Summary: A missing scene for the episode, “Five Into the Wind.”

Rated: T  WC  6400

Recap:  In the episode, after a stagecoach crash, Joe and his fellow passengers start walking through the wilderness to the next town, Owl’s Point. During the trek, one of the passengers is mysteriously murdered, and suspicions fly. When Joe is accused, one of the passengers, Laurie, reassures him that she believes in his innocence, but she turns on him when he accuses Henshaw, whom no one knows is Laurie’s father. Ultimately, the real killer is unmasked, and two more passengers die, leaving Joe, Laurie and Henshaw to make their way to Owl’s Point. Meanwhile, Hoss and Ben have gotten worried when the stagecoach has failed to arrive, and Hoss has joined a posse searching for the missing stagecoach. In the final scene of the episode, Joe and Hoss arrive home, where Hoss tells Ben that he caught up with Joe at Owl’s Point. As they walk into the house, Hoss has his arm around Joe’s shoulders. This story comes between the departure of the three remaining passengers for Owl’s Point and the Cartwrights’ arrival at home.

 

                                                    Out of the Wind

Spent. Emptied. Drained. Of spit, sweat, tears. Everything even the tiniest bit liquid, gone. Drained of energy. Of strength. Of life itself, almost.

So utterly, completely dry.

Scorching wind blowing sand and dust in their faces, their eyes, their noses and mouths. Merciless sun, beating down on them as they trudged, putting one foot in front of the other because it was that or die where they stood, covered in dust.

The night before had been as cold as the day was hot, but night or day, the dryness never let up. He’d passed the canteen that held their last bit of water, hot and unappetizing, but still wet, and so infinitely precious. He saw Henshaw’s eyes, and Laurie’s, and he deliberately drank short, blocking the opening to the canteen with his tongue so that they’d think he was drinking as much as they did. They were city folk. They didn’t know how to survive in the wilderness.

He knew they were all in trouble when he realized he’d stopped sweating. He stood still, the dust swirling around him, and he closed his eyes to try to think. How far to Owl’s Point? What was between here and there? A stream, maybe? Anything with even the tiniest bit of water. He’d gladly have eaten mud, just for the moisture, but the dust particles pelting his face left no such hope.

“Joe? What’s the matter?”

He opened his eyes to see Laurie peering at him. She looked worried, and he forced himself to smile. He wasn’t sure why. She deserved to know the truth about how desperate their situation was. She and her father had been looking to him to save them, and now, they would all die. Not that there had been much choice. Die at the cave, or die walking.

Joe Cartwright wasn’t about to die standing still.

So, he took her hand, and he reached out to her pa with his free, bandaged hand, even though it hurt to move it and it would hurt even more to have Henshaw hanging on to it. “You two doing okay?”

“We’re fine,” said Henshaw. He didn’t take Joe’s bandaged hand; instead, he grasped Joe’s arm, but he held on with such intensity that Joe knew he almost understood how bad things were.

“Then let’s go,” said Joe. And once again, they started walking. . . .

* * * * * * * * * *

Something cool and damp rested against his mouth. It was a bit rough, like a cloth, and it caught against his wind-chapped lips. But it was wet. And real. Instinctively, his lips parted, and he tried to suck the moisture like a nursing pup. There was so little wetness that it felt like a cruel tease, but he tried even so to take it all had.

“Easy, now.” The voice was deep and rumbling and infinitely beloved, but he couldn’t put a name to it. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt crusted closed. The cloth disappeared, leaving only the slightest dampness behind. He could feel the tingling behind his eyes that would have signaled tears starting if they hadn’t all dried up already. A large hand cupped the back of his head, tilting him forward, and the cool hardness of a glass rested against his lower lip. An instant later, water-fresh, cold, beautiful water-flowed into his dry, sticky mouth, moistening his tongue and everything inside, and again, he could feel himself wanting to cry.

Too soon, the glass was gone. He tried to reach for it, but his head was laid back on the pillow. “You jest rest now,” said the voice. “Let’s see how that much sets. Then you can have more.” The cool, wet cloth dabbed at his face, and he reached for it. “Easy, Joe,” said the voice. “You can have more in a little bit, I promise.”

Please, he tried to say, but no sound issued from his throat. His lips parted again. Please.

The cloth dampened his lips, his face, his neck. His face was so burned by the sun that even the lightest touch stung. He heard a splash, and the cloth, wetter now, moistened the dry skin on his arms, his torso, his legs. It felt so good on his aching body. Another splash, and the cloth came to rest across his eyes, deliciously cool.

“You jest rest, Little Brother,” said the voice as something light and only slightly coarse-a sheet, maybe-floated from nowhere to rest on his body. “You’re gonna be fine. I promise.” The large, calloused hand, incongruous in its gentleness, stroked his head. Little Brother. Of course. And it wasn’t Adam, so it had to be-

Hoss. Again, he could make no sound, but his brother must have seen him trying, because he said, “That’s right, Joe, it’s ol’ Hoss, come to fetch you. Looks like you got yourself into quite a pickle this time, Little Brother. You’re gonna have to rest here for a little bit ‘fore we can start for home.”

Pa? This time, there was the slightest whisper of a sound.

Hoss kept stroking Joe’s hair, and he took his hand, too, as if he couldn’t hold onto his little brother enough. “Pa’s back at the Ponderosa,” Hoss said. “He wanted to come, but we figgered that, with Adam away, somebody ought to stay there in case you sent word about where you were.” He squeezed Joe’s hand. “But don’t you worry. Once you’re rested up, we’ll be home in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” He kept talking, but it was like Joe was moving away from him, down a long hallway, and eventually, the sound ceased.

* * * * * * * * * *

He’d noticed Laurie when she first got on the stage at Watson’s Mills. He hadn’t known then that Henshaw was her father; they acted like they didn’t even know each other. Not until later did it occur to him how odd that was. It was one thing for them to pretend after the murder, when nobody knew who to trust, but it was strange to have started out that way.

Soft reddish curls framed her face, the longer tresses swept back to accent her high cheekbones. She had a way of looking at him-at all the men, but especially him-like he amused her, but she was trying to decide whether he was worth her time. Not in a bad way, but in the way that said that she was a busy lady and couldn’t afford to spend her time on an investment that wouldn’t bring much of a return.

Joe wasn’t accustomed to women finding him wanting. It was clear that she thought he was handsome. It was also clear, though, that she didn’t necessarily think that was enough of a reason to favor him with her attention. She was pleasant enough, but no more so to him than to anyone else, even that sissy Roberto and the coarse Benson. She flirted lightly with all the men, but as far as Joe could tell, she did that mainly to annoy Nora. Nora, who was plain and so was basically ignored by the male passengers, including Benson. Nora, who had made a long trip for nothing, because Benson refused to marry her. Nora, who was capable of killing a man if he hurt her.

As the passengers piled into the stage, it was clear that somebody wouldn’t have a seat. Without talking about it, Joe settled himself on the floor. He figured it was the right thing to do: he was a man, and he was the youngest. Of course, it wasn’t like any of the other men had offered.

If there was one thing less comfortable than a stagecoach seat, it was a stagecoach floor. He braced himself against the door, and he sat on his saddlebags for some small cushioning, but still, every bump bounced and jarred him much harder than if he’d been on the seat, and every turn threw him against one set of knees or another. For the first of what would turn out to be many times, he found himself regretting his decision not to get a horse and ride home alone.

When they stopped at Beyersville for fresh horses, Joe took advantage of the break to stretch his cramped legs. He sauntered down the street to the telegraph office to wire Pa about when he’d be home. As he started to put pencil to paper, he saw Laurie walk past the office window. Her reddish curls tumbled in the breeze. As she continued up the street, the wind picked up a bit and caught her hem, treating him to a glimpse of shapely ankle. He found himself contemplating just how soft her lips would be.

Hastily, Joe composed his wire. On an impulse, he added a comment: “Scenery very interesting.” Pa might think it an odd thing to say, but he was sure Hoss would understand.

Very interesting indeed, he mused as Laurie turned to walk back to the stagecoach. It almost made up for the uncomfortable ride, being that close to such fine scenery.

* * * * * * * * * *

The next time he woke, he forced his eyes open. They felt dry and scratchy, and he had to blink hard to see anything. The lamp turned down low. Beyond the circle of its light, the room was dark and silent. Hoss, blurry and indistinct, sat in a chair by the bed, chin resting on his broad chest. Joe blinked again, trying to determine whether Hoss was asleep. He moved his head and saw the glass on the night table. Clumsily, he tried to reach for it, but his arm ached so badly that his hand wouldn’t go quite where he wanted, and he knocked the glass over, spilling its contents.

No, he begged silently as water dripped off the table, onto the floor. Water. The difference between life and death, spilled by his own hand. A dry sob caught in his throat, and Hoss’ head jerked up.

“What’re you doin’ now?” the big man asked. “You want to try some more water?” Joe watched anxiously as Hoss poured the precious liquid into the glass. He tried to lift his head, but Hoss said, “Let me do that.” He cradled Joe’s head in his hand, lifting him from the pillow and holding the glass to his lips. Greedily, Joe clutched the glass with his unbandaged hand, trying to get as much water as he could before Hoss took it back. “Easy, now, Joe, take it easy,” said Hoss. Too soon, he took the glass away, setting it out of reach.

“More,” whispered Joe.

“You gotta take it slow, you know that,” Hoss said. He laid Joe’s head back on the pillow. “You’ll make yourself sick if’n you drink too much at once.”

“More,” Joe whispered again.

“In a few minutes,” promised Hoss. He dipped the cloth in the washbowl, wrung it out, and wiped Joe’s face. “You’re a lot cooler than you were,” he said. “That’s a good sign. I think you’re gonna be jest fine as soon as you get rested up.” He continued talking, but Joe wasn’t listening. He struggled again to reach the glass, and again, Hoss laid him back on the pillow.

“Please,” Joe whispered. He reached out, but Hoss caught his hand. “Please, Hoss. We need water, all of us. Laurie’s sick. So’s her pa.” He was pleading, he was begging, and he didn’t care. Their lives depended on this water.

For the instant before Hoss laid the wet cloth over Joe’s eyes, Joe would have sworn his brother looked like he was about to cry. Instead, Hoss went back to stroking his hair and holding his hand. “Soon, Little Joe,” he promised. “As soon as we can, I promise.” He kept talking that way, low and soothing, and his quiet voice and gentle touch eased Joe’s agitation. “You get some rest, an’ I promise, you’re gonna be jest fine in no time at all,” he said, but his voice sounded rough around the edges, like he didn’t quite have control.

It felt like hours before Hoss let go of his hand, and Joe heard the sound of water being poured. He dropped the compress onto the bed beside him and tried to sit up.

“Hold your horses, now,” said Hoss. He supported Joe’s head as Joe took the glass. Joe closed his eyes, feeling the water spread through his mouth and down his dry, scratchy throat. From nowhere, he remembered seeing dried mud flats, cracked and arid, like so many broken tiles scattered around. In his mind, as he drank, rain began to fall on the mud flats, and the packed clay began, ever so slightly, to moisten and loosen.

This time, Hoss didn’t stop him, and he finished the entire glassful. Exhausted, he handed the empty glass to Hoss, who smiled as he laid Joe back down again.

“You’re lookin’ perkier already,” the big man said approvingly. “Now, whyn’t you try and get some sleep?”

“Time’s it?” Joe managed.

“Pretty late,” said Hoss. “I reckon the sun’ll be up in a couple hours. You go back to sleep, and mebbe when you wake up, we can think about rustling up some grub for you. All depends how you feel,” he added when Joe involuntarily cringed at his words. “How’s your stomach now? You feelin’ sick?”

Joe shook his head without lifting it from the pillow. It wasn’t quite a lie. He definitely wouldn’t have wanted food, but he felt pretty sure the water was going to stay down. His brother’s skeptical smile told him that Hoss didn’t believe him anyway.

“We’ll see how you’re doin’ in the morning,” said Hoss firmly. “You warm enough?”

Joe nodded. He wasn’t, but he didn’t want to complain. Bad enough Hoss was sleeping in a chair and getting up in the middle of the night to tend to him. At some point, a quilt had been added on top of the sheet, and that would do. Still, desert nights were cold. Just last night, he’d have given his left arm for a blanket. . . .

* * * * * * * * * *

“What are you doing out here?”

Laurie turned, smiling, as Joe approached her. She stood just around the edge of the rock, beyond the light of the fire. “You’re going to freeze,” he said, but he couldn’t help returning the smile.

“I’m fine,” she said lazily. “What about you? Aren’t you cold?”

“Who, me? Nah, I never feel cold,” he grinned.

“What a shame,” she said. “If you were cold, we’d have an excuse to warm each other up.”

“Do we need an excuse?” Joe asked, eyebrows raised. Her smile widened, and he took her into his arms, kissing her until he was dizzy. It didn’t matter that they were both filthy and tattered. Her arms were around him, pulling him tight against the length of her. Her fingers played in his hair, sliding down his back, and he felt his eyes widen for a second when they moved below his belt to caress his bottom, pulling him closer to her. He kissed her even more deeply, one hand pressing her toward him even as the other slid in between them and began to unbutton her ragged blouse.

Later, he wondered just what would have happened if they hadn’t heard her father at that moment. As it was, at Henshaw’s call, they broke apart. She adjusted her blouse and patted her hair, smiling ruefully as she called, “I’m right here, Papa.”

“You sure are,” he whispered. She winked and headed back over to the fire, leaving him to get himself under control before he joined them.

That night, as the three of them huddled around the fire, he wished that he could hold her close, for warmth as much as passion. She and her father leaned against each other, but Joe didn’t quite trust himself to get that close to her. Just the thought sent the blood coursing through his veins at an alarming rate.

If only thoughts could keep a man warm, he reflected, catching the twinkle of her eyes as she lay down next to her father, across the fire. He had no jacket and no hat, and it was damned cold out here. He slid as close to the fire as he could. Laurie or a blanket. Right then, he’d almost have said it was an even choice. Then, he looked up to see the light of the fire dancing on the curve of her hip, and he knew that it was no contest at all.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Joe! Joe, wake up. The doc’s here to see you.”

He fought to open his eyes, wincing as he did. They still felt dry and crusty, and it was still hard to see, like looking through a window that was all fogged up. He blinked once, twice, and his vision cleared enough to see an older man standing beside his bed.

“Hey, Doc,” Joe murmured. His tongue still felt thick and clumsy.

“Good morning, young man,” said the doctor. “Open your mouth.” Obligingly, Joe did so, and the doctor slipped a thermometer under his tongue. As Joe watched and Hoss hovered, the doctor felt for the pulse in Joe’s neck, listened to his chest, and pinched the skin on the back of his hand. Then, he took the thermometer, read it, shook it down and put it away, all without a word.

“Well? How’s he doin’?” asked Hoss finally.

“He’s certainly better than when he came in yesterday,” said the doctor. “How much water has he had?”

“A few glasses,” said Hoss. “He ain’t been awake too much.”

“Not enough,” said the doctor. “Has it made him sick?”

“No, sir,” said Hoss.

“Then I want you to make sure he has at least two full glasses every hour, one plain and one with sugar mixed in. Maybe some broth this evening, if he’s up for it. In any event, no solid food for today. Any nausea?”

“You talkin’ to me?” Joe managed when Hoss offered nothing.

“Of course,” said the doctor, as if Joe had been involved in the conversation all along.

“Not much,” Joe admitted. He didn’t have to look to see the frown on Hoss’ face.

“Plain water and sugar water, then,” said the doctor. “If it makes him sick, cut back to one glass of plain water an hour.” He bent more closely over Joe, peering into his eyes. Then, he sat down on the edge of the bed and spread the lids of Joe’s left eye wide with his fingers. With a lightness of touch belied by his brusque manner, the doctor touched Joe’s eye, holding Joe’s head firm as he instinctively jerked away.

“Hmmm,” the doctor said. He repeated the performance with the other eye. “Hmmm,” he repeated.

“What is it, Doc?” asked Hoss.

“Probably nothing,” said the doctor. “Once he’s got some water in him, I’m sure everything’ll be fine. In the meantime, though, I’m going to put some drops in his eyes to help moisten them, and I’m going to bandage them so that he’ll keep them closed. That’ll help with the moisture, too. I want you to put the drops in three more times today, and keep it up at least through tomorrow. Hold still, now, young man,” he added to Joe.

The drops stung at first, but then his eyes felt cooler and less dry. Without thinking, he closed his eyes, savoring the relief. He felt the doctor lay cotton wads on his eyelids, and bandages were wound snugly around his head.

“Let’s see the hand now,” the doctor said. It occurred to Joe that he hadn’t even thought about the hand that had been hurt in the stage crash; he’d been much more intent on finding water. The doctor unwound the bandage, made a few more “hmmm” noises, and moved his fingers around to see what hurt.

“I still don’t think it’s broken,” the doctor announced as if someone had argued the point. “But I’m concerned about this,” he added, tapping a particularly sore spot. “It’s been how many days since that accident?”

Joe thought. If they’d come in yesterday- “Four,” he said finally.

“This should have been healing by now,” said the doctor, almost as if it were Joe’s fault that it hadn’t.

“They didn’t have any medicine or anything with them out there,” Hoss pointed out.

“Even so,” said the doctor. “I’m going to splint and wrap the hand, and I don’t want him using it for at least a week. At that point, have it checked by your doctor at home.” He rose, clearly ready to go. “Any other problems? Anything else bothering you? Muscle spasms? Your throat sore?”

“Throat’s sore, just a little,” Joe admitted. As if they couldn’t have known that from his voice, he reflected. He sounded like one of those old geezers who sat around in front of the livery stable, smoking his pipe all day long.

“Get him some lemon drops over at the general store,” said the doctor. “Let him suck on those when he’s not drinking. Anything else?”

“My friends,” said Joe. “How are they?”

“Your friends?” The doctor’s voice suddenly sounded odd.

“Laurie Hayden and her father, Mr. Henshaw,” said Joe. “Are they still over at your clinic?”

“No,” said the doctor. Turning to Hoss, he said, “I’ll check on him later. Good day, gentlemen.”

“But-” Joe tried to sit up, but dizziness overcame him, and he fell back against the pillow. He could hear low voices, but he couldn’t make out the words. Then, the door closed, and he heard Hoss’ footsteps as the big man came back. “What did he say?” he asked.

“He said I need to get you those lemon drops,” said Hoss. “I’ll be right back.”

“No, about not that,” insisted Joe. “Laurie and her pa. What did he say?”

The bed creaked as Hoss sat on the edge. “Joe, Mr. Henshaw died last night,” he said gently.

“No,” Joe breathed. He remembered the first time he saw Henshaw, with those blue eyes that bulged out, making him look nervous even before there was reason to be. A nice enough fellow, unlike the other men on that stage. “Poor Laurie.”

“Joe, what are you talkin’ about?” Something in Hoss’ voice sounded funny, but Joe ignored it.

“Where is she, Hoss? Did he say?”

Long silence. “He didn’t say,” said Hoss finally. Then, in a stronger voice, he added, “Now, you jest stay here and rest, and I’m gonna get you those lemon drops-and you don’t even have to do extra chores this time.” But his chuckle sounded forced.

“Hoss, see if you can find Laurie,” said Joe. “She’s gotta be around here somewhere.”

“Now, you listen here, Shortshanks,” said Hoss. “I ain’t got but one job right now, and that’s takin’ care of you. Now, I’m gonna get you some lemon drops and some sugar, and when I come back, you’re gonna start drinking, and when you’re not drinkin’, you’re gonna rest and not worry about anything. You understand?” He patted Joe’s shoulder and rose. “You get yourself some sleep. I’ll be right back.”

“If you see Laurie, tell her I want to see her,” said Joe.

“I’ll be right back,” said Hoss. A moment later, the door closed.

* * * * * * * * * *

The wind was growing fiercer. Sand, dust, dirt swirled around him, scratching his skin. He tried to hold his shirt over his nose and mouth, but the granules somehow penetrated the cloth, harsh and rough. He struggled to see, to breathe, to walk headlong into the wind in the ever-fading hope of getting home.

Over the wind, he heard mocking laughter. His head jerked up, and immediately, the dust storm parted. At the top of the hill stood Benson, laughing, his hand against his bleeding chest. Next to him was Nora, mouth pursed to show her displeasure at having been linked with him in death as well as life. The front of her dress was stained with fresh-looking blood. Roberto stood on her other side, snickering and shaking his head, blood dripping from his ruffled shirtfront as Joe made his way up the hill.

A little way apart from them, Henshaw stood. He still wore the bandage around his head, and his hair still stuck up at odd angles. Stubby, the stagecoach driver, stood next to him, expressionless; Stubby had never had much use for most people until they gave him a reason. But Henshaw looked sad as he watched Joe fight his way through the wind and the flying dirt.

Then, Joe stopped in his tracks. On the other side of Henshaw stood Laurie. The wind that threatened to blow Joe off his feet was nothing more than a gentle breeze on her, causing her curls to bob gently and her skirt to swish in an enticing fashion. She looked even more sad than her father did as she held out her hand to him.

“Laurie?” He stumbled forward, but somehow, he wasn’t gaining any ground. She was as far away as ever.

“Hey, kid! You end up learning anything from her after all?” shouted Benson.

“You’re such a lout!” snapped Nora, smacking his arm. Benson turned on her, and Roberto stepped back, shouting at him to stop shaking her but doing nothing to intervene.

“Stop it!” shouted Joe, but his voice was barely a whisper.

“Still the hero, eh, kid?” snorted Benson. “Hell of a hero you turned out to be!” He flung Nora from him. She fell to the ground, yanking her arm from Roberto’s grasp as he attempted to help her up.

“Laurie!” Joe called as best he could.

“Hey, Laurie, look! It’s your knight in shining armor, come to rescue you!” Benson doubled over with laughter at his own wit, and even Nora and Roberto smirked. “Give it up, kid! It’s no use!”

“Come on, son,” said Pa. “It’s time to go home. There’s nothing you can do here.”

“Pa? What are you doing here?” Joe turned so fast he would have fallen, but for Pa’s hand on his arm.

“C’mon, Shortshanks,” said Hoss. “You need some lemon drops.”

“I’m not a kid!” Joe protested. “They need me! I can help them!”

“Son, you need some water,” said Pa with that gentle firmness Joe knew so well.

“Laurie and her father need water!” insisted Joe. “We all need water!”

“Let’s go, son,” said Pa gently. His words were nearly inaudible over the wind and Benson’s laughter.

“I can’t, Pa! I have to help them!” Frantic, he tried to escape Pa’s grasp.

“Joe, there’s nothing you can do now,” said Pa. “Let’s go home.”

“Laurie!” Joe reached out to her, but she shook her head sadly.

“Let’s go, son,” said Pa. “You can’t help them now. . . .”

* * * * * * * * * *

“No, Pa! No!”

Joe sat bolt upright. His heart pounded, and his breathing was rough. The world was black, not a sliver of light showing to tell him where he was or why.

“Easy, Joe, easy,” came Hoss’ voice out of the darkness. “You’re all right, Little Brother. Jest take it easy.”

“Hoss?” He floundered wildly, and Hoss caught his arms.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” the big man said, the bed creaking as he sat on the edge. “You jest had a bad dream, that’s all. Everything’s okay.”

“Where are we?” Panic squeezed his voice. “Where’s Pa? Where’s Laurie?”

“We’re in Owl’s Point,” said Hoss. “Pa’s back home at the Ponderosa.” Joe heard him pour a glass of water, and then Hoss wrapped his hand around the glass. “You’re all right. Jest take a drink, you’re fine.”

Obediently, as if he had no mind or will of his own, Joe drank. The feel of cool water sliding down his throat seemed more real than anything happening to his body on the outside. He shuddered, reaching up to touch the bandages on his eyes.

Hoss took the empty glass, setting it on the bedside table with a solid clunk. “Feel better?”

Joe nodded. “It was so real,” he said after a long minute. “I didn’t know where I was.”

“We’re in Owl’s Point, at the hotel,” said Hoss. “Been here for two days now, since you came into town.”

“How come we’re at the hotel?”

“Doc’s clinic was all full up. Some accident, I think.”

“How come Laurie and her pa didn’t stay in the hotel?”

“I reckon Doc wanted to keep a close eye on Mr. Henshaw,” said Hoss after a minute. “The old man was in pretty bad shape-worse’n you.”

“And now he’s dead,” said Joe. “Just like almost everybody on that stagecoach. They were all there-even Stubby.”

“All where?”

“My dream,” said Joe. He was trembling, but he told himself it was the cold night.

“Don’t you fret about that now,” said Hoss. “Go back to sleep. Mebbe in the morning, Doc’ll take off those bandages.”

“Did he say when we can go home?”

“Couple days, if’n we take the stage instead of riding,” said Hoss. “Depends on how you’re doing, though, so you better rest up.”

“I want Laurie to go with us,” said Joe. “Her pa’s dead. She shouldn’t be here alone.”

“Go to sleep, Joe,” said Hoss firmly.

Joe lay back, letting Hoss adjust the covers over him. His mind was racing, but nothing made sense. Why was Laurie standing with the others? What were they doing? What was happening?

He listened as Hoss returned to his own bed and settled in. Within minutes, the big man’s snoring-usually annoying, but now oddly reassuring-resonated through the room. Lulled by the familiar sound, Joe felt himself drifting off, and his mind began to wander back to the day they’d come into town. . . .

* * * * * * * * * *

“Is there any water left at all?” Laurie asked anxiously.

Joe handed her the canteen. “If there is, it’s yours.”

“No, that’s not right,” she protested. “We should share it.”

“Laurie, if there’s anything there, it ain’t enough to share,” Joe said. “Take it for yourself or give it to your father, I don’t care, but we need to get moving.”

She looked stung by his tone, but he didn’t care about that, either. If his memory was right, it was ten miles to Owl’s Point-ten miles through dry, craggy land without so much as a creek or a puddle. The sun was barely up, but the night’s cold was already fading fast. By Joe’s calculations, with the rough terrain and the heat of the desert, this bedraggled group would be lucky to traverse those ten miles by midday. For the hundredth time, he cursed the loss of his jacket and hat. He could feel the sun beating down on his skull, and it was still early.

“Come on,” he said. It wasn’t like they had anything to pack, or breakfast to finish. They’d run out of food yesterday. Even Benson’s jerky would have been welcome right about then.

They stumbled along, barely picking up their feet, as the sun climbed higher and higher. Joe bitterly regretted the fact that they hadn’t been able to continue the night before, but there was no way, not with these two. With somebody like Hoss or Adam, he could have made it, but Henshaw and Laurie could never have climbed those rocks by moonlight.

“Cartwright!”

He turned back, irritated. In the next instance, he was scrambling down the side of the rocky slope, pebbles sliding under his feet. Her father was crouched beside her, turning her on her back.

“What happened?” Joe demanded as he felt her neck for a pulse. It was there. Thready and weak, but present.

Henshaw shook his head. “She just collapsed,” he said helplessly.

Joe slapped her cheek. “Laurie. Laurie! Wake up!” Her head lolled in his arm, but her eyelids parted slightly. “Laurie!” he shouted.

“Joe,” she murmured, as if they were waking up together after a night of passionate lovemaking.

“Laurie, wake up!” He was doing his best to keep the panic out of his voice.

“I’m awake.” Her words were slurring. He rested his hand on her forehead, closing his eyes briefly against the ungodly heat of her flesh.

“What do we do?” asked Henshaw nervously.

Joe looked around. No shelter of any kind-not a cave, not a tree, not an overhang. And no water, or even a sign of water. Just rocks and dust and that damned infernal wind.

Die standing still, or die walking. A hell of a choice, but it was all they had.

“Hang on,” he whispered, half to her and half to himself. He took her in his arms and stood, staggering slightly under the load. To her father, he said, “Let’s go.”

* * * * * * * * * *

A hand rested on his shoulder. “What are you doin’ up?”

Joe didn’t turn from the window. The bandages that had covered his eyes lay on the bed behind them. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

For a moment, there was no sound but the wind outside. “Yep,” Hoss said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The words held the faintest accusation.

“Doc figgered it’d be better if you’d remembered on your own,” said Hoss. “He said people can get real confused when they’re out in the hot sun with no water, and it’s better if they sort out the pieces themselves, when they’re ready.” The brothers stood by the window, watching the rising sun peek between the buildings across the street. Finally, Hoss asked gently, “What do you remember?”

Joe pulled the quilt closer around himself against the chill morning air. “I carried her for probably four miles, and I never once put her down,” he said at last. “Felt like my arms were gonna fall off, but I was afraid if I put her down, I’d never be able to pick her up again.” He watched the sunrise, remembering. “She never said another word after I picked her up. Never even opened her eyes again. I kept thinking that if I could find water, she’d be okay, we all would. But there just wasn’t any. Not until we got here, and by then it was too late.”

“I don’t know how you did it,” Hoss said. “When I saw you comin’ down the street-you looked like a dead man, but you were carryin’ her, and you wouldn’t let go. Weren’t makin’ no sense. Kept ravin’ about needing water.”

“We did,” Joe said. “We needed water in the worst way.” He looked up at Hoss. “Was she dead when we came in?”

Hoss regarded him for a minute before he nodded. “Probably a couple hours,” he said.

Joe turned his gaze to the street. Vaguely, he remembered staggering down that street, a dead girl in his arms, croaking for somebody to bring them water. He didn’t remember much of what happened next-some sort of a ruckus, and somebody trying to take Laurie from him. And then, the next thing he knew, he was in this room, and Hoss was bathing him with cool water.

Hoss rested his arm around Joe’s shoulders. “You should go back to bed,” he said.

Joe looked up again. “I want to go home.”

“Doc thinks mebbe a couple more days,” Hoss began, but Joe shook his head.

“Let’s go today,” he said. “We’ll take lots of water, and the sugar water and the lemon drops, and we won’t ride-we’ll take the stage. Heck, we can even take the eyedrops with us. I just-I don’t want to stay here any more, Hoss. I want to go home.”

“I know you do,” said Hoss softly. “But you ain’t ready to travel yet.”

“It’s not that far,” protested Joe. He fought to control his voice. “We’ll break the trip up, take it slow. You’ll see, it’ll be fine.”

Hoss looked at him, appraising. Joe didn’t have all his strength back, and they both knew it, but he was getting closer. Close enough, maybe, or maybe there were other things that were more important. Joe watched as the big man’s expression shifted, just a little, and he closed his eyes, bowing his head. He felt searing grief, building in him, and he burrowed against his brother’s broad chest.

“All right,” Hoss said quietly. “Let’s go home.”

And he held his little brother tightly as another hot, windy day dawned, and at last, the tears began to fall.

The end