Summary: Hoss has a VERY bad dream…

Rating: T for reference to character death.
Author’s Notes: Originally written in 2011; edited in 2025 for inclusion on this site. (1,298 words)

Dreams

The muffled cry startled Adam from sleep, his head rising and his protective sense rushing adrenalin into his system. Fell asleep reading, he realized groggily, noticing he was still dressed and had only covered himself with blankets. He shot from his bed without bothering to slip something on his feet, his beloved book tumbling from his bed to the floor, unheeded.

Adam rushed into his brother’s room to find Hoss sitting up in bed, shaking and panting, hair stuck up at all angles.

He’d have been a comical sight but for the palpable terror pulsing off the big man in waves.

“Hoss, easy,” Adam said softly, coming to his brother, and placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “Easy, now.”

He saw Hoss was fully awake now and walked to the dresser to pour a cup of water. “Here, drink this.”

Hoss’ hand shook so that he spilled a little of the water but thirstily drank. “Thanks,” he croaked, handing the empty cup back to his brother, and leaning forward, putting his head in his hands.

“A bad one, huh?” sympathized Adam, setting the cup on the bedside table. He gave Hoss space, didn’t reach out to him, but from long practice knew his kid brother needed some touch, so allowed the leg crossed under him to touch Hoss’ quilt-covered knee, pressing gently, reassuringly. “You want to talk about it?”

“Lordy, no!” came Hoss’ choked sob.

Eyebrows raised in surprise, Adam reached out and gently clasped his brother’s hands, bringing them down.  “Hoss, it’s all right,” he said seriously. “It was just a dream. You’ll feel better if you talk about it. Like…” He swallowed, then steeled himself. “Like before, remember?”

Yes, like before, Adam thought uneasily. Hoss hadn’t had dreams like this since he was a little shaver, when he’d gone through a three- or four-year period of having nasty nightmares… nightmares that tended to come true. It had been a rough time for the little boy, only seven or so at the time they started. At first Pa’d been dismissive, insisting that they were just dreams.

However, Pa, Marie and Adam had grown uneasy as the accuracy of the dreams’ details became more and more pronounced; uneasy, and then worried. Thank God, they weren’t frequent, but they were potent, and Hoss would go for days unable to rest after one of them, scared to death of what he’d see next.

For some reason, they’d stopped as suddenly as they’d begun when he was about eleven, just before Adam left for college. In the last dream he’d had, Hoss had seen an explosion in a mine, in which every single miner within was killed… more than five years before the first mine was excavated in the Carson Valley, before the first discovery of silver was made in the area.

Hoss moaned and turned his head away. “Lordy, no,” he repeated softly. “Adam… it…”

“Easy,” soothed Adam, shifting his grip to one of his brother’s shoulders, giving him a very gentle shake.  “Breathe, Hoss.  Relax.  In your own time, brother. In your own time. I’m here.”

It took several minutes for Hoss to get himself under control, and then he sat back against his pillows, closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “It’s hard to explain,” he said softly. “I didn’t understand much o’ what I saw, an’ I don’t know where it was all takin’ place, but…”

Hot… God almighty, but it’s hot. Not like the desert hot, though. It’s sticky-hot, the way Pa talks ’bout New Orleans.

There’s men all over the rocky, scrabbled ground, some bleedin’ and writhin’… some layin’ in ways God ain’t never meant no body to lie… and they wasn’t movin’.  Dead, for sure.

Sounds… peculiar-like, ’cause some o’ the sounds are muffled, and others are loud and sharp. The crack of gunshot, and heavy sounds, rumbling like God’s thunder, makin’ the ground shake under my feet. I guess that’s what cannon fire feels like…

Feet… do you got feet in a dream?

Anyways, I see some o’ the men are dressed differ’nt from the others… dark blue shirts, kinda like the cavalrymen wear, but tan pants, not blue, an’ high boots. Then I see the flag, Adam. Our flag, the American flag, but … it looks differ’nt somehow, cain’t say…the stars. That’s it. There’s more stars on this’un than what’s there now.

An’ I see another flag… kinda looks like the Texas flag, but the big red bar has a ‘10′ on it and the white one ‘neath it has a letter ‘E’.

It’s… it’s awful, Adam, these men climbin’ up a real steep hill toward some buildin’ at the top, and these other men shootin’ down on’em. Almost look Mexican, the others do, but taller, you know? Oh, I don’ know how to explain it. It looks like a sure suicide run, but they keep comin’ and comin’.

Then I see him, Adam. He’s years and years older, hair grayed and face heavier, but it’s him, couldn’t mistake him. Fierce and determined-like, with that look he always gits when doin’ something we-all tell him ain’t possible. Chargin’ up that hill, a rifle in his hand and wearin’ his holster, too. I watch him yank down some feller in front of him, whippin’ the butt o’ his rifle around and clubbin’ the enemy feller with it, cool as dammit, an’ pulling out his pistol and shootin’ him in the head. All like one movement, smooth-like, like when he’s ridin’ a bronc. Then he starts up the hill again and comes up almost behind the feller holdin’ the flag, our flag. I hear the squishy thunk o’ the bullet hittin’ the other soldier – God, I could hear it, Adam! – he shoots out his hand to save the colors from hittin’ the ground.

Someone else comes at him and he manages to get off a shot with his rifle, one-handed, afore they get to him, and he’s handin’ off the colors to another soldier when…when…

No, I’m all right now, it’s just…

Bullet through the heart… he never saw what hit ‘im. I s’pose that’s better’n other ways to die…

Hoss passed a shaky hand over his face, sweat belying the January chill seeping through the dark bedroom.

“Th-that’s what I saw, Adam,” he whispered, the words nearly sticking in his throat.

Adam sat back on the bed, shivering with more than the cold. “Just a dream, little brother,” he said quietly. He rose to his feet and walked to the fireplace reaching for a punk, as much to hide his disconcertion as to retrieve flame to light Hoss’ bedside lamp. He willed his hand to steady as he carried back the flame, and lifting the globe from the lamp, relit the wick and replaced the globe, waving his hand to extinguish the punk. He studied his younger brother, concerned.

“Yeah, just a dream,” Hoss breathed quietly, lips trembling. “Like them miners in the Lucky Seven?”

Adam winced.

They sat quietly for a moment. “Years and years older, you said,” Adam murmured, glancing at Hoss.

Hoss nodded, still staring at his big hands, gripped together as his arms rested on his knees… gripped together to stop them from shaking.

They were silent for a long time, then Hoss glanced at the window, watching the first tendrils of pink and orange start to tint the night sky outside. “I ain’t likely to sleep no more tonight,” he said quietly, swinging his legs out of bed on the other side from Adam. “Might as well git to the mornin’ chores.”

Adam nodded. “Yeah, me, too.”

He waited as Hoss dressed and, quietly, they headed together down the hall, neither one so much as slowing down nor glancing at seventeen-year-old Joe’s bedroom door as they passed by.

Author’s Note: This story follows the canon established by David Dortort’s “Next Generation” films, in which he established that Joseph Francis Cartwright died while charging up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders.