Summary:. A missing son, a father’s search. A WHIB and WHI for The Crucible.
Rating: T
Word Count: 5,353

Depression is a dark shadow that prevents rays of hope from reaching the soul. My eldest son is lost to me.

Only rocks and miles of endless desert where living things scurry in the cool of night. My remaining sons sleep by the warmth of the fire. I lie awake on my bedroll, begging The Almighty for a sign. The night is filled with the sounds of insects but I listen for a whisper from a familiar voice.

Nothing.

We’ve not found a shred of fabric nor a footprint in the sand. It’s as if he’s returned to the dust from which God created the first Adam.

Has my son been cast out like his namesake?

I breathe deep of the night air and think of the dire news that started our search.

*****

It was an ordinary morning until it wasn’t.

Hoss tucks into a pile of flapjacks and eggs fit for three men when I come down for breakfast.  He shoves a wad of food into his cheek before speaking.

“When my brothers get home, I’m gonna hibernate like a bear. They can do all the digging.”

I chuckle into my cup as Hop Sing brings in another platter of eggs.

“More food, less sons.”

“He’s a growing boy,” I tease.

At a pound on the door Hop Sing’s grumbling is momentarily forgotten as he sees to our guest.

“Who is it?” I ask.

“Telegram,” answers Roy Coffee. “Figured I should bring it personally.”

He stops at the corner of the settee, as if unsure of his welcome.

“Hop Sing, bring another plate and cup.”

“Thanks, but no,” says my friend. “This ain’t a social call.”

I shake my head and snort in exasperation. Adam and Joe drove a small herd to Eastgate and should have gotten close to twenty dollars per head.  Money slips through my youngest boy’s hands like water so he’s either in jail or broke. “Did Joe get caught up in a harebrained scheme? Or throw away his wallet in a poker game? Adam knows better than to trust his brother with more than a few dollars.”

Roy shifts and holds up the piece of paper. From the look on his face, it’s news he doesn’t want to say aloud.

The cheery morning sun dims.

I toss down my napkin and cross the room, snatching the telegram from Roy’s hand, reading it twice then a third time.

“What is it, Pa?”

The sound of Hoss’s fork hitting the plate sounds far away.

I meet Roy’s eyes but have to look away from the pity I see in them. Hoss takes the message from my hand and guides me to the red, leather chair by the fireplace.

Adam missing. Stop. Found Sport. Stop. Come to Salt Flats. Full stop.

“Joe can’t hang onto a dollar but how could he lose Adam?” asks Hoss.

“Make sandwiches,” Hop Sing says.

“I took the liberty of replying to Joe,” Roy says. “Wanted him to know you’re on your way.”

I think I nod. I don’t know.

Adam is as steady as a compass. Has been since birth. Nothing sways him from the trail he blazes and truth is his north star. He’s content in his own company but it’s unlike him to disappear without leaving word.

Memories flash through my mind. My eldest is a newborn, waving his tiny fists and squalling for his dead mother. Now crawling across the dirty floor of a rented room, determined to catch a beetle and study its tiny legs. I see him as child, when we’ve stopped in our journey West, pulling himself to his feet by holding onto the wagon wheel then, when a bit older, asking for stories about the constellations in the night sky. He adores Inger, his new mother, and as a family we continue traveling West. Inger has our baby and Adam tends to his newborn brother when not working as hard as the men in the wagon train. After she’s gone, and I’ve bought land where we settle, I see him setting beaver traps alongside me and planting pastures where cattle will one day graze. I see him a nervous and excited boy leaving for the adventure of college back East and returning as a confident man who knows his course in the world.

Mumbled words then the door latch clicks. My eyes focus and I realize Roy’s gone.

There’s much unsaid in the telegram. Why did Joe wire from Salt Flats? How did my sons get separated? Where did Joe find Sport?

When did Joe give up searching for his brother?

“I’ll saddle the horses, Pa.”

Time passes but I don’t know how much before Hoss announces all is ready. Hop Sing brings out two packages of sandwiches and insists the larger one is for me. Doubt I’ll be hungry so Hoss is welcome to mine to keep his belly full.

Hop Sing sees us off and we ride a full day, mostly in silence. Hoss tries to make conversation when we stop to rest the horses but to talk means releasing fears held tight in my heart.

*****

“Pa, why don’t we stop in Como?”

It’s a couple of hours after sundown and the full moon bathes the land in a light bright enough for the horses to find their way. I’d have rather made it to Fallon Station but our horses, and bodies, need rest. Besides, I don’t feel like making mindless conversation with strangers.

“Let’s just bed down here. We’ve got coffee and beans to get us through the night. Just eat a sandwich for breakfast.”

“All right.”

I can hear the disappointment in Hoss’s voice but it’s likely no one in town would know Adam’s whereabouts. Hoss cooks up our supper as I unsaddle and hobble the horses.

Adam and I ate many a plate of beans between Grover’s Corner where we met Inger and Ash Hollow where she died. One evening on the trail in camp, as he stabbed his fork at the meal on his plate, Adam told Inger he would turn into a bean if he had to eat another one. Inger was a temperate woman yet she wouldn’t abide my . . . our . . . son wasting or complaining about food. In a stern tone she reminded him that I couldn’t afford more than milk and bread when we met so he should eat each forkful of beans with gratitude for a hot meal to nourish his body. Adam wasn’t used to hearing a cross word from Inger and he sniffled a bit but didn’t cry, just cleaned his plate.

Hoss scoops the last of the beans onto his plate after I turn them down. My supper is settling like a brick in my belly.

“Don’t you worry none, we’re gonna find ol’ Adam. Joe probably got distracted by a pretty face and big brother just gave him the slip.”

He takes my plate and cleans them both and the skillet.

“Get some sleep, Pa. It’s gonna be light soon enough.”

Clouds drift across the moon, blocking out the light. I lay back, my saddle for a pillow, and stare into the inky void. Hoss snores shortly after he lies down and I wish I could do the same. Instead, I sit up and poke at the fire’s embers to stir up the heat. Hot coffee is welcome in the chill of night.

Adam pretended to be a coffee connoisseur when I came home from New Orleans with Marie. Much to his disdain she added milk and sugar to his cup. She told him café au lait was preferable to the bitter taste of black coffee. Of course he scoffed at her and then tried to guzzle it, nearly choking. When he caught his breath, he told her in the west only city folk use sweetening or milk in coffee because, unlike men who work in the outdoors all day, they’re idle fools.  Marie swore under her breath in French and Adam took notice, inventorying the words for future use. I brokered a peace, allowing both to enjoy their coffee as each preferred. Every now and again I caught Adam adding a spoonful of sugar to his cup when he thought no one was looking.

How did he lose his horse? Maybe he and Joe had an argument – wouldn’t be the first time – and went their separate ways to cool off. Perhaps Adam made camp and his horse was spooked by a bear or mountain lion. A shooting star crosses the sky then flickers out; my wish is Adam is sitting by a fire, drinking hot coffee.

Hoss stirs in the glow of dawn. “You get any sleep, Pa?”

“There’ll be plenty of time for that when we find Adam.”

Hoss hands me a sandwich and I obediently eat it under his watchful eye.

“How far you wanna get today?”

I swallow the lump of food in my throat. “We’ll ride down to catch the Pony Express road and push for Desert Station. Give the horses a breather and fill our canteens then push for Sand Springs Station.”

“Ain’t no good water there.”

“All the more reason not to linger.  We should reach Salt Flats by tomorrow evening.”

“Think they’ll have news of Adam at Sand Springs?”

I dare not answer but instead bite off another chunk of sandwich. After a swig from the canteen to wash it down I saddle Buck and prepare for another long day of riding.

*****

We make camp and after our meager meal I lie down and wait for sleep to come. Can’t get comfortable on my back or either side. Joe had best stay put in Salt Flats, otherwise I’ll have to search for two sons.

A lizard runs across my face and makes its escape before I swat at it. I get to my feet and walk a few paces, looking for man-like shadows in the distance.

“Go to sleep, Pa,” Hoss mumbles.

My middle son isn’t a light sleeper by nature.  After a trail drive a couple years back in which Adam and Hoss delivered cattle, Adam looked the worse for wear while Hoss looked well-rested. Adam claimed a Paiute war party, whooping and hollering, chased through the camp by the cavalry with a bugler playing the charge wouldn’t break Hoss’s rhythmic snoring. According to Adam, the only sure thing that wakes Hoss out of a dead sleep is the smell of campfire cooking.

I return to my blanket and lie down but my body refuses to relax. In his slumber, Hoss makes more noise than the yipping coyotes but I relish the familiar even though it doesn’t ease my fears. I scrape glowing embers to the fire’s outer edge to warm the coffee for another night with memories.

*****

We stop to rest the horses and dismount to stretch our legs. I pull the sandwich packet from my saddlebag. We’re down to our last one and it’s still a way to Salt Flats. I offer it to Hoss.

“Nah.” He takes off his hat and mops sweat with his sleeve.  “Hop Sing must’ve put a little something extra in ‘em ‘cause they’re just not agreeing with me.”

“I know a fimble famble when I hear one.” Except for cheese, I can’t think of anything that disagrees with my largest son’s stomach. I pull my knife and cut the sandwich in a rough estimate of half and offer him the larger piece but he just puts his hat back on and jams his hands in his pockets.

“You gotta eat, Pa. I’m like a bear – got me enough fat to make it through winter without a morsel.”

“Take it.”

He wipes one hand on his vest and obeys me. “I ain’t gonna enjoy it.”

Doesn’t matter, just as long as he eats. I can’t spare worry right now.

*****

Joe meets us on the road outside Salt Flats. I dismount and Joe does, too; I notice the saddle isn’t Adam’s. No time for warm greetings – I want every detail Joe left out of the telegram.

“Where did you . . . . ?”

I notice the way Joe rubs Sport’s nose, as the horse is the only connection to his brother. My son’s eyes glisten and words pour out of him like seawater flowing through a breached levee.

“Cochise split a hoof. Stopped in at a farrier’s at Olinghouse and asked for a horse. When he brought Sport, I demanded he tell me how he got Adam’s horse. Said he bought him off two men – Jim Gann and Frank. The farrier showed me the bill of sale and told me those two were headed here. I rode hard but when I made it the sheriff said Gann and Frank Preston were dead.”

He balls up a fist and hits his thigh.

“I could have beaten answers out of them.”

He hangs his head and anger turns to regret. “I should’ve gone with Adam. He said he wanted peace and quiet, hunt in the mountains to the east for a few days then go on to Pyramid Lake, but I stayed in Eastgate to take in a trial. Told him I’d meet him in three days at Signal Rock. Gann and Preston had to have overheard how much we’d got for the cattle and Adam would be alone.

“I made it to Signal Rock on time and even waited an extra day. When Adam didn’t show I searched for him.”

My youngest’s voice breaks.

“I really did, Pa.”

I add up days – Joe was to meet Adam three days after they parted; Adam didn’t show so Joe waited an extra day then searched; Joe spent a couple of days looking before sending word; took Hoss and me three days to get here. Adam’s been missing for over a week. If he’d found a speck of civilization he surely would’ve wired for money to rent a horse and come back home.  Unlike Joe, vengeance isn’t Adam’s nature so if he would have tracked down Gann and Preston he wouldn’t have left them stranded; instead, he would’ve hauled them back to Eastgate for the law to mete out justice.

I assume the authoritative tone of the wagon train captain I was on the journey West. “I want to talk to the sheriff. You two get supplies. I’ll rent a room at the hotel for the night.”

We go into town and stable the horses in the livery. I head over to the sheriff’s office, sure the man will be of help.

“Sheriff? I’m Ben Cartwright. You spoke with my son, Joe, a couple of days ago about Jim Gann and Frank Preston.”

The lawman shakes my hand. “I remember. How can I help you?”

“Put out a call for a posse. My son, Adam, is missing. Gann and Preston were the last to see him.”

The sheriff scrapes his fingernails against his scalp. “I’m powerful sorry but I can’t ask men to leave their families to search for him. With Gann and Preston dead there’s no reason for a manhunt.”

I lean forward on the desk and resist jabbing a finger into his chest. “Those men robbed my son of money and stole his horse. Horse thieving alone must be reason enough.”

“For all you know your young man is halfway to home. I’d be wasting my time. Besides, your other son got the horse back. I’m sure if you explain the situation over at the bank an arrangement can be made for the money. As I said, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

I take a deep breath and leave the office, tempted to slam the door behind me. Instead, I collect myself and head over to the hotel. The clerk takes in my sweat and grime-covered face but doesn’t ask questions, just hands me the key after I sign the register. I leave a description of my boys and tell the clerk to send them on up when he sees them.

A blanket on the ground was more comfortable than the bed but the mattress will do for a night. My body is weary yet sleep won’t come. I close my eyes but my mind races with images of Adam, bloody and broken, vultures picking at his corpse, a nearby black hat the only means to identify him.

Joe and Hoss come in and they’re nearly as quiet as church mice. They whisper to each other, sharing worry about me. I’m no stranger to long days in the saddle and as long as there’s a faint glimmer of hope breaking through the shadows I’ll keep searching for my son. Empty boots hit the floor and bed frames creak as my boys settle in.

*****

We leave Salt Flats, provisioned for at least a week, headed first to Eastgate then farther east as Adam set off in that direction before he was robbed. We ride along a canyon rim and I yell Adam’s name in hopes of an answer.

Nothing.

I rein in my horse and stand in the stirrups to scan the horizon. Just a sea of rock-strewn sand. I climb down to share water with Buck and to study the ground. Tracks I hadn’t noticed – three horses but one man on foot. My heart thumps and I follow the boot prints until they end near some rocks. I look back to the west and see a shadowy thing coiled in the sparse vegetation.

I drop the reins and grab up a black gun belt, the only tangible proof I have of Adam. The holster is empty, a discarded pistol nowhere in sight. Hoss and Joe ride up and see what I’ve found.

“Adam’s.” No question in Hoss’s voice.

I tell Hoss and Joe of the tracks. “We have to spread out, cover every direction.”

“Pa, you need to get some rest. You ain’t had no sleep in three days.”

“Not ‘til we find him.”

I tell them where to search. I point to the east and say, “I’m following this trail. Meet back here in two hours. If you find something, fire one shot.”

We go our separate ways. Doesn’t matter there aren’t tracks to make it easy, my boy is out there.

*****

I figure Adam might have taken off his boots at some point but I don’t even see bare footprints. No sign of a wallow where he might have laid down to rest. The wilderness isn’t giving up any clues. Haven’t heard a pistol shot – neither Hoss nor Joe has found any sign.

My eyes burn from staring into the shimmering horizon. I wipe my face with a bandana then check my watch. The second hour is nearly gone.

The heavy weight of this burden presses on my shoulders. I have to believe Adam is out there, alive – I’d know it in my bones if a child of my blood were dead. I’ve heard a parent never gets over the death of their firstborn but I can’t give into this darkness forcing its way into my soul. Hope is a faint flicker but is enough to give me reason to continue searching.

Buck and I head back to rendezvous with Hoss and Joe. I look at the ground just to make sure there isn’t a sign, even as tiny as a broken twig, that I’ve missed.

The looks on my sons’ faces tell me everything.

“Pa, you can’t go on, Pa. You can’t do it.”

Hoss has never been more wrong.

“We’re gonna have to face it, Pa. We’re not gonna find Adam.”

Oh, Joseph – ye of little faith.

“Pa, it’s been two weeks since Adam left Eastgate.”

“I know. We’ll search another hour then make camp.”

We split up again but none of us find any evidence that Adam passed this way. If a kind soul had picked him up in a wagon there’d be hoof prints and wagon tracks. It’s as if no man has trod this ground since time began.

When we meet up again, Joe begins gathering firewood and Hoss pulls out what’s left of our meager rations. “We’re nearly out of food,” says Hoss.

I pace an area between the rocks, thinking of Adam’s tenaciousness. It’s a Cartwright trait but he got a healthy portion from his Stoddard line, too. My son wouldn’t just lie down and wait for the vultures – he’d keep going until his last ounce of strength was gone. I swallow hard. I look to the heavens and pray that he’s making his way home and bedded down someplace safe.

Joe hands me a cup of coffee. “You’ve got to sleep, Pa. You won’t be any good to us if you can’t stay in the saddle.”

“Nothing wrong with me,” I growl back.

I glare at him but my youngest doesn’t flinch. He’s got his mother’s fiery temper, and more than enough from me, to stand toe to toe and question my authority. Joe squeezes my shoulder in a gesture I’ve used on him nearly his whole life to reassure him when he has doubts.

“You’ve got to rest so we can keep looking is all I meant,” Joe says in a conciliatory tone. He walks over to the fire and squats to poke at it with a stick.

I finish my coffee and lay out my bedroll. While Hoss cooks up our supper I sit down and stare into the fire, hoping a sign as if provided by the Oracle of Delphi will appear in the dancing flames. Joe hands me a plate and I go through the motions of eating, not tasting the food.

The moon is waxing gibbous but casting enough light to cast shadows on the rocks. None of them are the size of a man walking into our camp. Hoss tucks a blanket around my shoulders before he settles onto his makeshift bed. My boys are soon asleep but it will more than likely elude me again tonight.

*****

In the morning, we pack up our sparse camp and ride to Austin for food. The streets are deserted in the early afternoon heat so we dismount in front of the saloon and go in for cool beer, a pleasant change from stale, warm water.

The place is quiet for a saloon even though men sit together at tables, reading the news or slouching in their chairs. Hoss requests three glasses of beer up at the bar while I lead Joe to a table in the shadows near the back. At least there aren’t card games to entice Joe – won’t have to worry about keeping an eye on him to ensure he doesn’t flash money around men eager for an easy payday. Hoss brings our beers over, two in one hand. We drink in silence. I’m certain we missed a clue. The pistol was taken but why didn’t Adam hang onto the gun belt?

My neck cracks as I jerk my head up. Must have dozed off.

A new man is at the bar, speaking loudly of fresh news. “Y’all shoulda seen that fella I brought into town. Looked like one of them wild men I’ve heard tales of.  Couldn’t believe he was dragging a dead man.”

Voices mingled together as men figured murder was committed over an ore find.

“Pa?” asks Hoss.

Hope lingers in that question.

Joe rushes to the bar before Hoss can hold him back and he grabs a fistful of the man’s dirty shirt. “That might be my brother. Where is he?”

“You sayin’ the dead man or the fella what was draggin’ him?”

Joe keeps his grip on the man and draws his pistol. “Don’t play games with me.”

“Egads! Ain’t no one playin’ games, boy. You come over here all hot and threatenin’.  A gun and a big mouth don’t make a big man.”

Hoss sets a beefy hand on my arm before going to Joe’s defense. He stands behind his shorter brother. “A big man don’t need a big mouth.”

Joe loosens his grip and lowers the gun but doesn’t holster it. “Tell me about the wild man.”

The man clears his throat and takes up his tale. “As I was sayin’ it were late this morning. I was working my claim, over in Pony Canyon, and seen a man staggering towards town. Thought at first my mind was playin’ tricks. No indeed. He was strainin’ to pull a load so I went to help him. Turns out the man he was hauling was dead. Asked that fella if he needed any help but all he got out was, “No gold,” before passin’ out cold. He don’t look good. Figured the dead man was his kin and deserves a Christian burial ‘stead of bein’ left out for the vultures. I loaded both of ‘em into my wagon and dumped the dead one off at the undertaker’s and took the live one over to the doc’s.”

I slip out of the saloon, rays of hope breaking free like thin beams of sunlight through a storm cloud. The undertaker lets me look at the body. The man is someone’s son but not mine.

The doctor’s office is down the street and I barge in.

“Can I help you?” asks a balding man wearing spectacles, wiping his hands with a small towel.

“You have an injured man here.”

He jerks his head towards a curtain. “In there. He’s alive – barely. Don’t expect answers if you have questions.”

I remove my hat before going through the curtain into a room lit by the afternoon sun. A man in ragged clothes with too much beard for his face lies on the settee, his face tilted away from me. His arms are sunburned a red so dark they’re nearly maroon and skin is peeling like the strips of his shirt.

I approach the settee with trepidation. “Mister?” I ask. My hope is he’s seen Adam, even if it was just my son’s dead body.

It appears to take great effort but the man turns his head a fraction and squints at me through one eye. I note the sharp cheekbone above the line of his beard, giving him the look of an Old Testament prophet

“Pa?”

It’s a whispered croak. My heart leaps into my throat and I can’t pass a wisp of air through my lips. Is this bundle of rags my son?

The man sighs and closes his eye. “Pa.”

I hear relief in that single word; my knees buckle and I can breathe again. The dark shadow fades into pale wisps and my heart breaks free of the bindings that have held it tight since I read that telegram. I’m afraid to touch him, as if I may be hallucinating. I screw up my courage and rest my palm over his hand. Solid flesh banishes my doubts.

“Adam.”

The sound of a door and voices register but nothing else matters in this moment.

God answered and delivered my son.

“Is that . . . ?” asks Hoss.

I can’t tear my gaze away from the son I’d thought lost to me.

Joe drops to a knee beside me, one hand on my back, the other hovering as if he’s unsure whether to touch his brother.  “He’s been through some kind of hell.”

I don’t care if both Heaven and Hell spat him out, he’s here, with me.

“Fetch a basin of cool water,” I say without caring who brings it. Joe squeezes my shoulder and sighs a long breath as he gets up. Low voices carry from the outer office then a door opens.

The doctor enters the room, sloshing water onto the floor. He sets the basin beside me and removes the towel from his shoulder, holding it forth for me to take.  I don’t need a doctor to tell me to be gentle when my son’s skin is as ragged as his clothing.

Adam moans as I dab dust from his forehead and the bare skin above his beard. If he wasn’t in such bad shape, I’d have Hoss carry him out to the horse trough for a good soak.

“What about water for drinking?” I ask without looking up from my ministrations.

“If you have a canteen handy let him drink sparingly. He doesn’t need to choke on vomit.”

“I’ll get it,” says Hoss.

Adam stifles a moan as I slip my arm between the pillow and his neck to raise his head to sip from the canteen. I trickle water between his parched lips and he coughs but is eager for more. “Only a bit,” I tell him.  His tongue darts out to collect any stray drops so I add some water to my cupped palm and dab it on his mouth.

“Pa?” Joe whispers as if he’s in church and doesn’t want to divert the preacher’s attention from the Gospel. “You get some rest and I’ll tend to him.”

“No.” My boy needs assurance that I didn’t give him up for dead.

My knees can’t take any more kneeling on the hard floor so Hoss brings over a chair. When Joe asks if he can sit with Adam while I go find some supper, I tell him to bring me a plate – I’m not abandoning my son now that I’ve found him.

The doctor lights the lamp as darkness descends in the room. “I can fix you up a pallet if you want to sleep here,” he says.

“Chair’s fine.”

I look over to Joe and say, “You boys go get a room at the hotel. No sense in you two not getting a good night’s sleep.”

Hoss sees there’s no point in arguing and he simply takes Joe’s elbow to steer him out of the room.

Adam hasn’t spoken again but his breathing is steady. I don’t know of what he dreams but his fingers twitch and his eyes dart behind closed lids.

I adjust my position in the chair turn my head from side to side to ease up the tension in my back and neck. Giving up on my son was never an option. I couldn’t rescue him from whatever it is he’s been through but I’m here now, ready to listen when he’s up to telling what happened. Couldn’t sleep on the trail but don’t want to sleep now that I’ve got him back.

*****

Stagecoaches are bumpy rides. I open my eyes and realize Hoss is shaking me. My jaw cracks with a yawn. Sleep finally came.

“Brought you some breakfast,” Hoss says as he points to a small table.

Joe sits in a chair by the window, lost in thought, eyes fixed on Adam. I don’t blame Joe for any of this. Neither of my sons knew there were wolves in the saloon that day in Eastgate.

A deep intake of breath gets my attention and I lean forward in case Adam needs something. He opens his eyes and fragile skin splits over an eyebrow as he draws the two together. I dab away blood and he turns his head to study my face.

Adam presses his lips together and, with great effort, rests a couple of fingers on my hand. Perhaps he thought I was merely a figment of his imagination. He turns to stare at the ceiling.

I have a plethora of questions but figure he isn’t ready to – or in shape – to talk. In time, he’ll tell what happened. In the meantime, I’m content to sit by him, his presence more than enough.

The Devil sowed seeds of doubt but the Lord wouldn’t let them take root. My soul rejoices and I give thanks to a compassionate, merciful God. My son, my flesh and blood, lives.

***The End***

Author’s notes: Written for the 2025 Ponderosa Paddlewheel Poker Tournament. This year we played 7-card stud where we were dealt seven cards and had to use at least five. One of my cards was a joker (free). The words/phrases I used were:

fimble famble (a lame, prevaricating excuse)
depression is a dark shadow
big mouth don’t make a big man
Egads!