4

Unleashed

Hours later, after Adam and Joe had been tended and each had fallen into a deep, drugged slumber, Doctor Paul Martin went downstairs to see to his third and final patient. Phillip Davenport had been settled into the guest room beside the kitchen, where his brother-in-law sat vigil. To Paul’s understanding, Mr. Breckinridge’s vigil was more to keep a watchful eye over what the patient might do, than to see to Davenport’s needs. This patient, however, was unlikely to do much of anything. Between blood loss and morphine administered more to quiet than comfort him, Phillip Davenport was in too much of a stupor to move.

Paul watched from the doorway for some moments before stepping inside. He studied Mr. Breckinridge’s troubled gaze as it moved from the bedposts to the window, never seeming to want to settle on the man in the bed.

“God help me, doctor,” Mr. Breckinridge said, focusing his attention on something beyond the window glass to which his eyes were riveted, “I wish he had died out there. I don’t want to help him. I don’t want you to help him. He murdered my sister, for heaven’s sake. And all of those…all those…people…at the station.”

Sighing, Paul stepped inside and was about to respond when Breckinridge shot up from his chair.

“Why won’t he just die?” Breckinridge shouted. His hands were balled into fists. His gaze, now locked on the patient, had shifted from troubled to hateful in an instant.

“Because God put him in our care,” Paul said decisively, “and none of us here—not Ben or Hoss Cartwright, not me, and not even you—is the kind of man he is. We are not murderers.”

“He is evil, doctor. Pure evil. He does not deserve all this.” Breckinridge’s gaze swept across the fine furnishings in the room.

“He is a man in need of medical attention.” Paul set his bag on the nightstand and began to pull the blankets down to examine the wound in Davenport’s side.

Mr. Breckinridge did not seem to have heard him. “Why would God put such an evil creature in the care of the very people…in the care of people whose loved ones he butchered?”

Paul turned his attention from the patient to look at Mr. Hamilton Breckinridge. Breckinridge’s brows were expressively drawn, briefly reminding Paul of Little Joe. “Because this man needs to face justice,” Paul said then, “not vengeance. He shouldn’t be made to face his maker until he has been made to see what wrongs he has done. Because after he has been judged by man, he will be judged by God, and that is the judgment that really matters.”

“He murdered my sister. But the courts of man,” Breckinridge spat, sounding venomous, “judged that he did not.”

“If he truly murdered your sister,” a new voice said from the doorway, a deep, knowing voice whose counsel Paul had often sought in recent years, “then God will judge otherwise.”

Paul appreciated Ben’s intercession. As much as he knew the truth behind his own words, like Breckinridge, he, too, rather wished this patient would have succumbed while Paul had still been busy attending to the wounds inflicted upon Adam and Little Joe. But Paul Martin was, first and foremost, a physician. And to him, all life was sacred, even that of a man who had been so intent on extinguishing the lives of others.

“Why don’t we step outside for a while,” Ben said, addressing Mr. Breckinridge. “The fresh air would do us both a world of good; and with us out of the way, the doctor can do his work so the courts can do theirs.”

Appreciating Ben once more, Paul heaved a deep sigh, finally giving his full attention to the cleaning and stitching of wounds that had been inflicted by an as yet unknown assailant…

…An assailant who crouched in the shadows of the trees beyond, watching the brother-by-marriage of his master, a man with whom he and his master had hunted in years past, walking together with the white-haired father of the two young men who had been conscripted into this latest hunt. Bongani watched intently, as he waited for the cover of night.

XxXxX

Adam had to wake up. He knew he was sleeping; and he knew he mustn’t. He needed to be strong, not just for himself, but for Joe. Little Joe was hurt. Each hour was draining more and more of Joe’s life away from him. What should have been a minor wound had been made increasingly worse, first through Bongani’s carelessness, and then through time…and wear…and running. They could not stop running. Resting was dangerous. Sleeping? Unthinkable.

And yet Adam was sleeping.

At times he heard voices: the soothing tone of his father; the comfortable drawl of Hoss. Even Paul Martin plied his way into Adam’s dreams—probably because Adam was so desperate to get his brother into the good doctor’s care.

No. He couldn’t be sleeping. He mustn’t be sleeping. Dreams of home, sweet as they were, would get them both killed. Unless…unless Joe was dead already.

Joe? Adam called out wordlessly. He watched his brother fall into the creek. He saw it over and over again. But then he saw Davenport falling instead, and Joe holding a rifle. Which was real? Which was the dream?

XxXxX

Sheriff Coffee came by at dusk with Joe’s tack and both of the brothers’ guns.

“Found the guns down in that campsite where Hoss found Joe’s—” Ben might have believed Roy had actually bit his tongue, as sharply as the sheriff cut off his own words just short of bringing up Little Joe’s blood-drenched shirt and jacket sleeves. “Joe’s things weren’t far from where he’d already spotted Adam’s saddle and that rifle we found him with,” Roy went on after clearing his throat. “Since the money’s still in Joe’s saddle bags, it’s pretty clear Davenport and that other fella weren’t aimin’ to rob your boys.”

“Of course he wasn’t after money!” Breckinridge shouted angrily before slamming the door on Davenport’s sick room to join Ben and Roy at the fireplace. “He doesn’t need money! He just—”

“You quiet now!” Hop Sing commanded in a much smaller yet somehow more intense shout as he hurried into the great room with a fresh pot of coffee. Setting down his tray, he added, pointing a scolding finger at Hamilton Breckinridge, “Cartwright boys sleeping. Need rest, get better!” When Hop Sing turned to shuffle back into his kitchen, he continued his complaint in a soft but compelling tirade in Chinese.

Breckinridge looked appropriately chagrined. “Please forgive me, Mr. Cartwright. I’m afraid the shocking nature of Phillip’s latest crimes has quite overwhelmed me.”

Ben sighed. “It has overwhelmed all of us, I’m sure.” Gesturing for his guest to sit, Ben leaned forward to pour a cup of coffee, and then turned his attention back to the sheriff as he handed the cup to his old friend. “Have you found any sign of his accomplice?”

“‘Fraid not. We’ll look again tomorrow, but that Bongani fella seems to have done a pretty thorough job of disappearin’.”

“You won’t find him,” Breckinridge said. “That man is as big as a mountain, but he moves with the grace of a cat. He knows to stay downwind, never up, and he prefers to go about in his bare feet, only wearing boots if the weather and the terrain demand it.”

Roy gave the man a long, appraising look. “Sounds like you know him well.”

“I’ve traveled with them, hunted with them…and stayed as a guest in my sister’s home often enough.”

The reply confused Ben. The hatred this man had displayed toward his brother-in-law seemed incongruent to the idea of him socializing with Davenport, whether or not Davenport had been his sister’s husband.

Hamilton Breckinridge apparently recognized Ben’s puzzled gaze. “Phillip Davenport wasn’t always a…an animal. In fact, he and I were close once. I welcomed him as a brother, and I counted my sister blessed to have him as a husband. But….” Breckinridge stared into the flames before him, his thoughts seeming to take him miles, perhaps years away. “The hunting changed him. With each new expedition, he became more obsessed with it. I could almost believe the wild, feral nature of the animals he hunted began to seep into his very soul, becoming a part of him.”

Ben felt taken away by the man’s words as well…so taken away, in fact, he jumped with a start when Hoss entered, shutting the front door behind him with more care than Breckinridge had shown the guest room door, but still less then Ben would have preferred.

“I, uh, was just checkin’ on Cochise and Sport,” Hoss explained as he came into the room. “I didn’t like the looks of ’em when we brought ’em home, but they’re both lookin’ close to their old selves already.”

“As will your brothers, soon enough,” Ben said, knowing it was something Hoss needed to hear.

“Well, Ben.” Roy set his cup on the table before him and pushed himself to his feet. “I ought to call it a night so we can get an early start in the morning.” Rather than waiting for a reply, he turned to Ben’s guest. “Mr. Breckinridge? I wonder if you might join us. As well as you seem to know this man we’re after, you might just give us a chance to find him.”

Hamilton Breckinridge’s eyes widened for an instant and he jumped from his seat, seeming eager to accept. But then his gaze moved toward the guest room where Phillip Davenport lay. “But he’ll be starting to come around by morning, I’m sure. He should be watched. Closely,” he added in emphasis.

“It’s all right,” Ben nodded, rising to join his guests. “I’ve got some men I can spare to stand guard. They’ll appreciate the time off from working with the herd.” He noticed Hoss then, his middle son’s gaze moving anxiously from the door, to the stairs and back again. “You can go, too, if you’d like, Hoss. Hop Sing and I can look after your brothers.”

Hoss scrunched down his brows in consternation, shaking his head. “I know you can, Pa. But…dandburnit, I can’t help but worry ’bout that fever that’s workin’ at Little Joe. You heard the doc. He said it could get worse before it gets better; and it might not even get any better. I want to catch that man as much as anyone, maybe more. But if somethin’…if Joe…well, if that fever just gets worse instead of better, an’ I ain’t here…. And Adam….” He shook his head, skipping over the words he didn’t want to say.

Ben knew what they were, anyway. What if he lost either of his brothers while he was gone, whether to the physical wounds or the emotional ones? But Ben had had enough of ‘what if’s’ in his life. He had to tell Hoss to follow his heart. And if Ben were to follow his own heart, he had to tell his son to stay home. Because Ben just didn’t have the heart to worry over another one of his sons. There was already more than enough worry to go around.

“I don’t blame you, Hoss,” Roy said before Ben could pull his emotions back under control. “What we’re after’s probably no more’n a wild goose chase, anyway. You just stay here where you’re needed.”

“But you gotta find that man, sheriff. After what he done to my brothers…you just…you gotta find ‘im.”

“One way or another, son, we will. It might take some time, but we’ll find him. Kind of hard for a man like that to hide for long.”

Hoss nodded, swallowing roughly. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just….” He pointed toward the stairs behind him with his thumb.

“Give my best to your brothers, Hoss,” Roy said. “Will you?”

“Sure thing, sheriff.”

Wanting to follow Hoss up the stairs, Ben followed Roy instead, and then began wondering how they could ever hope to find a man who had already disappeared, a man who knew the hunt well enough to know what it meant to be hunted. Ben found his thoughts drifting to Hamilton Breckinridge’s description of his brother-in-law’s madness; and he began to feel an odd sense of being hunted himself. When he stepped outside, he hoped the evening air might somehow dispel the disquieting feeling. It didn’t.

“Somethin’ wrong, Ben?” Roy asked.

“No,” Ben answered, scanning the yard for anything out of place. “I just….” He shook his head. “It’s been a trying day. I’m sure we’ll all do better with a good night’s sleep.”

“I’m sure that’s true. G’night, Ben. Mr. Breckinridge.” Roy nodded to each before mounting his horse and riding away.

Ben almost felt compelled to call him back. “Don’t be a fool,” he chided himself softly. Phillip Davenport couldn’t possibly pose any more threat; and his man…well, Bongani was far from there, certainly. The only thing Ben had to fear was the hand of God. And Ben would pray himself hoarse if he had to, in order to keep that hand away from his sons for one more night.

XxXxX

Rifle fire? A loud ‘crack’ jolted Adam out of the thick cocoon of sleep that had enveloped him, trapping him. His breath caught, his shoulder throbbing in time with the increased cadence of his heartbeat. He lay still for a long moment, listening for clues to his current reality, feeling the soft mattress beneath him…cotton sheets covering him…thick blankets pressing him down.

He heard muffled voices then…someone shouting about money…Hop Sing shouting back in Chinese.

Was he really home?

He found his breath, pulling in enough air to intensify the throbbing. But then a hand clamped down upon his mouth, suffocating the sense of comfort he had barely begun to breathe in.

“I have not come to harm you further,” a deep bass voice breathed into his ear. “But I will if I must.”

Both hands reaching for the thick fist holding him mute, Adam’s eyes darted around the dimly lit room. He didn’t have the strength to pull even one of that man’s meaty fingers away. Nor could he move his head. It was a struggle just to glance beside him to the shadows where the intruder stood.

“Will you hold silent?” The man changed positions, moving into Adam’s line of sight…a dark giant slipping into view.

Bongani.

Adam’s eyes widened. When he saw the man’s other hand was empty, showing that Bongani wielded no weapon, the realization eased Adam’s fears only for an instant. The hand at Adam’s mouth was massive, with a grip that seemed capable of splintering rock…a man’s jaw…a woman’s neck.

“Will you allow me to speak without crying out?” Bongani whispered, his hot breath brushing Adam’s nose and cheek, carrying with it the scent of old coffee. There was a wildness within his dark eyes, but they were not feral. They lacked the madness Adam had seen in the hunter. In fact, there seemed to be a spark of intelligence within them…or rather, wisdom…of a sort that transcended academia.

As bewildered as he was overpowered, Adam nodded.

Bongani nodded back. His hand fell away. “You could have escaped,” Bongani said then. “Why didn’t you?”

“I can hardly move.” Adam’s voice was weak, hoarse.

“During the hunt,” Bongani clarified. “You could have escaped.”

“We tried,” Adam spat back.

“No. You. You could have escaped. The only reason you failed was your brother.”

“What are you saying?” Angered enough to try to push himself up using his stronger arm, Adam grew even angrier to discover how weak he really was. “That I should have…left him…to be….” The words were a struggle to say through gasps of thinly swallowed air, too thin to keep his lungs filled. He gritted his teeth before forcing out, “slaughtered?” The dim room grew dimmer.

“You would have won.”

“Hardly.” Adam fell back against his pillow.

“You would have won,” Bongani repeated.

Adam rolled his head back and forth upon his pillow, his thoughts returning to Joe—worn, broken, defeated, leaning against a boulder and trying to tell Adam to go on without him.

“We’ll never outrun them by staying together,” Joe had told him.

“I would have lost,” Adam said softly. “Either way, I would have lost.”

“You would have escaped.”

“Escaped what? Your master’s bullet?” Adam closed his eyes, seeing Joe at that boulder as clearly as if they were still there.

“Phillip Davenport is not my master.”

Adam’s eyes flew open once more. “Your partner, then,” he said, angered again.

Bongani inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. “His bullet should have killed you.”

“My brother’s warning saved my life.”

“And almost cost his own.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Adam asked. “Because you don’t understand what it means to care enough about someone to risk your own life to save him?”

Bongani cocked his head, considering Adam’s statement. A moment later, he nodded. “Yes.”

“Then I’m sorry for you.”

“It is the fault of your own kind,” Bongani said suddenly, his voice louder, his back straighter. “White men stole that from me!”

“Stole what? Your soul?”

“My tribe. My people. My life!”

“So you think it’s okay to steal lives like my brother’s and mine?”

“Phillip Davenport did all the killing.”

“You shot my brother!”

“I did not aim for his head or his heart.”

“Don’t fool yourself. You are as much of a murderer as Davenport.”

“No. I hunt men. But I do not kill them.”

“Why not? Because you prefer to watch?”

Bongani stared at him, as still as a rock…or a mountain.

“Do you enjoy watching people suffer?” Adam went on.

“Pa!” Hoss’s voice forced that mountain to move, twisting Bongani around and drawing Adam’s attention to his doorway. “Sheriff! He’s up here!”

In the next instant, Adam’s middle brother was wrestling with the larger…deadlier…Bongani, and there was nothing Adam could do to help. He tried to rise, but the room kept spinning and dimming around him. He didn’t even have enough breath to shout out a warning.

XxXxX

Something pulled Joe out of a dark void. He heard voices, but he could not place who they were or what was being said. He tried to listen….

Awareness came to him in pain rather than words. His arm burned. His head throbbed. Words didn’t matter when he opened his eyes and the room spun dizzily around him.

The room…his room….

He closed his eyes and then opened them again, trying to pull that room into focus…trying to pull the pieces of his thoughts into focus.

He was safe, he decided. He was home. He was in his room. That meant he was safe. For now, that would have to do. He started to allow his eyes to drift closed once more, but a shout from Hoss forced them open again.

“Pa! Sheriff! He’s up here!”

Who, Hoss? Who’s up here?

Joe waited for the response, expecting the clomp of running feet on the stairway and then in the hall outside his door. But those sounds did not come. And Hoss said nothing more. Instead, Joe began to hear muffled thuds coming from somewhere further down the hall. There was the crash of wood against wood, and the softer, crisper sounds of flesh against flesh.

Hoss?

Afraid for his brother, Joe pushed himself up using his right arm. He was momentarily confused why his left arm was wrapped so tightly and secured to his side, but then nausea chased all other thoughts away. He had to sit still. His right hand gripped the mattress beneath him until the feeling eased. After a moment, he rose, triggering a flare of pain in his left ankle as he forced it to take his weight.

Pa? Joe called out in his thoughts. Adam? But Hoss was the only one he knew to be nearby. And Hoss needed help.

Joe fought for balance, intent on staying upright. At the sound of another crash down the hall, Joe pressed himself forward, limping as quickly as he could while the floor seemed to heave beneath him like a ship on rough seas.

“Hoss?” he called out in a voice so soft he could barely hear it himself.

But when he reached Hoss’s room, it was empty.

A heavy thud called from further down the hall. Joe started to turn toward Adam’s room when his gaze fell upon Hoss’s bureau. Pa’s bureau held a gun, Joe remembered then. Pa always kept a spare gun in his top drawer.

Hoss needed Joe’s help. And Joe needed his pa’s gun. And Pa’s room was just across the hall.

Fighting off another wave of nausea, Joe stumbled to his pa’s room. A moment later he had the gun in his hands. His vision was blurring and darkening. He couldn’t even see the bullets in the chamber. But he could feel them. And it didn’t take perfect sight to pull a trigger.

“Stop it! You’ll kill him!” Adam called out nearby, his voice rough but desperate.

Taking a shaky breath, Joe tried to blink the dark fog from his eyes. His oldest brother’s room had never seemed so far away.

XxXxX

Hoss was losing the fight. Bongani was stronger, bigger, and every punch landed true. Hoss’s right eye was already swelling. A steady stream of blood was falling from his lip as well as his nose. And now Bongani was on top of him, his forearm pressing down hard…too hard against Hoss’s windpipe.

Adam couldn’t reach them. He’d tried to stand but his legs folded beneath him. He fell to the floor beside his bed, where he faced a new fight, a different kind of fight, a fight to simply stay conscious.

“Stop,” he tried to yell, but his voice was a whisper. He swallowed, tried to clear his throat. “Stop it!” he managed to shout. “You’ll kill him!”

But Bongani did not pull back. And it looked as though Hoss was no longer struggling.

“You said you weren’t a killer!” Adam said in as loud a voice as he could. It wasn’t loud enough. “Prove it!”

“Let him go.” Joe’s voice was even weaker than Adam’s, but it was loud enough to pull Adam’s attention to where his youngest brother leaned against the door frame. Joe had a gun in his right hand, aimed at Bongani’s back.

XxXxX

Ben started walking toward the bunkhouse as Roy rode away. He was barely aware of Hamilton Breckinridge trailing along behind him. In fact, he was barely aware of much of anything. He almost wished the pleasant feel of the cooling air could make him forget why Roy had been there in the first place, and why Ben must talk with his men. But of course he couldn’t forget. Nor should he. A terrible crime had been committed against his sons. An unthinkable crime. And even if Ben managed to forget for the smallest fraction of a second, the man responsible would still be in Ben’s home. No, it must not be forgotten; and that man must never be allowed to bring more harm to Ben’s sons or anyone else.

As he passed the open back window to the kitchen, Ben could hear Hop Sing pounding away at something—probably tenderizing some venison steaks from the buck Hoss had brought home the day before. Hoss had been proud of that animal, and with good reason. In fact, Hoss had been eager to boast to his brothers about it; although Ben knew Hoss would have let Joe do some boasting first. Hoss had been even prouder of his little brother than he’d been of his own hunting exploits.

Ben had been proud of Joe as well. His youngest son had been showing some excellent business sense in recent weeks. Maybe Adam was finally making progress in getting through to Little Joe. That was why Ben had been particularly eager for Adam and Joe to get home. He’d been as anxious to hear about their journey as about their business dealings. But now….

“I suppose I’d better go back inside.”

Ben started at the sound of Mr. Breckinridge’s voice. He’d forgotten he wasn’t alone.

“I don’t like the thought of leaving Phillip unguarded,” Breckinridge added.

Nodding in quiet agreement, Ben felt a slight breeze work its way across the back of his neck, and he couldn’t suppress a shiver. The breeze chilled him far more than it should. Somehow it managed to have brought with it images of Davenport’s victims at the way station, grisly images that Ben prayed he might someday be able to force to the back of his mind…certainly not forgotten, but at least, perhaps, faded.

Today was not that day. Instead of fading, each beat of Hop Sing’s meat tenderizer began to make the images sharper, starker, more real, until Ben began to feel ill. His balance failing him, he stumbled forward.

“Are you all right?” Mr. Breckinridge took hold of Ben’s arm.

“Fine,” Ben answered gruffly. “I’m fine.” He shrugged himself out of the man’s grip. “Just…tired.”

“Then perhaps we’d both better get back inside.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Ben sighed. “But first I need to arrange for help in guarding your—” Ben stopped himself before referring to Phillip Davenport as Breckinridge’s brother-in-law. It wasn’t fair to emphasize the connection between his two houseguests, one a decent and caring man, and the other….

Hop Sing pounded that meat again; and Ben’s blood ran cold. “I need to arrange for those extra guards,” he finished.

Mr. Breckinridge looked at him expectantly. “I’ll speak with your men for you, if you’d like to go inside.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Breckinridge took a deep breath that drew his back up straighter. “I’m sorry, but you do not look entirely well; and frankly I’d rather not see the health of any other member of your family threatened by my brother-in-law’s madness, perhaps especially not you.”

Yes, Ben decided. Hamilton Breckinridge was certainly a caring and decent man. “Thank you,” he replied, smiling warmly. “But you can’t hold yourself responsible for anything that man has done.”

“No. You’re right. I can’t. But I can help you and your family; and that’s exactly what I want to do. Presuming…you will let me?”

Ben wasn’t about to let his houseguest speak for him, but he didn’t turn Hamilton away, either. Instead, they spoke with the men together. Hamilton’s presence might even have helped Ben to recruit more volunteers than should have been necessary. There was something about the stranger that Ben found…inspiring. Like a leader, Ben decided. The kind of leader who won wars, not just battles. The kind of leader who might do well in Washington.

For a brief, wonderful moment, Ben’s thoughts turned fully away from Hank’s station, and even allowed him to see past the discovery of his injured sons in the meadow. But then the sound of a single gunshot brought everything back with harsh clarity. Worse, the shot had come from inside Ben’s house.

XxXxX

Joe was trembling. It was almost as though he was shivering. But he wasn’t cold. He was hot. So hot he could feel sweat slowly trailing its way along his temple, tickling the edge of the bandage on his head, and then dripping down to his jaw. The feeling made him try to swallow, although his mouth was dry. He blinked, too; but the sweat hadn’t reached his eyes. There was something else fogging his vision.

“I said let him go,” Joe repeated, fighting to keep the gun leveled at the large man’s back.

When the man didn’t move, Joe pulled back the hammer. But what if the bullet went straight through and hit Hoss, too? What if he missed Bongani entirely, and hit Hoss instead? It was a gamble to take any shot at all using his wrong hand and in his current condition. He just couldn’t be sure of anything.

Unwilling to take a chance, he repositioned the gun to target Adam’s desk, which had been upended in the fight. He hoped the sound of the shot would reach Pa and Sheriff Coffee, since Hoss’s shouts clearly hadn’t. He also hoped it would act as sufficient warning to get the hunter’s beast away from Hoss, although he doubted the warning would have any effect on Bongani at all.

He was right. The man made no attempt to move.

“The next one’s in your head,” Joe threatened in a voice that sounded pathetically shaky, “if you don’t get away from my brother right now.”

“Hoss?” Adam called out, pulling Joe’s attention enough to make him realize Bongani wasn’t moving, but Hoss sure was. He was rocking slightly, seeming ready to push Bongani away.

“I have no intention of killing your brother,” Bongani said without turning. He spoke slowly, emphasizing his careful pronunciation of each word.

The room started swaying. Joe could not seem to find the strength to sway along with it. His hand fell to his side.

“Maybe it wasn’t your intention,” he heard Adam say in a tone icy enough to make Joe wish it could cool him off. “But you would have, if we hadn’t forced you to think!”

“I am not….” Bongani was looking at Little Joe now.

The man was sitting on the floor. When had he moved himself off of Hoss? Joe hadn’t even seen him turn.

Bongani seemed almost as surprised as Joe, then. His eyes widened slightly as Joe started losing his battle with gravity. There was nothing Joe could do to hide it; he slid along the doorframe to the floor, clearly no longer posing the man any threat.

I’m sorry, Hoss, Joe said silently, hoping Adam might yet talk them all out of this.

“A killer,” Bongani finished. Joe had already forgotten what he’d been talking about.

And then Bongani’s eyes widened further an instant before something exploded right beside Joe’s ear. The sound stole his hearing, but Joe could still see well enough to recognize a very angry Hop Sing with a shotgun in his hands. The barrel was smoking. Pa came in just a few steps behind the cook, his eyes almost as wide as Bongani’s had been.

It was all very strange, but Joe smiled even so, his sense of safety returning. Then he closed his eyes, giving in to the call of darkness.

XxXxX

“What in….” Ben barreled through Adam’s door behind an anxious Hop Sing. He glanced around, his eyes first landing on Joe, who was slumped against the doorframe but appeared to have suffered no additional injuries. Next Ben saw the man he’d only heard about until this moment, a man black as night and larger than Hoss. Ben had figured the man’s size had to have been exaggerated, but now he saw it was true. The man called Bongani was lying right beside Ben’s own, large son, blood seeping from the worst kind of wound any man could be made to endure. Bongani had been gut shot, though he was alive…at least for now. As was Hoss, who was starting to rise, one hand propping himself up, the other wiping at his bloodied nose.

“Hoss?” Ben called out, worried now for all three of his sons.

“I’m all right, Pa. I thought he had me there for a minute, though.” Hoss might have grinned at any other time, facing any other stranger; but he didn’t. He was as serious as could be.

“He did have you,” Adam said, equally serious.

Seeing his oldest son on the floor and using the bed to steady himself as he tried to rise, Ben wanted to hurry to his side; but he knew Adam too well. His help would be refused. Adam would figure his brothers needed help more at that moment. With Hop Sing and Hamilton already seeing to Little Joe, Ben focused his own attentions on Hoss.

“Yes,” Bongani said suddenly, drawing everyone’s attention. He closed his eyes, his chest heaving in ragged breaths.

“Yes to what?” Adam asked.

Ben didn’t much care what the man might have to say. He pressed a handkerchief beneath Hoss’s nose to stem the flow of blood, examining the swelling as he did so. Thankfully, it did not seem to be broken.

In the periphery of Ben’s vision, he saw Bongani’s eyes come open again, unshuttering the piercing whiteness around his coal dark irises. The effect pulled Ben’s own eyes toward him, but Bongani was no more interested in Ben than Ben was in him. Instead, the man looked past Ben, toward Adam.

“Your question,” Bongani answered. His voice, ragged and deep, sounded like the crunch of gravel under a herd of horses. “My answer,” he went on. “Yes. I…enjoy watching whi…white people suffer.” He swallowed.

Ben felt bile rising in his own gullet. He enjoyed watching people suffer? An animal, that’s what Bongani was. A beast. God help him after he bled out; but Ben knew it was more likely the devil would take him first.

“At least, I…did,” Bongani continued.

For an instant, Ben tensed guiltily. Then he reminded himself the man was dying and had to know it. Now Ben and his family were being forced to hear his deathbed confession. If he was expecting Ben’s forgiveness, he would be sorely disappointed.

“I have seen many of…my own…people…suffer…at the hands of whites. It…s-satisfied me…to see a white man make…other whites…to suffer.”

Yes, Ben thought. Phillip Davenport. A white man who tortured other white men. But Ben was sure Bongani had it wrong. Phillip Davenport was the kind of man who would enjoy watching anyone suffer, white or not. If watching that suffering satisfied Bongani, he was no better than Davenport.

“Then why’d you shoot him?” Hoss asked gruffly as he grabbed hold of the handkerchief, pushing Ben’s hand away.

“Only to save his own neck from the hangman’s noose!” Hamilton Breckinridge shouted.

“No,” Bongani said softly. “I did it…because it was time. It was…past time. It should never…have been.”

“Of course it should never have been!” Hamilton added. “How many people had to die to make you realize that?”

“I saw white men…” Bongani said as Ben helped Hoss to his feet, “cause my people…to suffer. It seemed…only right.”

“An eye for an eye, is that it?” Ben asked more loudly than he’d intended, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to constrain his rage.

“I’m okay, Pa,” Hoss said, tugging out of his father’s grip. But he stumbled as he tried to move away. “I think I’ll just….” He righted a fallen chair. “Sit here for a bit.”

“No,” Bongani answered. “Nothing so…profound…as that. It was…easy. It was all so…easy.”

Ben looked from Hoss, to Adam, to Bongani, and back to Adam again. Adam’s jaw was clenched, but whether it was from pain or anger, Ben could not be sure.

“He…saved me…from the slave ship…from…slavery. He…kept me…fed…clothed. I never…looked back. Never…cared to know…if any…of my…brothers…my…tribesmen…survived. I lived well…and then, when he…changed…I accepted it. It seemed only…fitting. Until…now. Until….”

Bongani paused, and Ben wondered if he’d passed out. But the man’s eyes were still wide open, and they were focused on Adam.

“You,” Bongani added. “And your…brother. Your…brothers.” He glanced at Hoss before looking back at Adam. “Reminded me. I…abandoned…mine. Saved…my own self. Escaped…the fate I left them to…I did what you…did not.”

The tightness in Adam’s jaw loosened. “I don’t suppose you had much choice in that.”

“As you said…lost…either way.”

Bongani closed his eyes for a long while, allowing Ben to accept that it was over. Hop Sing and Hamilton had disappeared down the hallway, taking Joe to his room. Adam was settled back in his own bed. And Hoss…well, Hoss was looking a little less shaken than he’d been.

“You are…different,” Bongani added then, his voice no more than a tired a whisper. “Not like…other white men.” His eyes did not come open. “Even your Chinaman…protects you.”

“His name is Hop Sing,” Adam replied. “And he’s not mine, or anyone else’s. He’s his own man.”

“Thank you,” Bongani said.

“For what?”

“For showing me…that the world has not…lost…its soul.”

Those were the last words he said on this earth. The rest was between him and God.

…Or at least that’s what Ben thought until he realized…suddenly…strangely… he’d already forgiven the man. Nothing less than the will of God could have caused him to do so.

XxXxX

Adam came awake to an empty room awash with shadows cast by low lamplight. He didn’t even remember having fallen asleep. Maybe he’d simply passed out.

As he blinked his shadowed room into focus, he saw that Bongani was gone and the furniture had been put back into position, except for his desk, which Adam couldn’t see anywhere. The chair Hoss had been sitting in was vacant; and Pa….

A small noise pulled his attention to a shadowy figure standing by the door, one hand raised head high and resting on the jam. It could not be Adam’s father; ‘head high’ was not very high at all.

“Hop Sing?” Adam called out softly, suddenly fearful of the small man’s gasping breaths. Was he crying?

The figure lurched, clearly startled. He turned toward Adam, his hand now at his side. “Hop Sing not mean to wake Mr. Adam.” When he bowed, Adam expected to hear a humble apology, but the cook said nothing further.

Fear shifted to a sense of despondency that worked its way deep into Adam’s chest, digging and twisting where the bullet hadn’t reached. “Little Joe?” he asked in the whisper of a voice, strangled by sudden despair. In his mind he saw his youngest brother sliding down the wall into a crumpled heap on the floor, unconscious, or….

“No,” Hop Sing said quickly. “No,” he said again, rising to his full height and then scampering over toward the bed. “Little Joe no worse. No. No worse.” He looked toward the window. “Please accept humble apology—”

“What is it, Hop Sing? What’s wrong?”Adam watched the man’s chest rise with a heavy breath.

Hop Sing nodded. Composed now, he gave his attention to Adam. “Hop Sing do honest work. Always honest work. Good work.” He looked at his hands; and Adam could see they were shaking. “Till garden, cook, clean, tend to sick, hurt.” He curled his fingers inward, into loose fists. “When find insult, Hop Sing turn other cheek, no fight…humble.” He filled his chest once more. His loose fists tightened. “Today…Hop Sing shoot man. Kill man.”

Adam closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of his own—a breath that stabbed at his wound as though Paul Martin was only just beginning his surgery. “You did,” he said in tight gasps, “what you…had to do.”

“Mr. Adam need water? Medicine?”

“No,” he gasped. “No,” he repeated a moment later, as his breathing began to relax. “It’ll pass. Just….” Clamping down on his teeth, Adam took two more steadying breaths before adding, “Thank you.”

Hop Sing looked puzzled. “Thank? Why thank?”

“For saving my brothers.” Adam was glad to finally be able to speak without panting. “For protecting them.”

No longer puzzled, Hop Sing now appeared angry. “No! No threat. Bongani sit on floor. No threat. Hop Sing shoot first, think last. Hop Sing should make threat, not shoot.”

Adam felt for the man. Hop Sing was a cook, not a soldier or lawman, nor even a trail hand. A cook. A humble cook who had just taken a man’s life and could never have imagined having to do so.

“If you saw a fox,” Adam offered, “sitting in the hen house, would you wait to see if it pounced, or would you shoot it where it stood?”

Hop Sing looked puzzled again. “Shoot fox.” He said it like it was the only answer possible, and Adam was a fool for not knowing that answer himself. “Save chickens.”

Adam nodded, smiling warmly. “That’s exactly what you did today. You shot a predator that could have attacked Little Joe, a man who had already hurt him. If you’d waited, it’s possible he could have killed any one of us.”

Hop Sing was not convinced. “Might have! Could have! Not know!”

“You did what you had to do,” Adam repeated.

“Father say man saw…truth…before die. But…Hop Sing kill. Bad death.” He shook his head. “Bad death make hungry ghost. Hungry ghost bring more harm.”

“Bongani can’t harm anyone anymore.”

“Hungry ghost.”

“No. I think if you did anything, you helped to give him peace, not hunger.”

Hop Sing studied him for a long while.

“You did what you had to do.”

“No,” Hop Sing said again, though this time it was said in a whisper that lacked his earlier conviction.

“Yes.”

Hop Sing took a deep breath, and then another. Adam was glad to see his tension ease in that final exhalation.

“No hungry ghost?” Hop Sing asked softly.

Adam smiled again. “No hungry ghost.”

Surprisingly, Hop Sing began to smile, too. “But hungry man, in bed.” He pointed to Adam.

Adam’s smile widened. “I suppose I am, at that.”

“Hop Sing bring broth!” He was already scurrying toward the door before Adam could say a word.

“Hop Sing?” Adam called after him. He waited for the man to stop, showing that he’d heard Adam, and then added, “Thank you.”

Hop Sing turned slightly, giving Adam another small smile and a nod before disappearing into the hallway—a smile and a nod that said his own kind of thanks more clearly than words ever could.

XxXxX

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