, black coffee; a far cry from the dinner that Hop Sing would have made that night.

As much as he hated to, Joe left Cochise at home, knowing the horse would attract attention where ever he went, making it easy for him to be spotted—and found. Instead, he took one of the non-descript horses from the corral, one that wouldn’t be missed. The brown gelding would easily blend in with any other horse.

Hoping to gain more time, he made sure to emphasize how overly tired he was the night before, knowing that after the beating he had taken, Pa would allow him to sleep late, and with Cochise in his stall, no one would be the wiser . . . at least for a while.

Joe was determined to disappear.  Although he took his green jacket with him for the little warmth it provided, he planned on buying a new set of clothes in the next town.  He would also find a barber and get that haircut his father had been demanding.

Taking a deep breath, he moaned out loud when it felt like a thousand white hot pokers were being plunged into his side. Joe gingerly reached down and pulled his shirt up to inspect the bandage that was wrapped around his abdomen. A sigh of relief escaped him when he didn’t see a single trace of blood on the linen that covered the knife wound in his side.

At least Doc’s stitches were holding.  He tried to adjust his position on the hard ground, trying to get more comfortable, but between the knife wound and the cracked ribs, comfort would be a long time in coming.

Joe looked up at the inky black sky that was filled with thousands of twinkling stars, and tried to contain his emotions.  Exhausted from the pain of the multiple injuries he had suffered just days before; Joe pulled the blanket closer around him. A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye and made its solitary track down his cheek. Angrily, he swiped it away; he had promised himself that he was done crying over everything that had happened; Pa’s angry words and the disappointment he felt towards Joe, his family’s distance and disapproval . . . the loss of the life he had once known.

Joe let his mind wander back . . . back to the time when his life had started to unravel.

To the time before the complete destruction of Joe Cartwright.

***

Had it been only one week ago? Had it taken only seven days to destroy a life?

It had taken only one second. One single second. One second Joe wished he could just wipe out of his life.  One second.

One damnable second.

But unfortunately you can’t wipe events out of your life, not even just second-long events.

That fateful day had started harmless and peaceful, with a bright sunny sky that gave no indication of the tempest the afternoon would bring. Had Joe known what would mar this seemingly perfect day, he surely would not have jumped down the stairs like a little boy at playing Hopscotch, merrily whistling a melody he had heard Adam playing on his guitar the night before.

But, of course, Joe had had no way of knowing what would happen and so he had jumped and whistled and been as good-tempered as his family had ever seen him—not even Adam’s mild teasing about sounding like an off-key tea kettle had done his good mood any harm.

It had been over three weeks since Joe had last had the chance to go to town and see the judge’s beautiful daughter Rosalind; and when the day before Adam had asked him if he possibly might be willing to suspend breaking broncos in favor of going to town and buying supplies, Joe had nearly clasped him to his bosom.  Only the fact that Adam wasn’t easily clasped to anyone’s bosom, plus the circumstance that his older brother had carried a bucket full of cart grease and an already soaked brush in his hands, had held Joe back . . . oh, and that it would have hurt his dignity.  Instead, he had graciously agreed to assist the “old man” with running his errands; not that anyone had believed his show of nonchalance—but it was part of the game.

No, there had been nothing that could have changed Joe’s cheerfulness: not the fact that Hoss again had gotten the majority of the syrup-soaked flapjacks at breakfast; not Adam’s unjust teasing about Joe’s “uncharacteristic eagerness and rapidity” at hitching up the horses; not Pa’s last minute admonitions to stay out of trouble in town when Joe already had been sitting on the front seat; not the broken harness that nearly had caused a potentially nasty accident only two miles before they’d reached the town.

It only added to Joe’s happy buoyancy that Adam worked through his errands with his typical efficiency—something Joe thought bordered on obsessive but Adam claimed to be the result of careful planning—so that they were through with everything including a late lunch at the Bucket of Blood saloon early enough to give them some free time to spend on their own business before they had to go back home.

To make things perfect, as they were leaving the saloon, Adam spotted Charlotte Brinkman, the new librarian, coming out of the Ladies’ Millinery Shop. He excused himself rather hastily and rushed across the street to meet the girl who, as Joe suspected, had a very good chance of becoming the next Mrs. Cartwright; that was, if Adam could manage to get past her four very protective brothers and convince her father that he was good enough for the mine-owner’s precious shining star.  Mr. Brinkman, shareholder of the Ophir Mine, and his family had moved to Virginia City only a few months before, but he surely would have heard about the Cartwright’s by now, and about Adam. He would know that Adam was educated, much more sober-minded than his own hotheaded sons, and—as an engineer—a very suitable son-in-law.

While musing about his chances to be Adam’s best man at his wedding, Joe made it quickly to Judge Manville’s office where Rosalind helped her father with the paperwork—more to keep her entertained than that she actually was needed there.

Rosalind was delighted to see Joe and happily agreed to join him for a stroll. The judge nodded his approval, and soon they were making their way down A Street, looking into the shop windows and into each other’s eyes, talking about the barn dance next Saturday and the attempted bank robbery at the First International last week.

They stopped in front of Cass’s Mercantile and inspected the laid out items, when Rosalind grabbed Joe’s arm.

“Joe, look!” She pointed to a wooden box lined with purple velvet, containing a handsome hand gun and accessories—a quick loader, caps, and repair tools. “Isn’t that . . . oh, it is!”

Joe grinned. “Yep, that’s a Colt Army, they have a civilian variant now, too.”

“It’s beautiful; modest, but elegant.  It would suit you well, Joe.” Rosalind lowered her face and bit her lip until she couldn’t hold back a smile anymore.  Her head shot up and she practically beamed at him. “Just think what you could do with it!”

“Well, it sure would lie comfortably in the hand . . . .”  He gazed at the weapon, then felt for his own gun. “Barrel is a bit long, I don’t know if the swirl would come off as good as with the old Colt.”

“Joe! ” Rosalind clapped her hands in excitement. “Joe, show me.”

“No.”

“Please, please, please, Joe,” she pouted.  She had the prettiest pout he had ever seen, and he couldn’t deny her anything when she pouted.

Joe looked left and right. There was no one on the street who would take offense, no one who would misinterpret what he was about to do.  He flashed Rosalind a confident grin and took his gun out of the holster.

And then, he performed the trick he was famous for:  the swirl, the tornado, as his friend Mitch had once named it, the fast swivel of his gun, round and round his finger in the trigger guard.  It was fast, it was furious, and Rosalind was literally squealing in glee.

Joe swirled and spun the Colt, whirled and twirled, faster and faster, always faster, until Rosalind made a particularly delighted noise, and Joe looked up to receive his reward: her brilliant smile.  Her brilliant smile that distracted him for a split second, a fragment of time, not even as long as the blink of an eye but long enough to disrupt the momentum, to disturb the perfect flow—and the gun whirled out of his hand and down on the ground.

Later, much later, when he was able to think clearly again, Joe would reason that out of habit he must have pulled the hammer back when he took his gun out. There was no other explanation.  No Colt would ever release a shot because it had been dropped.  And yet, his weapon, when it hit the ground, fired a shot.  A wild shot, going astray, uncontrolled, without aim or purpose.  Just a wild shot.

What were the odds that such a wild shot could hit someone?  One in a hundred?  One in a thousand?

Joe would never forget Charlotte’s cry. It sounded more surprised than pained, but maybe the pain didn’t even make it into her awareness before she died.

Joe would also never forget Adam’s terrified, “No!”

He would never forget the look of blank despair in his brother’s eyes.

***

Black.  Adam always wore black. But on that day black looked blacker somehow. Maybe it was the fact that everyone else wore black, or the way Adam’s eyes almost looked black.  Joe would never be certain.

As the Cartwrights drew closer to the cemetery, the river of black opened for them to pass through.  Whispers ran like a wildfire through those joined together to lay Charlotte Brinkman to rest on the hill overlooking the streets of Virginia City.

Joe’s hands were shaking.  He couldn’t get them to stop.  It wasn’t because it was cold or rainy; the brilliant blue skies and the radiant sun didn’t seem to understand what was taking place below them.  Joe had killed a woman, a defenseless, sweet young woman.  Of course, he had been cleared of all criminal charges; it had been an accident, a terrible, terrible accident.  But that fact didn’t really change anything.  He had still killed her.  She was still dead.  Her body was being lowered into the earth, away from those who loved her.

“How dare you show your face here, Cartwright.”  It was the voice of James, the youngest of Charlotte’s four brothers, and even though there were four Cartwrights standing there, no one had to ask which one James was talking to.  All eyes centered on Joe, even those of his family.

Joe naturally pulled his eyes to his pa.  He could always count on his father to step over to his side and help him.  But Pa’s eyes were nearly as black as Adam’s.  Only it wasn’t sorrow that darkened Ben Cartwright’s eye, it was disappointment.  How many times did I warn you? Joe wanted to look away from his pa’s eyes as more of the crowd threw in their own heated words.  You didn’t listen.

Joe looked to his brothers and found no comfort. Adam stared coldly at him and Hoss was looking at his boots as if there were something written across them.

“Murderer.”  The word was said more than once.  Joe himself had said it to his reflection that morning.

“Ben.” The deep baritone of Mr. Brinkman all but silenced the churning voices. “I think it would be best if you and your sons left.”  Young James moved to stand behind his father and next to his brothers.

Ben looked around at the crowd. “Let’s go,” he whispered and turned away.

Adam didn’t move. He wasn’t about to follow his family in their retreat.  He had loved Charlotte.  He still loved her.

“All of you Cartwrights,” another brother growled. “None of you are welcome.”

Joe looked back. He didn’t know if it was possible to tell someone how sorry you were with a look, but he tried.  He tried hard, but Adam ignored him, pushing through the people, mounting, and spurring his horse away from where they would bury the woman he loved.

Joe watched his brother ride away. He could hear the ceremony begin on top of the hill. The preacher’s voice fell and rose like waves on Lake Tahoe.  “It was an accident.”  He wasn’t aware that the words had escaped him.

“An accident,” Ben’s words were hard like stone. “A perfectly preventable accident.”

“Pa . . . .” Joe didn’t know what he was going to say, but he wasn’t given the chance anyway.

“You were showing off, Joe.  Stupidly playing a dangerous game and you lost.  Only it wasn’t you who paid.  It was Charlotte and your brother.” Ben turned to look into Joe’s moist eyes.  “It’s been years since I’ve seen Adam so happy.  You killed that happiness with your recklessness.”  Ben’s voice wavered slightly, “It could have been him just as easily. It could be your brother being buried today.  Last night he told me he wished it were.”  Ben turned and mounted Buck, urging him forward without another glance at the cemetery or the son he left by its entrance.

Hoss glanced down at his brother, opened his mouth to speak, then, changing his mind, followed after his Pa.

Joe squeezed his eyes shut and felt the hot tears fall down his face. Why couldn’t this nightmare end?  Why couldn’t this be another dream that would disappear when he opened his eyes?  Instead it was a reality he lived with.  It haunted his dreams and his waking moments. Whenever his eyes closed Joe saw Adam catching Charlotte as she fell, holding her limp body against his chest as his eyes searched for the culprit, and his heart tore apart.

At night when he dreamed, he would watch the gun slowly twirl around his finger as if he were somehow outside of his body.  He would scream for himself to stop, but every time that cocky grin would spread over his face. It happened every time; every night.  The single shot would go off.  Charlotte would scream and Adam would look up at him.  With her blood soaking into his shirtfront he would yell, “Murderer!”  Awake or asleep, he couldn’t escape the nightmare.

Joe mounted Cochise but instead of following his family back toward the Ponderosa he headed for town and a saloon.  All he wanted was a moment to forget, a second where he didn’t loathe himself.  It had been nearly three days; three of the worst days Joe had ever lived through.

If this was how life was going to be from now on, Joe wasn’t sure it was worth living.  He knew how Adam felt.  He, too, wished it were him they were burying on the hill beneath the dusty earth.  After all, the world would be better off without him.

***

When the good people of Virginia City had gathered to lay Charlotte Brinkman to her rest, a different sort had assembled at the Bucket of Blood.  Was this where Joe belonged now?  His gaze swept across ragged, lifeless men, men with blank, empty eyes, or worse . . .  men with the Devil’s glare, like the half-shadowed man sitting in the corner.

“What you lookin’ at, kid?” The voice was as cold as the eyes looking back at him.

“Nothing,” Joe said softly, glancing away as quick as he could and fighting the urge to shudder. “I’m sorry.”

He tried to concentrate on the frothy beer in his mug, but he could not stop seeing those cold, dark eyes.  He could feel them watching him still, making the back of his neck tingle, sharp and hot, like the sting that warns you frostbite’s about to set in.  It felt like a warning all right, and Joe tried to heed it, but it was already too late.  He could hear the man approaching him in the dull thump of boot heels striking worn floor boards and the soft jingle of spurs.  When the man stopped at Joe’s table, he seemed to wait for Joe to look up at him.

It was the last thing Joe wanted to do. He felt like he had just seen the Devil, and he sure didn’t want a second look. But what if . . . what if he had just seen himself, the man he would become—the man he was already becoming?  He had to look.  He had no choice.  His eyes moved upward . . . and a hand grabbed him by the throat.

“You want to look at me, boy?  Well, go ahead and take a look.  Take a good, long look.”

Joe found himself being hauled to his feet. With his free hands, Joe clawed at the stranger’s hand as it choked him, but he might as well have been a baby fighting David’s Goliath.  There was power in that hand, strength enough to snap his neck.  Or to hang him; to hang him right there at the end of a man’s arm.  Even when Joe was on his feet, still the man kept lifting him upward. He didn’t stop until all that kept Joe from swinging in the air was the very tip of his toes.

“I said look!” The man shouted.

The hand no longer mattered. The fact that Joe was gasping for breath meant nothing.  All that mattered was the face staring back at him.  Before, Joe had only noticed the man’s eyes—eyes that raged with a fire inside, the kind that could blister a man’s soul.  But now . . . now he was sure he was looking at the Devil itself.  Half of the man’s face was red, the skin wrinkled and folded like melted wax.  And that wasn’t the worst of it.  The man’s free hand tugged away his neckerchief to make sure Joe could see the rope burns hiding beneath.  And that was when Joe knew, knew without any doubt at all he was looking at the Devil, because it’s a common fact you can’t kill the Devil. You can hang him from here to next week, but he isn’t ever going to die.

“You got somethin’ to say to me now, boy?”

I’m sorry!  Joe wanted to say.  I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to kill her!  I’d die myself if I could bring her back.  But please don’t take me!  I can’t be like you! I can’t . . . can’t be the Devil!

But Joe’s voice was useless, locked into his throat by the hand that was strangling him.

Maybe the stranger realized that or maybe he just got tired of the game.  He threw Joe away from him like a bored child throwing a ragdoll.  Joe landed hard enough against a table to knock what little breath he still had in him clear out of his lungs.  The table collapsed into kindling beneath him.  For an instant, Joe wondered if his spine would fare as poorly, but it was his chest that burned.  He could almost swear it was on fire . . . and as his vision began to grow foggy, he was sure he caught a glimpse of Hell.

But it was only a glimpse, a quick reminder of where he was headed.  By the time he realized what he was seeing, he found himself back on the floor of the saloon, staring up at a ceiling yellowed by smoke and blackened by soot.

“All right mister. That’s enough.”  Was that Sheriff Coffee’s voice?  The sound was dulled, muffled by a ringing in Joe’s ears. “Now just come with me slow and easy like.”

“Tell you what, sheriff,” the stranger said. “You put that gun away slow and easy like, and I won’t kill you.”

“That’s a mighty bold thing to say, seein’ as how I’m the one with the gun.”

Joe wasn’t sure what happened then.  He had to guess the stranger had help, the kind of help only devils can get.  There was a soft thud, a grunt and then the sound of—something . . . maybe a gun clattering to the ground.  That was all Joe heard. By the time he got his feet under him again and blinked the fog from his eyes, the saloon was empty except for Joe and Sheriff Coffee.  Roy was lying on the floor.  He wasn’t moving.

“It was Cartwright!” The shout came from just outside the doors. “It was Little Joe Cartwright!  He killed the sheriff!”

Stunned by the accusation and horrified that Roy really might be dead, Joe stood frozen in place, staring at yet another victim of his own carelessness.  But he hadn’t caused this, not really.  Had he?  Joe felt numb and empty . . . as empty as the men he’d seen earlier.  Where had they gone?  Back to Hell?

Dazed . . . lost . . . Joe was slow to react when a group of angry men—Charlotte’s brothers among them—came crashing into the saloon.  When two of the men grabbed hold of him, Joe did not struggle.  When James Brinkman punched him in the mouth, Joe spat blood to the floor and then faced him again.  He took every blow James had for him, and then more from each of Charlotte’s grieving brothers, figuring he deserved every one.  He stood there and took it, the beating he’d had coming, and when he could no longer stand on his own, he accepted the support of the men holding him.  He never once gave thought to fighting back until something sharp seared his abdomen and he knew he had to fight back, but not against these men—his fight was against the blackness, because if it won, he would wake up in Hell.

***

Joe smelled smoke and something else his nose couldn’t identify.  He was afraid to open his eyes; he didn’t want to know if Hell really looked like the pictures in that Dante book.  A stab of pain in his side reminded him about the man who had to spend eternity pushing a rock uphill only to have a vulture eat out his liver.
Low voices said his name along with Roy’s and Charlotte’s.  Maybe he was in line at the Pearly Gates.  If so, was Saint Peter discussing his sins with God?  Had his good deeds outweighed the wicked?  Neither Roy nor Charlotte probably had to wait in line—they were likely escorted through without question by angels.

The tearing in his side grew worse.  He hoped that vulture was enjoying its feast because liver would be on the menu again tomorrow.

“Hold still,” a voice commanded.  Joe was sure that was Dr. Martin.  If so, he must still be earthbound.  He tentatively opened one eye and was relieved to be in the doctor’s surgery.  He gulped a ragged breath at the sharp pain in his side and realized he was being stitched.

In an attempt to block out the pain, he tried listening to the voices coming from the other side of the privacy screen.  His father’s deep baritone was rumbling at someone else, but Joe couldn’t place the responding voice.

“It’s only hearsay,” Joe heard his father say.  “No one saw who shot Roy.”

“Those shots weren’t fired by a ghost.  Your boy was in the saloon, his pistol had been fired, and Roy was down.  That’s all the evidence I need.”

Did that mean what Joe thought?  Had he killed the sheriff?  Was he going to be hanged like Farmer Perkins?   At least there had been a witness—Mrs. Cameron—when the Farmer killed the storekeeper.  Air whistled through Joe’s teeth as he tried to breathe through the pain of the needle.

If Roy was dead, would Adam side against Joe?  Adam had made the decision to carry out Perkins’ sentence; would he insist on seeing his brother hang?

“I need a witness, Mr. Brinkman.”  Joe recognized Clem’s voice.  At least the deputy was on his side.

“That’s irrelevant.  You have a body and the weapon.  Other men have been hanged with less evidence.  If you won’t hang him, I’ll insist that Judge Manville swear out a warrant for that boy’s arrest and execution.  He has a daughter, he’ll understand.”  Joe heard windows rattle as the door slammed.  Charlotte’s death was an accident, why didn’t anyone realize that?

Heavy footsteps came around the screen and Joe turned his head a fraction to see his father.  Pa’s face looked more wrinkled with his hair whiter than it had a few days ago.  He scanned his father’s features, hoping to see warmth in the dark eyes.

“Joseph.”

Joe heard disappointment, sadness, and something else that he couldn’t place.  He wished the pages could be put back on the calendar so he could change what had happened that terrible day.

“Pa . . . I . . . it was an accident.”

Ben held his hat by its brim and slowly turned it in his work-roughened hands.  He shook his head and Joe noticed that the lines on either side of his father’s mouth were suddenly deeper.

“Don’t you ever stop to think, boy?  Are you so selfish?”

Joe winced, as much at the words as at the needle stitching his flesh back together.

“You’re so much like your mother.  Common sense flew out the window when that reckless streak reared its ugly head.  She never gave a second thought to the consequences of her actions.”

The pain in Joe’s side was nothing compared to what he felt in his heart.  As the doctor sewed, it felt like a scalpel was cutting into his soul.

“She’d still be alive if she hadn’t been so confident in her ability to control that damned horse.”  He pointed to nowhere in particular and said, “Charlotte would still be alive if you hadn’t been so irresponsible.  Do you think your brothers and I have nothing better to do than deal with the messes you make?  Don’t you have any pride in being a Cartwright?”

Joe tightly closed his eyes against the pain—his soul couldn’t be stitched back together as easily as his skin.

“Ben,” cautioned the doctor softly.

“Your mother left a trail of destruction in her wake and you’ve done the same.  You are your mother’s son.”

A ragged breath escaped Joe’s mouth instead of a plea for his father’s forgiveness.  The footsteps faded but the hurt of the words didn’t.  He grimaced as the doctor wrapped bandages around his torso but, unlike the ache in his heart, the physical pain would eventually diminish.

“You rest now,” Dr. Martin advised as he spooned laudanum into his patient.  Joe heard a door close and was glad to be alone in his anguish.

Would his mother offer comforting words or would she be as disappointed as Pa?  He grasped at fleeting memories of a smiling, laughing woman whose French-tinged voice spoke words of comfort to boys with skinned knees or bruised faces.  An image surfaced of a woman with long blonde hair and almond-colored skin, singing about a blue-eyed girl named Mary and a black crow in an oak tree.  The face turned towards him but it wasn’t his mother’s—it was Charlotte’s.  The blonde hair changed to a glossy black and then a wiry gray; the eyes from sparkling emeralds to deep sapphires and then glowing red coals.  A skeletal hand reached forth and a long finger motioned for him to follow.  He shut his eyes tighter, praying for God to have mercy on his worthless soul.

***

The long ride home a day later took place in complete silence.  Ben looked like he’d been carved from stone; Hoss like someone had ripped out his heart and stomped on it.  Adam was entirely absent—Joe suspected he’d gone off somewhere private to lick his wounds.  Hard as he’d taken it when he’d lost that Quaker girl, it must have been intolerable for him to face sharing a home with Charlotte’s killer.

Not—Joe was already determined—that doing so was going to be necessary for Adam. As soon as Dr. Martin had admitted he was strong enough to ride, Joe had begun making his plans to leave.  If the Devil could track him to a saloon in Virginia City, there’d be no trouble getting the last few miles to the Ponderosa, so Joe intended to be gone before the Devil bothered coming—if the Devil bothered.  Joe had come to fear he’d been destructive enough on his own that there wasn’t much left for the Devil to ruin there.

All Joe’s life he’d known his father had adored his mother, and himself because of her.  It was something he always depended on, like the sun coming up every morning, whatever trouble he got himself into, no matter what punishment was given as a result, he had been certain he could never lose his father’s love.  He’d even assumed his brothers felt the same way—they’d never shared anything but fond memories of her.  He knew the story of how she’d kissed Hoss’s hurt fingers and soothed his hurt feelings by heart, and if Adam wasn’t so explicit, well, Adam never was . . . .

But now that was gone, all gone, and with it everything that mattered to Joe.  How long had his pa been watching in fear he’d prove himself his mother’s child in cold hard fact?  Only he’d proven himself worse . . . at least poor Marie had only killed herself.  And there was no point in saying “I didn’t mean it.”  He hadn’t meant to kill Charlotte any more than his mother had meant to die for riding that horse too fast.  “Didn’t mean it” only made things worse.  Out-and-out bad intentions might almost have been easier for them to swallow.

No point in promising to do better from now on, either—not with the Devil on his tail. The only thing left for Joe to do was to go, as far and as fast as he could.  So he went.

And now he was lying in a cold, cheerless camp, afraid to go to sleep—afraid of what he’d see if he closed his eyes.  He was trying to pray, but the words were all jumbled and wouldn’t come out right, which put him in more of a cold sweat than ever.

That was when he heard, “Hello the camp!”

The voice sounded cautious, but not unfriendly, and Joe answered before he could think. “Come on up.”

He was just remembering that the Devil could surely imitate voices when the newcomer walked into the firelight—but for all his black clothing and somber expression, Joe knew at once this wasn’t the Devil posing as Adam.  There was grief enough in his eyes to drown in, but not a trace of fire—not even a reflection from the campfire.  In fact, the coldness about him was almost as chilling as the bar-room stranger’s fire had been scorching.

His first words weren’t particularly frightening, though. “Hoss said I wouldn’t be able to find you by myself, and I almost decided he was right.”

“Seemed a good idea to cover my tracks best I could.”

“Might have worked if I hadn’t known about this campsite,” Adam conceded. “But I guessed you’d be running for California, with your face so well known in Nevada.” He scanned his brother up and down before going on, “Take off your shirt. Dr. Martin asked me to check on his stitches if I got the chance.”

Joe could only fumble at the buttons, and Adam finally stepped in to finish the job.  Once he had satisfied himself there was no ugly surprise under the bandages, he cleaned the cut again,  helped Joe back into the shirt, and laid his own coat around the boy’s shoulders. “I was surprised you’d just run away from the Brinkmans, but they worked you over pretty thoroughly, at that.”

There was finally some emotion in his voice, even though the faint older-brother sneer roused Joe to protest, “It’s not the Brinkmans.  They’d a right . . . it’s the other one that’s after me that I can’t face.”

Adam took Joe’s chin in a firm hand and forced it up until their eyes finally met. “Tell me.”

And it all came rushing out—how Joe’d gone over to the Bucket of Blood and seen the Devil there, what had happened to Roy when he’d tried to intervene, the overheard conversation at the doctor’s house and Pa’s speech afterwards, even the nightmarish vision of Marie.  Adam listened without comment, although as the story unwound, the set of his shoulders gradually softened—not into forgiveness, rather as if a sort of peace was settling around him.  Perhaps that gave Joe courage enough to ask, when the story was over, how Adam had known to come looking for his missing brother.

“Once I’d had enough of being alone I still didn’t feel up to dealing with Pa—or seeing you—so I decided to ride into Virginia City and have a talk with Roy.”

“Oh,” Joe whispered.

“Precisely.”

“Adam, I didn’t kill Roy.”

“No, you didn’t; especially since he isn’t dead.  Or at least he wasn’t when I left town.”

Joe launched himself into garbled protest.  It had seemed so certain, listening to Pa and Clem and Mr. Brinkman arguing about Roy being killed—and if Roy had survived, why would Dr. Martin have been wasting his time stitching up a knife wound when the sheriff needed his bullet wound tended?

Adam’s explanation for that shook Joe up even more. “What do you mean, Roy wasn’t shot?” he squawked.

“Just that.  He wasn’t shot.  The gun on the saloon floor was his—and it hadn’t been fired. Your gun was still in your holster.  Paul thinks Roy had heart trouble, or some kind of stroke . . . there’s nothing to be done for him but wait to see if he wakes up again, anyway.  And Clem was waving Roy’s gun under the Brinkmans’ noses through that whole argument you overheard and none of them noticed it wasn’t yours—not even Pa. That was when Clem decided he’d better play along with them for the time and talk to the judge later.” Adam broke off to stare at Joe with cold black eyes. “Are you telling me you think you fired a gun?”

Slowly, reluctantly, Joe thought back through the whole nightmare. “I was on my back on the floor, where that Devil had thrown me . . . and you’re right, there wasn’t a gunshot. I heard Roy groan and fall, and the gun skitter away, but no gunshot.  Only. . . only, why?”

“I don’t know,” Adam grunted. “All I know is what I told you, and that Paul and Clem—and Judge Manville, who I hear is very annoyed with his daughter lately—are sitting at Roy’s bedside ready to take a deposition if he wakes up long enough to tell them what he remembers.  If he remembers anything, of course; Paul’s afraid he might not.”

“I wish I could not remember any of it.”

“I’m sure you do,” Adam said bitterly. “Not remembering’s so much easier, isn’t it?” There was a pause while he deliberately brought himself back under control, before he went on in a rather softer voice. “If you’re having nightmares they would make things harder, I suppose. Let me stand watch while you sleep—I’ll wake you up if you need it.  And you will need some rest—we aren’t out of the woods quite yet, you know.”

Somehow knowing Adam was there did make it easier for Joe to face trying to fall asleep.  As he settled back onto the ground he mumbled sleepily, “I don’t understand why you should bother yourself over me.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Joe. That bullet’s destroyed enough I loved already. I’m not letting it take any more.”

“Thanks, older brother,” Joe whispered back, but Adam had already turned away and was checking to be sure his gun was loaded.

***

Adam.

Joe didn’t realize he had dozed off, before he felt like falling into the sheer emptiness, again.  The start made him wake up and gasp; his heart nearly missed a beat before he was sure he was still alive. Or was he just not dead enough to let go? Waking up, he realized this thought was old, like a bad habit, and he had to let it go—no, make it go.

The clouds had gathered around them again, brining uncertainty back.  Just as the stars had been hidden, one by one, Joes memories of the peace and calm of Adam’s earlier manner were also swept away.  Had they been just a dream, too?  Eerie nightmares took their place and fed Joe’s growing apprehension.

Adam!

The twitch of his body made Joe grunt, and he felt the throb and the tender itchiness of the stitches, where new bandaging remained as a reminder of his brother’s earlier care for him.

“Adam.”  There was a bit more haste, anxiety, in Joe’s voice than he had intended. It seemed to block his words, momentarily.

“I’m here, Joe.”  Adam’s voice was husky.  But it was near.  Strangely unemotional; familiar for being Adam’s voice, yet somewhat alien.  Close by, yet far, far away.

Joe knew from the tension of his scalp that his forehead creased in a frown, but he was sure Adam couldn’t see in the dark.  He couldn’t.

The echo of Adam’s voice rang in Joe’s ears.  It was a voice of a friend after all those strange days of being an enemy—and yet a voice filled with pain—a pain beyond anything words could express.

”Adam.”  Somehow, Joe had to talk. There was nothing to say, not that he knew, but not saying anything was even worse. Joe had looked into Hell, before, but now he could hear it closing its walls around him, them, and even his ribs ached for the pressure. He couldn’t face being afraid, not anymore. ”Adam.”

“You all right, Joe?” Adam squirmed out from a tightly wrapped bed roll, snorting, and Joe could see the shape of his hair and his eyes, glistening in the remains of the last cinders of the campfire.

Of course Joe was not all right. “Yes, I am,” he lied, before he hesitated, again. “Are you? All right, I mean?”

The itch from the stitches was annoying; but now, since Adam had cleaned the cut and bandaged it again, the scratchiness was more that of healing, rather than getting sicker. There was a similar sore tension in Adam; he was poked by something burning, that had hit something already sore, and he crawled up, hugging his knees.  An awkward caterpillar, tied up in a cocoon of  coarse fabric.

There was no answer. He was looking away.

”Why did you come for me?” Joe repeated.

Adam had said it once, but Joe wasn’t right with it. It was . . . too heavy to carry for him. To carry it alone. ”Why did you . . . come?”

The bedroll around Joe smelled of Ponderosa. Tired, worn, and aching here and there, he also realized he was blazing hungry, of all things, again.  Was he never going to be content, anymore?  The comforting smell of Ponderosa made his frown crease further.  But he couldn’t give in to his feelings, he was a man.

Joe Cartwright was supposed to be a man, now.

Adam had come to take him home. And for all of his young pride and remorse, Joe couldn’t understand. ”You could have just let me . . . go. Find my way . . . somewhere.” Joe swallowed at the last word, although he didn’t know if his throat was dry from being tired, from being so apart from everybody, or from something else.

”Of course I came for you, Joe,” Adam snapped, probably a bit harsher than he had meant. He was tired, too. Was he . . . angry? His eyes flared and his hands flew apart from their tight clasp like they were unhinged from a spring. “I wouldn’t leave even a murderer out here to die!”

The harsh words seemed to stab at Adam as hard as they did Joe.  Somehow, the attempt at reassurance had turned into an accusation.  Adam stared at Joe, frightened, then turned away.

“Joe, I didn’t . . . I had no . . . I meant . . . .  Don’t think like that, Joe.”

But what else was there to think?  Joe was deep in the woods and he saw no path leading out.

Joe didn’t look at him, either.  His eyes were too foggy and his throat so thick—even breathing hurt.

For an eternity they just sat there.  Joe lay half-slumped close to the rocks, dug deep into the bedroll around his wounded posture, and they spoke nothing.  Adam was as tense as a mountain lion ready to jump at the sight of a prey; Joe didn’t know what it was he was s’posed to hunt.

Finally, Adam said, “Try to sleep, Joe. I’ll take you home tomorrow.”

Big brother and little brother, just as it was supposed to be—had been numerous times before.  Except that it wasn’t at all like it was supposed to be, nothing was. “How . . . how can you get over it, Adam?” Joe asked.  It surprised him when the words came out in a squeak.  He was tired, tired of having no control over his voice. But he was too tired for shame, too.

“I . . . I don’t know, Joe. I don’t know.”

Adam’s response reminded Joe of the last image he had of Hoss, back at the Ponderosa, fiddling with the knob on the bed post and staring at his own hands.  Joe had wanted to plead with him to tell him how to live, how to survive, how to ask Pa and Adam to take him back.  “I don’t know, Joe, I don’t know.”

Hoss’ barreling back had been curved in a perfect parabola—imagine Adam’s surprise at Joe using a word like that!—and his eyes sunk deep in his head in front of Joe’s eyes. “If only I knew, Joe, but I don’t.”

These mundane words had revealed he knew it all, and they wrung Joe’s already sore conscience a bit more . . . .  But before Joe finished the thought, another jolt of shame flared in him so hard he nearly forgot how cold the night was.  Maybe Hoss had all the right to hit him back with his bad judgment; maybe he was hurt even worse than Joe himself.  Big and solid Hoss, torn between loyalty to Pa, to Adam, to Joe, too, and not knowing what to do.

Joe hadn’t known what else to do but flee; now he saw that he was repeating an old habit.  He needed to stop, needed to turn and face them all.

“If only I knew.” Adam ducked his head and swallowed, and despite the darkness Joe could sense his jaw clench in the familiar gesture. “It’ll be hard, Joe. It is hard.” He breathed deeply. “It’s hard but we need to get by.” He looked into the horizon, or the direction where they both knew there was a horizon, somewhere, and murmured to the night. “We just . . . get by.”

They had gotten by when Mama, Marie, died.  Joe remembered the dammed-up tears and the stiff, uninviting hugs Pa gave when Joe sought for comfort in his lap.  Pa’s distant look when he didn’t see Joe right there, how that burned Joe’s skin and speared him with pain.  Adam being distant, and Hoss a piece of rumbling, decaying rock every time Joe needed something solid.

Eventually they had come by, because they were joined together by love.  Loyalty.  They each had their moments of standing in front of Pa with bowed head, seeking his embrace, healing, fixing, and forgiving.  It had meant so much to Joe, every time.  But how could he return, now, how was the balance of bonds in the house now, when they were all separated by feelings of everything but love? A few tears and “I love you, Pa” wasn’t going to fix this.

Joe’s frown had grown into a grimace.  He felt tears on his cheeks . . . tears falling down, all so silent, almost unnoticeable.  Why was he letting them fall?

By finding him, Adam was making him face the blocked feelings; he was making Joe break into the locked vault that held all the anger, hatred, guilt, contempt, doom; the emotions of facing the family back home. A bit embarrassed, Joe realized he was reluctant to let go of his hurt pride; being a martyr for a while had made him feel more like a hero again, for a false short moment.

Adam breathed in heavily and lay down. “Sleep. We need to get you safe tomorrow.”

Joe didn’t want to go. “Where are the Brinkmans, Adam?”

“After you,” he replied and turned to his side.

***

Hearing that made Joe’s thoughts waver.  “I can take care of myself,” he snapped so quickly he didn’t realize what he was saying. Even if the Brinkmans were looking for him.  Well, he was taking all the necessary precautions.  He could easily hide in California and never be seen again.  And if they did find him, he could handle it.

Adam’s response, “Sure you can” was simple and quiet, as though it was what he knew he was supposed to say.

Joe was ready to have the same old discussion.  He wanted to argue that he didn’t need his older brothers to protect him.  But the quietness of Adam’s response was unsettling.  It reminded Joe that he had just taken something away from Adam.  It was something precious and something that he could never give back.  It was not a time to argue.

For the next few moments, the silence was heavy and thick once more.  They were two men alone with their thoughts, yet very much aware of the other’s presence, and the other’s silence.  As time went on, there was an easiness that settled in as each quietly mourned what he had lost.  It was with a heart still full of shame and regret that Little Joe slipped off to sleep for the second time that night.

Just before dawn, Joe woke with a start.  The dreams had again invaded his sleep.  His gun was falling slowly to the ground, turning over and over until it hit the dirt with a slight bounce as a single shot fired.  Then came Charlotte’s cry followed by Adam’s “No!”  Joe sat up.  He rubbed his eyes as if he could force the vision from his mind if he only rubbed hard enough.  Adam, however, didn’t stir.  Joe looked at him.  Was he having a peaceful sleep, or was he also tormented by that day even in his dreams?  Joe couldn’t tell, but he knew he had to take advantage of the moment and leave before Adam woke.

Joe gathered his things, crept over to where the horses were tied and began to saddle his horse as silently as he could. When he raised the saddle over the horse’s back, his side burned with the effort. A grunt escaped his lips before he could stop it, but he continued with what he was doing, hoping that the peaceful sounds of the awakening wildlife would mask any more noise he might make.  The time had come. He needed to escape his family for a second time.  Joe prepared to mount his horse. He grasped the saddle. He steadied himself.  He feared that if he made a noise, even just another grunt, Adam might wake up. Suddenly he knew without turning around that he was being watched.  Damn.  Adam had not been asleep after all.  Bowing his head so that it almost touched his saddle, he spoke so softly that he barely made a sound “I have to go.  I’m doing this for all of you. Don’t you see that?

“You are doing this for yourself and no one else, Joe.” Adam sounded angry and accusing.

Joe was briefly taken back to Doc Martin’s surgery.  He could hear Pa’s angry words “Don’t you ever stop to think, boy.  Are you so selfish?”  He needed to protect them from his foolishness.  This way, they would never have to lay eyes on him again and never be reminded of what he did.  Only then would they be able to forget.

Joe couldn’t find his voice, fearing if he tried to speak his emotions would betray him.  He finally managed a simple “no.”

“You are running away from yourself.  You are running so that you don’t have to face Pa’s disappointment and my grief.  You are running so that you don’t have to face anyone who knows what you did.  You think that if you can hide from everyone, then you can hide from what happened.  Well, Little Joe, until you face it, until we all face it, we cannot move on with our lives.  You are denying your responsibility to our family.”  Adam had to stop and settle himself.  There was a fierceness to his words that he had not intended.  Or maybe he had.

The heavy silence between the brothers had returned.  Neither moved, neither said a word.  Joe needed time to think.  The silence continued for what seemed like an eternity.  Joe stood completely still, but his mind was racing.  Washe being a coward and a child?  Joe looked up to heaven, took a deep breath and tried his best to clear his head.  The last thing he wanted to do was cause his family more pain than he already had.  What if Adam could not forgive him?  What if his father continued to look at him with disappointment?  How would he be able to watch Adam grieve knowing he caused Adam’s pain?  These questions kept churning through his mind until suddenly he saw, with complete clarity, his Pa and Adam were right.  He was being selfish.  His biggest worries, all these questions nagging at him were about how he felt, what he did not want to face.  Seeing their pain, grief, and disappointment was going to be hard, but he had to do it.  He had made a child’s choice.  Now it was time to be a man and go home to face the consequences.

Joe turned to face Adam, at first looking at the ground but gradually lifting his head to meet Adam’s eyes.  He squared his shoulders, swallowed hard and spoke with more confidence than he felt. “Okay, I’m coming home with you, Adam. I know that you’re right, but I’m just not sure that it will help everyone . . . enough. ‘I’m sorry’ sounds so empty, but it’s all that I can say.”

“Just give it time Joe, just give it time.”  For the first time since the accident, Joe saw a trace of a smile on his brother’s face.  Adam walked over to Joe and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder before he added, “We will just get by.  Now, you start the coffee and I’ll get some breakfast going.  I want to be on the trail as soon as possible. We still have the Brinkmans to think about.”

***

The sun was just starting to rise and the air was cool with a slight breeze as they began the ride back to the Ponderosa.  Joe couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, the life he had had with his family could be restored one day.  Both brothers were carrying a heavy burden, and they would be for a long time to come.  But they had begun the long journey back to the relationship they once had.

“Adam?”  Joe began tentatively, not sure if it was a good idea to talk about Charlotte’s family right now.  “How do you know the Brinkman boys are after me?”

“Well,” Adam sighed, keeping his eyes on the trail, knowing he needed to be on the lookout for anything strange, “Pa went to town yesterday morning pretty early to check on Roy. When Hoss realized you were gone, he rode into town to tell Pa.”

“So Pa didn’t know that I was gone?”  Joe said softly, more to himself than to Adam.  There was a time, a time just a week ago, Pa would have been sure to check on his badly-injured son before leaving the ranch.

“When Hoss got to town,” Adam continued, not acknowledging Joe’s question, “he found Pa at Doc Martin’s talking with Mr. Brinkman who, I guess, was feeling bad about accusing you of killing Roy.  You can understand why he did that, of course.   He’d just buried his daughter—” Adam stopped. He was determined to get through this story, but it hurt to talk about her when his heart still ached for her and his arms longed to hold her one last time.  He looked over at Joe, who was clearly having his own difficulties with what he had just heard.  God, this was going to be hard.

“So.” Adam swallowed hard. “When Mr. Brinkman heard that you had run off, he tried to convince Pa that it might just be for the best.  James and Bob were still talking vengeance and he was worried that they might do something rash.”

“What about Tom and Fred?  They don’t want to kill me anymore?”  Joe could not help asking.  It was hard to believe that in just over a day, so much more had changed.

“Look Joe, I don’t think Tom and Fred ever really wanted to kill you.  Hurt you, sure.  But not kill you.” Adam stopped again.  He could see that the trail led right into a gully with dry brush and boulders on both sides—a perfect spot for an ambush.  He took a deep breath and blew it out hard; he adjusted his hat and looked over at Joe to see if he too was trying to come up with a different route.  But the expression on Joe’s face showed as much pain as contemplation and for the first time since they had left the camp, Adam noticed that Joe was favoring his side. One more reason they needed to get home sooner rather than later.

“Adam, we’ve got to go straight through,” Joe said, turning to face his brother and seeing the concern on Adam’s face.  “We can’t cut over the rocks because we will be right out in the open.  They’ll be able to see us from miles away.  We have to gamble that they haven’t tracked us and keep heading straight home.”

Adam almost chuckled as he noticed Joe using that tone in his voice.  That I’m-right-and-I’m-going-to convince-you-of-this tone that almost always worked with Pa and Hoss.  He knew Joe was right this time, it was their only option, but he didn’t have to like it. Something just felt wrong about this.  Adam took the lead as he and Joe slowly spurred their horses into the gully.  He kept one hand resting on his gun and checked to be sure that Joe was doing he same.  If something did happen, they would have to act fast.

“You going to finish telling me what happened in town?”

The sound of Joe’s voice shattered the silence so abruptly that Adam’s heart missed a beat. “Sure.  There isn’t much more to tell,” he responded, but he was more focused on the trail ahead than on his words. “I was at the jail talking to Clem when Hoss came by to see if Clem had any luck finding the guy who threw you over the table and started the whole ruckus in the saloon.”

“The Devil,” Joe whispered as a shiver ran up his spine. He had almost forgotten that the Devil was on his trail, too.

“We were talking about who would track the guy from the saloon and who would go after you, when Mr. Brinkman came into the office. He wanted to know if Clem had seen his sons.  Mr. Brinkman said that when he told the boys you had left town, James and Bob got real angry. James said that you were—well, he said a lot of things.  Then the two of them took off before Mr. Brinkman could stop them.  So, we found Pa and came up with a plan.  I came looking for you, Hoss and Clem went looking for the guy from the saloon, and Pa and Mr. Brinkman went looking for James and Bob.  I think that Tom and Fred went looking for their brothers too, but we don’t know that for sure.”

Adam fell silent again and the brothers continued on the trail, constantly looking out for any sign of trouble.  It seemed that everything had gotten quiet.  The air had become still and even the birds had stopped singing.  The only sound came from the horses as each hoof hit the soft ground.

Joe’s side was hurting badly enough that he was having trouble staying up straight in the saddle.  He was adjusting his position when he saw it . . . off, to the side of the road, in some bushes, not two feet from him.  He saw the red glow of the sun reflected in eyes that looked right though him.  Suddenly, Joe’s horse spooked as if he, too, had seen the devil.  As the horse took off, Joe wasn’t sure he would be able to stay on.

Adam didn’t know what had happened, but he spurred after Joe without question.

Joe heard Adam racing after him; he was just beginning to regain control when his horse suddenly stumbled.  He was thrown clear, but landed hard.  He heard the crack as he crashed to the ground, and knew he had broken more of his ribs. The pain in his side became so sharp that he wanted to scream, but he didn’t have the breath to do it.

“Joe!” Adam had dismounted and seemed to be running before both feet had hit the ground.  “Can you hear me, Joe?  I am right here, are you okay?”

The worst of the pain was beginning to subside and Joe opened his eyes.  Everything seemed fuzzy and out of focus.  He wanted to reassure his brother but he still couldn’t speak.  Just as Adam’s features were becoming clearer, there was a shot.  Suddenly Adam was on the ground and he wasn’t moving.

“No!”  Joe wasn’t sure how he found the breath to shout, but he did.  He tried to sit up and reach for his gun, but his holster was empty.  He must have lost it when he was thrown.  Before he had time to think what to do next, or to check on Adam, he heard the unmistakable click of someone pulling the hammer back on a gun.  Then he saw James Brinkman walking toward him.  James spoke slowly and his words were stone cold.

“Well . . . Little Joe Cartwright. You filthy murderer.” James spat on the ground near to where Adam lay.  “I didn’t mean to shoot your brother, and I’m sorry I did it.  But now he can’t help you.  The fact is, no one is here to help you.”

Joe knew that he needed to do something fast. If Adam was still alive, he could be bleeding to death.  James had said that he was sorry he shot Adam. Did that mean that he would let Adam go when this was all over?  Did it mean that Joe could reason with him?  Joe couldn’t be sure what James was thinking, but he was sure about one thing. He had to find out how badly hurt Adam was before he could plan his next move.  Joe looked over at Adam; he was only a few feet away. If Joe moved a little bit to his left, he would have a better vantage point, and he might be able to see if Adam was still breathing. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.  Just as he made the slightest move he saw Bob come out from behind a rock on the other side of the clearing, with his rifle pointed directly at Joe. Bob took a few steps toward Joe before James stopped him.

“Wait, Bob! Stay back a ways, and keep your gun on him so he doesn’t move. I need a little time to think.”  Bob looked unsure but he continued to hold his gun on Joe.

“Look, I’m sorry about what happened.” Joe was trying to keep his voice from shaking but he wasn’t doing a very good job. “It was an accident, a terrible accident. I would do anything to change what happened, but I can’t.”

“Are you trying to beg for your life, Cartwright?”  James spat.  Joe’s words just seemed to make him angrier. “You killed my sister and all you can say is ‘it was an accident?’ She was good and sweet and never hurt anyone and you killed her just because you were showing off!” James fell silent for a moment, then slowly and deliberately walked towards Joe. He stepped over Adam and took Adam’s gun out of his holster, and tucked it in his pants. When he finally reached Joe, he grabbed him by the arm and forced him to stand.   “We almost gave up on finding you, Cartwright.  I am not sure why you and your brother were riding straight at us like that, but I sure am glad.”

As Joe got to his feet the world began to spin.  His entire chest was on fire.  Even worse, when he looked down, he saw he was bleeding again, that his shirt was soaked in blood.  Apparently the stitches had ripped open and blood was freely flowing down his pant leg, since his shirt was unable to absorb more.  Staying alert was his top priority. If he didn’t, he would never be able to help Adam.

Joe repeatedly stumbled as James hauled him over to a nearby tree and shoved him to the ground.  “Bob, I’ll keep my gun on him and you go and get some rope.”  Joe could hear James’ words, but was having more and more trouble understanding them. He could no longer fight. It took every ounce of strength he had to stay conscious.

Adam was becoming aware of some commotion and muffled words as the fog began to lift from his brain.  At first he couldn’t remember where he was, but it only took a few moments for it all to come back to him.  With sudden panic he saw that Joe was no longer on the ground where Adam had last seen him.  Quickly, but quietly, he tried to stand, only to find that his legs were not yet willing to cooperate. Finally he managed to work his way to his knees. There was something warm and sticky on his face, and it did not take him long to realize that he had come damn close to having a bullet in his skull.  For a split second he thought about how he could have been reunited with Charlotte.  He could see her standing there, waiting for him. He could hold her in his arms again . . . .  He forced the vision of Charlotte from his mind.  Joe was in trouble and needed him now. He finally got to his feet just in time to see Bob and James step away from Joe who was sitting, tied to a tree, barely conscious.

“What do we do now, James?”  Bob’s voice was shaking as he lowered his rifle and led James away from Joe.  “Let’s just leave them here.  I don’t like this. I think Pa might have been right when he said that killing Joe Cartwright would only make things worse.  We can stop this.  This isn’t going to bring Charlotte back, James.”

“No! I set out to make Cartwright pay for what he did to our sister and I’m going to do it” James was shouting and his voice was high pitched and shaky.  His breath was coming quick and hard as he looked at the gun in his hand.   “If you’re too yellow, then leave.”

“You should listen to your brother, James.”  Adam’s shout echoed through the gully as both Brinkmans spun around, surprised to see him standing there. Adam hoped he looked a lot steadier than he felt.

Joe’s labored breathing was shallow and he let out a slight moan as he tried to readjust his position so he could see Adam. He was relieved to see Adam standing. Joe tried to move, to see if he could loosen the ropes. A new surge of pain ripped through his side with the effort.

When Joe moaned for a second time, James turned his attention back to his intended victim. Keeping his gun trained on Adam, he backed slowly to the tree where Joe was tied.  He lowered his gun until it was pointed right at Joe’s head. “You killed my sister!  They should have hung you for what you did.” Adam noticed that James was unable to keep the gun steady; his whole body was trembling with rage. “But instead, all you have to do is tell everyone how sorry you are, and they let you walk away like nothing ever happened.” James was shouting now, but no longer directing it at Joe. He seemed to be shouting out to the world. “My sister is dead, and someone has to pay for that!” James’ face was flushed and covered with both sweat and tears that rained down as he snapped his head back in Joe’s direction. “You have no right to be alive. Do you hear me? You have no right!”   He took another step toward Joe and placed the gun barrel against Joe’s temple.

“If you do this it will be murder, James. You will hang.” Adam’s words were calm but firm and powerful. He took a few shaky steps towards James and continued. “And for what? Joe didn’t get to walk away like nothing ever happened, James. Do you think that he hasn’t been living with shame and regret every minute?  This will be part of him for the rest of his life.

“And do you think your sister would want you to kill for her?”  The booming voice of Mr. Brinkman could have been heard for miles.

Everyone turned to see Mr. Brinkman and Ben Cartwright riding in together.  Two anxious men coming to rescue their sons.

***

“Pa?” Joe whispered.

Ben looked at his youngest son; his eyes were hard and cold as he quickly looked him over before turning to Adam. He was taken back when he saw the blood on the side of his head. “Are you alright, Son?”

“Right as rain, Pa,” drawled Adam, keeping his eyes trained on James.

Joe stared at his father unable to believe his callous dismissal.  Everything he had hoped for, everything Adam had assured him died a swift death in that one look. Grief, despair, guilt, and shame all came rushing back with a vengeance. His father had just shown him that there wasn’t a place for Joe in his life. After all he was a murderer, a destroyer of happiness and dreams. The feelings overwhelmed Joe and he no longer wanted anything to do with them. He wanted to run, to get away from them and from everything. He wanted to run as far as he could go, and not be able to look back. He looked off into the brush and could have sworn he saw the red, flaming eyes of the Devil looking back at him. I want to go with him… Have it done with for good.

Without being aware of what he was doing, Joe had been working at the bonds that held him prisoner to the tree. Bob, in his haste and nervousness, hadn’t done a very good job of securing Joe, and with relative ease the ropes dropped away from the youngest Cartwright.

Adam took a tentative step towards James. “Listen to your father, James. Charlotte wouldn’t want this. She wouldn’t want you to ruin your life like this. Not because of her and the actions of a careless boy.”

“What do you know? She was my sister!” James spat.

“I know that I loved her with all my heart and I would have gladly given my life for hers. I know that she also loved me. But most important, I know beyond a doubt, that she loved you so very much. She wouldn’t want this for you. She would want you to find peace and happiness. Charlotte wouldn’t want you living with hate eating away at your heart. She would want all of us to move on, to forgive, and to find love again.” There were tears in Adam’s eyes and a few slipped unheeded down his cheeks.

“Listen to him, Son. Adam’s telling you the truth. Charlotte wouldn’t want this,” urged Mr. Brinkman.

Ben kept his eyes glued to Adam. He couldn’t afford to look at Joe, to allow himself to feel the fear that had rushed into his heart at the sight of his youngest son. He had to be ready for whatever happened; he had to be ready to save the boy’s life. No matter what Brinkman was saying, they were outnumbered three to two and who knew where Tom and Fred were.

“No, Pa! He killed her! She’s gone and she’s never coming back. He’s gotta pay. If the law isn’t going to punish him then I will!” James pulled the hammer back on the gun, the sound echoing though the suddenly silent clearing.

“No, James, don’t,” Bob pleaded.

Adam looked at Joe and saw that he had managed to free himself from the ropes and seemed to be slowly adjusting his position. His eyes met Joe’s and he frowned. He didn’t like what his saw in Joe’s eyes. The look sent a shiver of fear down Adam’s spine. Joe broke eye contact and looked towards their father and Adam followed his gaze to find Ben’s eyes fixed on him and not on Joe. Adam motioned towards Joe with his eyes, but Ben gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He looked back at Joe in time to see him drop his gaze.

Joe heard the hammer click into position on the gun; he could feel the cold steel of the barrel pressed firmly against his temple. All it would take was one squeeze and everything would be over. Joe found that he wasn’t afraid but relieved instead.

James’ eyes were locked with the pleading eyes of his father. “Please, Son, I’ve lost one child already, please don’t cause me lose another.”

James glanced at his older brother, looking for guidance; he didn’t know what to do. He wanted to make Joe pay, but he didn’t want to hurt his family anymore than they already had been. He started to lower his gun when Joe’s hand shot up and grabbed his.

Using James’ hand as leverage, Joe pulled himself to his feet. He seemed a man possessed as he fought for the gun. He was determined to get what he wanted.

It all seemed like it was happening in slow motion as Adam watched Joe’s hand close around James’. He saw Joe’s finger slide into the trigger guard, then Joe pulled the gun up. “NO! JOE, LET GO OF THE GUN!”

Adam’s shout drew Ben’s attention to his youngest son at the same time he heard a shot fired. At first no one knew which of the boys had been hit until Joe collapsed to the ground.

Ben and Adam rushed to where Joe lay motionless on the ground, blood pouring from a gash on the side of his head. Ben felt for a pulse and was relieved to find one. It was weak, but it was there. He pulled the scarf off from around his neck and held it to the wound on the side of Joe’s head.

“Adam, his side. Brinkman, there’s bandages in my saddlebags.” Ben directed.

“I got it, Pa.” Adam ripped Joe’s shirt open and using his knife cut the blood-soaked bandages away from Joe’s side. As he expected, the stitches had been ripped open and the wound had bled quite a bit, but had started to slow.

“Here,” Mr. Brinkman said as he thrust the saddlebags towards Adam.

Adam rifled threw them and pulled out the medical supplies that had been packed. “How is he?” he asked as he handed Ben some bandages.

“Alive. The bullet just grazed him. It’s deep and I’m sure he’ll need stitches; the bleeding is already starting to slow. What about his side?”

“He tore out every one of Doc’s stitches when he fell from the horse. I think he cracked some ribs, too.”

“Pa, I didn’t, I swear I didn’t shoot him. He . . . h-he pulled the trigger,” James insisted.

“I saw, son,” Mr. Brinkman said sadly as he put a comforting arm around his son.

Bob came up on the other side of James and mirrored his father’s actions, lending his brother the support he desperately needed.

Joe groaned and tried to push away from the helping hands, causing Ben and Adam trouble keeping him still. The more they tried, the harder Joe fought.

“Stop it, Joseph!” Ben ordered.

Joe’s eyes opened and he saw his father above him. “No,” he pleaded. “Let me go. Just let me go.”

Ben looked down into the dull, beseeching, green eyes and realized how close he had come to losing his youngest son, in more ways than one. “I’m not letting you go, Joseph.”

Joe looked away from his father. “I’m no good. I’m my m-mother’s s-son.”

Joe’s words slashed at Ben’s heart. He regretted every word he had said. Didn’t he just days ago accuse this same son of not stopping to think? Of being selfish? Yet, he had done the very same thing. He said things in anger, fear and grief. Things that at the time were meant to hurt as much as he was hurting.

“Yes, Joseph, you are your mother’s son. You’re reckless, over confident, you do things without thinking about the consequences. But you’re also like her in so many other ways. You’re loving, generous, courageous, honest, loyal, forgiving, not afraid to admit when you’re wrong and you put others above yourself. Like her, you have a love for life that’s unquenchable; you live life as if every day counts. And if I’m honest with myself, you’re also your father’s son. You say things in anger before you stop to think it through. You’re a good person, Joe.”

“No,” whispered Joe.

“Yes,” Adam said agreeing with their father.

“No, I’m the Devil’s own.”

“No, Joe, you’re my son and I’m proud to call you that.”

Joe swallowed hard and closed his eyes. “Can’t forgive me.”

“I told you, Joe, we’ll get through it. As a family we’ll get through it. All we need is time.”

“You’re my brother, Little Joe, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Joe’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the new voice. Kneeling next to him was Hoss, his clear, blue eyes reflecting the love he felt for his brother.

“Like Adam says, we’ll get through it as a family. You know Adam’s always right, he’s the smart one.”

Joe closed his eyes again, not knowing what to think or feel. He was exhausted and everything felt like it took too much effort.

Adam looked around the clearing. “Where did the Brinkman’s go?”

“They left with Clem and that there fella we were lookin’ for,” Hoss explained. “Clem and I were headed back to town when we heard the shot. What happened, Adam?”

“I’ll tell you later, after we take care of Joe.”

“Joe? Open your eyes, Son.” When Joe didn’t respond Ben felt his stomach lurch. He took hold of Joe’s hand and gave it a squeeze, but Joe’s hand stayed limp in Ben’s; there wasn’t any returned pressure. “Joseph?”

Joe kept his eyes closed and turned his head away from his father. He had stopped trying to fight the hands that were helping him. In fact he had stopped fighting at all. He was letting go.

“Don’t you dare, Joe. Don’t you let go! Do you hear me, don’t you let go.” Ben demanded.

Joe slowly shook his head.

Ben looked at his other two sons and saw his own fear reflected in their eyes. “I was wrong when I said that you’re your mother’s son. You’re not! You’re not her son at all. Marie would never give up like this. No matter what had happened, she wouldn’t give up. She would stand and fight. She’d never take the easy way out!” Ben said angrily.

Joe’s eyes slowly opened and he turned his head to look into the warm, brown eyes of his father. “Help me, Pa. Please.”

“Always, Joe.  Always.”

Epilogue

One year later . . . .

The past year had been a hard one for the Cartwrights, especially Joe and Adam. In the early months while Adam struggled with his grief, he knew he wasn’t alone.  Joe watched him and suffered as deeply, perhaps even more deeply than Adam himself because Joe’s grief was bolstered by guilt. As time passed, Adam began to realize his younger, usually more rambunctious brother had grown far too subdued.

Before Charlotte’s death, Little Joe had always been a young man who could slip into and out of emotions as though they were gloves he could pull on when needed. But that Little Joe seemed to have died along with Charlotte. This new Joe spent too much time with his own, brooding thoughts. He’d become quiet and withdrawn, and he would disappear for hours at a time. At first the family thought he was seeking comfort at his mother’s grave, as he had always done in the past, but they soon realized Joe wasn’t going there, that in fact he hadn’t been there for more than a year.

Joe did his work around the ranch, never questioning anything he was told to do. He no longer wanted to go into Virginia City and only went when he was forced to go for supplies, and then he would leave as soon as the supplies were loaded. When Adam or Hoss would accompany him they would try to get him to relax with them in the saloon, but Joe wasn’t interested and would wait patiently in the wagon until they were ready to head home.

As the months passed, signs of life started to appear. Adam learned how to move past the pain of his loss and move on with his life. Charlotte would always hold a special place in his heart, but as he told James, she would want him to move on with his life and find happiness. As Adam came to terms with her death, he was relieved to see Joe starting to relax. He started to participate in life again. He was smiling and his laughter, which had become more noticeable in its absence, had been heard a few times.

Then the anniversary of Charlotte’s death drew near. Adam found himself facing it with more hope than despair. Time had passed, and he’d survived, and the world still had surprises to offer him. But with Joe it was different. He once again sank into a deep depression, one worse than the one following the accident. He barely ate, and sleep seemed non-existent. Once again he started disappearing. The family began to worry about him; they feared a repeat of his actions, what had occurred with James Brinkman, only this time there wouldn’t be anyone to thwart his plans.

When the anniversary did come, Joe was gone before anyone else was up; when he didn’t return home for dinner that evening they feared the worst.

“I’ll find him,” Adam promised as he strapped on his gunbelt and disappeared out the door.

The first place Adam looked was Marie’s grave. Joe had gone there a few times in the recent months, but he wasn’t surprised when there wasn’t any sign of his brother even being there recently. Turning Sport away from the bluff, he headed for another spot along the lake where he was pretty sure he would find Joe.

One afternoon Adam had accidently stumbled upon Joe sitting on a ledge gazing out at the lake. He didn’t make his presence known, nor did he say anything to Joe about it. He did tell Ben and Hoss, but he had stressed to them that they needed to let Joe be.

“It’s a place all his own; a place where he feels he can go when he needs some solitude. Let’s let him have it, he needs it and I for one don’t want to take it away from him.”

“I just don’t understand why he doesn’t visit Marie anymore,” remarked Ben.

“Your words about her are still eatin’ away at him, Pa. He’ll go back when he’s ready. You know how Little Joe has to work things out on his own,” explained Hoss.

Adam could see Joe on that ledge over Lake Tahoe. It was a peaceful place, and the way the ledge was positioned a man could feel that he was alone in the world with only the soft water of the lake rippling around him.

“Joe,” Adam said softly as he approached his brother.

Joe had heard Adam approach but didn’t acknowledge his presence in the hope that he would leave. When he heard Adam call out to him he closed his eyes and sighed. “What do you want, Adam?”

“Are you alright, Joe?”

“Right as rain, Adam,” responded Joe as he remembered Adam’s words to Ben that day more than a year ago. Even though Ben had apologized and explained why he had acted the way he did that day, and Joe had forgiven him, there was a part of his heart that still felt as if it were raw and bleeding over how he thought his father had forsaken him.

“May I?” Adam asked, indicating a spot next to Joe.

“Sure, you’re here after all,” Joe said grudgingly.

“Have you been here all day?”

“Yes.” He was angry and frustrated with Adam for intruding on him. Joe had thought this was the one place where he would be left alone, but apparently he was wrong.

“It’s beautiful here,” Adam acknowledged while he gazed out at the lake as the sunset made the water shimmer as if it were on fire.

“Peaceful, too,” Joe said hoping Adam would get the hint and leave.

Ignoring Joe’s irritated tone Adam went straight to the heart of the matter. “It’s been a rough year, hasn’t it?”

Joe finally turned and looked at his brother. “Yes it has, for both of us,” he responded, then was silent for a minute, staring out over the lake deep in thought. “I learned something in the past year.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Guns should never be toyed with. Well, actually I knew that already; you, Pa and Hoss made sure I knew that and a lot of other things about handling a gun, but I didn’t always take it seriously. I know a gun is a necessity living out here; it’s also a responsibility but it’s a dangerous one.  I know now that I have to always take it seriously . . . no matter how sweetly a girl begs.”

“You’re growing up, Joe,” Adam said as he smiled at his brother.

“Adam, I’m sorry. I know that no matter how many times I say it I’ll never be able to make up for what I took from you. And I know that I have no right to expect your forgiveness.”

“I know, Joe. I know.” Adam slipped his arm around Joe’s shoulders. “I told you we’d get through this, and we have. I’ll always remember Charlotte and what could have been, but I have forgiven you. It was an accident, Joe, a devastating one, but an accident all the same.”

Looking back out at the lake, Joe was silent for awhile before he took a deep breath and slowly released it. As he did so it was as if the weight of the world had dropped from his shoulders. “Yeah, we have.”

Giving Joe’s shoulder a final squeeze, Adam stood up. “You ready to go home?”

“Can you give me a minute?” Joe asked, looking up at his brother.

“I’ll be waiting by the horses.”

After Adam was gone Joe closed his eyes and let the serenity of the lake wash over him. He would never forget Charlotte either or what his careless actions had caused. He would have to live with the guilt and regret for the rest of his life, but maybe—just maybe—with the help and guidance of his family, he could learn to forgive himself.

Opening his eyes, Joe stood and looked up at the sky. “I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

Joe turned, walking away from the lake where he had spent so many hours lost in guilt.  It was time to put the careless boy he’d been behind him.  It was time to grow, to become the man he should already have been.

He walked towards his brother and his own forgiveness.

“Let’s go home, Adam.”

-The End-