Summary:  Joe returns to the Ponderosa after a short trip only to find no one home and a black wreath on the door.  What could have happened?  Read on . . . .

Rated:  T  WC  11,300

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 eight authors who collaborated to complete the story over the summer.

The writers for The Black Wreath included (in alphabetical order):  AnnieK, BnzaGal, DanceDiva, Deansgirl, Faust, Freyakendra, Inca, and MicheleBE.

 

The Black Wreath

 

There was a black wreath on the front door.

 Joe saw it just as he was starting to dismount and then he froze, standing in his stirrups. His entire body went rigid, his hands clenched into tight fists around his reins.  A moment earlier he had been so eager to get home, he’d pushed Cochise harder than he knew he should, his thoughts focused on a hot bath, a soft bed, and one of Hop Sing’s fine meals. There was nothing like two weeks on the trail to remind a man how much he had waiting for him at home.  Yet, suddenly, Joe didn’t know what waited for him on the other side of that door.  He didn’t want to know.

 Barely able to breathe, Joe brought his leg around and slowly dropped to the ground, his gaze locked on the wreath the whole time. He turned away from it just long enough to give his horse a gentle pat and wrap the reins loosely around the hitching post; even then he could feel the thing at his back, taunting him almost like an accusation. He’d dallied too long. He’d ridden too slowly.  He should have worked harder, faster. He should have been home sooner, before . . . .

 Before what?

 Taking a deep breath, Joe forced himself to move forward.  Each step was a struggle, weighing him down.  He could almost imagine what it felt like for a man to walk those final steps to a hangman’s noose. Maybe he wasn’t walking to his death, but the idea of facing the death of one of his own was no less horrific. Who was it? Pa? But Pa was neither old nor sickly. His hair might be white, but he was as fit and as strong as he’d ever been. Adam?  But Adam was too cautious, too focused in his thinking to ever take a misstep.  If it was Adam, it couldn’t have been an accident.  Or what about Hoss?  No.  Hoss was as strong as an ox. Stronger. Nothing could bring him down, not for good, anyway.

 It couldn’t be any of them, not a one. And yet there was a black wreath on the front door.

 When Joe reached it, he stared at it as though it were a living thing, a creature that belonged to the night, to the shadows that existed somewhere outside reality. It certainly did not belong in his reality. It did not belong on his front door.  He found himself afraid to move his hand to the latch, half expecting the wreath to strike out at him like a snake sinking its fangs into his heart.  He could already feel its venom coursing through his leaden legs, turning them numb.

 With another deep breath he steeled himself to step inside.

 ”Pa?” he called out softly as he crossed the threshold. “Adam? Hoss?” His eyes scanned the large room. It was empty.

 ”Pa?” he called louder. “Adam, Hoss?”

 Receiving no reply, Joe went to the kitchen. It too was empty, and though it was less than an hour to suppertime, there was nothing on the stove. The pots and pans were all secured away to the hooks and crevices where they belonged. In fact, the kitchen seemed too clean. Had Hop Sing done any cooking at all that day?

 ”Pa!” Joe shouted, hurrying from the kitchen to the stairs and then taking them two at a time until he reached the top. “Adam! Hoss!”

 He opened every bedroom door, never once bothering to knock. Every room was empty.

 The entire house was empty.

 Panic set his heart on fire. Joe raced back down the stairs and then out the front door. Panting by the time he reached the barn, Joe threw wide the door to find it as deserted as the house. Every one of Cochise’s companions, Sport, Chubb . . . even Buck was gone, each stall was as empty, as untouched as the bedrooms upstairs.

 Joe could feel the emptiness around him creeping into him, making him feel hollow and lost. He had only been gone for two weeks.  Two short weeks.  Could a man’s entire life change in so short a time?

***

“Little Joe!” said Sheriff Roy Coffee, raising his eyebrows in some surprise as he came out of his office and almost bumped headlong into Joe who was bounding up the steps as though the town were on fire. 

“I need to speak to you, Roy.  Something’s happened.”

“And I need to speak to you, too, Little Joe.  I didn’t know when you were due back.  Come inside.”

It was already getting dark.  Joe saw the keys in Roy’s hand.  “I’m sorry, you were just on your way home.”

Roy shook his head.  “That don’t matter, Joe.  This is important. Come inside.”

Joe realized how breathless he was as he sat down in the familiar chair in front of Roy’s desk while the sheriff lit the lamp.  He’d ridden hard into town, driven by dread.

“You said something had happened.”  Roy pulled back his chair and sat down.

“Yeah.  Something’s not right, Roy.  Do you know where Pa, Adam, and Hoss are?  And Hop Sing?  There’s no one at the Ponderosa.  I couldn’t even find any of the hands.  The bunkhouse is deserted.”

The words had spilled out in a gabble.  Joe paused and drew a deep breath.  “And,” he added, unable to keep the fear out of his voice, “there was a black wreath on the front door.  What’s happened, Roy?  Is somebody dead?”

The sheriff was looking at him with an odd expression that did nothing to reassure Joe’s thudding heart.  “A black wreath?” said Roy with a bemused frown.  “I didn’t know anything about that.”

A knot had been growing in Joe’s stomach ever since he had laid eyes on that grim token of death on the ranch house door.  The way Roy spoke and the sober look on his face dragged the knot even tighter.  When the sheriff hesitated before speaking again, Joe couldn’t contain his impatience.  “Do you know where they are, Roy?  If you do, please tell me!”

Roy Coffee was never a man to be hurried.  “Hold your horses, Little Joe.  I do know where Hop Sing is. He’s fine.  He’s here in town, staying with his uncle.  I told him to leave the Ponderosa when your pa and Hoss didn’t return.”

“Pa and Hoss?  What do you mean?”

“Give me a moment, son, and I’ll tell you.  It was Adam who went missing first.  Ten days ago.  Set out for the lumber camp but never arrived.  Ben and Hoss went looking for him.”  Roy shook his head as if he was sorely troubled by something.  “Your foreman, Pete, came into town to find me when they didn’t come back either.   He and a few of the men rode over to the camp but no one there had seen any sign of Adam or your Pa, or Hoss.  They found tracks leading up into the mountains, but they lost them after a few miles.  So I organized a couple of search parties, but we couldn’t find anything different.  I’m sorry, Joe.”

Joe started to feel slightly sick.  He gave a shake of his head.  “Well, they can’t just have disappeared!”

“We looked for three days.  Then I came back here into town, and—”  Roy stopped and pulled open the drawer in his desk.  He drew out a folded newspaper, “—and I saw this.”

The hard knot in Joe’s stomach was fast becoming a heavy lump.  He reached out and took the newspaper from the sheriff’s hand without a word.  Roy pushed a calloused finger at a column on the right hand side.  Joe’s stomach did yet another uncomfortable flip when he saw the heading: Obituaries.  His own name leapt out at him: Cartwright.  And under that, two words: Passing imminent.

Roy had risen from his desk.  Joe, still staring in bewildered disbelief at the black and white print in front of him, smelled the whiskey before Roy pushed the glass under his nose.

“Here, son.  Drink this.”

“Roy, what’s going on?”  He didn’t like the bleak look on Roy’s weathered face. 

“That’s not all, Joe.  One other thing.”  Roy held out a sheet of paper. 

Joe knocked back the whiskey before he reached out his hand.  His breath was coming hard, as though he’d been running.  He saw the name across the top of the paper.  Thos. Chatton.  Everybody in Virginia City knew that name.  Thomas Chatton, undertaker.

Thos. Chatton.  Immediate request.  One plain pine coffin. Six feet four inches.  White silk.  Ben Cartwright.

“Pa sent this?”

Roy shook his head.  “We don’t know, Joe.  When he received it, Tom brought it over to me and I hung onto it.  Sent from Carson City.  And before you ask, yeah, I’ve checked with the telegraph office there.  The note came in via a third party.  A boy was paid to deliver it.  His description of the man who gave it to him could a fit your pa, but it could just as easily have fit a hundred other middle-aged men.  Do you want another drink, boy?”

Joe shook his head, his mind churning.

“What do you want to do, Joe?”

Joe looked up into Roy’s face.  If ever he had needed the sheriff’s measured wisdom, it was now.  “I don’t know, Roy.  I guess I just have to keep on looking.”

Roy nodded and laid a hand on Joe’s shoulder.  “You know I’ll do whatever I can to help.  You want to stay here at my place tonight?”

Joe shook his head.  “Thanks, Roy, but no.  I’ll find Hop Sing; see if he knows anything else.  And then I’m going to ride on back to the Ponderosa.  If somebody came by and left that wreath on the door, maybe they left some other clues.  Tracks maybe.”

“Yeah,” said the sheriff.  “Maybe.”  But he didn’t sound convinced.  As they reached the door and he put his hand on the latch, Roy hesitated again.  His voice was as somber as a death knell.  “I know it’s not something you want to hear, son, but it’s been ten days.  You need to consider the possibility that your pa and brothers . . . might already be dead.”

***

Little Joe walked out of the sheriff’s office, his heart heavy.  His family could not die.  But he had told Roy he would visit Hop Sing and he wanted to know what Hop Sing knew.  There was only one uncle that Hop Sing would stay with and Little Joe headed there.  Yes, Hop Sing was in, the uncle reported.  No, he was not speaking to anyone.

“Tell him it’s Little Joe,” Joe begged, his eyes wide with fear, fear for his family.  “He’ll see me.”

The uncle could make no promises.  He was gone only a minute, then he opened the door and nodded.  “Come in.”

Hop Sing was alone in a room in the back of the house.  He seemed glad to see Little Joe and motioned him to sit on the mat next to him.  “So glad to see you, Joe,” he started.

“Hop Sing, who are you afraid of?” Little Joe asked.

“Not sure,” Hop Sing replied.  “Sheriff say better I not stay at Ponderosa.”

Joe still could not understand things and he had questions.  “What happened?” he demanded.  “Do you know where Pa, Adam, and Hoss are?  And who put the black wreath on the door back home?”

Hop Sing looked startled.  “Black wreath?”

Little Joe nodded.  “Did you put it there, Hop Sing?”

Hop Sing shook his head, his eyes wide.  “Hop Sing no put black wreath on door or anywhere else.  Black wreath in China is sign of heaven.  The Heavenly Emperor lives on North Star so we give it to family when someone dies in hope that they meet Heavenly Emperor.”

Joe felt a catch in his throat.  “If you didn’t put it there, who did?”

Hop Sing shuddered.  “Hop Sing not know.  Little Joe stay with uncle.  Not go to Ponderosa.  It bad luck there.”

“I have to go, Hop Sing,” Little Joe answered.  “I have to find my family.”

***

The Ponderosa ranch house looked empty and forlorn as Little Joe pulled to a stop in the yard.  There was something unnatural about the place; a strange stillness that Joe had never experienced before suddenly filled his heart with dread.  Something was wrong, something was definitely wrong.

Then he saw him—a  man sitting on the porch whittling.  The shavings had fallen to his feet and he held his knife poised above the block of wood.  He said nothing.  Wary, Joe dismounted, and walked Cochise toward the water trough.  Then the man spoke.  “I wouldn’t touch that water.”

Little Joe spun around.  “Did you say something?”

“I said, ‘don’t touch the water,’” the man replied, standing up and moving towards Joe.  “It’s been poisoned.”

“How do you know?”

“If I told you that…” then he shook his head when he saw the look in Joe’s eyes.  “All right,” he answered.  “I poisoned it.”

“Why?”

“I was supposed to meet someone here,” the stranger answered.  “Someone I didn’t want to meet.  He didn’t show up.  Who are you?”

“Joe Cartwright. I live here.”

“Oh.”  The man paused for a moment.

“Who were you going to meet?” Joe demanded.

“Someone,” he replied evasively.

“The someone who put the wreath on the door?”

“Yes.”

“Who was it?” Joe demanded.

“I don’t know for sure,” the man replied, “but I have a suspicion.”

“What’s his name?” Joe pressed, stepping closer to the man and laying a hand on his gun.

“Don’t try to draw on me,” the man warned.  “I have a secret you might want to hear.”

Little Joe eased his gun back into its holster.  “What is it?”

“I live up in the mountains.  A man stumbled into my home and murmured one word: Cartwright.  Then he collapsed.  Do you want to see him?”

“How do I know who he is?”

“You won’t until you see him,” the man replied.

Little Joe thought that over for a minute.  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You don’t.  You will just have to trust me.”

“All right,” Little Joe answered.  “You lead.”

***

The home to which Little Joe was led was typical of mountain cabins.  It was rustic, quiet, and very, very still.  There were no horses in the yard or nearby.  The man jumped off his horse, an odd look on his face.  “It’s too quiet,” he whispered to Joe.

Little Joe drew his gun.  If there was trouble afoot he wanted to be ready for it.  The man flattened himself against the right side of the cottage just outside the front door; Joe did the same on the left.  Then the man kicked the door open and rushed into the house.

Little Joe entered cautiously and looked around.  It was a one-room cabin with a loft that held only the barest necessities:  a couch to the left on which a blanket had been tossed carelessly aside as though someone were in a hurry, and an overturned table and chair in the center of the room and another broken into pieces.  A painting had been knocked off the wall and a large candlestick lay on its side on the floor.  “Your man must have put up quite a fight,” Little Joe said after surveying the room.

The house was definitely empty.  The man looked around in mock horror then exclaimed, “He’s gone.  That poor man is gone!”

“Who’s gone?” Joe asked.  “The man that was here?”

The man nodded.  “Somehow, someone got here and took him away.”

“By the mess, he must have fought for all he was worth.”

The man nodded his head.  He reached down by the sofa and picked up a tiny item, looked at it for a moment, then passed it to Joe.  “He said your name often when he was delirious.  Have you ever seen this before?”

Little Joe took the object.  His heart beat faster and for a moment the room swam in front of his eyes.  Then he nodded.  “Yes, yes, I’ve seen it.  My brother never went anywhere without it.” Joe passed a hand in front of his eyes.  “It’s a picture of Adam’s mother.”

***

Joe jumped, startled by another man’s entrance.  

Icy blue eyes glared at them.  The intruder’s clothes were torn, and his hair matted with sweat and trail dust.

“Hold it,” he shouted, the gun in his hand more commanding than his words.

Joe focused on the man’s eyes rather than the weapon.  “Who are you?” he asked. “What’s going on here?”

The gunman smiled.  It was a cold grin that never reached his eyes.  “This gun here says I’m the one gets to ask questions.  But I reckon I can oblige you some.  Most folks call me Triton.  Now, how ‘bout you?  You got a name yerself?”

“Joe Cartwright.”

“Well, another Cartwright,” Triton replied, ignoring the younger man’s words. “I’d suppose then that your brother is Adam . . . Adam Cartwright.”

“Where is he?” Joe breathed heavily with worry.

“Oh, he’s just having some fun in a silver mine somewhere near here.”

Triton turned away from Joe, and turned to the man that stood beside him. “You. You were supposed to meet me at the Ponderosa. Why didn’t you?”

When the old man smiled, Joe felt himself growing cold.  It was like that smile changed the man from a curious stranger to a cold-hearted . . . what? Murderer?  Had he wounded Adam himself, right there in that cabin?  Or worse . . . had he killed Joe’s oldest brother?

***

I was falling, falling off my horse. Did I hit something that spooked him? 

A swift pain permeated my skull and after that, the world went blank.

When I came to, I tried to sit up, but the world spun dizzily around me. I lifted my hand on instinct, intending to explore the wound in my head but instead discovered a sharper, blinding pain in my arm. Blackness far deeper than the surrounding night tried to pull me in again. I fought against it with everything I had. I needed to figure out what was going on.

Slowing my breaths, I first assessed my own condition. My right arm was broken, and my scalp creased by a thick, bloody trough I could only imagine had been caused by a bullet. But who had fired it? And why?

I focused my attentions outward, finding myself in a small camp. I saw two men sleeping near the fire.

I wasn’t sure what they wanted, or why I was with them; I just knew I needed to figure a way out of there despite my injuries.

So, while the stars sparkled and the moon gleamed down—I planned my escape.

My breakout was simpler than I thought possible.

All I did was check to see if either of them were awake, and then began walking the best I could without making my wounds worse.

I walked straight the whole time. I saw a cabin in the distance and headed for it. I needed help.

The stranger was generous while I was there, but then he left and another man came.

He snatched me by grabbing my torn up shirt, and dragging me out the front door. Despite the throbbing in my head, I remember dropping my mother’s picture on the floor. 

Now I can feel my own blood flowing freely down my head and arm. Where I lie is still, earthy, and cold. No other words to describe it. Except for the fact I can hear others moaning in front of me.

They look familiar.  One was silver haired, and the other is a giant of a man. They both are obviously in pain, but the big one . . . he looks like he is at the end of his endurance.

***

“Hello out there.”  The deep rumbling voice could only belong to Ben Cartwright. “My sons need medical attention.”  The words echoed off the walls of the dark mine shaft and yet no one replied. Ben divided his gaze between his two sons. Unable to help them, he whispered encouraging words and promises that he had no way of keeping. “We’ll get out of this mess yet, Hoss. Joe’s still out there and you know that brother of yours will never give up.”

“I hope he does.” Hoss’s voice was weak and fading faster than the light had when the man who had dumped Adam next to them many hours before, had walked away with the lantern. “He’ll only end up tied up next to the rest of us.”

Adam groggily nodded his agreement.  “He won’t give up though.”  He tried to reposition himself and hissed at the pain that shot through his arm. “You know he’ll never quit ‘til he’s dead or with us.  But there’s no chance he can drag us all out of here. He’ll try, but it’s a hopeless cause.” 

“What do you reckon these fellers are after anyhow?” Hoss squeezed his eyes closed against the pain that surged through his very core. “They won’t want Joe if they need someone to collect them a ransom.”

“I wish I knew,” Ben sighed and leaned his head against the rough stone wall.  “I’ve been asking them that ever since they jumped me and Hoss. I’ve yet to get any hint let alone an answer.”

Hoss allowed his head to loll to the side and rest on his pa’s shoulder just like he used to when he was a young boy too tired to stay awake any longer.  In the dimly-lit cave, the foggy image of Adam was growing more shadowed.  He could feel the pull into nothingness and, try as he might to fight it for the sake of his family, he knew he was losing the battle. He’d put up quite a fight, that was for sure. Maybe even the fight of his life. With his hands tied behind him and a bullet hole in his side, Hoss never stood a chance.  He’d tried to fight them even so.  Now his head felt like it was about to explode, and he figured he probably had a busted rib or two.  A feller’s body could only take so much punishment before even the strongest of men faded away into the sea of swirling blackness.

***

Joe felt his heart sink at the words that came from the cabin owner’s lips. “I figured it would be easier this way,” the older man said.

“And since when do you make any decisions, Harley?”  Triton growled, slipping his gun back into his holster.

“It worked out didn’t it?” Harley said smoothly. “You have your Cartwrights. That’s what you wanted isn’t it? That Adam didn’t suspect a thing the whole time he was here . . . when he was conscious.” He gestured toward Joe, “Now you have the final piece of your little puzzle. He walked in willingly. If we had done it your way we would have had a time trying to get him out here.”

Joe searched for a way of escape while the words were exchanged. There was a window just off to his left.  Triton stood near the door but wasn’t fully blocking it.  Joe tensed readying himself for his only chance to save his family.

“Don’t try it, Cartwright.” Harley produced a gun and pulled back the hammer. “I’d just as soon shoot you in the leg to be sure you don’t try anything stupid, but then I’d have to scrub my floors.”

“And I’d have to drag you instead of letting you walk to your horse.” Triton raised his own gun and leveled it at Joe. “So let’s get going. Your family is waiting for you. No doubt they are worried sick over you.”  He took a step back and waved his gun toward the door. “Let’s not keep them waiting any longer. Tie his hands, Harley.”

Harley holstered his weapon and dug around in a crate in the cabin’s far corner until he found a length of rope. The older man pulled Joe’s arms roughly behind his back and started to wrap the rope around Joe’s wrists.

“He’s gotta ride a horse to the mine, Harley. How’s Cartwright supposed to sit a horse with his hands behind his back?”

“Just ‘cause you can’t seem to stay on your horse on these trails with both hands free don’t mean that everyone is like that. I watched the kid ride up this mountain. He can handle it.” Harley finished trying the rope and stepped back to survey his job. “Of course, we could always drape him over his saddle like you did to the big one after you near killed him.”

Triton snorted, “The way the old man squawked you’d a thought it was him I’d had the boys rough up.”

Joe’s feet itched to run, but the gun in Triton’s hand was still leveled at his chest.

“What your plan now and when do I get paid?” Harley shoved Joe forward.

“I’ve just got a few more loose ends to tie up.” Triton smiled but his eyes remained cold.

“I’ve carried out my end of the bargain and then some.”  Harley raised his voice a fraction. “Just give me my money and leave me be.”

“Like I said,” Triton rolled his eyes, “I’ve got a few loose ends to rid myself of.”

The gun shot echoed through the mountain peaks. Joe threw himself to the ground on instinct.

“Get up, Cartwright,” Triton motioned with his gun.

Joe struggled with his hands secured behind his back, but finally managed the action.

“If you live to make it out of this, Cartwright, which you won’t,” another cold smile twisted Triton’s mouth, “always remember to never leave a trail that can be followed, a clue that could lead a sheriff to your door, or a man that could turn against you. Now let’s go join your family.”

Triton helped Joe mount his horse, “If you go falling off that beast I’ll just kick you down the side of the mountain and watch you roll to the bottom. Understand?”

Joe glared at Triton’s back as he awkwardly mounted his own horse. Centering his balance and gripping with his legs Joe started praying harder than he had ever prayed before. He didn’t know what he was going to do when they got to wherever it was they were going, but just getting there was going to be challenge enough.

“What is this all about?” Joe tried to keep the contempt out of his voice but failed miserably.

“If I went and told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise now would it?”

***

“Miss Maycombe?” Carl Smithers stood hesitantly in the open doorway, self consciously turning his hat in his sweaty hands and unsure if he’d be supposed or even allowed to just step into the room. The servant who’d led him here had looked at him as if he were a particularly revolting specimen of an insect, and his condescending tone had told Carl that he didn’t estimate him a suitable visitor for his mistress.

Of course, he wasn’t here on his own account; he was here because she had hired him, because she needed him, but she had made clear from the very beginning that she didn’t consider him her equal in any way.  She used him like one used a spittoon—he was utilitarian, but she was disgusted by him nonetheless.

She did pay a helluva lot of money, though, and that’s why Carl played along.

Miss Maycombe looked up from the desk behind which she had entrenched herself.  No, not this one.  She wasn’t the kind of woman who’d entrench herself behind anything—ever.

She might not have been a tall woman, but she had a big presence. Her black hair was tied up to a loose braid, some stray locks surrounded her beautiful face with full red lips, high, finely shaped cheekbones and big dark eyes, but all that beauty was marred by the disdainful curl of her mouth and the chilling cold in her look.

“Sit,” she commanded, not so much as flicking a finger of the hand in which she was holding an elaborate pen, then shifted her attention back to whatever she had been writing, crossed out something here and added a word there, calmly ignoring the waiting man on the visitor’s seat in front of her desk.

Eventually she put the pen down—folded her hands under her chin—a gesture that might have looked coquettish in another woman, and raised an eyebrow.

“I take it you’ve finally found the scum?” It was more of a threat than of a question.

“Yes, we did. Triton—”

“I’ve told you before, I’m not interested in names.  Just tell me what I need to know.”

“We have him at the camp. He’s mighty relieved his family is alive—”

“You haven’t reunited them already, have you?”

“No, ‘course not. You’ve told me not to.”

She looked up and joined her hands at the fingertips. She looked at a point that didn’t even seem to be in the room, and over her face spread a smile that gave Carl the chills.

“Very well,” she drew out. “Very well, indeed.”

“Well, we’ve got them all together, as you wanted. What’s next?”

“What’s next?” Her sharp gaze went to his face, and Carl wished it hadn’t. He had never seen so much hate in a person’s look—it was as if the devil himself was staring at him.

“What’s next is that Joe Cartwright will endure what I did.  An eye for an eye, Smithers. A father for a father, a brother for a brother.” She leaned forward. “He will feel exactly the pain I felt. He will lose his father and his brothers. He will watch them die, and there will be nothing he can do to save them.”

Her voice was soft, velvety, she spoke in a strange sing-song pattern. While speaking, she rearranged the things on her desk, shifted the pen so that it lay perfectly in line with the table’s edge, moved a ruler to a place precisely perpendicular to the pen, arranged a stack of paper to lay exactly parallel to both the front and side edge of the desk.

“You will show him his family. Take them out of that mine.  Show him the shape they are in.” She corrected the position of the rocker blotter.  It was now equidistant from both the ruler and the pen.

“And then you’ll let him decide whom you will put out of his misery.” She looked up. “Make him believe the others will survive if he singles one out. Give him a deadline—tomorrow at sunrise. Tell him if he doesn’t decide whom he will sacrifice for the survival of the rest until then, you’ll kill them all.”

“And then?”

“Then kill the one he picks out.” She took up the pen and drew a tiny circle on the corner of a paper. “Hang him, like my father was hung.” A cruel smile split her pale face. “And let the scum shoo away the horse on which the delinquent sits.”

Carl nodded. “And what about the rest of them?”

Miss Maycombe leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms, the pen dangling from her right hand. “You kill them, too, of course. I’ve told you, Cartwright will have to go through the same as I have. Give him a day or two, so that he can ask himself if he made the right decision, and then kill the other two. Make it slow and painful, and let him watch it.”

“That won’t be a problem, ma’am. My men know how to hurt a fella.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I most certainly hope so.”

“What are we going to do with Joe then, ma’am?”

“Oh, you’ll bring him here. I want him to know who’s responsible for all this. I want him to know that it is his fault his family has died. I want him to know that he should never have interfered with my life.”

She uncrossed her arms, looked at the pen as if she saw it for the first time, and, with a disgusted snort, broke it in two.

“And then,” she smiled amiably at Carl, “and then Joe Cartwright will die, too.”

***

When they reached camp, Triton roughly dragged Joe off his horse and shoved him to a barbed-wire fence within clear view of a mine entrance.  He forced Joe to the ground and tied him to one of the fence poles.

“Any wrong move and these barbs will pierce you, Cartwright.”

“What’s going on?  Are my father and brothers here?” Joe demanded.

“Let’s just say there’s going to be a family reunion of sorts.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Hey, I ain’t spillin’ all the beans, Cartwright!”  Triton kicked Joe in the ribs and walked away, laughing.

“Is my family in there?  I want to see them now, alive!” Joe yelled after him. 

“I ain’t sayin’ where they are.  You’ll have your chance to see ’em soon enough, Cartwright.  Here’s an idea . . . think about your old girlfriend to pass the time until you see your dear family.”

“Which one?”

“Oh, that’s right:  you just kiss the girls and make them cry, dontcha!  Does the name Maycombe ring a bell?”

Maycombe, Maycombe, where have I heard that name?  Maycombe!  

Joe shuddered with a shock of recognition at the mention of the name.  Beatrice Maycombe!  Her father and brothers had been hung after being convicted of murdering the Hensen family, burning them in their home and then blaming the act on Commancheros.  Joe had been in Carson City during the trial.  He had met Beatrice a couple of days earlier and had even taken her to dinner that night at the Crown Restaurant, hoping dinner would lead to more time with her.   She on the other hand, was looking for a shoulder to cry on.  She had told Joe about the upcoming trial and that her family was innocent.  Joe sat in on the trial to pass some time, hoping to be supportive of Beatrice after her testimony.  But as he listened, he knew she was committing perjury.  She swore her father and brothers were home with her during the time of the murders.  She had been putting the finishing touches on lunch while they had been in the barn milking the cows at high noon.  She remembered because the sun was directly above the horizon.  The men had come into the house afterwards and sat right down at the table.  But Joe knew she was lying.  She was no homesteader. She held herself too fine, and issued orders to the restaurant staff as though she was accustomed to it.  However her family had tried to play it, she was a woman of means.  Her father and brothers had probably never touched a cow before, let alone given any thought to milking one.

Joe did some digging of his own, discovering Beatrice’s father was an investor, not a farmer. Weeks earlier, Joe had heard talk of an area near Carson believed to harbor a new silver bonanza; a visit to the land office proved to him that the Hensen property was right in the middle of it. Equally interesting was the fact that Mr. Maycombe already had part ownership in one of the older mines, one that had closed some time ago.

Joe had approached the prosecuting attorney and told him about the holes in Beatrice’s testimony as well as the results of his own investigation.  And Joe was put on the witness stand to contradict Beatrice’s words.  It was partly due to Joe’s testimony that Beatrice’s father and brothers had been convicted.

Joe now knew that Beatrice had revenge on her mind.  She blamed him for the hangings.  
If his family was in that mine in front of him, he’d have to figure out a way to rescue himself and them.  He was sure Adam was hurt, but the extent of his wounds was unknown and there was no telling how bad off his father and Hoss might be.

Getting out of this before further harm came to his family was going to take some cunning.  And of all the Cartwrights, there was no one more cunning than Joe.  It was a good thing Triton hadn’t thought to search Joe.  All Joe had to do was reach for and open his jackknife, but it wasn’t going to be an easy task considering Joe’s hands were tied behind his back and he was bound to that barbed-wire fence.

***

After an hour of twisting his hands back and forth in an attempt to free himself from his bonds, Joe gave up. There was no way he could reach his hidden weapon in the present situation. He felt blood oozing over his skin, soaking into the fabric of his jacket.  Releasing a frustrated sigh, he laid his head back against the rough wooden post.

Mentally cursing himself for being five kinds of a fool to assume that his troubles were over, he wondered how he could have been so blind. Beatrice was pure poison, but he had been drawn in by her sob story, lovely form, and seductive eyes.  In his mind’s eye, he could see the venomous glare he had received from her when he had left Carson City; he had thought that would be the last time he would ever see the woman.  Apparently, Miss Maycombe had other ideas. 

Anger built up inside of him until he thought he might burst; needing a way to relieve some of the pressure, he unthinkingly jerked his arms. An agonized scream nearly tore from his throat, but he managed to suppress it . . . barely.  Gradually, the pain receded and the weariness of a day in the saddle caught up to him, dragging his lids down as if they were weighted.

***

“Hey, you! Cartwright!” A foot shot out and caught the unsuspecting prisoner in the ribs, making him gasp.

“Answer me when I’m talking to you, boy!” The man stressed the last word and Joe clenched his teeth on a biting remark.  Peering up, he could make out the features of Triton leering over him; if looks could kill, the man would have been dead three times over from the acid look the youth sent him.

“What do you want?”

Squatting on his haunches, Triton snorted.

“Ha! More like what do you want.” When he only received a blank stare, the man went on.  “Miss Maycombe has kindly given you a choice.”

“What kind of choice?” Joe hated to seem interested, but his curiosity was aroused.

“Who dies and who lives.” Informing the captive of the decision he had to make, he cackled at the horrified expression that flitted over the bound man’s face.

“Why that little b—”

A hand shot out and slapped Joe soundly across the face before he could finish his curse.

“Now if I were you, I’d keep that smart tongue of yours in check before ya find yourself lacking it! You’ve got until tomorrow to give me an answer.”  He started to rise, but Joe’s reply made him turn back.

“I don’t have to wait until tomorrow to answer you since I know darn well whom I will choose now.”

Triton raised an eyebrow, the unspoken question hanging between the two men.

“Me,” Joe said.

Triton blinked, taken aback by the boy’s bravery, but then he laughed.  “That’s not an option, but don’t worry, you’ll die . . . like the rest of your family, if you don’t choose.”

With another guffaw, he stood up and sauntered away until he disappeared into the shadows of a nearby tent. 

***

The night passed with agonizing slowness for Joe as he sat bolt upright without even the luxury of being able to shift positions. 

Your family will die if you don’t choose.  The words echoed in his brain, tormenting him with its endless ringing. Groaning aloud, he tried desperately to think of a way out of the mess he was in—the mess he had gotten his innocent family into.

If only I’d kept my mouth shut at that trial . . . if only I hadn’t begged to go to San Francisco on that business trip . . . if only I’d come home sooner—and the biggest if only of all—if only I had never met Beatrice Maycombe!

He shook his head.  If only’s and what-might-have-been’s were a useless waste of his time.  Glancing up at the skyline, he could just make out the faint tinges of pink that announced the sun’s arrival. Time was running out and still he had not made his decision. 

This is ridiculous!  Joe fumed, inwardly.  Why is she punishing them when this is all my fault?

The last thought gave him pause; skimming through his memories of his trip to Carson City five months ago, Joe found nothing that made his present predicament his fault.  No matter, the guilt barraged him anyway.

Stone grated under boots as Triton appeared in the red haze of the early morning light.  It was a crimson dawn and the old seaman’s proverb his pa had taught him flitted through Joe’s mind, “Red sky at morning, sailors take warning; red sky at night sailors delight.”

How ironic, he mused. A storm was brewing somewhere in the peaks that surrounded the old mine.

“Yer choice awaits, Cartwright.” The man’s mocking voice sent chills up Joe’s spine.

His time was up.

***

Adam’s moments of lucidity were growing fewer and Hoss had shown no sign of waking for hours now. Whatever these men had planned for them, time was running short:  Ben’s sons were dying.

 “Joe!” Adam’s shout pulled Ben’s gaze toward the mine’s entrance, where a thin, orange glow told him another day was dawning.  An acidic mix of hope and fear churned his stomach as he wondered whether Joe had found his family, or been taken like the rest of them.  But as the shadows of five men came toward him, none had the gait of Little Joe, or wore the distinct holster for a left-handed gun.

“The lake,” Adam added a moment later. “Under . . . look . . . look in the water.”

No. Adam’s words were calling to another time and place, swimming through the broken thoughts in his fevered mind.

Ben took a deep breath, giving his attention to the shadows . . . knowing in his heart this would be the last dawn he would see from this dark place.  One way or another, his family’s captivity would be brought to an end.

***

Five men.  There were five men altogether.  Joe had been watching long enough to be certain of the count. When all five disappeared into the mine’s entrance, he knew it was his last chance—his only chance.  The ropes that bound his wrists, now moist with his blood, were finally starting to give. He pulled and twisted, numb to the pain, hopeful that his blood would provide enough lubrication.

It did. His right hand slipped free.

Encouraged, his heart beat harder, faster as he focused on working his left hand free as well . . . and then his heart seemed to stop beating altogether when he saw two men emerge from the mine, dragging Hoss between them. Was Hoss already dead? Was Joe already too late? He stared at his brother as they drew nearer, sickened by the blood staining Hoss’s shirt and trousers, and caked along the side of his head. Hoss didn’t move; he didn’t move at all.

They dropped him no more than six feet from Joe, close enough to allow Joe to see the slow, steady rise and fall of Hoss’s chest. For an instant, Joe wasn’t entirely sure he should be thankful to see Hoss was still alive. If Joe failed, if he could not break free, if he could do nothing at all except to watch his family die . . . .

As long as there’s life, there’s hope. Joe could hear his pa’s voice as though he was standing right beside him.  He held to it; clung to it, forcing himself to believe that even when there was nothing else, there was always hope.

While he renewed his efforts at freeing his left hand, two more men came out of the mine, dragging Adam between them.  Joe’s oldest brother was stumbling, and clearly in no condition to help Joe even if he did break free.

It didn’t matter.

As long as there’s life, there’s hope, his pa said, over and over again in Joe’s mind.

And then his Pa emerged as well.  In the grip of Triton himself, Pa was walking toward Joe without assistance.  His hands were tied, but his back was straight and sure, making him look strong, maybe even stronger than ever. It was strange, then, to see something of a look of resignation in his father’s eyes, as though his Pa himself had lost hope.

No, Pa, Joe said deep inside himself, putting steel into his own gaze, determined that his Pa would see it.  As long as there’s life, there’s hope.

“Time’s up, Cartwright,” Triton said as he pulled Ben to stand directly in front of Joe. “Who’s it gonna be?”  He actually grinned, as though he were eager to make the kill.

“No one,” Joe glared back at him.  Something in the rocks at Triton’s back caught Joe’s eye—a brief flash, like a reflection.  He looked up, just for an instant, but he could see nothing. Dawn’s shadows were still too new, still too long.  He could only pray it wasn’t another of Triton’s men, hidden away, waiting to take back whatever last chances Joe might yet find.

Triton’s grin died as he followed the line of Joe’s gaze to the rocks beyond, though he, too, could surely see nothing.  “I already told ya’,” he said then, returning his attention to Joe. “If it’s no one, it’s everyone. You really want that?”

Joe fought against the urge to look again toward the rocks.  Triton’s reaction had given him hope.  If it wasn’t one of Triton’s men, whoever it was might be able to offer help.  It was a long shot, but a shot, nonetheless.  Keeping his eyes on Triton, Joe filled his lungs, and pulled his back straighter, taking cues from his Pa’s posture.  “Do you really expect me to believe you’d let any of us go?” he said, somehow finding comfort in that very realization.  There was no choice to make, and none he would offer.  He shook his head. “As long as one of us is still alive, you’ll hang, and you know it.”

Triton’s confidence seemed to waver.  He got sloppy, loosening his grip on Ben and turning just the slightest bit toward one of his men.  Joe didn’t hesitate.  He yanked his left hand free in one final, agonizing pull, and then threw himself at the man.  He heard movement behind him, around him, as his head slammed into Triton’s chest, driving the man backward.  Whatever anyone else was doing didn’t matter.  The only thing Joe could do was bring Triton down once and for all.  He reached for Triton’s gun.

The man was strong, stronger than Joe. Wrestling his arms out of the tangle of Joe’s, he grabbed Joe’s right wrist, but he couldn’t get a clean grip.  His fingers kept slipping; there was too much blood.

For Joe, there was too much pain.  His vision grayed, but somehow he found more strength, as though the pain itself had spurred him on.  Barely aware of how it even got there, suddenly he had Triton’s gun in his hand.  There was no time to think, no time to even aim.  He pulled back the hammer.

***

Gunfire exploded around Ben.  The first shot, clearly coming from where Joe struggled with Triton, made Ben’s blood run cold.  He tensed, still reaching for the gun from the man he had plowed into as Joe had plowed into Triton.  The other shots quickened his own struggle, worry for Joe set briefly aside for the sake of the sons who could do no fighting of their own.  Even with his hands still secured in front of him, he somehow managed to grasp the man’s gun.  He pulled back the hammer . . . only then did he realize the man was already dead.

Stunned, Ben swiveled around to see they were all down.  All five of the outlaws had been shot.

When the sound of horses turned him around again, he watched a group of men approaching, one of whom was wearing a tin star—the Carson City sheriff.

“Got here quick as I could, Mr. Cartwright,” the Sheriff said as he dismounted. “I come out here yesterday on a hunch.  After I saw what was goin’ on, I headed back to collect as much help as I could find.  I expect Sheriff Coffee will be along any time now, but, well . . . .” He scanned the tangle of bodies and shook his head. “It was clear I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Ben gave no answer; instead, he turned back to his sons and quickly assessed their condition.  Adam was sitting up, looking around as though confused.  Strangely, there was a gun in his hand.  Hoss . . . Hoss lay still, yet Ben still saw the soft rise and fall of his chest. Two sons still lived.  Steeling himself, Ben looked toward where his third son had been struggling with Triton.  What he saw caught his breath.  His knees, suddenly weak, could barely move him forward.  Joe lay on his back, his arms stretched out to either side of him.  His chest . . . the front of his shirt was thick with blood.  There was too much of it.  Too . . . too much.

“Let me help you with that, Mr. Cartwright.” The sheriff tugged at the bindings on Ben’s wrists.

Ben pulled away from him. “My son,” he said.

“That was sure a crazy thing he done.” The sheriff sounded . . . pleased; almost cheerful.

Furious, Ben wanted to hit him.  He would have hit him, but he had to reach Joe. Lurching forward, he dropped to his knees beside his youngest son, reaching out with his still bound hands. “Joe,” he said softly.

Joe’s chest rose noticeably then, his lungs filling with a deep breath.  And then . . . then Joe gave a small, gasping laugh.  “I can’t believe it, Pa. I just can’t . . . I never thought . . . .” Taking another deep breath, he pulled himself up, resting on his elbows. “I had to try, but I never thought . . . .” His grin faded as his gaze strayed to his brothers.  “I had to hope,” he said more softly, seeming on the verge of tears. Finally, he looked right at his Pa, his gaze as worn and weary as Ben’s own.  “I had to, Pa.”

“I know, son.”  The words could barely escape Ben’s throat. “You’re not . . . .” He reached for Joe’s bloodied shirt.  “Not hurt?”

Joe laughed again, softly, sadly.  “It’s Triton’s . . .Triton’s blood.”  The laugh nearly turned into a sob. “I’m sorry, Pa. None of this . . . none of it should have happened.”

“It’s not your fault.  You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

Joe started to rise, but when he planted his hand on the ground, Ben saw him wince in pain and pull back, cradling one bloodied palm with another.

“Your hands.”  Ben tried to reach for them, suddenly angered by the ropes still constraining him.

Joe pulled away. “They’ll heal, Pa.”

Ben followed his gaze toward Hoss—strong, valiant Hoss. Ben’s bear of a son had kept fighting far beyond what should have been the limits of his endurance, spurred on by the harm he’d seen done to Adam and the cruel taunts of the men who had taken them, taunts describing what would be done to Joe as soon as he, too, was in their hands. Now, days later, Joe, like Hoss, had fought despite impossible odds, spurred on surely by the sight of his injured brothers. Ben could have lost all of them, all three of his sons, perhaps only for the fact that they cared too much for one another. Even Adam—that gun in his hand proved he’d fought, too; fevered, his thoughts muddled, still he must have seen the danger to his family. It was a bittersweet realization, one that warmed Ben’s heart and left him feeling cold. Yes, he could have lost all three of his sons; he could still lose two of them, given the damage already done.

“They will heal, too, Joe,” he said, praying to heaven he was right. “With God’s grace, they will heal, too.”

But Joe did not look convinced.

***

“Well, now, you’re both lookin’ a heap better than you did the last time I saw you.” Sheriff Purcell was smiling as he rose from his desk in the Carson City jailhouse to greet Joe and Ben.

Ben seemed as cheerful as the sheriff. “I can assure you we’re feeling a heap better than we did last week,” he said, chuckling softly.

“Your other boys, too?”

“Adam and Hoss, too, thank heavens. A few more days of rest should see them both fit enough to head home. They were in a bad way when you found us, sheriff, but the worst is over. Doc says they’ll both be fine in time. 

 Purcell nodded.  “Glad to hear it.”

Unable to find a smile of his own, Joe obligingly took a seat in front of the sheriff’s desk, his gaze straying toward the door to the cells.

“Yes, son,” the sheriff said, apparently noticing where Joe had focused his attention. “She’s back there, alright.”  He retook his own seat, settling in with a grunt, “That Smithers fella gave us plenty to go on, and all so he could make himself look better in the eyes of the judge, of course.  Now your testimony and that of your pa and brothers will lock this case up tight.  She won’t be playing games with folks’ lives no more. You can bank on that.”

His testimony.  Isn’t that what started this whole thing? If Joe had never testified against the Maycombes, Beatrice would have had no reason to go after his family. But perhaps then her family would have gone free, and the Hensens’ deaths would have given the Maycombes exactly what they’d wanted in the first place:  mining rights on the Hensen property.  Two families were dead already, the Hensens and the Maycombes—except for Beatrice. And Beatrice . . . she’d wanted to bring about the end of a third family as well.  Joe’s family.  No, he could not have done anything different.  He knew that; and yet, he felt guilty.

“I heard tell Smithers was lookin’ into reopening that mine for her,” the sheriff was saying, “I thought that whole business with mining would have been the last thing on that poor girl’s mind. And Smithers?  He ain’t the minin’ sort. He wouldn’t know the first thing to do about it.  Even if he did, everyone knows that mine was played out years ago.  That’s when I reckoned I ought to check it out.”

“We’re certainly grateful you did,” Ben said. “You saved all our lives back there.”

“It’s a wonder I made it in time.  But this boy of yours, he sure wasn’t about to give in.”

Joe bristled at the light tone in the sheriff’s voice.  The man made it sound as though Joe’s battle to stay alive, to keep his whole family alive, had been just another game.  No.  None of it had been a game.  And Beatrice had not been playing; she had been intent on killing every last one of them.  Anger filling his lungs with bitter air and Joe found it impossible to stay seated.  He rose and moved toward the inner door.

“Joe?” Ben called out.

“You want to see her, I bet,” the sheriff said.

Joe heard a chair slide across the floor, and then the sound of keys rattling. He never took his eyes from the door.

“Can’t say as I blame you, none,” the sheriff went on as he squeezed past Joe to open the door. “Hard to imagine though, a high falutin’ woman like that bein’ responsible for all that mess.”

Inside the cell, Beatrice Maycombe was sitting just as tall and proper as she had in the restaurant all those weeks ago.  She had a regal air about her, even there in that jail cell, sitting at a table so small a tray of food covered it completely.  But then Joe noticed something else, something . . . odd. She was not eating the food; she was . . . arranging it. She picked up her fork, cast her eyes around the small plate, and then moved two green beans until they sat in perfect alignment with the others.  After she very meticulously set the fork down again, exactly where it had been before, she lifted the salt shaker.  But instead of salting her food, her hand hovered in the air for a moment, circling the table with the shaker until her eyes locked in on one particular spot to the left of her cup of coffee.  She seemed to study the spot with keen interest, and then very carefully, as though taking precise aim, set the salt shaker down upon that spot.

“Someone here to see ya’, Miss Maycombe,” the sheriff said.

“Sit,” she said without looking up, her attention drawn by the pepper grinder.

Joe looked at the sheriff, who shrugged back at him. “Beatrice?” he called out softly.

She looked up, her eyes glaring. “That should be Miss Maycombe to the likes of you.” And then she looked to the table again, focusing on her knife.

“Beatrice?” he said more pointedly.

This time when she raised her eyes, there was venom in them. “I will not be addressed in that manner.  Leave me.”

“No,” Joe found himself replying.

She turned her head without looking up, and then rose with as much precision as she had applied to arranging her tableware.

“Not until you tell me why,” Joe went on.

“Why?” she said back to him. “Why?” she repeated, now making her way toward the bars separating them. “You have no right to ask me why. I am the lady of this house and you will do as I say, or be cast back out into those vile streets where I found you.”

“Do you even know where you are?” Joe heard his pa asking.

“You, sir, remove this insolent wretch from my sight. And tell my father I wish to speak with him at once. These rooms are completely unacceptable.”

“Your father?” Ben asked.

“You heard me. Now go.” She waved her hand in dismissal.

“Miss,” the Sheriff cleared his throat, “your father was hanged five weeks ago.”

She looked at him, curious. The way her head tilted first one way and then another reminded Joe of a cat studying the slow movements of spider in its web. “Yes,” she said softly after a moment. “Quite. And is it finished, then?”

“Is what finished, Miss?”

“You know perfectly well! Is it finished?”

The sheriff cocked head. “Miss?”

She threw herself toward him, her fists wrapping around the bars. “Is he dead? That miserable, lying monster, Joe Cartwright.  Is he dead?”

Confused, Joe looked to his pa. “B-Beatrice?” Joe said then, still expecting her to recognize him.

She turned her head slowly until she saw him. “He is dead, isn’t he?” she went on, her voice softer. “He is dead. Tell me he’s dead.”

“Beatrice? I . . . I’m not . . . .” Joe shook his head.

“No,” Ben said sternly. “He is not dead. Your plan failed.”

She shuddered, as though stricken, looking at Ben in what could almost have been horror if Joe could believe a woman like Beatrice Maycombe could be afraid of anything at all.  But in an instant the look was gone.  A deep breath pulled her back as straight and tall as ever. “Yes,” she said, her forehead smooth, her eyes calm. “Yes,” she said again as she turned away, walking back toward the table. “He’s dead. Thank you.”  She reclaimed her seat and picked up her fork. “That will be all,” she said, setting her fork down and picking up the salt shaker.

***

Later, when the night was thick and Sheriff Purcell lay on his cot, snoring softly, Beatrice Maycombe awoke trembling. Her eyes were wide as she gazed into the darkness around her.  She rose frantic and stumbled against the small table, sending a glass of water tumbling to the floor. The gentle clink as it shattered at first stole her breath . . . and then calmed her.  She reached for it, like a child grasping a favorite toy. When it sliced into her palm, she pulled her hand back, at first startled by the pain and then mesmerized by the blood.

Reaching for the glass again, she picked it up, studying the red spots along its jagged edge. S he looked at her palm, and then at the glass, and realized something wasn’t right. Something was out of place.  Needing to find a way to make it right again, she pulled the glass across her other palm and then compared her hands.  They weren’t even.  Frustrated, she tried again, and then again.  But she just couldn’t get it right.  No matter how many times she tried, she just couldn’t get it right—not until she reached her wrists.

She watched the blood and saw a river, and then, closing her eyes, she let it carry her away.

Epilogue

As they neared the house, Joe felt his heart pounding heavier against his chest and he found it increasingly difficult to catch his breath. There was nothing to worry about; he knew that.  Beatrice Maycombe was dead, as were all of her hired guns.  Only Carl Smithers remained, and he was not a man to fear.  Even so, Joe could not shake a feeling of dread.  He could not forget arriving home to the sight of the black wreath, a sight that had unnerved him enough to cloud his judgment, and rather than saving his family, he had needed to be saved right along with them. 

Pulling back on his reins, Joe slowed Cochise until he fell a step behind the buggy his Pa had rented to bring Adam and Hoss home.  Maybe if he was able to watch them arrive ahead of him, proving to himself they were really home and the house was no longer deserted, maybe then he could breathe easier—maybe then he could finally find the comfort he’d been eager to reach since he had left San Francisco.  It had been over a month since he had felt the comfort of home.  Now it was finally close at hand and yet it didn’t feel close at hand. Something was wrong.

Hop Sing greeted them with more enthusiasm than Joe had ever remembered seeing before, and Joe found himself laughing right along with everyone else . . . yet when he started toward the front door he felt that heaviness again. The wreath was gone, but he could see it in his mind as though it was right there in front of him.

“I’ll take care of the horses,” he found himself saying, holding back while Pa helped Hoss inside, behind a slow-moving Adam.

“Little Joe have more important work to do,” Hop Sing called out from the doorway.

Joe studied him, surprised. “I do?”

“You come inside. You see.”

Joe glanced back at Cochise, suddenly terrified to see him drinking from the trough.

The whittling man had warned it was poisoned.

No argument mattered anymore.  Joe went to his horse to draw him away from the trough, ignoring both his pa and Hop Sing.

“He said it was poisoned!”  Joe shouted over his shoulder as he started to lead Cochise toward the barn.

“Water not poison!” Hop Sing shouted back. “Hop Sing horse fine. No sick.”

Joe stopped and turned, glancing between the trough and Hop Sing.  “He said it was poisoned.”

“Water fine.  Now you go inside.  Have work to do!”

Tired and confused, Joe felt his shoulders sag.  “Let me just—”

“Cochise fine.  Little Joe go inside.”

Without even knowing what sort of battle he had been fighting, Joe felt defeated.  He sighed, shook his head and then returned Cochise to the hitching post, still unnerved by the sight of the water, yet grudgingly trusting in Hop Sing’s judgment.

***

“Little Joe stay right there,” Hop Sing commanded.

Sighing again, Joe crossed his arms in front of him and watched the Chinese cook shuffle quickly away. An instant before disappearing into the kitchen, Hop Sing turned back and aimed a finger at the fireplace. “Stay there!”

“I’m staying, Hop Sing,” Joe promised.

“He’s sure got you where he wants you,” Hoss said from where he sat on the settee.

“I think he’s got all of us where he wants us,” Adam added from his place in the blue chair.

“But why?” Ben asked from his favorite, red leather chair.

Joe found himself chuckling softly along with the rest of his family until he saw what Hop Sing brought out from the kitchen. Then his heart went cold and his lungs seemed to have forgotten how to draw air.

“Little Joe stay!” Hop Sing commanded as Joe started to turn away.

Joe ignored him. He walked sluggishly toward the stairway and then leaned against the newel post, keeping his back to the cook and the black wreath in his hands. “Why didn’t you just burn it?”

“Because that task for Little Joe.” Hop Sing’s voice was softer now, less commanding but somehow more compelling.

Joe waited a moment before facing the man again. When he did, Hop Sing lifted his hands, holding the wreath out like an offering.

“Little Joe burn,” Hop Sing said. “Send away evil.  Make Cartwright home free of shiong, bad omen.” Hop sing lifted his hands again. “You burn.”

Joe met his pa’s gaze and saw understanding in them, maybe even appreciation. Then he looked to Hoss and Adam. Both had anger in their eyes, eager to jump up and burn the thing themselves.

“Little Joe, burn away shiong.”

Heaving a weary sigh, Joe came forward. He took the wretched thing from Hop Sing and then quickly threw it into the fireplace, anxious to be rid of it, somehow feeling as though holding it for even one second too long would be more deadly than the most venomous snake in the desert.

And then . . . he felt oddly relieved, as though watching it burn was the exact thing he’d needed to do.

When he looked to Hop Sing again, he saw a familiar, knowing smile. He returned it with a genuine smile of his own, the first he’d felt since . . . since before he’d first set eyes on that black wreath.

Little Joe finally felt comfortable.  He was home.  They were all home, right where they belonged.

End