Summary: A Saturday night visit to the saloon has terrible consequences for Joe.

Rating: PG    Word count: 11000

The Verdict

“It’s Saturday night—time to party!” laughed Hoss, rubbing his hands together. He and Adam dismounted in front of the Silver Dollar, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

“Aren’t you coming in?” asked Adam, raising his eyebrows in confusion as I didn’t make any move to dismount, while he tied Sport to the hitching post in front of the saloon.

“Nah, not tonight,” I replied, shrugging and vaguely pointing down the street. “I’m meeting Mitch at the Bucket of Blood for a beer. It’s got more of a buzz than the Silver Dollar.”

Adam shot me a piercing look, as if he could read tonight’s plans for me and Mitch from my face, but to his credit, he refrained from commenting. I wasn’t going to tell my brothers that I was about to spend the evening with one of the girls. “See you later,” I said, hoping my grin looked innocent, urging Cooch on. Phew! Apparently, my brothers had bought my story that I just wanted to grab a drink with Mitch.

In front of the Bucket of Blood, I dismounted, wrapped the reins around the tethering bar, and adjusted my hat before pushing open the swinging doors. Yells and laughter greeted me, and I was enveloped in a cloud of cigar smoke and whiskey as I stepped inside.

Something hurtled towards me. With a suppressed curse, I ducked to the side just a fraction of a second before a chair slammed into the wall next to me. In an instant, I scanned the room.

Cosmo and one of the girls were busy securing the mirror behind the bar while two miners circled each other with clenched fists. The crowd cheered them on with shouts and whistles.

“Good atmosphere here, huh, Cosmo?” I greeted the sweaty bartender and put two coins on the counter for a beer. Cosmo and I flinched when a dull thud was followed by a shrill, discordant series of notes and angry cursing. One of the quarreling miners had crashed into the piano.

“Too good, if you ask me,” Cosmo grumbled. He dabbed his damp forehead with a cloth before pouring me a beer and sliding the glass over to me. As I took a few deep swigs, enjoying its bitter taste, I let my gaze wander over the other patrons. Mitch was nowhere to be seen, but he would surely arrive soon.

“Howdy, Joe!” Someone stumbled up to the bar to my right and slapped me on the shoulder. The smell of whiskey hit me as I slowly turned around. I knew the man. “Howdy,” I greeted him.

It was Johnny Evans, Virginia City’s blacksmith, who always shoed our horses. He was already pretty drunk. He had his massive arm wrapped around Florence, one of the saloon girls who looked like a toy doll next to him.

A fleeting pang of disappointment shot through my chest. I had hoped Florence would take me to her room tonight, but it looked like I would have to find another girl.

Evans shifted his gaze from me to his empty whiskey glass, then pushed it toward Cosmo. “More! And another round for my friends. Gotta celebrate my victory, after all,” he slurred, adding a few crumpled bills.

Cosmo filled the glasses with whiskey and passed them to Johnny’s three friends. I knew two of them: Frank and Charles, who worked as ranch hands at the Ponderosa. Frank patted Johnny on the back. “Well played, Johnny. You showed that fella what a good hand looks like! You would’ve had to work month for the $300 you won!”

I grinned good-naturedly as the group accepted their drinks. The whiskey was a cheap, cloudy stuff that probably burned your throat. I knew why I stuck with beer.

Johnny downed his drink in one gulp. He seemed determined to spend all his winnings in one night.

Meanwhile, the two miners had ended their argument and made peace with each other, because they left the saloon together, laughing. Some men just enjoyed fighting.

“Seth, play us something!” Johnny yelled at the piano player, who had retreated behind the bar because of the fight.

Seth dabbed his beer-soaked pants with a rag. “I need a new beer, Cosmo. Those idiots spilled mine.”

“This is your third one. You should play the piano, not drink,” the bartender grumbled.

“You pay me too little to lecture me about my drinking.”

Cosmo rolled his eyes but still set about filling a glass. With the beer in hand, Seth walked over to his piano. He straightened his white shirt and black vest before sitting down on his stool. Grumbling, he brushed moisture from the keys with his sleeve before placing his hands on them and beginning to play “Sweet Betsy from Pike.”

A pretty saloon girl with a button nose and freckles joined him, striking a provocative pose with her breasts thrust out, one hand placed on her hip, and the other playing with her hair. She began to sing in a smoky voice that gave me goosebumps.

I had seen her before. Her name was Kate, but everyone called her “Red Kate” because of her bright red locks. My gaze wandered over her shapely body. She was beautiful, with lush curves in all the right places and pale, even skin. Kate noticed me staring. She tossed her hair back and winked playfully at me. I smiled. Maybe Red Kate would be free later.

“Ouch!” The shrill sound behind me snapped me out of my daydream. I spun around.

Florence had slapped Johnny across the face with a loud smack. “Leave me alone! You’re hurting me!” She writhed in an attempt to free herself from his embrace, pounding her small fists against his chest. Johnny, unfazed by the slap, grabbed her hips and pressed her against the bar with his body, a roar of laughter bursting from his throat. “I love it when my girls are a little wild. Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

“I’m not your girl! Take your hands off me! You’re too drunk to—” Florence’s words trailed off as Johnny pressed his mouth against hers, running a huge hand through her curly black hair. She kicked him in the shin, punched him in the ribs, and finally bit his lip.

The drunk man recoiled in surprise. Blood trickled from his lower lip, dripping down his chin. He grabbed the girl by the arm and shook her. “Whore! I should teach you some manners! You’re being paid for this!”

I had watched long enough and decided to step in before the situation got worse. “That’s enough, Johnny!” In two quick strides, I stepped behind the blacksmith, grabbing his shoulder. “You heard the lady. Leave her alone!”

Johnny’s face contorted with rage. He wiped his bleeding lip with the back of his hand and snarled at me, spittle flying. “Cartwright! Stay out of this! You think you can tell people what to do just because you’re rich. It’s bad enough that you always know better when it comes to shoeing horses. You act like you’re the boss. Spoiled brat!” The corners of his mouth turned down, and he spat.

Florence took the opportunity to break free from him and step back a few paces. Her hair and dress were disheveled. With an angry snort, she straightened her clothes and smoothed her hair.

In a soothing tone, I tried to calm the man down. “Johnny, settle down. I don’t want to start a fight or boss you around. I just expect the ladies here to be treated with respect.”

Johnny suddenly looked sober. “Want to settle this man-to-man? Come outside if you’ve got the guts!”

I raised my hands. “You’re too drunk. I don’t think this is a good idea. Besides—”

The blacksmith curled his lip in disgust. “I thought as much. You’re too much of a coward, aren’t you? Someone should teach you not to stick your nose in other people’s business!”

I took a deep breath, my lips pressed tightly together. Stay calm. Don’t let him provoke you. That’s what he wants. I had no intention of losing my temper, getting into a fight, or even a gunfight. “Hey, Evans, no hard feelings. Drink your whiskey and—”

Faster than I would have thought possible in his condition, Johnny struck. I saw his fist hurtling toward me a split second before it hit my cheekbone. I felt my skin burst. The force of the blow threw my head back, slamming me against the bar. Dull pain flooded my skull.

Too dazed to do anything but defend myself, I raised my arm to protect my face. Two fists clawed into my jacket. Johnny yanked me up and flung me like a rag doll over one of the tables. I hit the floor hard. A half-empty whiskey bottle shattered with a clink, and I could smell and feel the stinging booze soak through my clothes. The blacksmith grabbed my jacket again, dragged me into a sitting position, and smashed his fist into my face. My nose broke with a sickening crack. I grunted in pain as a sharp ache spread through my head. Hot blood spurted across my face, filling my mouth with a metallic taste.

Why wasn’t anyone stepping in? The blacksmith was almost twice my weight and had fists like iron. Blindly, I kicked out. My boot hit Johnny’s chest. He fell backward, roaring like a bull. His reflexes were just as fast. With a quick leap, he was on top of me again, pinning me to the floor. We rolled around among the broken glass, crashing against chairs and a table leg.

“Stop it!” Deputy Clem’s voice boomed through the din of the fight. Relief flooded my battered body. Johnny had been about to beat me to a pulp.

I didn’t particularly like Clem, but his arrival was the best thing I could have imagined at that moment. I felt like hugging him.

The weight was lifted from me, but I clenched my fists in defense when someone grabbed my arm. “Joe, stop fighting. It’s me!”

Mitch! I struggled to open my eyes. My face felt hot and swollen. Mitch handed me a cloth, which I pressed against my bleeding nose. Then, I let him pull me to my feet.

He picked up one of the overturned chairs, pushing me onto the seat. “Gee, Joe, what have you gotten yourself into?”

Frank and Charles helped Johnny up, cursing as they picked glass shards out of his hair and clothes. Johnny shot me glares like daggers, furious that the deputy had stepped in.

With his hand loosely on the gun at his side, Clem’s gaze darted back and forth between me and my opponent. He wasn’t nearly as imposing as Roy, but our sheriff was out of action due to a gunshot wound. “I’ll turn a blind eye and not put you in jail if you pay Cosmo for the damage! Understood, Joe? Evans?”

We both nodded.

Evans freed himself from his friends’ grip. “Come on, let’s get back to drinking. I’m not going to let Cartwright spoil my evening.”

“What a mess,” Cosmo muttered as he began picking up the overturned chairs and putting the table back in its place. The swamper, an old, thin man in ill-fitting clothes, shuffled past me, mumbling under his breath. He gave me a disgusted look before beginning to sweep up the broken glass.

Florence rushed over, bent down, and cupped my cheeks. “Oh, Joe, you poor thing! Look what he’s done to you. Let me see!”

I shook my head. “Nah, I’m fine.”

“But you’re bleeding!” she exclaimed. “Come upstairs with me so I can take care of your face. Not just your face,” she whispered, her sparkling eyes and slightly parted, bright red lips close to my ear. Despite my throbbing nose, I managed a half-smile.

Mitch, who knew me too well, grabbed my shoulder. “I think you’d better see a doctor, Joe,” he said, frowning as he looked me over.

“If I have to choose between Florence and Paul Martin, I’ll take the girl,” I said with a wink. Not a good idea! I grimaced as a wave of pain washed over my battered face.

Mitch rolled his eyes, shrugged, and muttered something about a stubborn mule.

“Come on, Little Joe,” Florence said with a twinkle in her eye. She held out her hand, which I accepted hesitantly. Mitch and I had hoped to get laid. It would be stupid to let this opportunity slip by. The way Florence kept looking at me, she might not even ask me for money.

On the other hand, I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. I was in pain and still upset from the fight—not a good combination for a romantic night. Maybe Mitch was right. I should see the doc.

Florence seemed to sense my hesitation. She tugged at my hand. “Let me take you upstairs so I can clean the blood off your face, all right?”

“All right,” I gave in, getting to my feet with a suppressed groan. Maybe the evening would turn out well after all. I avoided Johnny’s piercing glares as I let Florence lead me up the stairs to her room.

“Hold still,” the girl scolded, picking splinters out of my hair and washing the blood from my face. There was a lot of it, and the water in the bowl turned rust red. Now, I was worried. Maybe it would have been sensible to let Paul take a look at me.

I recoiled with a grunt when Florence touched my nose. It felt hot and thick, like a boiled potato. My voice sounded strangely nasal. “What’s wrong with my nose? Is it out of place? I didn’t want a crooked nose to ruin my appearance.”

“Your nose is fine,” Florence said, kissing the tip gently. “I think you should take off those clothes, and I’ll see what I can do to make you feel better.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but quickly closed it when Florence’s delicate hands began undoing my shirt buttons. My spiral of thoughts came to a halt the moment she pushed me backward onto her bed.

 

When it was over, I actually felt better. Much better.

Smiling contentedly, Florence flopped down next to me on the narrow mattress. A fine film of sweat covered our bodies, the smell of cheap perfume and sex lingering in the air. “I’d better go,” I murmured, lazily brushing a strand of hair from the girl’s face. “My brothers …”

“Yes, of course,” Florence cooed, her fingertips tracing patterns on my bare chest. I closed my eyes, savoring the feelings of satisfaction and ease.

 

The loud banging of a fist against a wooden door startled me awake. For a moment, I was disoriented. Where was I? Why did my head hurt like hell?

“Joe Cartwright? Are you in there?” someone yelled.

“Just a minute!” It was pitch dark. Puzzled, I sat up and felt around as the memory seeped into my brain. Darn. I had fallen asleep in Florence’s room. What time was it? I fumbled for my pants, finding them on the floor next to the bed with my other clothes.

Before I could put them on, the door burst open. Clem and Florence—who was no longer naked—stood in the doorway with the two cowboys who had helped Johnny to his feet after the fight. Frank and Charles’s faces were twisted with anger, while Florence looked pale and worried. Something seemed to have happened.

“What’s going on, Clem?” I asked, frowning as I threaded my foot into one of the pant legs under the blanket.

Florence hurried over to the lamp to light it. Clem took two steps into the now-illuminated room and let his gaze wander. His deadpan expression revealed nothing. He stared at me for a long time. “Where’s your gun, Little Joe?” he finally asked.

I pulled my pants up over my hips and buttoned them. The throbbing in my head and nose made it difficult to think straight. I gazed at the holster lying on the floor next to my clothes and boots. It was empty. “Um, I … dunno. It should be here somewhere. Hey, what’s the problem?”

I fumbled for my shirt while I felt myself blushing. Being half-naked in a whore’s bed with four people staring at me was more than embarrassing.

Clem crossed his arms over his chest and took a deep breath. “Get dressed, Joe. I have to take you with me. I can tell where your gun is. I found it in the alley behind the saloon, next to a dead body. Johnny Evans was killed.”

My mouth went dry. Had I understood right? “What? You don’t think—?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

I turned my attention to Florence, who stood next to me, chewing on her lower lip while she fidgeted with her hands. “Florence, you undressed me.” Embarrassed, I felt the heat rise to my face again, but it didn’t matter now. “Was the gun in my holster or not?”

“Yes, honey, I think so, but I can’t really remember. I just dropped the holster and your clothes.”

After slipping into my shirt, I had trouble buttoning it since my hands were shaking. I had just woken up and was still drowsy. My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. It took all my concentration to get dressed.

Clem looked impatient. “Come on, Little Joe. I have to take you to jail.” Gripping my upper arm, he pulled me to my feet. His gaze lingered on the red stains on my shirt.

“That’s my blood,” I defended myself. “Johnny and I were just fighting. I didn’t shoot anyone.”

Clem handed me my jacket, gripped the empty holster, and steered me toward the door. I let him lead me down the back stairs without resistance. The cool night air hitting my skin was a relief after the small, stuffy room. Maybe it would help clear my mind. Surely this was all a mistake.

Even though we took the back stairs, there were still enough people on the street to see me. They stared and whispered as they watched Joe Cartwright being led away like a dangerous criminal.

Glad to be out of sight of the crowd, I let Clem push me into a cell. Only when the heavy door slammed shut behind me did I realize that I was in serious trouble. I spun around and clung to the bars, my knuckles turning white, as I searched for the deputy’s gaze.

“Clem! This is a mistake! It’s ridiculous you believe I killed Evans!”

“I’ll sort this out. You’d better sit and simmer down.”

I took a seat on the sagging cot, running a hand through my hair. What had I gotten myself into? I’d gotten into a fight, slept with a prostitute, and was facing a murder charge. Great. Pa would be mad as hell. I would be grounded for months!

My gaze roamed the bare room. There was a chamber pot in the corner that smelled like the previous prisoner had missed it. Like the other cells, this one was empty except for the two bunks attached to the wall. I stared at my boots, trying to remember what had happened to my gun. I would have surely noticed if I had lost it in the fight, wouldn’t I?

Through the barred window facing the street, I could hear the heated voices of an upset crowd. “Cartwright? You think you can get away with murder? This time, you won’t be able to pull your head out of the noose! Not even your father, with all his money, can help you!” Ugly laughter rang out, followed by a stone flying through the window and landing with a dull thud on the dirty wooden floor.

I thought I recognized Frank’s voice stirring up the crowd. He was a quiet, hardworking cowboy, and we had never had any arguments on the ranch. On the other hand, he had too many drinks and had just lost a friend.

The blacksmith had been a respected man. He liked to brag about his skills and strength, but he did his job well. Only when he was drunk did his ugly side come out. I had the bad luck of getting into a fight with him when he was at his worst.

My heart pounded wildly in my chest as a fist hammered against the door of the sheriff’s office. Were they coming to get me? Would they raid the jail and drag me out into the street to hang me? Clem wasn’t as tough as Roy. He was sluggish and not particularly smart. He did his job, but not with the same passion as the sheriff. What chance did he have against an angry lynch mob? Cold sweat broke out on my forehead. I didn’t want to die like this!

“Get out of here and go home, men! No one is going to be hanged tonight!” Shots rang out, and my shoulders slumped in relief. That was Hoss’s voice. I was so caught up in the moment, I’d forgotten all about my brothers!

“Joe, what kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into?” Hoss’s grin faded when he got a good look at my bruised face. “Dadburnit! What happened to you? Clem, let me get in there!”

“They think I shot Evans, the blacksmith.”

“Give me your guns!” the deputy demanded, unlocking the cell after Adam and Hoss handed over their weapons.

Hoss wrapped his arm around my shoulders and shook his head in disbelief. Adam, who hadn’t said a word until then, grabbed my chin to angle my face toward the light. A deep crease appeared between his brows when he caught sight of me. He turned toward our deputy. “His nose looks broken. Clem, would you get the doctor?”

“Yeah, but first I need to find out about tonight while the boy’s memory is still fresh. Tell me exactly what happened, Little Joe.”

I allowed Adam to guide me to the bed and collapsed onto it with a weary moan. Adam sat down next to me while Hoss paced back and forth like a nervous bull, his hands buried deep in his pants pockets.

Clem stood in the cell doorway with his arms crossed in front of his chest, his eyes trained on me while I told him about the evening, starting with my argument with Evans, how Florence brought me upstairs, and how my gun went missing. “The girl can testify that I was with her, so I couldn’t have shot Johnny, right?” I ended my story.

Clem shook his head. “Well, Florence says she went downstairs after you fell asleep. Her shift wasn’t over yet, and she wanted to work some more.

That sounded like something Florence would do, because she worked as much as she could. She’d told me about her dream of performing as a stage singer in San Francisco, and how she was saving every penny.

“Joe? So, you were alone in the room!” Clem pressed.

“Um, yeah, but it wasn’t locked. Anyone could have walked in and stolen the .45.”

“Why would they shoot Evans with your gun?” Hoss asked, frowning and rubbing the back of his neck.

“To frame Joe,” Adam stated. “Could Florence have lied, and you lost the gun in the fight?”

“The money!” I exclaimed, jumping up. “Evans won a few hundred dollars playing poker. Where’s the money, Clem?”

The deputy scratched his chin. “There was no money.”

“Did you find Joe’s gun?” Adam turned to Clem.

“Yes. It was lying in the alley next to the body. It’s on my desk. Evidence. A witness heard the shot and saw someone running away. Evans left the saloon around 11 p.m. to use the outhouse. He never came back. Shortly after, he was murdered. He didn’t have a chance to draw. His gun was still in its holster.”

I could tell from the position of his shoulders that Adam was tense, but his voice sounded as calm as ever as he started to manage the situation. “I’ll get the doctor and book a hotel room. We’ll spend the night in town.”

Hoss shook his head. “Not a hotel room for me. I’ll stay with Joe. Clem, if you don’t mind, I’ll sleep in the cell next door. This okay?”

Clem shrugged. “Sure.”

I gave my big brother a grateful look.

With my hands folded behind my head, I stretched out on the cot and closed my eyes until the key was turned in the lock again. The barred door creaked open, and a tired-looking Paul Martin entered. Clem didn’t bother locking the cell. He figured I wouldn’t try to escape while I was doctored.

I propped myself up on one elbow as the Doc Martin sat down next to me on the cot and opened his Gladstone bag. “Let’s take care of your face,” Paul said in a sympathetic tone as he took a bottle of clear liquid and clean cloths out of his bag.

Sighing, I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, letting Doc Martin do his work. The alcohol burned my open wounds, causing me to inhale sharply through clenched teeth.

“Your nose is broken. I have to fix it.” The doctor placed his thumbs on either side of my nose. “This isn’t going to be pleasant.”

I nodded, determined not to make a sound. “Get it over with.”

“Here we go.” Doc made a jerky movement.

“Darn!” I cursed as the bone slid back into place with an awful crunch. The pain was so intense that tears sprang to my eyes. Annoyed and embarrassed, I wiped them away. A fresh stream of blood poured from my nose until Paul handed me a cloth.

“Clem, would you bring some cold water? You should cool your face, Little Joe,” he said, turning back to me. “That will help with the swelling. That’s all I can do for you.” He stood up, patting me on the shoulder before leaving the cell.

****

The next day, I was greeted by cheerful rays of sunshine streaming through the barred window and warming my face, a total contrast to my somber mood. Squinting, I sat up, suppressing a groan. My back was cramped and sore from the lumpy mattress. I could almost taste the musty smell of the pillow in my mouth. My nose was swollen shut and throbbing. On top of that, Clem had locked a drunk miner in the cell next to mine. He’d spent the whole night snoring in duet with Hoss. But I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway because my thoughts kept circling about the dead man and my gun. I hadn’t been so out of it that I could have done it without remembering, had I? No, I’d only downed one beer.

I briefly considered whether Florence could have shot Evans and taken the money, but I then dismissed the idea. I didn’t think she was capable of such a thing.

The rest of the day passed without my having the opportunity to find out anything more. Deputy Clem informed me that the circuit judge would arrive by stagecoach that afternoon, and the trial was scheduled for the following day. Perhaps that was better than sitting in a cell for days on end waiting. Hoss had bought me a new shirt and taken my jacket to a Chinese laundry so I would look presentable, and Adam was in contact with our lawyer, Hiram Wood.

What bothered me even more was that Pa wasn’t there to stand by me. He was in San Francisco on business, and even if Adam’s wire reached him today, there was no way he could arrive in time for the trial. My brothers took turns keeping me company, but time passed slowly. My face hurt, and I wished I had one of Doc’s pain powders to calm me down. However, I was too proud to ask for it. A nervous restlessness bubbled inside me, and more than once, my brothers endured the effects of my bad mood.

The upcoming trial made me anxious. I wanted to leave the cell to question the men who had been in the saloon and talk to the witness who had found Evans. Did I trust Clem to do a proper investigation? Not really. Adam kept assuring me that the jury had no reason to convict, but I wasn’t so sure.

When I didn’t pace from one corner of the cell to the other with my hands in my pockets, I sat on my cot, bouncing my leg and gazing at the wall. Time flowed slowly as molasses, and my brothers’ attempts to distract or cheer me up did nothing to change that. I was almost relieved when the day ended and I could lay my head on the lumpy pillow for another miserable night.

*****

The courthouse was packed with onlookers, all eager to catch the spectacle. Clem made his way through the gawking crowd, his left hand clamped around my upper arm, flanked by Hoss and Adam. My gaze flicked over a few familiar faces, giving me encouraging nods. However, there were just as many men who glared at me hatefully.

We took our seats in the front row and waited for Judge Whittaker to begin the trial. Hoss placed his large hand on my thigh to calm my twitching leg. My palms, which were kneading my hat, were damp with sweat.

The judge was an old acquaintance of Pa’s: a small, stooped man with thinning white hair and trembling hands. They said he liked to drink. People called him “Hangman Harry” because he had sent countless men to the gallows.

I wasn’t sure if Whittaker being the judge was a benefit or a hindrance for me, but in the end, it would be the jury sitting to my right who would decide. Would they find me guilty and hang me? Or send me to prison? A prison sentence would be almost as bad. I knew about the conditions in prisons. Violence and the law of the jungle ruled, and terrible things happened. Things that could break a man.

The sound of Judge Whittaker clearing his throat snapped me out of my thoughts. He tapped the desk several times with his gavel until it was quiet, then his gaze swept over the people in the room, finally settling on me. Whittaker got straight to the point. “The court is in session. We will hear from the defendant and the witnesses, and then we will reach a fair verdict. Joe Cartwright, please take the stand.”

I sucked in a deep breath, stood up, walked forward, and took the seat next to the judge’s bench.

The prosecutor—a clean-shaven man named Lewis, wearing a fancy suit and a navy-blue vest—stood in front of me with a smug grin on his face, his hands folded behind his back.

‘Don’t be intimidated,’ I told myself, holding his gaze without blinking. After all, I was innocent.

The prosecutor stared at me, his grey eyes cold. “Mr. Joseph Cartwright, you visited the Bucket of Blood Saloon two nights ago, correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.

“You argued with Mr. Evans?”

“We got into a fight.”

“What was the reason for this argument?”

“Evans was bothering a saloon girl named Florence Wilson, so I stepped in. He threw the first punch. “We had a fist fight, but that doesn’t mean I was out to kill him.”

“Thanks, that’s enough. Just the facts, please. How long did you fight?”

“Maybe a couple of minutes. Evans threw me across a table, and then we rolled around on the floor.”

“What happened then?”

“Deputy Clem broke up the fight. The girl insisted that I follow her to her room. She wanted to take care of my wounds.” I chewed on my lower lip, unsure of how much to say. The prosecutor’s gaze remained unfazed.

“Go on!”

“Then … um… I fell asleep.”

“After you took advantage of Miss Wilson’s services?” the prosecutor asked with mockery. I shifted back and forth in the witness chair. All eyes were on me, and I wanted to sink into the ground in embarrassment.

“Well, yeah, but that’s my own business!” I lifted my chin to hide my shame as heat burned my cheeks.

“And after that?”

“I woke up when Clem Foster knocked on the door to arrest me. That’s when I realized my gun was missing.”

Lewis turned to Hiram Wood. “Mr. Wood, would you like to question the defendant?”

Our lawyer shook his head. “Not now.”

I was allowed to return to my seat. The judge then called Frank Horn, Evans’s friend, to the front and swore him in.

Lewis looked at the cowboy before him. “Mr. Horn, did you witness the fight?”

“Yep, and so did everyone in the saloon!”

“Please tell us what you saw.”

Frank glared at me. “Cartwright stepped in and tried to steal he girl away from Johnny. Of course, Johnny got mad at him, and they started throwing punches. They fought until the deputy showed up and broke it up. Then Florence took Cartwright upstairs.”

“What impression did Joe Cartwright make on you?”

“He was damn furious and a bit dazed. I’d say he took quite a beating!” He smirked, but the lawyer’s stern look made him serious again.

“Was Joe Cartwright angry enough to commit murder?”

“Objection, Your Honor! That’s not for the witness to judge!” Hiram Wood interjected.

“Objection sustained.”

Lewis shrugged. “All right. Mr. Horn, next question. Mr. Evans won some money that night, correct? How much?”

“Three hundred dollars in a poker game against a rich fella, ” Frank grinned.

“Did he have the money with him when he left the saloon to relieve himself?”

“Yeah, in his jacket pocket. At least, that’s what was left after we spent some on whiskey.”

“Thank you. No further questions,” Lewis said, looking around for the next witness.

Lewis also questioned Florence, but she couldn’t add anything important except that she thought my gun was still in its holster when she removed my clothes.

When Clem finally took his place on the witness stand, he appeared uncertain, as if he’d just realized that his testimony would put me in jeopardy.

“Deputy Foster, please tell me what happened that night.”

Clem rubbed the back of his neck as he met my gaze. I wished Roy had investigated this case instead of Clem, who always seemed sluggish and sloppy in his work. Clem hadn’t found out anything. Neither who had taken my gun nor where the money might have gone.

“Frank—uh, Mr. Horn—and his friend came running to me shortly after 11 p.m., excited and shouting that there had been a murder. They led me to the alley next to the saloon, where a dead man was lying. It was Johnny Evans.”

“How did you know he had been murdered?”

“Evans had been shot right in the chest, and his gun was still in its holster. He hadn’t made any attempt to draw.”

Lewis nodded, looking satisfied. “For a duel, you wouldn’t go into a dimly lit alley. You’d choose the street in front of the saloon. How dark was the alley?”

“The moon was shining, so you could make out shapes. Besides, the shot had been heard by everyone in the saloon. Someone brought a lantern. That’s when I found the gun, about thirty feet from the body. I recognized it immediately as Joe Cartwright’s weapon with its distinct ivory handle.”

Lewis already seemed confident of victory. “Was a shot fired from Cartwright’s gun?”

“Yeah. I smelled it and checked the chamber. One bullet was missing.”

“Did you find the money?”

“No. We brought the body to Doc’s office and searched it, but there was no money.”

I pressed my lips into a thin line. I knew some of the jury didn’t like me very much. They thought the Cartwrights always meddled too much. I hoped they knew we were respectable people. Could they believe I would commit murder? When another witness was called, Hoss nudged me, noticing my absent gaze.

The saloon girl, Red Kate, made her way to the witness chair and took a seat.

“Miss Watson, you were about to walk home around eleven o’clock at night. What did you see?”

Kate, who was clutching her purse, was uncertain and nervous. Her eyes darted from me to the judge and back to the prosecutor who had asked the question.

“I was on my way home when I passed by the alley next to the saloon. You see, I have a little boy at home, so my shift usually ends around that time. I had to…”

“Please stick to the point.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I heard a gunshot, and a moment later someone ran away. It was dark. I couldn’t see much. I was scared, so I hurried back to the saloon, screaming. A few men came up to me. They had heard my yell and asked what was going on.” Kate bit her thumbnail.

I traced my fingers through my hair as I looked at the twelve jurors listening to the testimony. One of them was taking notes. I couldn’t read their expressions, but I hoped they were showing sympathy and would reach a fair verdict. After all, except for my gun, there was no evidence against me, so surely, they wouldn’t find me guilty.

The trial lasted for hours. The prosecutor twisted the witnesses’ words and painted me as a jealous ladies’ man, which was far from the truth. Anyone who knew me would have confirmed that.

Doc Martin’s statement didn’t help my case either. He confirmed that the bullet in the body was the same caliber as the one in my revolver, which was no surprise. Almost everyone used a .45 caliber. Paul had to admit that, despite my injured face, I would have been able to sneak down the back stairs and kill the man.

Hiram Wood did a fine job. He got the rather nervous witnesses to reveal the smallest details and used their answers to portray me as a young man who, apart from the occasional fistfight, had always acted honorably and never done anything wrong before.

My skull pulsed in dull waves as the closing arguments began. With my back stiff and my heart pounding, I sat in my chair, clenching the armrests and listening to the prosecutor’s condemning words.

“I will summarize: Joe Cartwright had a motive—revenge—the opportunity, no alibi, and the testimony of a witness who saw him running away. The undeniable proof is that his gun was found next to the body. It’s unlikely that someone would sneak into the room, take the gun, and use it to kill a man. Joe Cartwright kept an eye on the street from Miss Wilson’s window. When Mr. Evans left the saloon to use the outhouse, Cartwright seized the opportunity to get rid of an enemy and rival and gain $300. When Miss Kate Watson surprised him, he dropped the gun and fled. He slipped back into Miss Wilson’s room and pretended to be asleep.”

Lewis’s distorted version of events drained the blood from my face. Would anyone believe it happened that way? I flicked my gaze over the jurors’ blank faces.

When Lewis sat down, my attorney, Hiram Wood, took his place, shooting me an encouraging look. I relaxed a little. Hiram was good, and he’d helped us out of trouble many times before.

Buttoning his suit, he turned to the jurors. “Gentlemen, this case is not as clear-cut as Mr. Lewis would have you believe. A fight, such as frequently happens in saloons—and the defendant was involved in several—is not a motive for murder. The reason for the murder was the money, which I must emphasize was NOT found on Joe Cartwright. Besides, anyone could have snuck into the unlocked room where Joe lay injured and asleep to take the gun from its holster. It’s no secret which room Miss Wilson uses for her services, and $300 is a good enough reason to kill someone. Not for Joseph Cartwright because, as we all know, the Cartwrights are wealthy, but for many people, $300 is a fortune.”

Hiram Wood stared intently at the jurors. “Please recall Miss Wilson’s testimony. We don’t know for sure that Joe didn’t drop the gun in the saloon. If that were the case, anyone present could have taken the revolver and committed the murder. Joe Cartwright wasn’t seen at the crime scene. It was too dark to identify anyone positively. None of the evidence points to Cartwright shooting Evans, the blacksmith.”

The crowd began to murmur as the jury left to discuss my case. Hoss squeezed my knee, offering an encouraging smile. I took a deep breath and rolled my shoulders to loosen them. Surely everything would be all right. No one could be convicted just because their gun was found next to a dead man.

An hour after deliberations began, the jurors entered the courtroom, and the room fell silent. Dozens of eager eyes turned toward the twelve men.

Judge Whittaker wasted no time. He rapped his gavel on the table until complete silence was restored, then turned to the oldest juror.

“Gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?”

“Guilty, Your Honor,” the juror replied, causing me to grip my hat so tightly that my hands ached.

Oh God, they’re going to hang me! I felt Hoss’s comforting hand on my back while noticing a nervous twitch in Adam’s cheek. The blood rushed in my ears, mingling with the murmuring of the crowd into an unintelligible roar.

The judge used his gavel again. “Quiet!” he shouted, waiting for the crowd to settle. As if from far away, his voice cut through the buzzing in my ears: “…fifteen years in state prison!”

I swallowed, my mouth dry with terror. “What, Hoss? What did he say?”

My brother gave me a miserable look. “Fifteen years in prison! Gee, Joe! But I guess that’s better than hanging, right?” Hoss’s attempt at a smile fell flat.

The turmoil around me was like a raging river, sweeping my helpless body away. What happened now was beyond my control. Stunned, I repeated the words: “Fifteen years in prison. ” I couldn’t believe they found me guilty.

I felt Hoss’s strong hands on my upper arms and heard Adam move his lips, but none of it made sense to me. “Pa,” I whispered. I was sure Pa would have found a way out of this. More than anything, I wished he were here as Clem handcuffed me and led me out of the courthouse.

My life as a free man was over.

*****

The Nevada State Prison had been my home for four long weeks. Built two years earlier, it was considered new and modern. Brown, ugly blocks surrounded by tall watchtowers, massive walls, and barbed wire made up the prison. Despite the bright sun, an atmosphere of hopelessness and resignation hung over the area.

The armed guards patrolling the buildings and corridors were far from gentle with prisoners who didn’t follow the rules.

Although the prison was located in Carson City, only a day’s ride from the Ponderosa, Pa had only been allowed to visit me once. I suspected that Abe Curry, the warden, didn’t want information about the conditions there to get out.

I had no choice but to quickly adjust to the daily routine of hard work and bland food. My old life felt so far away that I could barely remember it. I could no longer recall what the pine-scented air on the Ponderosa had smelled like or what it had been like to gallop across the vast landscape on Cochise’s back.

“Thirty-minute break,” one of the guards bellowed, causing us to collapse to the ground. I groaned, wiping sweat and grime from my burning eyes with the back of my hand. Like most of the prisoners, I was forced to do hard labor. I was part of a group of forty men responsible for preparing the fourteen-mile route for the planned Virginia and Truckee Railway line. The work was grueling: grading the land, digging out huge boulders, and felling trees.

“Prisoners, grab some soup!”

The prospect of food made us stagger to our feet. I accepted a tin plate of soup and a piece of bread, careful not to spill a drop. Leaning my back against a large rock, I plopped down in the shade and began wolfing down my grub. I’d learned the hard way on one of the first days how important it was to always watch my back. I grimaced at the memory of the beating I took when a big fella tried to steal my food. The pain from my bruised ribs has been a constant reminder that some men would kill for a piece of dry bread.

By now, I had almost gotten used to the constant hunger and the lukewarm, murky soup with its undetectable lumps. Though watery and tasteless, it gave me strength for another day of backbreaking work under the merciless sun.

The chains cuffing my wrists clanged as I brought the plate of soup to my mouth. I had grown accustomed to that, too. The heavy chains made it difficult to work, and the sharp edges of the irons chafed my skin. The older inmates had assured me that scar tissue would eventually form.

‘I shouldn’t complain,’ I thought with a sigh. After all, I hadn’t been sentenced to death. I didn’t know why the judge had ruled in my favor. Adam suspected that his long acquaintance with our father was the reason.

After placing the licked-clean plate on the ground next to me, I flopped onto my back with a groan, trying to loosen my aching muscles. You had to take every opportunity to rest and gather new strength. That was another lesson I’d picked up in the past few weeks.

I was jolted awake by a shadow falling on me. I must have fallen asleep for a moment. That was careless and shouldn’t have happened! I squinted against the glare. Cole, a burly man with stubble and hands like shovels, loomed over me. He smirked down at me, revealing a couple of missing teeth.

Cole laughed as I scrambled to my feet. Despite the heat, an icy shiver ran down my spine. His cold gaze gave me goosebumps. I’d managed to escape the worst so far, but I’d heard the stories about what happened to new prisoners. They said the young, handsome men were the most popular.

‘Never show signs of weakness,’ my cellmates had warned me on the first day. I straightened up, clenched my jaw, and stared into the man’s watery blue eyes without blinking. With a casual gesture, I grasped the pickaxe I had been working with, ready to use it on Cole. “Get out of here and leave me alone!”

Cole’s smirk widened as he whispered, “I’ll get you one day, boy. Count on it!” Then, he turned and walked away. I slumped against the rock, relieved.

The end of the break was announced by a guard’s shouted order. “Hand over your plates, men, and get to work!”

The sun inched slowly across the cloudless sky. The only sounds were the pickaxes digging into the hard earth, the occasional clang of metal when someone bumped into a rock, and the jangle of our chains. None of the workers had the energy to talk. Still, we were among the lucky ones because we weren’t forced to work in the prison quarry. The conditions there were hellish, and it was said that men were dying from exhaustion or accidents.

Nevertheless, our job wasn’t easy. It took everything from our starving bodies.

A muffled sound made me look up. Robert, the old man who had been working next to me, had collapsed. He had been locked up in prison for a long time, and it showed.

After a glance at the guard standing with his back to us, I dropped my pickaxe and knelt next to him. Placing my hand on his shoulder, I shook him. “Rob, come on! You have to get up!” I whispered in an urgent voice. If you didn’t work, you were beaten and denied food.

Rob pushed my hand away. “Lemme alone! I can’t.”

I yanked on Rob’s arm, trying to get him up. “You have to! Look, it’s almost evening. Only another hour or so!”

“Can’t,” Rob mumbled, closing his eyes.

“Darn.” I grabbed the old man under his arms, dragging him into the shadow of a rock. God, he was so light—just skin and bones.

I suppressed another curse when I saw that the guard had noticed us and was approaching. He reached for the short whip on his belt. “Hey, you! Get back to work!”

“Rob just needs a little rest in the shade. He needs water. Let me—”

“Back to work, I said!” the guard yelled, spraying droplets of spittle. He caught up with me. A loud crack sounded as his whip struck my ribs. I cried out more from shock than pain, staggering a step to the side.

“Please, let me give Rob some water so he can work again—”

The guard lashed out again, his face flushed with rage. The whip slammed down on me until I collapsed to my knees. I didn’t even try to crawl away. I felt my skin burst. Warm wetness trickled down my back. Lying face down in the dirt with a mouthful of sand, I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the guard to vent his anger.

Howland—the guard’s name—was one of the more brutal ones who enjoyed hurting prisoners. Usually, the guards only struck hard enough to cause pain but still allowed prisoners to continue working. After all, it costs money to feed inmates who couldn’t pull their weight.

Howland kicked me in the side. “Have you learned your lesson? Then get up!”

Suppressing a groan, I scrambled to my feet and grabbed my pickaxe. My tattered shirt clung to my sore back, damp with blood and sweat. I tried not to let on that every step felt like someone was dragging a fishhook through my skin.

Under Howland’s scrutinizing gaze, I drove the pickaxe into the sun-baked earth again. At least I’d gotten Howland to leave Rob alone. Rob had rolled onto his side in the shade, his legs tucked up to his chest.

I didn’t know how much longer I could hold out. My gaze kept darting toward the sun, which was approaching the western horizon. Finally, the long-awaited call came: “Done for today, men! Hand over your tools and line up!”

After the headcount, the exhausted and ragged group of inmates staggered to a wagon waiting to take us back to the prison. Two men were selected to carry Rob. I wouldn’t have been able to do that since it took all my willpower just to stay on my feet.

With a metallic clang, the door to my cell slammed shut behind me. I shared the room with three other inmates. The cell was a bleak space, empty except for four bunks bolted to the floor and two buckets, one for personal needs and one for washing and drinking. We had no privacy, but after four weeks, I’d grown accustomed to that as well. None of us noticed the stench of the buckets, our unwashed, sweaty bodies, or our greasy hair. Shaving was a luxury, so most prisoners grew beards.

Murmuring a greeting, I shuffled past my cellmates and collapsed belly-first onto my bunk, my head resting on my folded arms. Four weeks of my sentence were over, but how was I supposed to make it through the remaining 776 weeks? 776 weeks. An unimaginable number. I had to try to take it one day at a time. Biting my lip, I blinked back the moisture welling in my eyes. No showing of weakness! Even though my cellmates were good fellas and we got along well, I couldn’t allow myself to cry in front of them.

Tex, a tall, gaunt man, stepped up to my bunk. He bent down to examine my back. “Should I take a look?” he drawled.

“Yeah, it’s probably better to take care of it.” I untied my scarf and handed it to him. The thin straw pillow crackled as I pressed my cheek into it while Tex peeled my tattered shirt off my raw skin. He soaked my scarf, using it to dab the blood and dirt from my wounds. Each touch almost made me jump, but I gritted my teeth and tensed my body to stay still.

“Done, boy,” Tex said after what felt like an eternity, handing me back my scarf. “If you’re lucky, they’ll give you a clean shirt tomorrow.”

‘If not, dirt will get into my wounds, and they’ll become infected,’ I thought. Suppressing a groan, I pulled the thin blanket up to my waist. The ropes holding the straw mattress creaked beneath me. I would be very sore and stiff tomorrow, and working would be hell.

While I wondered how Robert was doing, I drifted off to sleep.

****

CLONG! The piercing sound of clashing metal caused me to pop open my eyes. You never slept very soundly in prison.

“Cartwright, step out!” someone yelled. Howland stood outside our cell, banging the barrel of his rifle against the bars.

“Just a minute,” I mumbled, sliding my feet, still in boots, out of bed and onto the grimy floor. My back was on fire, and it took me a moment to get upright.

It was already light, and from the noise, I could tell the guards were handing out breakfast. The smell of what they called coffee wafted through the halls. My cellmates exchanged sympathetic glances as I shuffled to the door, being careful to move my upper body as little as possible. Nevertheless, I felt the wounds that had crusted closed overnight burst open again. Blood seeped down my back and was absorbed by my waistband.

I eyed Howland, trying to figure out what this was about. He jabbed the barrel of his rifle into my ribs to get me moving. “Infirmary!” he barked.

I stared at him in disbelief before putting one foot in front of the other. Usually, you were already half dead by the time you were admitted to the medical ward.

Howland ushered me through a door where a doctor wearing a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves stood waiting. He was an older man with white hair and light brown eyes. He studied me over his glasses, which were balanced low on his nose. A sharp furrow formed between his brows. “Thank you, Howland. Please remove his cuffs, and then you may leave us alone.”

I gently rubbed my grazed wrists after Howland had removed the irons and left the medical ward. My hands felt oddly light. The doctor grabbed my arm, directing me to a leather-covered examination table. “Take off your clothes, boy!”

Frowning, I met the doctor’s gaze. What was all this about? I crossed my arms. “What’s happening to me?”

The doctor’s face twisted into a smile. He pointed to a curtain that separated part of the room. “Don’t be afraid. You can take a bath.”

I had learned that it was better not to be curious, but the older man didn’t seem threatening, so I took the risk. “What … why?”

“I don’t know, son. I was instructed to examine you and tend to your wounds.”

I didn’t mind a bath. Shrugging, I slipped out of my clothes. They were caked with dirt mixed with blood and sweat from working under the blazing sun. Barefoot, I padded to the waiting tub. The rising steam told me the water was warm. This was exactly what I needed right now! With a contented sigh, I slid into the tub. The heat felt unpleasant on my wounds at first, but the onset of relief overcame that feeling. Closing my eyes in pleasure, I propped my head against the edge.

I could almost pretend I was home, soaking in Hop Sing’s copper tub after a hard day of breaking mustangs. The steam enveloped me, mingling with the unexpected moisture on my cheeks. I blinked a few times, fighting against the stinging in my eyes. Prison was not the place to let my emotions overwhelm me. I had to stay tough if I wanted to get through this.

The doctor handed me a sponge and a piece of odorless, cheap soap. I stretched out my bath as long as possible, scrubbing the grime of the past few weeks off my body, trying to push away the unpleasant thoughts about what this was all about. They were up to something. Prisoners weren’t usually allowed to bathe or receive medical treatment.

With a tight bandage wrapped around my torso, I followed Howland through the halls again. As far as I knew, this was the office wing, where the warden had his desk. I had been there once before, on my first day, when he had briefed the newcomers on the rules of behavior.

My heart raced and my hands grew clammy as I took a hesitant step through the door. Would they move me to another prison? Was there any news on my case? Would they send me to the quarry just because I helped Robert?

My eyes fell on the warden, a man in his fifties with a strong, square jaw and full hair combed to the side. He was dressed in a two-piece suit with a vest and sat behind his massive wooden desk. In front of him, with his back to me, sat a gray-haired man who looked just like—”Pa!”

“Joseph!” Pa’s booming voice filled the room as he stood up so quickly that his chair tipped over. With his arms outstretched, he swept me into a hug. “Thank God!” Pa murmured in a raspy voice.

“Pa!” I sighed, resting my head on his shoulder, breathing in his familiar, clean scent. I fought hard to suppress the tremor in my voice. “Have they allowed you to visit me?” I hadn’t expected to see him today.

“Much better, Joseph! The verdict has been reversed. You’re free!” Tears glistened in his dark chocolate eyes as he took hold of my upper arms.

“Fr—?” I cleared my throat, since only a croak escaped. “Free?”

“Yes, Joe.” He gestured toward the desk. “Here are your signed release papers. Come on. Let’s head home. I don’t want to stay in this awful place for another minute. I’ll explain everything to you on the way.”

Pa stared at the warden, who stood behind his desk with his arms crossed. His voice trembled with suppressed anger as he pointed his finger at him. “You, Mr. Curry, will have to answer to the Department of Corrections for the condition my son is returned to me in. After only four weeks, I can see how skinny he is! The way he moves shows he’s in pain. Did someone beat him? There will be consequences, I promise you!”

Still in a daze, I allowed Pa to direct me to the waiting buckboard. My heart leaped when Hoss and Adam rushed toward me. I was happy to see my brothers, even though their horrified looks would be hard to bear.

I was right. Hoss’s bright smile faltered. Deep furrows appeared on his forehead as he shifted his gaze from my face to my sore wrists and then to my ill-fitting clothes. Finally, he pulled me into a silent embrace.

“Careful!” I gasped when he touched my back.

Adam and Pa exchanged meaningful glances. Adam placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it.

I tried to keep my voice light and cheerful. “Don’t stand there looking all gloomy. Come on. Let’s get out of here as fast as possible.”

Hoss helped me into the seat as if I were a fragile teapot made of Hop Sing’s fine china. The wagon’s springs squeaked as he climbed in next to me and pulled me in for a hug. I had such a large lump in my throat that all I could manage to croak was, “Thanks.”

Pa and Adam took the front seats. Adam slapped the reins on the horses’ rumps, and they eagerly set off. I didn’t turn around once as we left the prison behind.

“Pa, how come the verdict was dropped?” I asked the question that had been on my mind the whole time, while Hoss rummaged through a picnic basket for food. He handed me a sandwich. I took a huge bite, barely giving myself time to enjoy the explosion of flavors from the fresh bread, butter, and ham.

“Eat slowly, Joseph!” Pa admonished.

“Mmm,” I mumbled around the bread and swallowed. I closed my eyes for a moment, groaning with pleasure.

Adam was the one who finally enlightened me. “A week ago, Seth, the piano player from the Bucket of Blood, presented Florence with two stagecoach tickets and said he would give her one if she agreed to go with him to San Francisco and live with him. She had always talked about getting a job as a singer, but she never had enough money.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I know. That’s why she worked so hard.”

“What Florence didn’t know, however, was that Seth was in love with her. Florence thought it was odd that he had money for tickets because he was always broke. She became suspicious and went to the sheriff.”

Stunned, I looked at Adam. “I heard Seth complaining to Cosmo that the pay wasn’t enough. Did he just take the money, or did he shoot Evans, too?” I could hardly believe it. Seth was a friendly, reserved, humble fella who seemed incapable of such a thing. Most evenings, he sat at the piano without saying a word, sipping his beer and entertaining the guests with ballads and popular songs. How could he let an innocent man go to jail—let alone be hanged—for less than $300?

Adam took an apple from the picnic basket and bit into it. “When Clem confronted Seth, he broke down. He said your gun fell out of your holster during the fight and ended up at his feet. Intending to sell the revolver later, he slid it under the piano. Then, when Evans went outside—he was quite drunk—Seth changed his plan. He figured he could relieve the blacksmith of a few dollars, so he took the gun and snuck outside. Since the alley was dark, he assumed Evans wouldn’t recognize him.”

I bit into an apple and listened, chewing, while Adam continued. “Seth said he didn’t mean to shoot. The .45 went off by accident. Whether that’s true or not is for a jury to decide, but Judge Whittaker immediately overturned your conviction.”

Pa turned to me. “Unfortunately, it took several more days to clear everything up with the prison authorities.” He placed a hand on my knee, looked me straight in the face. “Are you all right, Joseph? What did they do to you?”

I could see the unspoken question in my father’s worried eyes. I shook my head, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m fine. Just a few lashes, but they’ll heal with time.”

Robert came to my mind. I hoped he would recover, although I had the impression that he had given up. Like many of the inmates, he’d always insisted he was innocent. I was innocent, but no one believed me. What if they had sentenced me to death? That would have been final. And how many other men were in prison due to a wrong judgment? I had long since lost faith in our legal system. A jury trial could ruin a life forever.

I hoped Pa’s plea would improve the inhumane conditions, but I had my doubts. There would always be guards who took pleasure in others’ suffering and prisoners who took advantage of the weak. Feeling my family’s concerned gaze on me, I forced a smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

The wagon bumped across a pothole, causing me to wince. My physical wounds would heal soon, but the mental ones would take longer. Step by step, I would try to return to my normal life, hoping the scars on my body and the memories would fade over time. It would take me a while to sleep well again without fearing for my life and to get used to eating at a normal pace.

Satisfied for the moment, I leaned against Hoss’ soft shoulder. It was better not to let my sore back touch the backrest. With a sigh, I took in the view. There were no walls or bars, just an endless, rolling landscape. The prison was no longer in sight. It lay far behind us, and even the horses seemed eager to get home quickly. Without urging, they trotted forward, their hooves clattering on the sun-baked, cracked earth.

I watched the buzzards lazily circling in the sky above us and enjoyed having my hands free from chains, glad to rest on the padded seat with a full belly, surrounded by my loving family.

The End

 

9/2023, edited 2025

Author’s notes:

The Nevada State Prison opened in 1862. It had a quarry where convicts were forced to work. Abraham Curry served as the first warden from 1862 to 1864.

The Virginia and Truckee Railroad, a 14-mile commercial freight line, was originally built to serve the mining communities of the Comstock Lodge in northwestern Nevada. It opened in 1870.

Episodes referred to: “Elegy for a Hangman” (written by E. M. Parsons and Shirl Hendryx).

Tags: SJS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tags: SJS

The Nevada State Prison opened in 1862. It had a quarry where convicts had to work. Abraham Curry was the 1st warden from 1862-1864.

The Virginia and Truckee Railroad was a 14-mile commercial freight railroad originally built to serve the Comstock Lodge mining communities in northwestern Nevada and opened in 1870.

Episodes referenced:

Elegy for a Hangman (written by E.M. Parsons, Shirl Hendryx).