Summary: Joe’s encounter with an old trapper turns into a harrowing adventure that tests his courage, endurance, and creativity.

Rating: PG    Word count: 14600 

The Trapper

Prologue

The sharp crunch of leather soles on gravel jolted Joe from his half-sleep. As if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on him, he shot upright. The fire had burned down to an orange, glowing pile of embers. With his eyes wide open, Joe tried to see through the inky darkness. Something or someone was approaching.

In reflex, his hand darted to his hip, but he found neither gun nor holster. Darn! Panic sent icy shivers down his spine, making him shudder.

He tossed a few branches onto the coals until small flames licked up. Then, he slid backward away from the firelight until he was stopped by the rock in his back. Clenching his jaw against the pain, Joe struggled to stand, being careful not to put any weight on his injured foot. He gripped the sturdy stick he’d used as a crutch, holding it in front of him, ready to fight to the death.

 

Two weeks ago

So far, the day has been perfect. The sun had chased away the morning clouds and warmed Joe’s back as he rode across the lush pasture to check on the herd. Joe let out a big yawn, then shifted his attention back to the cattle. The cows calved, and it seemed their livestock would receive a strong addition. Pa would be satisfied. There had been no losses to predators for a long time, and the animals had made it through the winter in exceptional good shape. The cattle’s bellies were round and filled with juicy grass. Their coats showed a healthy shine, and the calves were big and strong.

Joe man took a deep breath of the fresh, clean air that smelled of spring, damp grass, and spicy, rich earth. Water droplets from the night’s rain glistened on the stalks, but they would soon evaporate in the merciless sun. The meadow before him rose slightly, bordered by rocks and mighty pines swaying in the gentle breeze. Joe smiled, his mind already on tonight. It was Saturday, so he looked forward to meeting Mitch at the saloon. They would down a few cold beers and maybe participate in a poker game.

When a whiff of decay reached Joe’s nostrils, a frown wiped the smile from his face. With his eyes shielded against the sun by the brim of his hat, he glanced around. There! Dark silhouettes stood out against the azure sky, patiently circling, carried by a warm updraft. Vultures! These birds had sharp eyes and could smell carrion for miles. Joe urged his horse on. It was most likely that a newborn calf had died, but he was going to find out.

After arriving under the circling vultures, Joe pulled Cochise to a stop, unsheathed his rifle, and dismounted. He carelessly wrapped the reins around a branch, checked the wind direction, and sniffed. The smell of decay had grown stronger. The carcass had to be at the edge of the pasture, close to the trees. Joe double-checked his rifle. It was loaded. If a cougar stole an animal from the herd, Joe would try to hunt it down.

With all his senses alert, Joe entered the woods. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. After just a few steps, his gaze was drawn to scratch marks. Like deep wounds, they were torn across the bark of a pine tree. The resin had leaked out, reminding Joe of blood from a cut.

Joe dragged his fingertips along the grooves. This had not been a cougar, but a bear. Bears used their claws to mark their territory. Judging by the height of the scratches, this one was huge!

Joe’s heartbeat accelerated. Bears were hungry in spring since they had cubs, so he had to be careful. He circled once, scanning the area. Joe wouldn’t be stupid enough to hunt a grizzly alone, but he’d at least figure out where the smell of decay was coming from. They could always come back later with a handful of men to hunt the animal down.

At the very moment, everything was peaceful. Birds chirped in the trees, and flies buzzed around Joe, and there was no sign of imminent danger. Joe crept a step forward. A rustle from behind almost made him jump out of his skin. Joe cocked his rifle, spinning.

A small furry creature scurried between his legs, fleeing in long leaps. Joe huffed out a breath of relief. Just a rabbit! Rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous chuckle burst out of him. Good thing no one saw him almost wet his pants out of fear. ‘Squeeze your butt cheeks and figure the source of the smell,’ Joe scolded himself.

With every careful step, the stench of decay grew stronger until Joe had a good sight of the carcass. As suspected, it was a calf.

Joe let his eyes wander over the furry bundle. No, it wasn’t a carcass, just part of the skin, the head, and a pile of guts. Leaning his rifle against a tree, he dropped to his knees. With a stick, he poked at the skin. A swarm of angry flies flew up, buzzing around Joe.

This hadn’t been a puma or a bear, but a human. Someone had slaughtered and skinned a calf for—well, why? Rustlers wouldn’t bother to kill only one calf. Had anyone been hungry? Indians? Joe took off his hat to run his hand through his damp hair. He was itching to get to the bottom of the matter.

A narrow trail led through a loose collection of rocks between the trees. Maybe Joe would find some tracks. The grass was thick and tall but trampled in places. Ignoring the tingling in the back of his neck that indicated danger, Joe followed the path a couple of steps. Pine needles and dry twigs crunched under his boots.

A heavy blow hit Joe’s right ankle. Annoyed, Joe tugged at his stuck leg. Then, the pain hit him as if someone had driven an axe into his foot. Agony tore up his leg from ankle to hip with savage force, ripping the strength from his knees and dropping him hard.

With a scream, Joe clutched his calf, rocking back and forth, trying in vain to find relief. His heart chased hot blood through his veins, and his breath came in ragged gasps. Blinking moisture from his eyes, Joe bent over his leg to examine it.

Metal, triangular teeth resembling shark jaws had bitten deep into his ankle. Although the worn leather of his boot offered some protection, something inside his leg had snapped, leaving no doubt Joe was seriously injured. Wrapping his fingers around the jaws of the bear trap, he tried to pry them open.

It led to nothing. The only result was a violent trembling in his arms and a sheen of sweat slicking his body, turning his palms slippery. The damned rusty iron wouldn’t move an inch. With an annoyed huff, Joe let go. He had to get something long to pry it open. Joe remembered a hunter showing him a tool to cock this kind of trap. He needed leverage. Joe let his eyes wander over his immediate surroundings, but with no success. Only thin or rotten branches lay within range. His rifle would work, but it was out of reach, leaning against the pine trunk. Joe balled his hands into fists. How stupid could you be!

Joe’s fingers groped through the pine needles, searching for the hidden chain, pulling it free. He gasped in agony because every tiny movement caused metal to rub against bone, almost bringing him to the point of passing out. Joe grimaced as a wrong-headed notion crossed his mind—that a trapped wolf would chew its paw clean off to get free.

Motionless, Joe waited for the worst pain to subside, and then he examined the trap’s attachment. It was fastened to a tree by a massive chain with a threaded bolt and nut. There was no way he could loosen it without a tool. The rusty but still strong links slid through Joe’s probing fingers. Somebody had to come to check the trap soon, right?

Joe slid closer to the pine, slumping against the trunk, letting his head fall back against the rough bark. With every heartbeat, pulses of pain pumped through his entire leg, and he could feel his boot growing damp as it filled with blood.

Pulling out his gun, Joe pointed the barrel toward the sky and pulled the trigger. Three loud shots rang out, rolling through the woods and across the pasture, and for a moment, nature seemed to hold its breath. When the carefree chirping of the birds started again, Joe lowered the gun with a frustrated snort, embarrassed by this rash and desperate action. All he did was burn precious rounds for nothing. He’d need every bullet when the bear came back … well, maybe, if he were lucky, he’d already be long gone by then, back in his room with the doctor patching up his leg.

A thought popped into his mind as he gazed at his .45. Could he use it as a lever? It was worth trying. He couldn’t just sit here and hope someone would find him. Determinedly, Joe stuck the barrel next to his boot between the trap’s jagged jaws. They seemed to sneer at him. Nope, he wasn’t going to give up that easily!

Holding his breath, Joe applied pressure. Inch by inch, the trap opened, until he could move his foot an inch—then the barrel slipped, and the rusty teeth dug into his shin again. A scream erupted from within Joe. He clenched his fists and threw his head back, trying to control the raging pain that roared through his limb like a wildfire.

Shock and agony sent Joe sprawling. His breath came in choppy, shallow gasps, and black dots danced before his eyes. He clawed at the ground, regardless of the pine needles pricking his palms.

It took an eternity for his breathing to slow down. Lying on his back and trembling in shock, Joe blinked moisture out of the corners of his eyes, gazing at the treetops. Blue patches of sky peeked through the gaps. The vultures were still circling, and the sun had climbed higher on its way to the zenith. Exhausted, Joe let his eyes fall shut. He had to think about his next move and gather some courage to try again to open the trap. When would Pa and his brothers realize something was wrong? Not until the evening, when he didn’t show up for supper.

A noise startled Joe from his semi-conscious state. He propped on his elbows, dragging a hand over his damp face. Twigs snapped, bushes rustled, and in the distance, he could hear Cochise’s nervous snorting. Something large was making its way through the undergrowth and heading straight for him. Joe was sure it wasn’t a rabbit this time. Was it the bear?

With frantic motions, Joe fumbled through the pine needles and dry cones until his grip tightened around his colt. The huffing and puffing between the brush made his hair stand on end. He couldn’t drop a full-grown grizzly with a .45—unless he let the brute get right up on him and—

“What the hell?” A cackling, raucous laugh rang out, and a panting figure emerged from the bushes. His small eyes darted over Joe and settled on the gun that Joe pointed at his midsection. “You ain’t gonna shoot me, boy?”

Not a bear. A human! Joe shook his head no, lowering his gun with a sheepish grimace as he realized he was saved. The immense relief brought a smile to his face. He hadn’t expected help so soon. Holstering the .45, he cleared his throat. “Thank God!”

The old man laughed again as if he was delighted by what he had caught. It seemed a little out of place, considering Joe’s predicament. “Name’s Jim. And you, lad, stumbled into my bear trap?”

Joe stifled a comment since it was apparent. The man set his ancient muzzle-loader aside and pulled a setting lever from within his shirt before he knelt beside Joe with a groan. “Darn old bones,” he muttered.

A rancid smell of old grease, unwashed body, and whiskey hit Joe. Wrinkling his nose, he held his breath. The trapper’s long buckskin shirt was held together at the waist by a belt, shone like bacon, and was repaired in places. The sleeves were decorated with fringes. Jim’s baggy, worn trousers and the hat, patched with rough stitches, had seen better days. “Figured I’d take me a grizzly hide, make myself a fresh pair o’ boots.” To illustrate, Jim pointed to one of his leather moccasins, which was about to fall apart. He gestured to Joe’s holey boot, a chuckle bubbling from his throat. “Reckon ya could use a new pair, too, huh?”

“I could use a new foot,” Joe shot the man an angry scowl, finding nothing funny about the situation. “Careful!” he hissed, jerking back as the trapper reached for his leg. Jim positioned the tool to pry open the trap. With a relieved grunt, Joe grasped his leg at the knee, pulling his foot free from the jaws, and let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thanks!”

The shaggy gray beard hid most of Jim’s face, with only his bulbous nose crisscrossed with countless red veins sticking out, so it was hard to tell what he thought. Bright watery eyes flitted over Joe from head to toe. “Hoped for a bear. All I got was a skinny boy. Nothing to eat or skin, just a useless little kid.”

“Hey, I’m not a—”

“Well, that was a whole lotta nothin’. Ain’t no fool, this ol’ bear. Ate every bait in sight and never tripped the trap.” The old man scratched his chin through the thicket of his beard before removing the chain from the tree. “Gotta think how I can put you to good use.”

“What?” Joe wasn’t sure if he’d heard the man right. Instead of answering, the trapper continued to mumble into his beard. Joe tried again. “Jim? Would you please get my horse? You must have seen the pinto. I’m Joe Cartwright, by the way. My pa owns the area.”

“Horse? Yeah, sure!” Although the trapper was limping and seemed a little confused, it wasn’t long before he returned with Cochise in tow. He steered the horse next to Joe. “Can ya mount, kid?”

“I guess so!” Joe struggled into an upright position, clutching a stirrup to stabilize. The world spun around him, and a fresh sweat beaded his forehead.

“Here ya go!” Jim stepped up behind him to grab hold of Joe’s hip. With surprisingly strong arms for such an old, thin man, he gave him an upward push, then he took the reins. The old man’s eyes lit up when he spotted Joe’s rifle. “Mighty fine gun.” With an almost affectionate gesture, he ran his fingers along the sleek barrel of the gun, then slid the strap over his shoulder.

“I’m getting along now,” Joe said, hoping the trapper would hand him the reins, but Jim didn’t respond, instead making his way through bushes and trees, pulling Cochise behind him. Joe’s gaze fell on the man’s belt. Tucked beneath it was a gun with a white ivory handle. When his hand went to his hip, he realized Jim had stolen his .45 when helping him up. A sinking feeling spread through his stomach, but he tried once more to get through to the old man. “I’ll manage to ride home. It’s only a couple of hours.”

Acting as if he couldn’t hear anything, Jim muttered something as he led Cochise in the open. It sounded as if he was talking to himself, and once or twice Joe thought he heard the name Rosalie. Maybe Jim had an ear problem? At worst, he was crazy.

Joe let out an annoyed huff before he tried louder. “Thanks, Jim, for helping me! But I’ll be all right now!” It was only half the truth. The dangling leg brought the blood back to the foot, causing the pain to flare up again. It took all of Joe’s willpower to stay in the saddle and not to moan out loud.

Jim scowled over his shoulder before giving Cooch’s bridle another tug. “Ain’t no need to holler at me. I ain’t leavin’ ya like this. I’ll see to that leg, don’t you fret.” He steered toward two mules napping in the sun. One wore a shabby saddle, and the other was a pack animal loaded with some moth-eaten deer hides, more rusty traps, and bulging sacks. The trapper attached Joe’s rifle, his muzzle-loader, and the gruel bear trap to the pack before climbing stiffly into the saddle, never letting go of Cochise.

Joe’s eyes darted around, searching for help or a solution, but none of the ranch hands were in sight, only the huge herd of cattle grazing the south pasture in front of them. For now, he was at the trapper’s mercy. His shoulders slumped. “Jim, where are we going?”

“I got a shack.”

“Why don’t you bring me to the ranch? Pa’s sure to throw in a reward!”

“Whiskey?”

“Yeah, you can get whiskey if you want.”

“I’ve got a cabin here. It’s closer.”

Joe sighed in frustration, but had to admit maybe the trapper was right. Riding a couple of hours with a busted ankle was far from appealing. He needed treatment. Joe was sure the leg was broken. If the wounds weren’t cleaned right away, there was a risk of infection. Joe shuddered at the thought of the rusty teeth. He knew men who developed lockjaw from deep injuries. That was always lethal.

When Jim pulled his mule to a stop in front of one of their line shacks, an immense relief spread through Joe. He was eager to dismount and rest his throbbing leg.

Jim slid off the saddle and gestured toward the small, sturdy building crouched beneath a few scattered trees, surrounded by yellow grass. “Home sweet home,” he scoffed, “Been livin’ here for a couple of weeks!”

“This is one of our line shacks,” Joe stated, but he didn’t really care that the trapper had settled in there and probably helped himself to the supplies, since he had other problems right now.

“Get down!” Jim ordered, grabbing Joe by the waist and pulling him off the saddle. Joe bit down on his lip hard. Wrapping his arm around the trapper’s bony shoulders, he hopped over the doorstep. A wall of heat hit the men as they entered.

The trapper plopped Joe down on the nearest cot. His face was pale, and the pain carved deep lines around his mouth. Joe lifted his foot onto the bunk and looked around. The shack was overheated. On the pot-belly stove sat the usual blue enamel pot, which, judging by its smell, contained coffee. Open sacks of flour and sugar stood against the wall, while a few empty tin cans and whiskey bottles littered the floor. Dirty dishes were scattered on the table, along with a pan, tainted by a leftover meal consisting of beans. It was obvious that Jim had lived here for some time.

After caring for the animals, the trapper walked inside and went straight to the stove to pour himself a cup of coffee. He sipped, then took a dented tin cup from the shelf, filled it, and handed it to Joe.

“Thanks!” Joe brought the bitter brew to his lips and blew to cool it.

With a groan, the trapper plopped on one of the sturdy chairs and rubbed his knee. He pulled a flat metal bottle from his leather shirt, opened it, and toasted to Joe. “Mighty fine painkiller!” Jim downed several deep gulps before wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Ain’t as spry as I used to be. Could use some help.” His eyes fell on Joe. “You’re ridin’ with me for a bit.”

Joe’s eyes widened. He thought he got that wrong. “What?”

“You’ll stick with me, boy!”

No way! Joe had commitments to the ranch. “I can’t! My family will come looking for me. I’ve got a job on the Ponderosa—”

“Ponderosa!” Jim roared with laughter, showing yellowish teeth stumps and a half-broken incisor. He brought the bottle back to his lips. “Looks like you’re ridin’ high and livin’ fat—that spread of yours must be somethin’ else.”

“If you’re after money, then listen to me. My pa will reward you if you get help on the Ponderosa. Maybe you need a good horse, or—”

“All I need is a warm place for my achin’ bones and plenty of whiskey. I’d been up north, but I froze my ass off there. Thought I’d try Nevada or California, but it’s only desert that far down, and there ain’t no beavers. Beaver’s fetchin’ top dollar these days. Ain’t much I can do ‘cept set iron and pull a trigger.”

Jim shook the bottle, but it was empty. With a curse, he stood up, digging through his pack until he found a new one. Pulling the cork with his teeth, he offered it to Joe. “Best pour a bellyful of rotgut before I lay eyes on that limb.”

Joe’s hope to convince the old man to get help or take him back to the ranch vanished. Jim didn’t go for it. Resigned, he grabbed the bottle, brought it to his lips, and swallowed a good mouthful. Then he glanced down at his tattered boot, considered for a moment, and downed a few more swigs, shuddering in disgust. He knew why he stuck to beer. This rotgut was the worst thing he’d ever tasted. It burned his throat like acid, but it sure served its purpose. The booze on his empty stomach—breakfast had been hours ago—made him drunk in no time. His head started to spin, and his belly bubbled with the pungent swill. Joe let his eyes fall shut, enjoying the pleasant, detached indifference that spread through him.

Chair legs scraped across the wooden floor as Jim pulled the stool closer and reached for Joe’s boot. “Easy!” Joe demanded, fisting the sheet and gasping in agony as the stiff leather refused to come off his foot. “Don’t! Cut it open!”

There was a brief pause, then a slicing sound. The boot went off. Joe gritted his teeth when the trapper pushed up the pant leg and removed the reluctant sock, which clung sticky with blood to his foot. It landed on the floor with a wet ‘plop’.

“That’s a fine set of holes ya got. But don’t worry. I’ll patch ya up.”

Joe risked a glance as Jim wiped some blood away to examine his ankle, trying to ignore the black edges under the man’s nails and his hands, which looked as if he hadn’t washed them for weeks. Doc Martin always stressed the importance of cleanliness when treating injuries. But complaining would get Joe nowhere.

Jim hummed a tune as his gnarled, arthritic fingers slid deftly over Joe’s skin, poking the swollen flesh next to the gaping wounds. Joe lay frozen. The trapper was a strange fellow. Maybe he lived alone too long or drank too much. Probably both. Either way, he was a bit crazy. Perhaps more than a bit. Hopefully, he understood how to tend wounds.

Joe suppressed a scream as Jim tried to move the joint, causing bone to rub against bone. “Jim. I know it’s broken. You’d better get a doctor. Please!”

“Gotta set that bone!”

It felt like Joe was talking to a wall. None of his words reached the trapper. “Old man, listen to me! Don’t—”

Too late. Jim fixed Joe’s shin with his knee, clutched his foot with a solid grip, and gave it a good tug. Hot flashes of agony raced through Joe’s bones, muscles, and nerves, almost causing him to faint. He opened his mouth wide, struggling to suck air into his lungs.

“Easy now, kid. Ol’ Jim patched more busted bones than a coyote’s got fleas.” The lips hidden in the gray beard turned into a grin. Jim downed another swig of rotgut and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, without warning, he tipped the bottle, spilling the rest over the gaping wounds.

A loud scream echoed through the small room. Funny black dots danced in front of Joe’s eyes, growing larger and larger until everything darkened.

Joe tossed and turned in a feverish sleep in confused dreams of rusty traps snapping at him, grizzlies roaring through the bushes, and vultures pecking at his swollen flesh.

“It’s all right, boy. Settle down,” a voice said.

“Pa,” Joe murmured, smiling as he felt his calloused hand cupping his forehead. Pa placed a damp cloth on his brow, the coolness soothing his heated skin. A rancid smell hit him. It didn’t reek of Pa. Joe snapped his eyes open. It was almost dark, with only the full moon and a lamely flickering lantern providing some light. The realization that he wasn’t lying in his bed on the Ponderosa sank in. Leaning close over Joe was the trapper, wearing only long johns, a thicket of wiry grey chest hair spilling out of his neckline. “You’re runnin’ a touch warm, boy.”

With greedy gulps, Joe drank from the offered canteen before sinking back into the pillows. Despite exhaustion, it took a long time for him to slip back to sleep.

 

Burning up with fever, Joe awoke at dawn. He glanced over to the cot on the other wall, where Jim slept in his sagging, faded long johns, which hadn’t been washed in weeks, judging by their color and smell. He snored with his mouth hanging open. Sickened, Joe shifted his gaze to his leg. A neat bandage made from one of the sheets was wrapped around it, and the whole thing was splinted with four straight branches. The lower leg was swollen, hot, and throbbing as if someone kept poking it with a knife.

Reaching for his jacket, which lay crumpled on the floor, Joe slipped it on. Getting out of the cabin and arming himself were the most important things. Where the hell were the guns? Jim had placed them on the table the night before. The trapper wasn’t as crazy as he sometimes seemed, since he’d thought of removing the weapons from Joe’s reach.

Joe put his feet on the floor and waited for the dizziness to pass. The rotgut caused a bad headache and a foul taste in his mouth. Joe licked his parched lips. Where was the canteen? He needed water, and he had to make himself a crutch. Move your ass, you have to get out of here!

Joe lowered himself to the floor, sliding on his butt and hands toward the door, dragging his splinted leg across the creaking, uneven floorboards. The bandage caught on a protruding nail. The sound of the cloth tearing seemed to echo loudly in the quiet cabin. The sleeper moved, muttered something about a Rosalie, and with a satisfied grunt, he turned toward the wall.

Joe’s heart skipped a few beats before the snoring started again. Realizing he’d held his breath, he drew in air. His leg had started bleeding again, leaving red stains on the bandage and the wooden floor, but he could deal with that later. His back hit the wall next to the door. Joe fumbled for the latch and opened it, then slipped out with one last glance at Jim.

The cool morning air felt great after sleeping in the stuffy, overheated shack. Joe looked around. The mules and Cochise were sheltered in a lean-to beside the cabin. Joe’s senses were on alert, his heart raced, causing the throbbing in his leg to fade into the background. Using an old shovel as a crutch, he pulled himself upright. Half hopping, he moved toward his horse.

Soaked in sweat, Joe reached the shelter, slumping against the supporting beam. With a soft snort, Cochise greeted him and rummaged with gentle lips through Joe’s jacket for treats. Joe leaned his forehead against his horse’s neck, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Pull yourself together! Get the saddle! With a labored groan while balancing on one leg, Joe heaved the saddle onto Cochise’s back. Metal clicked against teeth as Joe eased the bit into his horse’s mouth.

Another sharp click—the cock of a rifle—splintered his hope. Joe spun around. Ten feet away stood the trapper, rifle leveled steady at his chest. Scowling, Jim jerked the barrel in a wordless command. “I done fixed your leg, and now you’re just gonna sneak away? Ain’t no manners left in ya young’uns, huh?”

“My family is worried, and I, uh, didn’t want to be a burden to you any longer.”

“Shoulda tied you up. Reckon you might as well saddle an’ load the mules while you’re at it. We’re movin’ on.”

Joe’s shoulders slumped in frustration as he glanced at the trapper, with whom he was probably stuck for a while. Jim, still clad in his long johns, held the rifle in the crook of his arm, the other hand scratching his crotch. Joe fastened the strap on Cooch’s bridle before grabbing one of the mule saddles, while Jim got comfortable, resting one shoulder against the cabin wall. He yawned and rubbed his forehead. “Darn rotgut. Gives a hell of a hangover. ”

 

An hour later, the cabin was just a tiny dot in the distance. “Back in the day, a fella could ride the open range without hittin’ a blamed fence every few miles,” Jim grumbled as they passed one of the Ponderosa cattle fences. “Them ranchers done run off every critter worth huntin’. Damn shame, if ya ask me.”

“Is that why you shot one of our calves?”

“A man needs somethin’ hearty to chaw on—can’t fill his belly on beans forever. Been tryin’ to rope that ol’ grizzly. You ever eat roasted bear paw, kid? Once you sink your teeth in that, you won’t hanker after nothin’ else.”

“Nah.” Joe shuddered at the thought of eating bear paws. There wasn’t much to them besides fat, gristle, and sinew, was there?

When Lake Tahoe’s vast, deep blue expanse spread in front of them, they let their mounts quench their thirst before heading north. Joe repeatedly scanned the area with hopeful glances. He knew his family would be looking for him by now. Hoss would be able to find his tracks, but he and Jim had a half-day’s head start.

The constant throbbing of his leg made Joe blind to the beauty of the landscape, though the deep azure blue of the lake and the lush green of the forests were a sight to behold.

They crossed miles of pine-covered slopes, interspersed with stretches of coastline consisting of loose gravel that made riding difficult for both man and beast. Joe’s questions about where they were headed got him no answers. The trapper just shrugged and mumbled something unintelligible.

Even though they rode frequently under the shade of trees, Joe’s body was burning. At other times, his teeth chattered from the chill, forcing him to turn up the collar of his jacket despite the blazing sun. With every jolt, waves of pain shot through his entire leg. After a few hours on the trail, the pressure in his swollen foot was too much to bear. He had to swallow his pride. “Jim, I need a break. That bandage is too tight.”

The trapper didn’t show whether he’d heard the question. Stubborn as a proverbial mule, he rode mile after mile. As he had done all morning, he continued humming in a low, crooked tone to music that was only playing in his head. Joe recognized the melody. It was the chorus from the song ‘Rosalie, The Prairie Flower’.

There’s no reason to lose hope, Joe told himself, gritting his teeth as Cochise leaped over a fallen log. Getting away by kicking his horse into a gallop wasn’t an option because the trapper had tied Cooch’s reins to the pack mule’s tack. Besides, Jim still carried Joe’s gun. The moment to escape would come. It would be laughable if he couldn’t handle a senile old man.

Joe looked up when his horse came to a sudden stop. Caught in a feverish haze, he hadn’t paid attention to his surroundings in hours. Then came the welcome words. “We’re hitchin’ up here!”

Jim had already dismounted. Gripping Joe’s belt and pulling him off his saddle, he helped him to the lakeshore, where Joe slumped on a boulder. The lake sparkled cool and inviting. Gentle waves licked at Joe’s boottip. Small fish, no longer than a finger, frolicked in the shallow water. Joe tore his gaze away from the rippling surface, turning his attention to Jim. He was kneeling beside him on the sandy ground, struggling to untie the bandage. After tugging at the knotted strips of cloth impatiently, Jim pulled out a knife and cut the whole thing open.

Joe let out a sigh of relief as the pressure subsided, but tensed again when Jim started to probe the swollen skin of the ankle. “Ain’t lookin’ too pretty,” Jim muttered.

Joe caught a glimpse of the wound over the trapper’s shoulder. He was right. The sight was anything but nice. The foot was grotesquely swollen and an angry shade of red, mixed with the black from bruises. Gooey fluid oozed from the holes left by the trap’s teeth.

Jim tucked Joe’s lower leg under his arm. Joe saw the glint of the blade a second before he got a brief warning: “Stay still, boy. Gotta get the infection out.”

Joe braced himself, but luckily, the procedure didn’t take long. With three or four fast stitches from the point of his knife, the old man opened the festering spots. Jim let out a satisfied chuckle when blood and an abundant amount of yellow fluid poured from the wounds. He released the limb. “Soak that foot, kid. Takes the sting out. Ol’ Jim’s patched up more trail wounds than he can count. You’ll live.”

Joe slid forward until he could dip his foot in the lake. At first, the cold water stung, but soon it calmed the hot throbbing down. Joe gulped down his fill of water, splashing some over his neck and face, confident that he would make it through the next hours of their journey.

Jim didn’t call it a day until the sun was already grazing the mountains on the western horizon. He had chosen a good spot on the shore of Lake Tahoe. A dead pine tree provided ample firewood, and the lake would offer them water. A small patch of grass invited the mules and Cochise to graze.

With a sigh of relief, Joe slid off his horse. When Jim walked up, put his arm around him, and was about to help him to a boulder, Joe got the chance he’d been waiting for all day. He yanked his pistol from Jim’s belt, plunging it into the old man’s stomach. “Our trip together ends here. I’ll get on my horse and leave, understood?”

The trapper grinned. “Boy, ya wouldn’t gun me down in cold blood!”

“You sure? Do you wanna try me?” Joe’s heart pounded in his throat. Balancing on his good leg, he leaned against the rock and whistled. Cooch pricked up his ears and then trotted up to him. “Good boy,” Joe praised.

The trapper stuck out his hand. “Gimme that gun!”

Shaking his head, Joe turned toward Cochise to mount.

Although he was old, Jim was fast. He jumped at Joe, clawing at his jacket. Joe whirled around and landed a left hook on the old man’s chin, but he lost his balance. His injured foot slammed against the rock, and the pain was enough to take his breath away. His legs buckled. Then Jim was on top of him, driving his fist into Joe’s face several times. Joe’s grip on the revolver loosened as he fought not to lose consciousness. The next moment, he was the one staring into the muzzle of the gun while Jim let out a crazy cackle. He pointed the .45 at Joe’s forehead. As if in slow motion, Joe saw the knobby forefinger curl—and pull the trigger.

There was only a click. The weapon wasn’t loaded.

“I’m old, but I ain’t the fool you’re figurin’, kid!”

With the taste of bitter bile in his mouth, Joe lay sprawled on the soft grass, waiting for his racing heart to calm down. He’d been the fool, since he’d underestimated the trapper. Joe’s face felt sore, and when he dragged the back of his hand over his cheekbone, it was stained with blood. He’d lost this battle, but he wouldn’t give up hope. The next chance would come. It had to be soon, though. The infection and fever were weakening Joe, and if he couldn’t get the wound properly treated by a doctor, he’d lose his foot—or his life.

Joe watched the trapper, humming his tune, unsaddling the mules and gathering wood for a fire. Dinner was quickly prepared. They had beans and jerky from the cabin’s pantry. Joe ate very little since he didn’t have an appetite. Jim was in a great mood. He hummed or whistled, downed half a bottle of whiskey, and rubbed his full belly, satisfied, before he stretched out his legs and belched. “Ain’t this the life,” he said. “Jim an’ Joe—we’re a fine string. Sure is fun ridin’ the trail with ya, kid.”

Fun? Joe bit his lip, holding back a snarky comment. He had figured out that the trapper only heard what he wanted to hear. Jim didn’t care that Joe was in pain and needed a doctor, but treated him like one of his mules. He provided food and water and tied him up at night.

For a long time, Joe lay on his back, the wrists bound to a tree, staring at the ever-darkening sky until the steady noise of water lapping in lazy waves against the shore lulled him to sleep.

 

A boot toe digging into his ribs startled Joe awake. That and the rancid smell revealed that Jim stood right next to him. “Rise an’ shine, boy. We’re swappin’ saddles for a canoe.”

Blinking, Joe tried to sit up, but the restraints yanked him back. “Huh?”

Jim pulled out his knife to cut the rope. “C’mon, stir yer stumps. While you were sawing logs, I traded them mules for a canoe.”

Biting his lip to stifle a groan, Joe sat upright. He didn’t want the old man to know how sore he was. His shoulders felt cramped and stiff from the awkward position he’d slept in. Did Jim mumble something about a canoe? Rubbing his right shoulder, Joe glanced around. “Where’s Cochise?”

“Yer horse? He’ll be just fine. Pete, the half-breed I got the boat from, says he’ll turn ‘im loose. Folks ’round here know the Ponderosa brand, and he ain’t lookin’ to dance at the end of a rope for horse stealin’. Too big a gamble.” Jim pulled the bottle from his leather shirt, took a swig, shuddered, and let out a burp. Some of the whiskey dripped down his beard.

After a quick breakfast of cold beans from the day before and a splash of water on their faces, Jim was eager to continue the journey.

Joe, not so much. He ogled the rickety-looking boat with what he assumed were thin cedar walls. He’d never seen this type of canoe before. He knew the Indians around here tended to use pine dugouts or some kind of boat made of reeds or rushes for fishing. This one had two simple benches, one in front and one in the back, and was about twenty feet long. Jim had already piled the traps and supplies his pack mule had carried in the middle. The wooden walls were paper-thin, and there was no way it could carry all of the stuff and two grown men. “You’re sure you wanna trust your life to this thing?” Joe voiced his concerns.

“I’m happier ridin’ a canoe than bouncin’ my ass on a bony mule. We’re heading north to Hudson Bay—passed through there last fall.”

Joe rubbed the back of his neck. How did Jim’s twisted brain come up with the idea of canoeing from here to Hudson Bay? At the sight of the young cowboy staring dumbfounded at the canoe, the trapper burst into a roar of laughter. He slapped his thighs. “We’re headin’ up the lake to where the Truckee pours out. Pete swears it runs north.”

“You don’t believe I’m going to get into that thing, do you? As heavy as you loaded it, it will sink!”

“Nonsense. Pete has been fishing that lake!” Pulling off his hat, Jim scratched his head. “Damn lice! Come on, hop in, boy. Front seat.”

Joe hesitated, studying the canoe’s construction. The hull was made up of several overlapping strips of cedar wood. Was Jim right? Would this fragile boat carry two men and all their belongings?

Jim decided for Joe by jabbing the paddle against his captive’s splinted foot, causing him to draw in a sharp breath. “Get in, lad. We’re burnin’ daylight.”

With his lips pressed into a thin line, Joe moved up to the canoe and awkwardly hoisted himself into the front seat. Clutching the side walls, he waited for the swaying to subside. With a glance at the old man, he took his paddle, careful not to lose the balance.

As Jim pushed the boat off the bank and jumped in, it swayed hard. Joe held his breath, convinced they were about to tip over. But nothing happened. Just to test it, he dipped the wooden paddle in.

“That’s it, boy. You do the paddlin’, I’ll keep us on course.”

Joe was in shape from ranch work, but dragging a paddle through the water over and over again while the sun beat down on him and a fever raged through his body took everything out of him. The sun’s rays reflected off the water’s smooth surface, and after hours of canoeing, his eyes felt gritty and irritated. On top of that, he had to deal with the constant pain of his broken ankle.

If Joe had not been sick and a prisoner, he might have enjoyed the trip. The little ripples on the surface glittered in the sunlight like rows of sparkling diamonds on a lady’s necklace. Screeching gulls flew overhead, hunting for fish, and a bald eagle circled far above them. Shiny trout would leap out of the water now and then. Daydreaming, Joe remembered his fishing trips with Hoss, wishing he’d spent more time with his brother, but ranch work ate up almost all of their time.

As the day wore on, the unfamiliar and monotonous motion caused a muscle in Joe’s right shoulder to cramp. Stinging pain radiated to the nape of the neck. His fever and infection caught up with him, and his arms shook with exhaustion.

Jim, who was having a good time in the back of the boat with a bottle of whiskey and jerky while keeping the canoe on course with ease, wasn’t pleased with Joe’s declining performance. “Don’t let up, kid!” A stab with the paddle caught Joe in the side.

With his eyes sparkling with anger, Joe spun around. “It won’t go faster if you bust me a rib!”

“Git to it. No work—no grub! Your call.” The trapper took a swig of whiskey, sat back with a satisfied smirk, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes, clearly enjoying having someone else do the work for him.

With gritted teeth, Joe paddled on. Evil thoughts came to his mind: smashing Jim’s skull with the paddle, pushing him overboard, suffocating him in his sleep, or putting a bullet in his stomach. If the opportunity arose, Joe wouldn’t hesitate.

They had never left the vicinity of the shore, but now the boat’s tip pointed toward the middle of the lake. A glance over his shoulder confirmed Joe’s assumption. The old man had dozed off. His chin rested on his chest, and his jaw dangled open, revealing his crooked, yellow teeth. Yes! Not wasting a second thought, Joe let go of the paddle and slipped into the water. The unexpected cold was a shock to his heated skin, but he didn’t care. Sucking in a couple of deep breaths, he began to dive. Joe was an excellent swimmer and knew he had to take this chance.

With powerful strokes, he dived toward shore until his lungs forced him to surface. Joe gasped for air and dove back down. The splinted leg hindered him more than he’d thought, and his weak condition also slowed him down. The muscles in his arms burned as he strove toward the shore. He didn’t know how long his luck would last, and how long Jim would be asleep, so he had to move fast. It was peaceful underwater. The only things Joe could feel were the pressure on his ears, the coolness enveloping him, and the string of air bubbles leaving his mouth.

A sudden impact on his upper left arm made Joe jerk. His mouth opened in a silent scream. Water entered his throat. Swimming didn’t work anymore. His arm felt numb and heavy, refusing to obey. Red threads of blood swirled around Joe. With a splutter, he popped to the surface. The canoe was nearly above him, and the trapper’s face showed a furious grimace.

This is going to be trouble, Joe thought, and made a final attempt to get away. With only one good arm and leg, it was doomed from the start. Unable to fight back, he allowed the old man to grab him by the shirt and belt and drag him back into the boat, along with a gush of water. Joe coughed for air while he collapsed, clutching his injured arm.

“Gun was loaded this time,” Jim said, his eyebrows knitted together as he glared at Joe. “Reckon that’s gonna bite ya later. I’ll rustle up an idea.”

 

Joe had curled up near the fire, wrapped in his bedroll. The cool evening air, stirred by a light breeze, made him shiver. His clothes, which were hanging on a makeshift rack, would need quite a while to dry. The inevitable beans sizzled in the pan, and the strong smell of coffee brewed by Jim made Joe’s mouth water.

“Show me yer arm,” the trapper demanded, kneeling next to him and yanking the covers from his bare shoulder. He poked around the spot where the bullet had torn an ugly furrow through Joe’s flesh. “Ain’t nothin’ but a scratch. You’re lucky. That water slowed the slug.”

Turning his head away, Joe drew in shallow breaths as Jim began to wrap a tight bandage around his upper arm. The rancid smell of the man’s greasy clothes and body hit Joe’s nostrils, forcing him to suppress a gag reflex. A bath certainly wouldn’t have hurt him.

“Whiskey?” Jim offered, but Joe shook his head. The trapper’s supply of booze seemed to be endless, but Joe wouldn’t drink that stuff. He had to keep a clear head. Instead, he downed a few cups of coffee. That had to suffice, since his knotted stomach refused any food.

Sliding closer to the fire, Joe pulled the bedroll to his neck. Nearly no part of his body was free from pain. The sun reflecting off the lake had burned his face, leaving the skin hot and tense. Joe could feel his fever rising. His teeth chattered to Jim’s contented humming. He heaved a sigh. This was going to be another uncomfortable night.

 

“Haul yer carcass up!” The harsh words were followed by a kick to Joe’s hip. He’d almost grown accustomed to being woken up like this. A plate of cold beans landed on the ground next to him. “Best rustle up some grub—you’ll need the muscle for paddlin’.”

Joe waited until the trapper untied his hands. Then, he placed the plate on his lap and began idly poking around in it. After forcing a few spoonfuls of the chewy mixture into his mouth, he washed it down with coffee. Lots of coffee.

At the rattle of a chain, Joe’s head snapped around. Jim was closing in, the all-too-familiar bear trap slung across his shoulder. Joe froze mid-button on his damp shirt. Eyes wide, he drew his knees to his chest and edged back until a tree stopped him cold. “What are you up to?”

Jim’s beard vibrated with laughter. “Reckon ya’ll find out soon. Stick out yer leg. Left one.”

Eyes trained on the rusty trap, Joe shook his head. He’d hoped Jim would leave it at the threat of punishment. His mouth went dry with fear. His gut told him Jim was the kind of man who’d snap his other leg too, just to make sure he didn’t try running again.

“Yer leg!”Jim hissed and tossed the trap onto the ground. It took a kick to his injured ankle to convince Joe that it was better not to upset the trapper any further. Joe let out an agonizing yelp and stuck out his good leg. Helpless and frustrated, he watched Jim put an iron shackle on his ankle and secure it with a bolt. The trap, which hung at the end of the five-foot chain, would guarantee that Joe could neither run nor swim.

Jim stroked his beard in satisfaction.”Figured you were smart, but you haven’t learned a thing. Just makin’ sure my pet doesn’t skedaddle.”

“Slave, you mean,” Joe whispered. He glared down at the rusty iron that was fastened around the shaft of his boot, struggling to keep his face blank. Exhaustion, pain, and fever pushed him to his limits. Despair stifled the last tender flame of hope that his family would find him soon.

The gloomy thoughts accompanied Joe like a gray cloud for the rest of the day. It didn’t cheer him up that Jim called it a day earlier than usual. While he set up camp, Joe shuffled down to the lake. To walk, he had to throw the chain over his shoulder, allowing the heavy bear trap to dangle back and forth on his back. With a stick under his arm for support, he moved more slowly than a snail chasing Hop Sing’s lettuce.

After crouching down to splash water on his face and under his pits, Joe sat back, wrapping his arms around his drawn-up knees and staring at the calm surface, which shimmered a dull, oily gray in the twilight. Not a single ripple was in sight. Mosquitoes buzzed around him, and tree frogs began their nightly concert.

The beauty of this calm evening was lost on Joe. Jolts of pain shot through his shoulder, turning his muscles into knots. Joe inched back to press the aching spot against a rock edge and massage out the tension. When the cramp subsided, a moan of relief escaped his lips. He let his head drop against the solid stone, too exhausted to think about a way to escape. The fever that had plagued him since his injury made it nearly impossible to think clearly. Joe rubbed his palm over his forehead, doubting if he could outsmart the old man.

Speaking of the devil, footsteps drew near. Jim approached, carrying a pot. His gaze wandered over Joe’s bare torso. Jim leaned forward and poked Joe’s chest with his fingertip. “Rosalie’s hide was just as smooth. No tan, though. White as cream.”

“Was she your girl? You got a picture of her?” Joe reached for his shirt, trying to sound interested. Perhaps he could chat a little and win Jim over. Until now, he’d never revealed anything personal.

Jim tapped his forehead. “There ain’t no picture that can capture her better than I remember her. I’ve got it all right here.”

“I have a locket with my mother’s picture in it. She’s dead too. Want to see it?”

“Let me have a look at that foot of yours,” Jim said instead, dropping to a knee.

Joe hissed through gritted teeth as the man squeezed his wounds to make the nasty stuff ooze out. Holding his heel in a firm grip, the trapper reached for the pot containing a thick green paste. He took out a lump and slapped it on Joe’s ankle. “What’s that?” Joe gaped, trying to pull away.

“Ground sagebrush. It keeps the rot out.” Without missing a beat, Jim rubbed it in. The trapper didn’t particularly care about Joe’s well-being, but he still bandaged his foot every night. “Wanna keep you ’round a while longer,” he reasoned.

 

The next day brought a change from the routine. Surprised, Joe’s head snapped up. Pulling the paddle through the water was easier than ever before. As if on rails, the canoe moved forward on its own. Joe squinted against the low-hanging evening sun. They were near the mouth of the Truckee River. What crazy Jim didn’t know, and Joe would be careful not to rub it in his face, was that the river wound its way about one hundred and twenty miles north and emptied into Pyramid Lake. Joe would keep his mouth shut and wait for the old man to figure things out on his own.

Riding the river was very different from paddling the calm lake. There were strong currents in places, rocks, shoals, and eddies. Progress was less strenuous than before, but it took total concentration to dodge the obstacles without tipping over or ripping a hole in the boat.

Joe clutched his paddle with white knuckles, his gaze piercing the surface for hidden stones or trunks. Daydreaming was not an option anymore. If he was careless, he received a blow in the ribs with Jim’s paddle. The blisters that had once covered Joe’s palms had long since burst, leaving calluses in their place. At least that was an improvement.

Nevertheless, Joe was deeply exhausted. He had not yet regained his full strength, and even if he’d been hungry, the trapper’s meals were not exactly sumptuous. However, he sometimes added fish or rabbit to the steady diet of beans.

“We’ll camp here!” Jim ordered, pointing to the right bank. They fought their way across the fast-moving current while Jim took over the steering. Joe sighed with relief when the canoe’s bow made contact with the shallow gravel bank. Jim jumped into the knee-deep water and pulled the boat a short distance onto the shore. Joe got out without putting any weight on his splinted foot, as he had practiced many times before. He looked around. Sparse tufts of grass and bushes grew among the gravel. A few dozen yards from the river rose the ever-present pine trees. It was a good place to camp. There was plenty of wood, and perhaps some game, too.

Joe rubbed his aching shoulder and cramped back muscles while the trapper dug the coffee pot and pan out of his pack. “Gonna scare up somethin’ worth huntin’. Now scoot on over to that tree, lad—gonna tie you down for a spell.”

Joe slumped against the tree trunk and held out his hands so the trapper could tie them. Not that he’d gotten far with the chain on his foot and the broken ankle. Joe had given up fighting back or trying to wriggle out of the hemp rope. That only earned him kicks to the injured limb and chafed wrists. Instead, he would save his strength and use the time for a nap.

Humming his favorite tune, Jim shouldered the rifle and sauntered toward the trees.

Despite the uncomfortable position, Joe dozed off. The sun had almost set when a kick to his hip woke him with a start. The trapper tossed a fat rabbit and a knife at Joe’s feet, then bent down to untie him.

“You do the cookin’!” Until now, Jim had prepared the meals. He probably thought Joe was well enough to take on another task. Joe reached for the knife and set about skinning the rabbit. Using a sturdy branch as a crutch, he gathered marjoram and a few wild onions from the riverbank. With salt from their stash and a pot of water, he put a stew on to cook.

It wasn’t long before a mouthwatering aroma hung over the camp, instantly restoring Joe’s appetite. His stomach growled, demanding food. Hopefully, Jim was pleased with his cooking and would give him a generous helping.

After supper, Jim sat back, burping and rubbing his stomach, taking hearty gulps from his flask. With a satisfied grin, he studied his captive. “You’re a fine catch, boy. Makes my trail a mite easier.” He chuckled, poking his teeth with a finger, then his eyes fell shut.

With his back facing Jim, Joe rolled onto his side, drawing the legs to his chest. When he heard soft snoring, the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk. This was the chance he’d been waiting for days. With bared breath, Joe reached for the knife he’d hidden under his body, together with a piece of wood, and began to carve. He planned to make a tool so he’d be able to loosen the nut on his iron cuff.

Concentrating on his task, Joe bit his lower lip. He didn’t have to make a piece of art. All he needed was a kind of wrench with a handle to apply leverage. He repeatedly tested whether the tool fit.

There! The nut had moved a little! Joe breathed a sigh of relief and paused for a moment to listen to the snoring. Jim was still asleep. Joe loosened the nut enough to open it with a few turns and greased it with rabbit fat. Maybe he could keel over the canoe tomorrow. With the trap attached to his foot, he couldn’t swim, so Jim wasn’t prepared for such a possibility. A vague plan formed in Joe’s mind.

The snoring had stopped. Joe’s skin prickled. A rancid smell, mixed with whiskey, wafted toward him. Joe turned to face the trapper, who extended his hand and wiggled his fingers in a demanding gesture.

“Gimme the knife! Ya figured I forgot, huh?”

Joe had known that Jim wasn’t so reckless. With the handle first, he handed him the knife, his gaze darting across the ground. Had he swept up all the wood shavings from his carving?

Jim narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized his captive. “What are ya up to?”

“Uh, nothing, I was just wondering … have you always been on your own?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you never think about having a family?”

Jim tucked the knife away, taking a long swig from the whiskey bottle. A sentimental twinkle appeared in his watery blue eyes. “Yeah. That was a spell back. Gal’s name was Rosalie. Had hair the color of gold nuggets.” Jim spoke with such wistfulness in his husky voice that Joe knew something bad had happened. He waited for the old man to continue.

“That was the finest year of my life. Met her at a tradin’ post, and a few months later, she told me we had a young’un on the way.”

Jim stared into the flames for a long minute. “A couple of drunken cowboys come ridin’ down the road, whoopin’ and shootin’, just as Rosalie stepped outta the store carryin’ some cloth for baby duds. Them boys had just blown in from pushin’ beeves for six weeks. One stray slug found my Rosalie. Dropped her where she stood—gone in an instant.”

With a brusque movement, Jim wiped his eyes. Then he shuffled, as if already regretting having told so much. “Put them paws behind ya, kid. Gotta tie ya up for the night.”

“I’m sorry,” Joe mumbled as the trapper fiddled with the rope.

“Why? You never knew her. Now, shut up an’ sleep. You’ll need the strength come mornin’.”

Joe lay down as best he could. He was thankful that Jim had the good sense to throw a blanket over him, as the nights were cool and he could already feel his fever rising again.

Sleep wouldn’t come. Joe gazed at the stars, trying to imagine a young, lovesick Jim and connect him with the indifferent, always-drunken man he was now. Everyone deals with the pain of losing someone differently. Jim had decided to withdraw from the world, preferring a lonely life to the company of others. Still, Joe’s sympathy was limited. Jim was merciless, holding him against his will. Joe wouldn’t hesitate to hurt or even kill the man if he were forced to.

 

Another rough day lay ahead. Joe had lost track of how long they had been on the trip. It felt like an eternity. He’d long since learned not to exert himself in the first few hours but rather to pace himself throughout the day. Paddling the boat was hard work—harder still with Jim in the stern, steering but never pulling. Yet he never missed a chance to gripe that Joe ought to dig in harder. “A fella who pulls his weight earns his grub,” was one of his favorite refrains. Joe held back from pointing out that he deserved the lion’s share of food. A bad-tempered Jim tended to use his paddle, urging him on with a nudge in the ribs.

Joe reckoned they would soon reach Pyramid Lake. How would Jim react when he realized that the river didn’t flow further north? Would he continue to drag his prisoner, or would he finish him off with a shot to the head? Joe couldn’t imagine Jim would set him free, for he seemed content with Joe’s presence. He never asked him any personal questions. He treated Joe no better than a dog: he fed him, made him work, and occasionally chained him up.

“What happened to the cowboy who shot Rosalie?” Joe tried to pick up the thread of their talk from days before. Any distraction that made time pass more quickly was welcome.

“Made damn sure he didn’t lay a hand on nobody never again,” Jim said with bitterness in his voice. “Spent a few years coolin’ my heels in prison, but Rosalie was worth it. Still, it was a mighty rough trail for a green twenty-something’ buck like me.”

Jim’s gnarly finger tapped his temple. “Rotgut helps drown out them bad memories rattlin’ ’round up there.”

“What happened—” Joe fell silent as the canoe shot around a bend. The dense growth of trees had concealed what lay beyond: It was hell, squeezed into a narrow riverbed. Before they had time to react, they were right in the middle of it. The roar of the rapids filled their ears. Whirlpools, swirling currents, and foaming spray enclosed the two men.

Joe was completely overwhelmed by the situation. He knew it was impossible to get through it alive. Yet he fought on, doing his best to maneuver around the obvious rocks. Water splashed into the boat, sloshing around their feet. With a blood-curdling creak, they scraped past an obstacle, but the cedar walls stayed intact.

“Watch out! You tryin’ to kill us?” The trapper yelled.

“Steer to the right!” Joe shouted, catching a glimpse of the nearby shore, rushing past them as a blurry green shape. He paid no attention to his burning arm muscles. More rapids appeared in front of them, causing Joe’s hair to stand on end. He would gladly have traded the boat for the wildest bronc. Dark gray boulders, glistening with wetness, stood out in stark contrast to the foaming white waves. The current caught the boat and jerked it toward a trunk wedged near the right bank they were about to reach. The two men paddled as hard as they could, but to no avail. Joe ducked as they made contact with the sharp, broken limbs sticking out. The ugly, ripping sound could barely be heard over the raging river.

A hole gaped in the boat. Water rushed in, soaking everything, and rising fast. Joe gripped his jacket to stuff it into the frayed cedar planks. This would buy them a few minutes before the canoe would finally fill up. A glimmer of hope remained that they would reach safety on land. “We need to—!” His yell was drowned out by a splash of water hitting him in the face.

“Water’s too wild! We won’t make it!” Jim shouted, his voice carrying a hint of panic. Neither of them wanted to tip over in the middle of the whitewater. The current would toss them against one of the many rocks and break all their bones.

The water in the boat rose, but there was no chance to scoop it out. Joe’s arms burned while his splinted ankle throbbed furiously as he braced himself against the sides of the boat to keep his balance. Despite how fast they were, Joe noticed the smallest details. He felt his wet shirt cling to his body, tasted the clear water mixed with salty sweat from his upper lip, and heard the creak of the strained canoe.

Their world was dominated by the angry roar of the river, bucking beneath them like a bronco out of control. Another wave smashed into Joe’s torso and face. A bang and a violent jolt almost threw the men overboard, as everything came to a sudden halt. The paddle slipped out of Joe’s grip and was swallowed by the greedy stream.

Joe wiped the water from his eyes and sized up the situation. The canoe had run up between two rocks. The bow was stuck while the current ripped and tugged at the rear. The boat bounced and swayed, causing the pile of baggage to slide backward.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. Ahead, the river disappeared, dropping into a churning abyss. From above, the depth was impossible to judge, but the deafening roar told Joe it was several feet. His breath snagged in his throat at the thought of being hurled over the brink. He had to get out of the boat—had to swim. More than that, he needed to get rid of the chain. Darn, where was that tool? With slick, trembling fingers, Joe fumbled at his waistband, but it was gone.

Joe shut out Jim’s curses—that it was all his fault, that he should’ve been more careful. He bent his leg, reached into the water sloshing around their legs, and grabbed the nut. Yes! Due to the grease and the previous loosening, it gave way!

His foot was free. Dragging his sleeve over his face, he studied the rushing current, trying to figure out how strong the suction was. Would he make it to the bank? It wasn’t that far. Joe’s stomach was in knots, and his mouth went dry despite the amount of water he’d swallowed.

The stream plunged past them, gurgling and foaming, droplets like glass beads glistening in the sun. Then, the canoe started to slide off the rocks. Wild-eyed, Joe turned to the trapper. He wasn’t sure if the old man had noticed he had gotten rid of the chain. “We must swim!”

Jim shook his head. “Nah! I gotta hang on to my pelts ‘n’ my whiskey!” He threw Joe a rope. “Snag the hemp, make fer shore, an’ haul that ol’ canoe along.”

“That’s crazy! You’re gonna die!”

Clutching the side walls, Jim shook his head like a stubborn child.

The canoe broke away from the rock. Sucking in a deep breath, Joe jumped. Of course, he had no chance of pulling the boat. The rough rope was torn from his grip, since the current was stronger than expected. Joe swam with all his might toward the shore. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boat had disappeared. Then, a wave hit him in the face. Water flooded his mouth and nose. Joe tried to come up. His injured ankle was smashed against an underwater rock. Joe swallowed more water. He wouldn’t make it! He would drown!

Joe’s last sight was a brilliant rainbow arcing through the spray before the river swept him over the brink. He fell and fell, his stomach churning with terror.

The fall seemed to last forever. The faces of his family flashed through Joe’s mind before he hit the surface hard. The stream swallowed him, whirled him around in a wild carousel. Joe couldn’t tell up from down. His lungs began to ache, desperately needing air. All around him was deep blue, speckled with transparent air bubbles and white foam. Joe fought to escape the waterfall’s suction, but was swept back in again and again. The urge to breathe was overwhelming. With the blue turning into an inky black, Joe lost consciousness.

 

Puzzled, Joe blinked to clear his sight, wondering why he was still alive. Someone had once told him he had nine lives, like a cat. Well, he’d certainly used up one of them. The river had deposited Joe on the bank, leaving only his legs drifting. Joe choked up water, clearing his lungs.

Every bone ached. Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself onto dry land across the gravel, unsure if he could walk yet. Just lifting his head was difficult because it felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Joe’s temples throbbed, and his stomach bubbled with at least a gallon of water. When his fingers found a painful lump on his hairline, he knew why he was out and why he had such a terrible headache. But he wouldn’t complain. After all, he was alive, right?

Propped on one elbow, strands of dripping hair plastered to his brow, Joe took stock. The river had widened, revealing its gentle side. Lazily, as if exhausted from the rapids, it rippled through its bed. Joe could move all of his limbs, which was a good sign.

Using a sturdy branch for support, he pulled himself to his feet, ignoring his soaking-wet clothes clinging to his battered body. He had no plan. He just shuffled forward one arduous step at a time. Walking with a broken foot was no fun. Each time his sole touched the ground, a stabbing pain shot through his leg. At least he got rid of the darn chain! With burning eyes, Joe searched the riverbank, hoping the stream had washed up some of their gear.

Joe’s progress was slow. He was exhausted to the bone. After what seemed like an eternity, he spied something on the bank. Joe straightened and hurried forward with renewed energy. He recognized the gray, soggy bundle as the bag containing the cooking utensils. With a squeal of triumph, Joe dropped to his knees to retrieve the wet canvas. He found what he had hoped for: a burst-open, soggy bag of beans, a jackknife, pots, pans, and two enamel mugs. The matches were, of course, useless, but he would figure something out. First, he had to get out of his wet clothes.

Joe slung the bundle over his shoulder and continued on his way, this time with a goal. He would find a good spot to set up camp and spend the night.

He didn’t have to search for long. The gravel gave way to a patch of lush green grass. In the middle, a small group of boulders huddled together. They would offer him shelter from the chilly night and reflect the warmth of the flames—if he could get a fire going.

Joe’s arms burned as a fine plume of smoke finally rose from the piece of wood he’d worked on with a fire drill made from driftwood, a flexible willow twig, and a strip of his shirt. With infinite care, he poured the smoldering sparks into a nest of fine shavings and blew until small flames appeared.

After cooking the beans, Joe shoveled them into his mouth. Pa would complain about his lack of table manners if he saw him like this, but he was alone, after all. Joe knew his brothers and pa were still looking for him. Had Half-Breed Pete turned Cochise loose? If so, his horse would run back home, and Hoss got a clue where to start the search.

A huge yawn made Joe’s jaw crack. Shivering, he moved closer to the fire and added another piece of wood. He’d hung his clothes up to dry and put them back on, even though they were still damp. Joe felt his ankle. It didn’t seem to be any worse than before the fall. Although the trapper had never been exactly delicate when changing the bandage, he seemed to have done something right. The swelling and fever had subsided, and the holes in the flesh had begun to crust over. Perhaps it was, in Doc Martin’s words, simply his “young and strong” condition.

Joe curled up on his side, tucking his hands between his thighs. Tomorrow, he would figure out how to get home. The scripture his Pa had often read to him came to mind: “Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. ”

Joe slid as close to the comforting flames as he could. He placed the canvas bag over his chest, put on another thick branch, and shut his eyes with a deep sigh.

The sharp crunch of leather soles on gravel jolted Joe from his half-sleep. As if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on him, he shot upright. The fire had burned down to an orange, glowing pile of embers. With his eyes wide open, Joe tried to see through the inky darkness. Something or someone was approaching.

In reflex, his hand darted to his hip, but he found neither gun nor holster. Darn! Panic sent icy shivers down his spine, making him shudder.

He tossed a few branches onto the coals until small flames licked up. Then, he slid backward away from the firelight until he was stopped by the rock behind him. Clenching his jaw against the pain, Joe struggled to stand, being careful not to put any weight on his injured foot. He gripped the sturdy stick he’d used as a crutch, holding it in front of him, ready to fight to the death.

The footsteps came closer, cautious and hesitant. Joe held his breath and melted into the rock. Deep down, he knew who was creeping up on him. Jim had survived the plunge down the waterfall and was about to get his captive back.

****

“Pa, I smell smoke!” Hoss lifted his head into the wind, sniffing the air like a bloodhound scenting a piece of game.

Ben shifted in the saddle and looked around. “Yeah, I smell it too. Come on, let’s hurry up!”

“A waterfall!” Adam exclaimed, resting his hands on the saddle horn and straightening up as he tried to find the best path down the steep slope. “They must be close. We have to be careful. If we are to believe what Half-Blood Pete told us, the man must be armed and a little crazy.”

The sorrow about his little brother carved furrows in Hoss’s forehead. They’d been on the trail for about two weeks, drawing closer with every mile, but the strain had wrung the last strength from both men and horses.

Hoss’s gaze lingered on his father’s haggard face. His weariness was evident in the deep furrows on his brow and his tired eyes, which now sparkled with renewed hope. Loose gravel rumbled beneath Buck’s hooves as Ben urged his horse forward, steering it past Adam down the slope. “Hurry, boys. I feel we’re close to Joseph!”

Adam and Hoss exchanged a worried glance before pushing their mounts forward. A fine mist settled on her skin, and the roar of the waterfall drowned out everything else.

“Come on, Cochise,” Hoss shouted, encouraging the pinto he was leading by the rope. “You heard the boss.”

He knew it would have been smarter to set up camp and keep searching the next day. But the smoke changed everything. If they were lucky, they had finally caught up with the trapper. If they were even luckier, Joe would be with him.

The thought of Joe being the man’s captive for so long was hard to bear. They had no proof, though. The only clue was Cochise, who stood in their yard one night without his saddle or bridle.

Hoss rubbed his hand over his face to scrub away the tiredness. It took him two days of intense searching to retrace Chochise’s hoofprints. Instead of finding an injured little brother, however, he met Half-Breed Pete, a withered old Bannock who told him the incredible story of a mad trapper who traded two good mules for an old canoe and half a dozen bottles of whiskey. The old man knew nothing about a prisoner, but he’d recognized the Ponderosa brand on Cooch’s hip.

After passing the thirty-foot waterfall, they rode along the riverbank, eyes glued on the ground, looking for tracks.

They would have welcomed any hint that Joe had been there, proving that they weren’t just chasing an idea. The thought that they might be looking in the completely wrong direction twisted Hoss’s stomach. But if Joe and the trapper had come this way, they must have carried the canoe around the fall and the rapids.

Hoss let out a deep sigh. Finding traces became increasingly difficult in the falling night. Following Ben’s and Adam’s example, he dismounted and led the horses by their reins.

Hoss froze before quickening his pace. Something had gotten caught on a bush whose branches hung down into the water. The color of the bundle, probably a piece of cloth, was barely recognizable. Hoss stepped into the stream, not caring that water sloshed into his boots. As soon as his hand closed around the familiar corduroy fabric, he knew what it was. With slumped shoulders, he turned to face Pa and Adam, handing his father the soaking wet bundle. “Joe’s jacket,” he breathed, his voice failing him.

Well, now they had their proof: Joe had been here.

His eyes fixed on his boot tips, Hoss found himself fighting to collect himself. He refused to believe that Little Joe was dead. The smell of smoke, which they had noticed earlier, was gone. Hoss wasn’t sure if it had been wishful thinking. Maybe their senses had played tricks on them. It was something like the word Adam had once used to describe things that didn’t exist. Exactly—hallucination.

“Let’s keep going,” Hoss muttered as he shuffled ahead, afraid of what or who they would find next.

Hoss’s heartbeat stopped when a blurry form emerged from the darkness. The mangled fragment of a wooden canoe lay half on the bank. Some distance away, he saw the remains of a paddle.

“They fell down the waterfall!” Ben’s face turned gray. All the energy that had propelled him forward drained from his body, and he looked years older.

Adam put his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Let’s go. We smelled the smoke, right? Someone must have survived!” Adam prayed that it would be his little brother. He thought about firing three shots for a moment, but that wasn’t very smart. They would only alert the trapper.

Then, they found the body. It was floating in the shallow water of a river bend, caught in a pile of branches. One look was enough to tell that it wasn’t Joe. It was a man clad in a buckskin shirt, its fringes waving like lazy seaweed in the gentle current. The head bobbed face down in the water, the back of the skull dented.

Hoss grabbed the body under the arms, pulled it onto dry land, and turned it over. Watery blue eyes stared lifelessly into the dark evening sky. The man’s mouth stood half open. Despite having been in the water for quite some time, he still gave off a faint whiff of whiskey.

Disgusted, Hoss stood and scrubbed his palms over his pants. This must be Jim, the crazy trapper. But where was Little Brother?

“Hoss, look!” Ben grabbed his son’s arm with a vice-like grip and jerked him around. “Is that a fire, or am I wrong?”

Hoss squinted in the direction where brush and trees stood out as a dark stripe against the sky. Pa was right. There was a fire. It wasn’t bright, flickering flames, but rather the reddish glow of dying embers.

“That’s Joseph!” Ben said in a raspy voice, beginning to walk in that direction.

Hoss knew nothing, and no one could stop him, but he tried anyway. “You can’t know for sure, Pa,” he said gently.

“Hoss is right,” Adam chimed in. “One of us should sneak up and find out. It’s not smart to stumble into a strange camp at night—”

“Shush. I’ll go.” Ben thrust Buck’s reins into Hoss’s hands and hurried toward the camp.

Hoss held his breath and listened to the retreating footsteps, his whole body humming with tension. The fire flared up, as if someone had added wood. Muffled voices rang out, followed by their father’s holler piercing the darkness.

“Joseph! Boys, it’s Joe!”

Adam and Hoss took off running.

Ben had his arms wrapped around his youngest, who had his face buried on his shoulder. As his brothers approached, Joe looked up, his face showing raw emotion. Relief. Joy. Disbelief. Pain.

“Adam, Hoss, you’re here, too! Pa, when I heard your footsteps, I thought it was Jim.” Gee, you brought Cochise. Is he all right?” The words poured out of him.

“Sure he is!” A wide grin spread across Hoss’s face as he snatched Joe from Pa, pulling him into a bear hug.

“Careful, you big galoot, I’m a little banged up!” Joe winced and grimaced.

Adam added more wood to the fire. As the flames blazed brightly, three pairs of eyes scanned Joe’s battered form. He’d lost weight. The boot on his right foot was missing and had been replaced with a tattered bandage and splints. His forearms were sunburned, and his left shirt sleeve was torn to shreds. He wore a dirty rag around his upper arm. Several scratches adorned his cheekbones. Hoss suspected there were quite a few more bruises hidden under Joe’s clothes, given how carefully he moved. He seemed nervous, too. Fear glowed in his eyes as they kept flickering toward the river.

“What’s wrong, Joe?” Hoss asked, following his unsteady gaze.

“The trapper’s still out there somewhere,” Joe whispered, his voice filled with terror. “What if he’s pointing a gun at us right now?”

“He’s dead, son.” Ben ran a hand over Joe’s back. He could feel every rib. “Sit down and let me look at those bandages.”

Puzzled, Joe touched Pa’s arm. “Dead? Are you sure? How?”

“Dead as a doornail,” Hoss confirmed. “He’s lying on the bank a bit downstream with a hole in his skull.”

The tension drained from Joe’s shoulders. He slumped next to the fire. A shiver ran through his body. “We fell down the waterfall.”

“Yep, we figured. Let’s get rid of these damp clothes, Shortshanks,” Hoss said, kneeling and unbuttoning Joe’s shirt.

Joe told the whole story in a faltering voice while Adam brewed coffee. Meanwhile, Hoss and Pa examined the youngest Cartwright’s injuries. They took off his stained and torn shirt, unwrapped the bandages, and cleaned and treated all the wounds and bruises.

After wrapping Joe tightly in a blanket and placing him close to the fire, Ben didn’t take his eyes off his son until his boy fell asleep. Only then did he allow himself to relax against his saddle.

“Thank you, Lord,” he mumbled, sending a quick prayer to heaven. He then closed his eyes with a satisfied sigh, ready to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Joe was alive, and it looked like he had cheated death once again.

 

Epilogue

Finally home again! After a long, soothing bath and a sumptuous meal prepared by Hop Sing, Joe climbed into his bed. He was afraid to fall asleep, though, because he’d been plagued by nightmares during most nights of their several-day journey home. The dreams came despite he knew he was safe. He’d insisted on seeing the body with his own eyes. The sheriff would take care of burying Jim.

Joe placed his forearm over his face, ready to surrender to the overwhelming exhaustion that had plagued him for days. For the first time, he was alone, free from the pressure of maintaining a facade or hiding his misery from his family’s watchful and concerned eyes. Just as he nestled deep beneath the covers, voices echoed from the main room, and hurried footsteps clattered up the stairs. Joe let out a sigh. It sounded like—

“Howdy, Little Joe,” greeted Doc Martin, entering the room behind Pa, placing his bag on the nightstand. “Let’s see what’s going on with you.”

Holding his breath, Joe tried to read the look on Paul Martin’s face as he unwrapped the splinted foot, but all he could see was concentration.

The doctor squeezed and probed the ankle, while Joe bit his lip to stifle a groan.

His father stood at the foot of the bed, fists clenched around one of the posts, leaning forward to get a good look. “Well, Paul, what do you think?” he asked, his strained voice betraying his concern.

Joe’s heart beat fast and hard. He sensed the unspoken question between Pa’s words, and he waited anxiously for the doc to answer. He’d endured more than enough pain over the past two weeks and wasn’t eager to have his foot broken again. However, he didn’t want to limp for the rest of his life, either.

Paul held Joe’s heel, still running his fingers over the swollen flesh and yellow-green bruises. “Your fibula is broken just above the joint. That’s the thin bone that runs outside your lower leg.” Paul didn’t miss the tense look on his patient’s face. His lips curled into a smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t have to break the bone again. It’s already healing. The fibula has grown back slightly crooked, but that shouldn’t cause any problems while walking. However, I can’t say for sure if the shinbone is fractured. That’s why it’s better to keep your foot off the ground for another four weeks. I can’t set a cast either because two of the wounds need to be cleaned and monitored daily, but I expect them to heal without any problems. Whoever treated this ankle actually did a pretty good job.”

Paul Martin gave Joe an encouraging smile before he produced a brown glass bottle of alcohol that Joe knew too well. “I’m going to clean out these two minor infected wounds, and then I’ll get you a splint.” Paul patted his patient’s lower leg and rummaged through his bag again.

Joe lay back on the pillow, letting the doc do his work.

And Jim … Joe bit his lip, hoping that the old trapper would be reunited with his Rosalie. Despite everything Jim had done to him, Joe had to admit he’d fixed his foot so well that he would suffer no lasting damage.

The End

Author’s notes:

 

Song referenced: Rosalie, The Prairie Flower, George Frederick Root, Boston, 1855.

The story was written in the summer of 2024 and edited again in August 2025. I based it on many of my experiences from countless canoe and kayak trips. Yes, it’s about an injured Joe again, but that’s my favorite topic.

Tags: SJS