Summary: Adam falls into the hands of kidnappers. Will he be found, and if so, then in what condition?…
Rating:  PG
Words: 5,800

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The Brandsters have included this story by this author in our project: Preserving Their Legacy. To preserve the legacy of the author, we have decided to give their work a home in the Bonanza Brand Fanfiction Library.  The author will always be the owner of this work of fanfiction, and should they wish us to remove their story, we will.

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A Question of Loyalty

The wolf watched with interest awakened by the fight, as the man searched the pockets of the dead man’s jacket. His teeth were chattering loud, but he couldn’t get the jacket off the other man. He looked around, hiding in his shirt some bloodied papers found by the dead man, and wearily scrambled to his feet. The wind blew up some of the thin layer of snow and whirled it around the dark, hunched silhouette.

Three Feathers pulled the soft bear’s skin tighter around himself against the piercing wind, letting his eyelids fall lower to hide the gleam of eyes from any passer-by, whether four- or two-legged.

The night was coming on slowly, and temperature dropped dramatically. The thin layer of late snow lay on the ground, softening both sight and sound of the forest’s life.

The moonlight was creating another world of living shadows, moving around Three Feathers no louder than a breath. That particular breath and that particular movement seemed for a moment to belong to the moon’s world as well.

Three Feathers got up swiftly and ran up to the dark shadow. Distrust
dissipated after the first two steps, and caution stopped counting. The man was cold to the touch, clothed far too lightly for the falling snow and temperature. There was blood on him, and it seemed his. Three Feathers lifted the limp form and took him inside his shelter.

The blood had come from the shoulder; the wound bled no more. The man was thin; his skin had acquired an alarming shade of blue, especially his face, hands and chest. He must have crawled. Three Feathers put away the drenched, bloodied paper, set water to boil, and undressed the man completely to then cover him with a woollen blanket and a buffalo skin.

The water began to boil, and Three Feathers dressed the man’s wound and bathed his body with a moist cloth. The man only reacted when a sip of hot herb beverage moistened his throat, and he shook violently with a moan. The next swallow caused him to open his eyes a slit, and a feeble movement of his hand disturbed the covers. He drank thirstily, burning himself in the process; he didn’t seem to notice.

Exhausted by the effort, the man slipped back into unconsciousness. Three Feathers glanced outside, then fed the fire in the shelter.

***

Ben dismounted wearily in front of the sheriff’s office, not as anxious to learn his missing son’s fate as he was afraid of what exactly they might learn. The telegram was worded precisely; yet they still harboured some hope for a mistake. Since the news of Adam’s stage having been overtaken by Thomson’s gang almost two weeks ago, they’d been determinedly feeding the hope of finding him alive.

When they’d gone to see Roy to ask whether he knew something about the missing stage, about two weeks ago – Ben shook his head wearily. The news had hit them hard.

—

Roy shifted in his chair, toying with a pencil.

“Adam’s stage was attacked by bandits. Probably James Thomson’s men; there are some ex-cons and escaped felony convicts among them…”

Ben’s eyes grew darker and more dangerous and he leaned slightly forward, his whole body language screaming at the sheriff to continue.

“To the best of my knowledge, Adam did get on that stage,” Roy glanced at Ben with a hint of sympathy in his matter-of-fact expression. “It’s possible that after robbing him they would keep him for ransom.”

“He’s alive, then.” It was more of a statement, although tense, than a question.

“They found the driver – but the traces showed that two other men had been taken away. Alive.”

Ben seemed to have remembered how to breathe, and leaned backwards in the chair. “When does the posse gather?”

“It has already been sent,” Roy put down the pencil, put his fingers together, straightened a paper lying awry, took the pencil and started toying with it. “We’re supposed to be on the lookout should Thomson come to the area – but no one really knows where he’s headed. If he knows who Adam is, he might, though.”

“What can I do?” asked Ben matter-of-factly, a silent mantra replaying in his head – Let him be alive, don’t let them hurt him, don’t let them hurt him, don’t let them hurt him…

“I’ll let you know whenever I have any news about him, Ben,” Roy put the pencil down again, reached for it in a second, realised what he was doing and put his hands on the desk, resting them.”You’ll be the first one to know.”

~~~

“Ben?” Roy glimpsed the familiar figure through the window and opened the door to call his friend. “I was just about to… Come in.”

Ben strode into the office, with Joe following. “News?”

“Good news, Sheriff?” asked Joe hopefully, almost at the same time.

“It seems that the posse found something – please sit down,” Roy took his place behind the desk unhurriedly. When his friends were comfortably seated, he disclosed softly, “They found the other man – Mr Stocks – who was with Adam on that stage.”

“Alive?” Joe perked up, almost forcefully fuelling his hope, while Ben sank deeper into the chair, reading Roy’s tone correctly. The sheriff glanced at him, then at Joe and answered mutely with a sad shake of the head. Clearing his throat and averting his eyes from Joe’s both shocked and crestfallen expression, he continued, “It seems that Thomson’s divided his men and dispersed them in a rocky area. It’s difficult to say which group has Adam. The sheriff’s quite positive that Adam’s alive,” noted Roy gently. “They have to split up and follow as many groups as they can trace. I may be gathering a posse here in a couple of days to help, if Thomson gets close enough, as he seems to be making a kind of circle. If he keeps it up, he may end up quite close to Virginia City.”

“You know where you can find us, Roy,” Ben sat up in the chair, solemn but with a spark of hope in the dark eyes. “Anything else?”

“That’s all I know right now.” Roy smiled at him sympathetically. “I’ll keep you updated, and I know where to look for you when the posse gathers.”

Ben nodded and patted Joe’s shoulder absently. “We’ll be there, right Joe?” He smiled at his youngest, noting with heartache the pain and the hope in the green eyes. “Would you get the mail, son? I’ll be right behind you, just want to ask Roy a favour.”

“Sure, Pa,” Joe hesitated for a fraction of a second, uncertain if he shouldn’t be there to hear the request, too, but then he nodded and left the office.

After a minute, Ben raised his head to look at Roy earnestly, every trace of smile gone from his suddenly aged face. “Those are cruel men, Roy – how was this man – Mr Stocks – found?”

Roy shrugged his shoulders. “Dead. Everything points to the theory that he was killed by a man’s hand. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Ben reassured himself, piercing the sheriff through with his still darkly suspicious eyes.

“That’s it,” confirmed Roy calmly.

Watching Ben leave the office slowly, Roy prayed silently that if it came to the worst, Adam’s body wouldn’t be found in the same condition as Mr Stocks’. Ben turned to look at him once again, and the sheriff sent him a smile of friendly sympathy.

“I’ll keep you updated, Ben.” No way was he going to tell Ben and break his heart with the thought alone.—

One day, Roy brought them news again – and the message. That message. As much as he wanted to learn Adam’s fate, Ben fervently prayed for that particular message to be a mistake.

A large hand rested on his back. “Pa?”

“I’m fine,” he straightened, drawing strength from the mere presence of his middle son.

The sheriff, a lanky middle-aged man, rose to meet them; after learning their names, he directed them to the doctor. “He’ll tell you more. Follow me.”

After hurried introductions, the doctor nodded to himself, as though making a mental note or ordering the facts, and asked them to sit down.

“A young man, around 30, dark hair, 6 feet something?” he assured himself gently. Ben nodded mutely.

“Died most probably from a knife wound to the chest.” The doctor regarded the two distressed men with deep sympathy. “The body was in a bad condition, it was three days old already; thankfully it was cold enough…” he stopped and hesitated. “There wasn’t much to help identify the body. He didn’t have any papers with him.”

“We need to see him,” claimed Hoss.

“We’ve buried him already,” said the doctor gently. “I told you the body was in a bad condition.”

Hoss frowned. “We have a photo,” he suggested. “We’d like to make certain…”

The doctor shook his head, however. “I’m afraid my stomach wouldn’t be strong enough to make guesses as to how he might have looked like. I allowed myself to keep something for you to identify, however – you’ve included it in your description.”

He rose and left the room for a moment. He came back with a bundle, the colour of which made Ben catch his breath and Hoss look away for a second.

“It was the one thing you could identify,” said the doctor quietly. “Is it your son’s coat?”

Ben fingered the familiar yellow fabric, now with new dark stains on it – dark like dried blood. He touched the long repaired places, remembering how Adam had asked Hop Sing to fix the damage. He felt the newest, dark-stained cut more than he saw it, his eyes misting with the final realisation, the surrounding colours kaleidoscoping in the slowly forming tears.

The doctor got up quietly and reached to a shelf with some bottles, vials and small boxes. He pushed a glass in each man’s hand and prodded them to drink the contents. They did so automatically. Slowly, Hoss pulled out a photo with a shaking hand and offered it to the doctor with a painfully hopeful look. The man glanced at the smiling face of the dark-haired man in the picture and returned the photo with an equally painful smile, yet holding sympathy rather than hope.

“It doesn’t help me,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. He looks like a nice guy.”

Hoss drew in a shaky breath. “Could it be – that it’s not him?”

“He matches the description. I never knew him to tell more,” answered the doctor. “The man had dark hair, was about 6 feet tall, quite well-muscled, had dark pants and the yellow jacket on.”

“His eyes…?”

The doctor hesitated, then looked away. “I’m sorry.”

Hoss winced, reading the man’s face accurately. He felt almost grateful for not having seen the body. His eyes sank to his feet.

“He was out there for three days, exposed to…” the doctor stopped uncertainly, then added softly, “But it didn’t cover the fact that a human hand took a lot of care to render him unrecognisable.”

Hoss looked up, frowning.

“Someone wanted him not to be recognised,” explained the doctor. “I don’t know if it helps any, but it might be something you’d like… or need… to know.”

Silence reigned for a long, heavy moment, then Ben asked hoarsely, not looking up from the jacket he was holding in a death grip, “Where is he?”

“I’d best show you,” the doctor put on his jacket and together with Hoss helped Ben out of the chair and to the door. “We… didn’t put a name on the cross yet. We wanted to wait for you to decide…”

The doctor’s voice trailed away slowly, but the sheriff didn’t need to hear the rest as he knew it all too well. He looked at the little sad group heading towards the cemetery, then sighed and turned to re-enter his office. Once a father himself, he knew the pain and felt with the white-haired man and his son.

***

Someone could be heard knocking softly at the door; after the knocking repeated, Hoss glanced at his father and brother, and seeing no reaction forthcoming, got up himself and went to the door.

Roy looked rather self-conscious, however Paul exuded comfort and confidence.

“Come in,” gestured Hoss wearily. Before they could speak, he added in an undertone. “I know – I know it’s a neighbourly thing to do, but just don’t say anything – we can’t take – condolences – right now – not yet –”

“I just came to ask if you need anything,” Roy straightened and tried to look matter-of-fact. “I thought you might want something from town – I’m not sure you wanna face all those people just yet.” The matter-of-fact mask dropped and the grey moustache moved quickly from left to right, as though nervous in its own right.

Paul cleared his throat, stealing a glance at Roy, and pulled several envelopes from his black bag. “Here’s the mail.” He rummaged through the bag again, his back to the fireplace. Roy quickly reached to his pocket and, unseen by Ben or Joe, handed Hoss a few more envelopes.

“Adam’s mail. We thought your Pa didn’t need to see it right now, but there may be some business dealings,” he explained in a muted voice. “And Hoss – we’re looking for the men who did it, and you’d better leave it at that. No taking the law in your own hands.”

Hoss nodded mutely, just as Paul came up with a small bottle, having made a lot of noise as he searched.

“I need to see Hop Sing about this,” said the doctor. “His uncle asked me to send him that herbal mixture. Helps when someone can’t shake off bad feelings, at least that’s what I understood.” He glanced at Ben and murmured, “How are you taking it? Ben behave like after Marie was gone?”

“He’s trying to fight it – stay alert, work the ranch.” Hoss mustered up a wan smile. “That mixture will help?”

“That’s what I was thinking,” confirmed Paul. Roy grimaced, aware that Paul had much more to offer than he, and that awareness vexed the old friend a little.

“How’s Joe taking it?” Paul continued his interrogation in an undertone.

“Numbly, for now. Either he sinks deeper into it or explodes,” sighed Hoss. “He hasn’t gotten over the shock yet, I think, although it’s been a couple of days.”

“And you?” Paul scanned him with friendly concern. Hoss shrugged his shoulders.

“Someone’s gotta help them,” he nodded towards his family.

“Hoss,” Paul squeezed the big shoulder a bit. “I know that old song, Adam sang it after Marie’s death everyday. Give yourself time to grieve, boy.”

Hoss winced at the sound of his brother’s name, but nodded. “I know, doc. I’m grieving in my own way – just privately. Besides, there are no two little scamps to look after…” he smiled wanly.

At the fireplace, Ben raised his head, finally acknowledging their guests.

“Come on in, Paul, Roy,” he gestured automatically. “Don’t stand in the doorway. You… uhm… Any news from town?”

“We brought you mail,” Paul seated himself comfortably on the settee. “We were a bit worried about all of you, Roy and I. I hope you don’t mind a visit.”

“Of course not, it’s good to see a friendly face,” admitted Ben slowly and produced an automatic smile. “Coffee?”

“Present,” Roy raised his hand like a pupil at school and smiled lop-sidedly at his own joke, adding, “Gladly.”

Joe sent Roy an expression resembling a memory of a smile, and the sheriff’s moustache widened in a more satisfied response.

“I thought I’d ask if you need me to take care of anything in town,” he added, not to let Paul be the only matter-of-fact one. “I thought you wouldn’t want to see all those… essentially well-meaning people… just yet.” He cleared his throat self-consciously.

“You’re quite right, Roy, thank you for your offer,” Ben nodded and turned towards the kitchen. “Hop Sing? Please bring some coffee for our guests.”

Paul nodded to himself; it wasn’t Ben’s usual volume yet, but at least he spoke above a whisper.

“How are you feeling?” The doctor included all the Cartwrights in the question with a quick glance. “Mind you, it’s a professional question, and even Joe won’t get away with ‘Fine’.”

The questioned ones responded with more or less wan smiles – which, however, seemed natural.

“We’re trying to cope,” Ben looked into the fire, his eyes suddenly old. “There are things I think I should have… but we all…” He sighed heavily. “I know – we know – that this is not the way to deal with it.”

“You’re right on that one,” remarked Paul calmly. “Have you felt detached from it all? Any of you?”

“I can’t believe it,” murmured Joe into his forearms. He was sitting in Adam’s armchair with his knees pulled up to his chest and his face half-hidden in his forearms. “It’s like Adam’s still –” his voice broke on his brother’s name, and he finished in a whisper, “still on some business trip.”

“Take your feet off the furniture, Joe.”

Hoss looked at his father with appreciation for the gesture, which attempted to restore some of the old order, and received a half-smile in return. Even Joe smiled at his father gratefully while following the request.

“It’s only natural to feel that way, Joe,” said Paul softly.

“It might be easier if we didn’t wake one another with dreams… we get up more tired in the morning than we were in the evening…” Ben rubbed his face wearily. “Maybe you could… I mean, no strong drugs, we have to get up with a clear head to be able to work…”

“Hop Sing’s uncle sent some herbal mixture,” answered Paul softly. “It might be just what you’re looking for… I might be surrounded by pills and drugs, but I can appreciate the power of nature.”

The Chinese cook entered the room just then with the coffee, nodded at the guests and began pouring the beverage into the china cups.

“If you have any business to deal with in Virginia City –” Roy seated himself closer to one of the cups rather hurriedly, eliciting small smiles on his friends’ faces – which was exactly his intention. “I’ve missed your coffee something awful, Hop Sing – like I said, if you have any business to take care of, let me know, even if it’s just the list of supplies.”

“Hop Sing have list of supplies to get,” announced the cook. “How many pound the sheriff take in one hand?”

Paul chuckled, and the Cartwrights smiled again; Roy’s moustache moved in a funny way while the sheriff was trying to look indignant.

“What do you mean, ‘how many pounds’? I’m not going to carry them here, I’ll have them loaded by the storekeeper’s help and unloaded here!”

“Ah, the sheriff too lazy and Hop Sing too puny! Who unload?” argued Hop Sing in his best ranting manner.

“Well, what do you feed Hoss for?” protested Roy. “You always talk him into unloading the supplies anyway, I’ve seen it often enough – and I’m NOT lazy!”

“Hmph,” Hop Sing put down the coffee pot, turned and ranted off into the kitchen.

Paul chuckled and got up to follow the Chinese cook with the bottle containing the herbal medicine from Hop Sing’s uncle in his hand.

Hoss finished his coffee and smiled slightly at his father. “I’ll go through the mail, Pa. I think you owe Roy a game of checkers – don’t let us interrupt you. We’ll get back to work.”

In the concealment of the office, he slowly looked through the four envelopes addressed to his brother. From Mrs Bradstreet, Boston – John… er… Dawson, St. Joseph (Hoss quickly wiped his eyes to clear them of the strange mist) – Olympia Sims, Boston again… a daughter of Adam’s friend, Hoss recalled – Mr Darvey, San Francisco – ah, that one might deal with business. They had recently concluded a timber contract with him – Adam had.

He hid the first three letters deep in the drawer and fingered the last one, hesitating before opening his brother’s correspondence. It felt like he were intruding on Adam’s privacy. At last, however, he opened the envelope and scanned the contents. Yes, it was something about the contract, thus not so much a matter of private correspondence. He sighed with some amount of relief and began reading, when a young voice asked in a rather disinterested manner, “Whatcha reading?”

Hoss folded the letter, careful not to show the name of the addressee, and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Some business letter.”

“You said we would get back to work,” noted Joe, playing with some piece of paper. He was clearly looking for something to do.

“I know that Charlie is a competent foreman,” Hoss smiled at him, “but it wouldn’t hurt to check the timber operation. What do you say?”

Joe sighed heavily. “I’d rather check the horses,” he admitted. Timber used to be Adam’s responsibility, and Hoss understood Joe’s reluctance.

“It has to be done,” he said softly, the pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I think we could do with some more wood for the fireplace – why don’t you chop some? I’ll just read this here letter and then I’ll go to see how the work’s going up there. You could go with me, then, if you’re finished with the wood. I don’t fancy going there myself,” he admitted. “It would be nice to have some company.”

Joe nodded once, accepting the plan. “And Pa?” he questioned.

“Well,” Hoss patted the ledgers. “He’s the only one who hates doing ledgers less than we do. What do you say we get out of this chore?”

Joe flashed him an appreciative grin, almost like the one from better times, and left to take care of the wood. Aim, Hoss repeated to himself. No – bad word. Goal. When you have an attainable goal, a task, you strive to reach it and you stop worrying over other things ‘cause you don’t have time on your hands for that. He sighed, aware that Joe was looking to him for guidance. He‘d have to talk to Pa, so that he didn’t have to bear the whole responsibility alone.

He looked back at the letter and forced himself to read on. Focus on the facts, he told himself. Focus on the goal.

***

Ben gazed into the distance with a stony expression, while Hoss read the telegram he held in his shaking hand.

“Caught murderer of Adam Cartwright stop found guilty stop claiming innocence stop asking for a Cartwright to identify stop execution on Monday, Sheriff Gowds, Stockton, California. Sent Thursday – two days ago.”

“The wires were down; that’s why it was late,” supplied Roy quietly. “Someone from Carson was nice enough to bring the telegram here when they realised we didn’t get it.”

“What do they need to identify?” asked Joe woodenly.

“Who,” corrected Hoss, in an equally unemotional tone. “The… the murderer,” he stammered. “The guy claims he’s innocent. Maybe he is.”

“Does it matter?” mumbled Joe.

“I imagine for him it does,” reasoned Hoss. “I’ll go.”

Ben raised his eyes to his son’s face, but didn’t speak yet.

“Maybe I’ll get… get… some of Adam’s things,” Hoss’ hand shook more strongly. “And I think… if the man’s innocent…” he stopped and took a deeper breath. “And it will give me some sense of direction, some goal. I’d sure need that.”

“Today’s Saturday. Will you make it in two days?” asked Ben quietly.

“I’ll do my best, Pa.”

“Don’t let an innocent man hang, son. And if – if – Leave it to the law, son.” Ben fingered the cuff of his jacket absently, with unnatural calmness. “Adam would like you to.”

“I know. I will, Pa.” Hoss hesitated, then said, “I’ll go right away.”

“You’ll need a bedroll and some food,” said Joe. “And maybe a rifle, you said there seemed to be something wrong with yours.”

Roy got up from his chair. “Take mine. And get some food from the restaurant in the meantime.”

“I will,” Joe got up with a new sense of aim. “Be right back.”

It seemed as though the Cartwrights were virtually snatching at the possibility of saving another life. They were thankful for something that important to aim for, which would take their mind off the recent pain even in the slightest degree – and not allow the already burning flickers of vengeful feelings to surface.

“I’ll see if the wires have been repaired and try to send a message to Stockton,” Roy offered. “Ben, you know where I keep my rifle and bedroll – take them and check to see if everything’s fine, okay?”

Ben nodded with a ghost of a smile. He knew that a sheriff’s rifle was checked every day, but it would busy his hands and he might just focus on checking it enough to stop thinking for an instant. Yet, he found a moment to breathe a prayer for the son he’d lost, another for the one that was hurrying to maybe save a life, and one for the man who might have been innocently sentenced to death. If he was, Lord God deliver him from injustice.

***

Hoss brought his horse to a sharp stop. The trapdoor opened, escaping from under the man’s feet, and his body jerked at the rope with its weight.

Hoss averted his eyes. He had come too late. He could at least take Adam’s things –

As though that changed anything.

The wave of hushed surprise made him look towards the gallows. The line hung loose.

He brushed the last of the people aside, and stepped towards the coughing man on the ground. Not even the condemned man expected the noose to be tied too loosely, although he must have prayed for it. Hoss stepped to the man sentenced for murdering his brother, helped him sit and took his chin, raising the man’s head to look at him.

“Mister,” the sheriff touched his arm. “Mister, leave ‘im. We gotta bring him up again.”

Hoss slowly turned to gaze at him silently, then his eyes wandered over to the man behind the sheriff, without any badge. “And who’s that?”

“That’s Mr Thomson, who gave us the evidence to convict him,” explained the sheriff. The newcomer looked business-like, and his clothes, though plain, were of good quality. All in all, he had the air of someone rather wealthy and important about him, so the sheriff decided to allow him the benefit of an explanation. “He’ll bring all the murdered man’s things to his family. Please let the law handle it now.”

Hoss felt a slight movement in his hand; the man’s head rested on it wearily. His breathing was getting slowly under control.

“Mr Thomson, or whatever is your name,” said Hoss thoughtfully. “What kind of evidence is it that sentences a man to a double death?”

“He killed Adam Cartwright,” answered the asked man self-confidently. “And robbed him. I have all the papers, and I aim to bring them to Adam’s family – I’m a friend of the family. I have to see to it that he is punished.”

“Are there any bank drafts among the papers?” asked Hoss in sudden realisation. The prisoner’s head moved once in his hand in affirmation.

“Who are you, Mister?” asked the sheriff rather suspiciously. Something was fishy about it.

“My name is Hoss Cartwright. You should know if you were really the one to send the telegram, sheriff.”

That said, he carefully held the prisoner against his chest and untied his hands. The man’s whisper in his ear was still trembling.

“I’ve never been so scared in my life. Never – never, Hoss.”

***

Through the doctor’s office flowed the sound of a subdued voice. Hoss shot another murderous glare at the sheriff, but refrained from commenting on the man’s story. Deep down, he knew people could believe Thomson’s smooth tale, especially as the man had made sure his story was the first and therefore the basic version. Adam’s unkempt appearance hadn’t made him more believable, at least to some, and his own version of the story, or as much of it as he was allowed to tell, might have seemed a lame attempt to turn the tables on Thomson in feeble defence. Yet they could have checked!…

“Mr – er, Cartwright asked me to send a telegram,” admitted the sheriff in response to Hoss’ accusations. “I thought… I decided to do that, and so you are here – you’ve received the telegram, haven’t you?”

At that point, Adam shifted in the bed to the sound of voices and squinted up at Hoss.

“Shh,” the big hand stroked his pale forehead in immediate reaction. Adam’s eyes carefully slid to the sheriff, as though making sure everything was fine after all.

“Sent…?” he wheezed quietly, trying not to irritate his abused throat too much.

“Yeah, I’ve sent it,” confirmed the sheriff. “I thought if they were interested, someone would come before the – in time.”

“Thomson… know?…”

“Don’t talk, Adam.”

The sheriff shook his head in answer to Adam’s inquiry. “I didn’t tell him. Only me and the telegrapher knew.”

“Should told me…”

“Now would you stop,” Hoss put his hand firmly on Adam’s mouth. “You ain’t allowed to talk, says the doc, and so you ain’t talking.”

“Maybe I should have told you,” agreed the sheriff. “Frankly, I didn’t know what exactly to think of it. Thomson’s story was completely transparent; the telegram was just to make sure. Call it a gut feeling or what…”

Adam pulled feebly with annoyance at Hoss’ hand, but his brother shook his head. “No, you don’t, Adam. Sheriff, I think big brother here is trying to tell you to trust your gut feelings next time,” he turned to the man, and the annoyed tugging on his fingers stopped, so he withdrew the hand, turning back to Adam. “Happy?”

Adam nodded. “Water…”

The sheriff gazed thoughtfully out of the window for a while.

“I think I will. I mean trust my gut feeling,” he said eventually. “And I swear I’ll think twice next time when the noose breaks off.”

“I thought it was loose,” said Hoss.

“The second one was,” admitted the sheriff carefully and moved quickly closer to the window, but Hoss was stopped in his sudden movement by a hand holding the front of his shirt in a tight fist.

“Sit,” hissed Adam with effort, but there was enough command in his voice to make Hoss obey. The big man growled under his breath, something about hanging a man dadblasted three times, then he took a deep breath to compose himself, and eventually patted Adam’s hand. “You can let go now, I’m calm.”

The hand obediently loosened its hold, and Adam’s heavy eyelids slid down as his hand did.

“He was lucky that we didn’t have a second noose ready,” mused the sheriff quietly. “If not for the hurry, it might not have been too loose… You’ll wake him,” he said quickly, raising his hands as though in surrender and stepping backwards. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

When Ben and Joe appeared in the patient’s room after reaching the city, Hoss greeted them with a finger to his lips. Adam’s haggard appearance made his father take in a sharp breath, and Joe wince as though in sudden pain. Just then, the sleeping man stirred, shifted to his side and sighed contentedly, the action so natural that they breathed their relief almost audibly.

Hoss pulled them further from the bed. “Doesn’t call me in his sleep anymore,” he informed them. “He’ll be fine. Won’t be hollering for the next few days with his throat the way it is, but beside that he’s just fine.”

“How on earth…” Ben growled, trying with all his might to control the volume of his voice.

Hoss understood all too well. “Later, Pa.”

“But hang him?!…” the exclamation echoed more in Ben’s eyes than in the room, for which Hoss was extremely grateful. “Just on someone’s say-so?”

You don’t know half of it yet, Pa; Hoss shook his head, but kept quiet.

“The gallows are still standing,” murmured Joe, somewhat discomforted himself at the mention of the object.

Oh. The gallows. “For Thomson,” explained Hoss. “Any day now.”

From the bed came another sigh, this time different in quality, and Adam shifted to prop himself up on his elbow and look around the room. “I thought I heard…” he mumbled sleepily on a wheeze. Then his eyes fell on Ben and Joe, and he broke out into one huge smile. “Home?” he asked, unable to keep the yearning out of his voice.

***

“Sheriff Lawson,

I’m writing to you in connection with the assumed murder of Adam Cartwright. Having obtained new evidence in the case, we were able to determine the identity of the dead man beyond doubt; I feel obliged to inform you of the evidence and the final results of the investigation.

As you were informed, Adam Cartwright was kidnapped by James Thomson’s gang and declared missing. He was found alive some time after you had informed us of the discovery of the body. According to his testimony, he was able to escape while being left with only one of Thomson’s men. He was forced to kill the man – who probably had the order to get rid of the prisoner – and so made his escape. The dead man was wearing Adam’s jacket, which he had taken from Adam some time earlier. By coincidence, he was close enough to Adam in colouring and build to fit the supplied description. As a matter of fact, only the jacket was recognised by the closest relatives as belonging to the missing man, as the body could no longer be subjected to that procedure. The damage rendering the dead man unrecognisable was done by Thomson’s hand in order to hinder and at the best stop the investigation, as far as we could discern.

We are all aware that all the then available evidence pointed to the conclusions you had reached, and so you cannot be blamed for the misassumption. Both the Cartwright family and I would like to thank you for your quick reaction and thorough and conscientious fulfilment of your duties as well as for the sympathy you expressed towards them in that difficult situation.

The dead man’s name was Carlile or Carlisle. It was probably a surname. His first name or nickname might have been Charlie, according to Adam’s testimony, but this is still very much a guess on our part. We leave it to you to decide on what name to put on the cross.

Sending my and the Cartwrights’ regards, I remain

Roy Coffee”