Summary: A Halloween story, told by Joe and Hoss. Joe gets into trouble while Hoss does everything he can to fix things again.

Rating: PG    Word count: 9000

Thirst

Prologue – Hoss

“Howdy,” I greeted Sam, the bartender of the Silver Dollar Saloon, tipping my hat after I managed to elbow my way to the crowded bar. The place was near busting at the seams, and the smell of beer and whiskey was thick enough to cut with a knife.

I had to shout just to be heard. “How’s business?” As soon as the question slipped from my lips, I knew it was a stupid thing to ask. The answer was plain to see.

Sam slid a beer my way without missing a beat. His face was shining with sweat, hands flying as he tried to keep up with the patrons pressing in, all of them hollering for more booze. “Good. Great, actually,” Sam called back, already working the tap again. “Though I’ve no idea what’s come over folks lately, but they’re drinking me dry.”

Oh Lord, no! All the blood drained from my face. Despite the heat inside the saloon, an icy chill cut clean through me. I reckon, deep down, I’d known it was gonna turn out this way.

Folks were thirsty. Mighty thirsty.

 

Several weeks ago – Joe

With a suppressed curse, I slapped the calf I’d hauled out of the mud hole to drive it back to its mother. She stood a few feet away, watching me with wary eyes. “Easy now,” I murmured and exhaled in relief as the two of them turned away and trotted back to the herd. My arms trembled from the effort. Since it was already late October, the calves were quite large, almost young steers.

I lowered my gaze from my dirty hands to my wet, filthy pants and boots. It felt like the stinking mud had crept into every crack and crevice. Either way, it itched like hell, and it was bound to get worse once the stuff started to dry.

Wiping my palms on my shirt, I shuffled over to Cochise, who was patiently waiting in the still hot sun, eyes half-closed, lower lip hanging relaxed. If I got on the horse as dirty as I was, I’d spend the rest of the night scraping dried mud off my saddle. Not a tempting prospect. With a sigh, I grabbed the reins. “Come on, Cooch, let’s go find us a waterhole.”

Dragging my horse behind me, I walked what felt like dozens of miles. In reality, it was probably just one. To my right, our cattle herd grazed, bordered by a sturdy wooden fence to keep them from wandering off. The pasture up here had already taken on a brownish color, but it was still good enough to feed the beeves.

Beyond the fence was Paiute territory, and something over there caught the sunlight, drawing my attention. I stopped and stared hard in that direction. “Wait, Cooch. I guess we found water.”

After looping the reins around the fence, I climbed on the top rail, squinting against the sun. I had been right. A small pond nestled between some rocks, surrounded by ancient, towering pines. “Fortune smiles on me!” My grin stretched from ear to ear.

Before I jumped to the ground on the other side of the fence, I looked around. Everything was quiet, not a soul in sight. The small group of Paiutes who lived nearby were peaceful folks, but I didn’t want to risk being surprised mid-bath by a bunch of Indian girls or angry warriors.

Dry stalks rustled as I hurried along, the caked mud already chafing my skin raw. Once I reached the edge of the pond, I let my gaze sweep the area again. Still quiet. Too quiet, to be honest. I took off my hat, ran a hand through my sweaty hair, and listened. Strange. The only sounds were the wind whispering through the trees and the crackling grass under my boots. No birdsong, no insect buzz. Anyway, I had to get rid of the dirt.

Balancing on one leg, I yanked off my boots, followed by my socks and pants, dropping them in a muddy heap. Later, I would wash the pants too. It was better to ride soaked than stained.

Wrapping my arms around my torso, I took a hesitant step forward. Adam, Hoss, and I always bathed without clothes, but today something was different. I felt oddly exposed as I stood there, toes digging into the damp earth and wearing nothing but my shirt. Goosebumps spread across my skin, and I couldn’t tell why—it was a pretty hot day.

Next to me, half-covered by vegetation, something white caught my eye. I stretched out a bare foot to push the grass aside, revealing a pair of long bones. They looked old and weathered, judging by the porous surface, as if they had been lying there for decades. With a nearly rotten strip of rawhide, they were tied together in the middle, forming an X.

“Huh, that’s strange,” I mumbled. It was likely an old Indian symbol. I wondered what it might have meant.

My hands hesitated at the buttons of my shirt as my gaze flickered from the bones to the surface of the water. Despite the sunny day, it shimmered in a deep, velvety black, almost like oil. No ripples, just a few sluggish bubbles rose from the depths and burst with a dull plop.

I scooted closer, stuck my leg out, and dipped my toes into the water. My heart did a flip, but nothing happened. It was just water, thick with algae—that greenish tint left a mark on my skin when I pulled my foot back out.

“Phew!” I laughed at my own nerves, shrugging the shirt off my shoulders. There was no reason to lose my head. I’d just wash off this damned mud real quick and ride home.

With a determined step, I waded into the water.

It was cold. Ice cold, to be exact, which was strange given the small size of the pond and the heat we’d been having for months. My balls shrank tight to my body as I waded deeper. Slimy water plants brushed against my skin and coiled around my thighs, and the soft ground sucked at my feet like it didn’t ever want to let me go.

Don’t be a sissy. You’ve got too much imagination. Suppressing a shiver, I took a deep breath, clenched my teeth, and ducked under.

 

Hoss

Dinner’s usually a good time to let the day roll by in your head. But not tonight.

“Where’s that boy again? It’s almost dark. That’s the third time in a row he’s been late for supper,” Pa grumbled, frowning at me like it was my fault Little Brother had lost track of time again.

Regretfully, I looked down at the steaming bowls overflowing with good food, my mouth already watering. I pushed my chair back and stood up with a sigh. “I’ll go see if he’s in the barn.”

Neither Cochise nor Joe was in the barn, which meant my growling stomach was just gonna have to wait. “Dadburnit,” I muttered to myself as I hefted the saddle up onto Chubby’s back and yanked the cinch tight. If I hurried, I could find Joe—he’d been out by the herd, checking the fence—and I’d still make it back in time for my well-earned meal. A man needed food to keep himself going, after all.

Even though it was already getting dark, I spotted Cochise tied up on the fence at the north pasture from a good distance off. He let out a pleased whinny when I got close, happy to see one of his stablemates.

“Where’s Joe?” I asked him, glancing around, my mood souring quickly.

Maybe Joe had curled up somewhere for a nap. Or maybe he’d met up with some pretty Indian gal and run off with her. Or—

Or something had happened.

I swallowed hard, suddenly sure that was the case. A strange feeling crept up my back, raising the hair on my neck. Something wasn’t right—I could feel it in my bones.

“LITTLE JOE!” I hollered, both hands cupped around my mouth as I shouted in all directions.

The only answer was Cochise snorting nervously.

Okay, think. Where would Joe have gone?

A smear of dried mud on Cochise’s reins gave me my first clue. I was good at reading signs—better than Pa or Adam, and better than Joe, who never had the patience to pay attention to bent blades of grass or turned-over stones. Scratching the back of my neck with one finger, I tried to piece together what might’ve happened.

Joe had gotten himself dirty. He hated cleaning his saddle or oiling the leather, so odds were, he’d gone to wash off somewhere. I just had to figure out where he`d gone. My gaze drifted to the sun-bleached fence, its surface blotched with more bits of mud.

“What the heck—” I muttered as I squeezed myself through the rails and followed the trampled trail in the grass, which led straight onto Indian land. My boot caught on something, and I stumbled forward, landing on my knees.

Nope—not a root. I frowned, gawking at two buffalo bones, bound into an X. That was a Paiute warning sign! My heartbeat kicked up into a fast, heavy drumbeat. Now I knew something had happened.

“Little Joe!” I yelled as I scrambled back to my feet. In front of me stretched the black surface of a small pond. The smell rising from it was heavy—earthy, like rot and decaying plants. My little brother surely wouldn’t have taken a bath in—

I bent down and picked up a boot. Covered in mud, it was nearly invisible in the brownish grass. But of course, it was Joe’s. I recognized the worn-down toe and the loose sole. A little farther on lay his pants and shirt, as if he’d stripped while on the run. Darn. Sometimes I hated being right.

But where was the boy? He wouldn’t be wandering around stark naked, which meant he was either still in the water—or the Paiute had caught him.

The image hit me hard—Joe’s hands tied with a long rope, stumbling along behind a horse, naked, dragged off. His bare feet were raw, leaving red stains on—No! There wasn’t any proof of that. I couldn’t let myself jump to the worst conclusion. Joe had to be around here.

Muttering another curse under my breath, I started running around the pond. I tripped over rocks and roots, slid through the mud and dense shoreline brush—until a mop of dark curls came into view.

“Joe!”

He didn’t move, just lay there on his side at the edge of the pond, not a stitch of clothing on him, his body submerged from the waist down. I dropped to my knees so fast my joints popped and rolled him onto his back.

Thank God—he was breathing! His chest rose and fell, slow but steady. His lips were blue with cold, and his skin, covered by a greenish slimy sheen, felt like ice, but Joe was alive. Still.

His mouth hung open slightly, his eyes shut tight. If he hadn’t been so deathly pale, you’d think he was just taking a nap.

“Joe! Wake up!” I shook him, called his name, and even gave him a couple of light slaps to the face. It worked—he started to groan.

With a sick squelch, the mud and water plants loosened their grip on his legs as I pulled him up into my arms, cradling him tight against my chest, trying to share some of my body heat. One of his hands lifted, groped blindly toward me, then flopped back down onto his belly with a wet splat. The kid was freezing. I had to build a fire—fast—and warm him up.

The crackling flames lit up a small circle in the almost touchable darkness of the evening. Despite the heat during the day, the October nights were quite cold. Joe was wrapped in blankets so close to the fire I worried his eyelashes might singe.

I found a small flat bottle of whiskey in his saddlebag and now tipped a few drops into his mouth, one careful sip at a time. When the sharp liquor hit his tongue, Joe coughed and grimaced, but at least it was a reaction.

I rubbed his arms and legs with both hands, trying to bring some life and warmth back into that slim body. Joe was skinnier than usual. A few more pounds wouldn’t hurt the boy one bit.

The thought of the supper waiting back home made my stomach growl. Pa was probably sitting in his chair by now, chewing on his pipe stem, newspaper or book in his lap, not really reading it. He and Adam must’ve realized something had happened by now, but in this darkness, it wasn’t likely they’d come looking.

“Hoss?” Joe’s voice broke into my thoughts, quiet but clear. My heart leapt with relief. “Where am I?” he asked.

“Still out by the herd, Little Brother. You all right? What happened?”

Joe rubbed his face. “I pulled a calf outta the mud and figured I’d take a quick bath to wash off the mess. Hey, why’s it dark already?”

“Why’s it dark? You must’ve been in that pond for hours!”

“Hours?” Joe blinked, then let out a pained groan. “Ugh, I’m getting sick.”

A second later, he leaned over to the side—and from the sound of it, he was puking up half the pond. I winced. He must’ve swallowed gallons of water. When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gratefully accepted another sip of whiskey.

“Can you remember what happened, Joe? Did you slip?”

His face went kind of blank, like he was rummaging through his memories. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I’m okay. I wanted to wash the mud off. I stepped into the pond, and then… I dunno, maybe I slipped and hit my head?” His hand came up to search through his curls, but he didn’t seem to find anything. He shrugged and looked down at his naked form. “If you hand me my clothes, we can ride home. I didn’t plan to spend the night out here. You?”

“No, Joe,” I sighed, rolling my eyes.

+++

I’d expected Joe to come down with at least a cold, but he didn’t. I’d been keeping an eye on him these past few days, but nothing out of the ordinary. No fainting spells, no dizziness. My little brother had one hell of a sturdy constitution—if you didn’t count all the broken bones and the occasional bullet wound.

“Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this log. I won’t do all the work myself!”

“Comin’!” Joe jammed the cork back into his canteen and came over to grab the other end of the log.

“On three!” I said, and we swung it up onto the wagon bed, where it landed with a heavy thud.

Joe wiped his sap-sticky hands on his pants and grinned. “My arms are about to fall off. Let’s call it a day, huh? That’s enough firewood for a couple of weeks. Hop Sing’ll be happy.”

“Fair enough,” I agreed. The wagon was already groaning under the load.

“You got any water left in your canteen?”

“Sure, more than half full.” I tossed it to him, and he caught it with one hand.

“Thanks!” Joe yanked the cork free and took a long drink. I raised an eyebrow as I watched him drain the thing in a few big gulps.

“Hard work makes a man thirsty, huh?” he joked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“Yep. Let’s head home,” I muttered, doing the math. Joe had already drunk nearly a gallon of water this afternoon.

 

“Good work, boys.” Pa gave me a pat on the shoulder while he glanced at the pile we’d stacked beside the barn. Over the next few weeks, we’d cut and split the logs into smaller pieces whenever we had time.

He strolled over to Joe, who was bent over the horse trough, pumping water straight into his mouth. Pa laid a hand on his back. “You all right, son?”

Joe straightened, grinning widely, water dripping from his cheeks over his half-unbuttoned shirt. “Yeah, Pa. I’m fine. Just thirsty!”

“Well then, get yourselves cleaned up. Hop Sing’s already got supper on the table.”

We stepped inside. “Pa, I need to talk to you,” I murmured, gesturing toward Little Brother, who was whistling as he bounced up the stairs, two at a time.

“Hm?” Pa raised a brow.

“You notice anything… off, about Joe?”

Pa rubbed his chin, just as Joe’s bedroom door slammed shut. “Why do you ask?”

“Joe’s been drinking an awful lot the last few days.”

“Drinking? You mean…?”

“No, not booze. Water. He emptied both our canteens today, and as soon as we got back, he stuck his head under the pump. Just seems odd to me.”

“Well, maybe I should have Doc take a look at him next week.”

“Yeah, Pa, good idea.” A weight lifted off my shoulders. Doc Martin would check on Joe. Most likely, everything was fine. I was probably just imagining something was wrong. After all, it was one hell of a hot autumn, and we’d been sweating plenty with all the work.

At dinner, I kept an eye on Joe without being too obvious, and I noticed that Pa’s gaze also kept drifting toward him. Now that I was paying attention, it was clear—I hadn’t imagined it. Hop Sing had to refill the water pitcher twice in the half hour we sat at the table. Joe wasn’t eating much, either. He just pushed his food around the plate, then mumbled something about needing to use the outhouse. No wonder, with all the liquid he’d been pouring into himself.

I exchanged a look with Pa, and it couldn’t be overlooked that he was worried, too.

Monday, when we picked up supplies, I’d haul Joe off to the doctor. But today was the weekend, and we planned to go to the Saloon.

 

The Silver Dollar was packed, like every Saturday night. As Adam, Joe, and I pushed through the swinging doors, Joe glanced around, gave Sam a nod, and raised one finger to order a beer. Then he made a beeline for a corner table where a poker game was underway. Fine. He would play for a while and probably lose money, but I could keep an eye on him.

“Howdy, Sam! Adam and I’ll have one too!” I called out to the busy bartender, propping my elbows on the bar, breathing in that familiar mix of sweaty, unwashed bodies, perfume from the saloon girls, and cigar smoke.

After Sam slid me my beer, I raised it for a deep draw. The bitter taste filled my mouth. Perfect. I licked some foam from my lips and let myself relax. Before long, Adam and I were deep in a chat with a young fella riding for the Pony Express.

“Where’s Joe?” I asked Adam an hour later, glancing around for that green jacket of his, cursing myself because my guard had slipped.

Adam didn’t seem worried. He just shrugged, like keeping tabs on our little brother was an annoying chore. Joe might’ve been nineteen and therefore a man, but he was still Joe, which meant trouble stuck to him like burrs on a horse’s tail.

Muttering under my breath, I stepped away from the bar and started working my way through the singing, drinking, and laughing patrons—typical Saturday night noise.

And then I saw him.

First, I spotted the green jacket, then that mop of curls. Joe was slumped over the table, his cheek resting in a puddle of beer between two empty glasses. The poker game carried on around him like he wasn’t even there.

“Howdy, Belle,” I greeted the pretty saloon girl as she reached for the empties. “How much did Joe have?”

She shrugged. “Seven, maybe eight. I wasn’t countin’. Said he was really thirsty tonight.”

“Dadburnit.” I grabbed Joe by the shoulder and gave him a shake—first gentle, then a bit rougher. “Wake up, Joe! Time to head home!”

One bleary green eye opened a crack, then shut again. “G’way. Lemme sleep.”

Oh no, I wouldn’t do that.

Joe wasn’t heavy. I could carry two of him without breaking a sweat, and it sure wasn’t the first time I’d had to haul him outta the saloon after a few too many drinks.

Without missing a beat, I picked up his hat from the table, plopped it on his head, and slung him over my shoulder. He mumbled something I couldn’t understand, but didn’t put up much of a fight.

Adam shot me a crooked grin and a head shake, then turned back to the Pony Express rider, which made it clear to me that Joe was my problem. Great.

Out in the cool night air, I took a deep breath. With one hand steady on Joe’s legs, I headed toward Cochise. Would the kid even stay in the saddle? I could tie him down, I guess—or—

I turned and hurried down the street, quick steps taking me straight to the doctor’s office. It might’ve been Saturday night, but a doctor never truly clocked out. And the lit windows told me Paul Martin was still up.

I knocked once, then stepped inside. “Howdy!”

Paul came out from the back room, eyebrows rising when he saw Joe flopped over my shoulder. He gestured toward the exam room. “I was just cleaning up. Knife fight earlier. What’s going on with Joe?”

“Drunk,” I said bluntly, laying Joe down on the leather-covered table. His head lolled to the side—and that’s when I saw a red smear of lipstick at the corner of his mouth. Without thinking twice, I plucked my handkerchief from my pocket and wiped it off.

Paul stepped closer, lifted one of Joe’s eyelids, and took a look. I have to give him credit for not rebounding, because Joe stank like a brewery. But doctors are used to a lot, I guess.

“Hm.” He frowned, let the lid drop, and reached for his lamp. For what felt like forever, he examined Joe’s eyes under the light, then started unbuttoning his jacket and shirt. “That’s odd,” he muttered.

Worry crept up my spine. I hated it when doctors didn’t say what was on their minds right away—but Doc always insisted on getting the full picture before spooking the family.

I was already spooked. Hands buried in my pockets, I shifted from one foot to the other while Paul pressed his stethoscope to Joe’s chest. The boy was too skinny—I could count every rib.

Then Paul undid Joe’s pants and began probing his stomach, which looked kind of swollen. Joe winced, groaned, and batted his hand away.

“His bladder’s quite full,” Paul said offhandedly.

I grimaced. “He had eight beers.”

“You didn’t bring him here just for drinking. What’s got you worried?”

“Joe’s been unusually thirsty lately. He drinks gallons of water every day.”

Paul’s head snapped up, alarm in his eyes. “Excessive thirst, weight loss… that’s not good. Anything else unusual happen recently?”

“Uh, yeah. Two weeks ago, up by Crow’s Bluff. He passed out in a pond—was cold as ice, couldn’t remember a thing when he came to.”

Paul’s brow furrowed deep. “That’s concerning.”

“Paul—what is it? Is it serious?”

“Gotta pee,” Joe mumbled and started sliding off the table, not even bothering to fix his pants or shirt. I jumped to his side to catch him.

“Take him out back,” Paul said quickly. “And Hoss—I’ll need a sample.”

I stared at the thick glass jar he handed me, blinking until I realized exactly what kind of sample he meant. My face went hot. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Come on, Joe. Let’s go outside.”

“Thanks, Hoss,” Joe slurred—and just as I turned my head, he leaned in and planted a sloppy kiss right where my mouth would’ve been.

“Joe, what in tarnation was that?!” I grumbled, dragging the swaying boy outside. He’d really overdone it this time.

+++

Doc had ridden out two days after the saloon incident to give us his test results. Now Pa and I sat with Paul Martin by the fireplace. The fire crackled and threw off a cozy heat—but the mood was anything but cozy. Even the smell of fresh coffee and Hop Sing’s biscuits couldn’t ease the tension in the room.

Paul took a long sip from his cup. Pa sat beside me, brows furrowed, fingers laced tight in front of him, waiting for the bad news. Doc finally set the cup down. The clink of porcelain echoed louder than it should’ve.

I barely dared to breathe.

“I won’t keep you in suspense any longer, Ben. There’s good news—and bad.” He cleared his throat. “The good news is, Joe doesn’t have sugar disease. That was my first concern, but the tests came back clear. Everything looks normal—thank God.”

A deep sigh of relief escaped Pa’s chest.

“The bad news is,” Paul continued, “something is definitely wrong with Joe. I just don’t know what. I’ve read articles, combed through books, but I haven’t found a diagnosis that fits all his symptoms.”

Pa exhaled slowly. “So, what do we do now? Are there more tests you can run?”

“Not without at least some idea of what I’m looking for.” He glanced between us. “Have you noticed anything strange about Joe’s eyes? I thought they were a more intense green than usual.”

“No. Aside from the drinking and not eating much, I haven’t noticed anything,” Pa said, staring into his coffee cup like he hoped to find an answer at the bottom. “Now what?”

Paul heaved a sigh. “Keep an eye on him. I want to see Joe again in a week. If anything gets worse or new symptoms appear, bring him in sooner.”

I grabbed a biscuit, but before I could take a bite, a strange thought popped into my head. “Could it have something to do with that pond? It’s on Indian land, and it felt… weird. There was an old warning sign—two crossed bones. Maybe something in the water’s making him sick?”

Paul’s back straightened, an interested glow in his eyes. “A disease caused by water…not out of the question. What do you say about taking the buckboard to show me the pond, Hoss? I need to examine it.”

“I’ll hitch up the team!” I jumped from the settee, glad to finally do something. Anything was better than just sitting around and watching Joe waste away.

 

A heavy, earthy smell hung over the pond, which lay still and black before us. Not even the red of the setting sun was reflected in it.

“The water’s unusually cold and there’s an excessive amount of algae,” Paul said, sealing the glass jar he’d filled with a sample. He held it up to the light. The water inside was an intense emerald green—the same shade as Joe’s eyes.

A chill ran down my spine. I tore my eyes away from the jar to check on the surroundings. My neck tingled. We were being watched. I was sure of it.

“Doc—over there,” I whispered, trying not to look too directly.

A shape crouched under the low-hanging limbs of a tree. With my hands behind my back and my eyes fixed on the ground, pretending to search for something, I slowly wandered along the shoreline, casually getting closer.

Thirty feet.

I filled my lungs and sprinted forward. The figure let out a startled cry and bolted from the shadows. Small feet thudded over the grass until I tackled the kid from behind. We hit the ground with a dull thud.

Tiny brown fists hammered against my chest in a blur of fringe and buckskin. The boy even tried to knee me in the groin before I pinned his wrists to the ground.

“Whoa—easy, kid! I’m not gonna hurt you!”

The boy stopped struggling and stared up at me with narrowed coal-black eyes. He wasn’t scared—just defiant.

“You understand me? You’re one of the Paiute from around here, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I understand you.”

I took my hands off him, letting him sit up. “Why were you watching us?”

He shrugged.

“You know anything about this pond? Why the old warning signs?”

“Evil water spirits,” he whispered, his gaze flickering to the smooth surface like even saying the words might summon them.

“Spirits?” I frowned. “What do they do?”

He straightened up, glancing around nervously. “They creep into people. That’s what the old stories say—anyone who drinks the water or bathes in it gets sick.”

“And then what happens? My little brother swam in the pond.”

The boy shrugged again. “I don’t know. They’re just old scary stories. You should talk to our medicine man. I gotta go!” Before I could react, he jumped to his feet, turned around, and started running, his thin legs carrying him away fast. I let him go. I wouldn’t get anything useful out of him anyway.

Doc Martin came up beside me. “Well?”

“Water spirits in the pond,” I muttered.

Paul made a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff. “Let’s head back to the ranch.”

 

Another week passed, and Joe’s condition didn’t improve—it got worse. Pa had started talking about seeing a specialist in San Francisco. Doc Martin—good man though he was—had admitted he’d reached the limits of what he could do.

The water sample showed nothing except a large amount of green algae. Paul pointed out he would need one of those new-fangled devices that let you find tiny things, stuff that couldn’t be seen with the naked eye.

But my thoughts kept drifting back to that strange, black pond. I didn’t have proof, but something told me—gut feeling, instinct, call it what you want—that whatever was happening to Joe had started there. I had to go there again.

 

Like a dull, dark mirror, the small lake stretched out before me. I rubbed my eyes and blinked, staring into the stillness, trying to see through it—trying to force it to give up its secrets. Below the lead-colored surface, green strands of plants drifted lazily, waving me closer, inviting me to take a refreshing bath.

I didn’t even realize how close I’d gotten until the cold water lapped at the tips of my boots. Chubb’s sudden snort behind me snapped me out of the daze. I stumbled back, heart racing—and in that moment, I knew what I had to do.

 

Joe

Darkness.

Cold, wet darkness wrapped all around me. A rush of foul-tasting water flooded my mouth as I tried to breathe. Panic exploded in my chest. I fought upward—at least, I thought I did—but which way was up? My lungs screamed for air. The pressure in my ears built into a roar. If I could see anything, it would probably be stars. I was drowning.

I kicked, flailed—but slimy plants coiled around my arms and legs, pulling me down like the tentacles of some sea monster. One forced its way past my lips, entered my mouth, and crept down my throat. I gagged, convulsed—every nerve in my body on fire.

“Joe! Relax, it’s alright now.” It was Hoss’ voice—distant, muffled, but unmistakable. His warm hands were wrapped around my face. I pried my eyes open. Brightness flooded my consciousness, along with a wave of relief. I wasn’t underwater. It had only been a bad dream. But it felt more real, like a… memory? The creepy pond! Did that happen to me? Did the plants drag me underwater, and—

“Talk to me,” Hoss urged, his worried face hovering over me.

I blinked, realizing I was safe. Hoss was here.

I was… in a tipi? “Hoss, where—?” I tried to sit up, but something held me down. Not weeds. Ropes. “Hey! Why am I tied up?”

My wrists and ankles were lashed with linen strips—ripped-up bedsheets, by the look of it—bound to four wooden stakes driven deep into the ground. Hop Sing was going to be really mad about the ruined sheet.

Hoss crouched beside me, his hand resting on my forehead, brushing some hair from my face. His blue eyes shimmered as if he were on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry, Joe. But it has to be this way.”

“What has to be this way?” I twisted and strained, every muscle pulled tight. Useless. Hoss knew how to tie a man down. I flopped back onto the fur-covered ground with a groan.

The leather flap at the entrance swung open. A man stepped inside. He was about fifty and dressed in soft-looking buckskin. His skin was the color of weathered bronze. His hair, streaked with gray, was parted down the middle and braided into thick plaits that fell over his shoulders. Deep lines ran from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. He stopped at my feet and studied me with a solemn, unreadable face. His nose—huge and hooked—reminded me of a bird’s beak.

I suppressed the crazy laughter that bubbled up inside me. This was nuts.

Hoss stood up and gestured to the man. “Joe, this is Yellow Buffalo. He’s the Paiute medicine man.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” I said with all the sarcasm I could muster. I was pissed. “Would someone please explain what the hell is going on?”

Maybe I was still dreaming. If so, it was one vivid dream. The soft bear pelt under me. Bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. A bone-and-feather mobile swaying gently. Everything smelled of leather, smoke, and something sharp and bitter.

And worst of all—I was thirsty—desert-wandering, throat-on-fire thirsty. I licked my lips and met Hoss’s gaze. He looked away, staring at his boots like they were the most interesting thing in the world.

The medicine man knelt beside me and reached out. I flinched back as far as the restraints allowed—which wasn’t far. A few inches, maybe. Yellow Buffalo wrapped one big hand around the back of my neck to hold me still. With the other, he pulled down my lower eyelid, peering into my pupil. Then he untucked my shirt and pressed around on my belly.

I grunted and twisted. It hurt. My gut was swollen from days of drinking, and his poking wasn’t helping.

The Paiute’s face gave away nothing. His voice, though accented, was clear. “Your brother brought you to me. He wants me to heal you.”

“What? I’m fine! I’m not sick!” I snapped, glaring at Hoss, who was standing near the entrance like he wished he could disappear.

“You bathed in the pond, didn’t you?”

“That was weeks ago.”

“Did you not see the warning sign?”

My gaze darted around the tipi, then back to the man’s deep, dark eyes. “Which sign?” Then it dawned on me. Those rickety bones, half hidden in the grass, had been a warning. Couldn’t they have put up a sign instead of a couple of old bones? How was I supposed to know? Sure, I shouldn’t have wandered into Indian territory—but still.

The old man’s voice cut through my thoughts, rambling on about ancient myths. Had I missed something important?

“… and the legend says: anyone who comes in contact with the water will become ill. Plants grow inside them—take root in their belly—and kill them.”

I swallowed. My throat felt like sandpaper. “And how do you know I’m sick?”

“You can see the emerald green of the algae in your eyes. Your brother says you’re thirsty all the time. And you’ve lost weight.”

“That’s nonsense! And even if it’s true, I want a doctor, not some—” I bit my lip. Probably not a great idea to insult a grim-looking Paiute with a knife tucked under his belt, especially when he had all the power here.

“Doc Martin examined you, remember?” Hoss said quickly. “He was stumped. Said we should make sure you eat and just keep watching you.”

Of course, I remembered—at least the second exam last week. Paul had looked worried. He’d tested a sample from the pond with what limited tools he had, but aside from algae, there’d been nothing unusual.

“How did I even get here?” I frowned, digging through the fog in my brain for a memory. Piece by piece, it came back to me—Hoss riding out with me to check the herd, supposedly to look for strays. Hoss persuading me to stop by a ‘friend’s’ camp nearby. The dim tent where the air had reeked of some sharp, bubbling brew over the fire. I remembered how the Paiute had offered me a cup, and out of politeness, and because I was so thirsty, I downed it.

“Yeah… I kinda brought you here under false pretenses,” Hoss admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yellow Buffalo said you wouldn’t come willingly if you knew what we were planning.”

“And what are you planning?” I clenched my jaw until my teeth ached. It took everything I had not to scream at them. Why wouldn’t they untie me and just give me some water?

“Calm down.” The medicine man pressed a sinewy hand to my chest, pinning me down against the furs. “We must make the plants die.”

“How…?”

“We are depriving them of their livelihood, water. The plants need lots of water to thrive. That’s why you feel unbearable thirst.”

“You mean I can’t drink?” My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. My voice was already turning hoarse—or was I imagining that? “How long?”

“Two, maybe three days.”

Three days? How long had I already been here? A few hours? I didn’t think I could last another minute. My eyes locked on Hoss’s. I hated how desperate and pleading my voice sounded. “I’m thirsty. Please. Just a small sip.”

Hoss looked at the medicine man, his question unspoken. But Yellow Buffalo simply folded his arms across his broad chest and shook his head. His face was carved in stone. “This is the only way. No liquid for the next few days. It’s better, big white man, if you leave. It will be hard. You will not be able to bear seeing your brother suffer.”

Suffer. A chill crept down my spine. Hoss had lost his mind, leaving me in the care of some lunatic Paiute healer who was probably going to kill me with this so-called treatment. But there still was some tiny spark of hope. “Does Pa know…?”

Hoss looked uneasy. He rocked on the balls of his feet, clearly torn. God, I hoped he wouldn’t leave—but I was too proud to beg. Hoss scratched his cheek. “Pa and Adam would’ve stopped me. But I know this is the right way. Paul had no idea what’s causing this. Look at yourself, Joe. You’ve wasted away! You can’t keep going like this!”

I sighed and tugged at the restraints—not out of rage anymore, but resignation. “Okay. I understand, but please untie me. I’ll be good. I’ll do whatever Yellow Buffalo says.”

The medicine man shook his head. “Too dangerous. You would do anything to get water. The sick person becomes unpredictable and develops unnatural strength.”

So that’s why I was tied down. Not stretched flat—but still too short to reach the knots. Sweat gathered on my brow, and I licked my salty upper lip. Darn. I was trapped. And if this treatment didn’t work, it would kill me.

Yellow Buffalo looked determined. Hoss, not so much. His eyes—blue and full of pain—met mine. He straightened his shoulders. “I’m staying.”

“Your choice.” The medicine man turned to the pot and ladled out a small amount into a cup. Then he slipped a hand behind my neck to lift me and pressed the cup to my lips. A sharp, bitter smell hit my nostrils. “Something to calm you,” he said, catching my suspicious glance.

I didn’t want to drink it. I wanted to turn away, clamp my mouth shut. But something inside me caved. I was so darn thirsty, I’d have swallowed anything.

It tasted even worse than it smelled—and it wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy the burning in my throat. “More,” I begged.

Yellow Buffalo shook his head and laid me gently back on the furs. The potion worked fast. A heavy drowsiness spread through me, pulling me under.

 

Hoss

I woke with a start, dazed and disoriented, until I remembered where I was: still inside Yellow Buffalo’s tipi. I blinked, rubbed the grit from my eyes. This was the third evening, and they’d been hellish days for Joe.

The bitter herb brew had only helped in short bursts—enough to put Joe to sleep now and then. Not once had I regretted my decision to stay. I had to be here with Joe to go through it with him. As hard as it was to watch him suffer, what he was enduring was far worse.

I had listened in silence to his curses, his screams, his desperate begging for water. But I had no choice. This was the only chance to save him from certain death.

I trusted the Paiute’s ancient wisdom—passed down through generations. They understood things white folks didn’t. Things science and logic couldn’t explain.

For the hundredth time, I dipped a soft cloth into the clay bowl of water and wiped down Joe’s fevered skin. His eyes were closed—thank God. I couldn’t stand the pain and pleading I saw in them.

I stepped outside for a moment to stretch my stiff limbs and take a deep breath of the crisp air, before my sense of duty drove me back to watch over my brother. Bracing myself. I ducked inside the sweltering tent, thick with the smells of sweat, smoke, and herbs.

Joe was a wreck. He lay spread-eagled on the flattened fur, his hair matted and clinging to his clammy forehead. His face was gray, his skin dry like old parchment. But what scared me most was that he’d stopped fighting. At first, he had raged, struggled against his bonds, and hurled curses at me. Then he turned to begging, promising to do anything I asked if I would untie him.

Now, he hovered in that twilight between sleep and unconsciousness. From time to time, he convulsed in violent spasms. The Paiute said it was a good sign. His body fought the disease. My gaze wandered to Joe’s wrists. Although we’d used soft fabric for the bindings, his skin would be scraped raw.

Joe had given up. I knew he couldn’t last much longer. And I couldn’t do anything but be by his side—let him know he wasn’t alone. Again and again, my anxious gaze darted to his chest. I heaved a sigh of relief when I saw Joe was still breathing.

As if Joe had sensed my glance, a pair of green eyes cracked open, dull and exhausted. “Hoss,” he whispered. He looked small. Vulnerable. Like the little kid he used to be. The sound of his voice stabbed me straight through the heart. That one word, Hoss, told me everything. He was asking me, begging me, to end this. To give him water. To take him home. It was my job to protect him—not to put him through this agony.

But sometimes… Sometimes you had to endure pain to be healed—like when Doc had to cut a bullet out of someone’s flesh.

I winced at the thought of Pa. He must be losing his mind with worry. I’d left a note, sure—but vague enough that no one could really know where we went or what we were doing. No, I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation when we got back.

Yellow Buffalo stepped inside just as I crouched beside Joe again, brushing a damp curl from his face.

“How much longer?” I asked.

The medicine man knelt by Joe, pulled down an eyelid, and studied his eyes for a solid minute. I held my breath. Then a terrible thought struck me out of nowhere. “Yellow Buffalo… could Joe have passed this thing on to someone else? Like the flu—or smallpox?”

The Paiute palpated Joe’s stomach. It was sunken now, no longer bloated like it had been three days ago. “The legend says that through close contact, the Green Death—as we call it—can be passed to others.”

“You mean…” I swallowed. Heat crept up my neck.

“Yes. If he shared a bed with a woman or kissed her deeply, she may have it, too.”

“Joe doesn’t have a steady girl right now. And he wouldn’t, uh… You know, sleep with a saloon girl.” At least I hoped he wouldn’t, I thought, as an image of Joe and Julia Bulette crossed my mind.

Yellow Buffalo had finished his examination and looked genuinely satisfied. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “The green tint in the whites of his eyes is completely gone, and his belly is soft and flat.”

I blinked in disbelief. “You mean… he’s cured?” I could hardly believe it. Could it be over—with no lasting damage?

The medicine man nodded. “I have never personally seen someone infected with the Green Death before, but I know the old stories and the signs. Just to be sure, I will run one last test.”

Despite the stifling heat inside the tent, a chill ran down my spine as he reached for the knife at his belt and brought the dull-glinting blade to Joe’s forearm.

When the steel pierced the skin, I clenched my jaw and forced myself not to look away.

The cut was small—only a few inches long. Joe flinched and let out a low moan, but otherwise didn’t react. Thick blood oozed sluggishly from the wound and was caught in a shallow bowl. Yellow Buffalo added water and stirred it with a wooden stick.

While he worked, I wrapped a strip of cloth around Joe’s arm, even though the bleeding had already stopped. He was dry as a desert weed—honestly, it was a miracle there was any blood left to flow.

I tried to sneak a peek at the bowl. “And?”

“If the plants were still alive, they would swell on contact with water and grow rapidly. But your brother is healed. The plant is dead. We should let him drink—just a few sips at first, then gradually more. After that, we’ll untie him and take him down to the river for a bath.”

My hands were trembling as I slid an arm behind Joe’s shoulders to lift his limp body to my chest. He didn’t smell like roses, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was going to be okay.

I touched his cheek. “Joe, you made it. You can drink now.”

His eyes snapped open, staring at me in disbelief. Yellow Buffalo had been right—the green was a normal Joe-green again. Not that eerie, glowing shade from before. I took the clay bowl of clean water the Paiute handed me and held it to Joe’s cracked lips. “Slowly,” I warned, as he drank too fast and choked, setting off a fierce coughing fit.

After several bowls of water, spread over time, a smile flickered across Joe’s face for the first time in three days—and it was the most beautiful sight I could imagine. I blinked hard, swallowing against the lump that had formed in my throat.

“Thanks,” Joe croaked and licked his parched lips, giving me an exhausted look. “The whole thing feels like a nightmare.”

“You’re not mad at me, are you? I tricked you. Forced you into this.”

Joe shook his head. “No. I know you meant well. You did what you had to.”

I gave him a wry grin. “You’re gonna be fine. I promise.”

As I stroked his hair, Yellow Buffalo began untying the linen stripes. Then I scooped Joe up in my arms. Geeze, he was light. Hop Sing would need a few weeks to fatten him up again.

“How about a bath in the river?” I asked as I stepped outside with him.

“Music to my ears,” Joe whispered, his voice a little less hoarse, his grin stretching wide as life began to return to his eyes. “But you’re not carrying me. Let me down—I can walk.”

 

“You sure you can ride?” I asked, frowning at Joe, who kind of swayed in the saddle. Even after his bath and a hearty bowl of broth, he was still pale as a sheet, his face sunken, with dark circles under his eyes. The last few days had been brutal. For both of us.

“I’m fine. Let’s just get home.”

I shook Yellow Buffalo’s hand before mounting Chubb. “Thanks again for healing my brother. The Cartwrights will always be there for the Paiute. As promised, you can pick one of our cattle.”

The medicine man returned my handshake and gave a solemn nod. “May the Great Spirit go with you.” Standing proud in front of his tipi, he watched us ride off.

In the weeks to come, I’d keep an eye out for signs that someone else around Joe might have been infected. But I was pretty sure we were in the clear. For a brief moment, I’d worried about the kiss Joe gave me on the cheek the night we’d seen the doc—but Yellow Buffalo had reassured me. If I were sick, I’d have shown symptoms by now.

Our horses ambled along, seeming just as relieved as we were to be headed back. I could only hope Pa would be glad enough to see Joe safe and sound that he would forgive me for acting on my own.

But whatever lecture waited for me—I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

 

Epilogue — Belle

“Come on, Belle! What’s takin’ you so long at that mirror?”

The cowboy I’d brought upstairs, Brad, if I remembered right, sounded annoyed. He was already sitting on my bed, pants unbuttoned, tugging off his boots.

“Just a minute,” I murmured, still staring at my reflection. Something about the color of my eyes had me hooked—a faint shimmer, a green gleam that hadn’t been there before. I blinked. Maybe it was just the light?

Shaking my head, I turned away to pour myself a glass of water. I drained it in one go—but the thirst didn’t go away. I needed more. I filled another glass. Then another.

The cowboy patted the mattress beside him. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get down to business.”

I walked over and straddled his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Money first,” I breathed against his stubbly cheek.

He slapped a greenback on my nightstand before sliding his calloused hands under my dress. His stench of sweat and whiskey didn’t bother me. I was used to it.

With a smile, I remembered how Joe Cartwright always smelled of Bay Rum. I hadn’t seen him in the past few weeks. Although he hadn’t been at his best that evening, he’d flirted with me in his charming way and planted a very wet kiss right on my mouth before passing out drunk at the poker table. I never let men kiss me—but Joe had always treated me with respect. So, I let it slide, just that once.

Out of nowhere, a strange urge overcame me—an uncontrollable need to kiss the man before me. I knocked his hat onto the bed, tangled my fingers in his wiry hair, and pulled him in.

Our mouths met in a wet, greedy kiss. My tongue pressed against his lips, demanding entrance. He tasted bitter—of cigarettes and cheap booze. First, he made a surprised noise, then gave in, melting into the kiss.

Yes, that felt right.

When we finally pulled apart, both a little breathless, I touched my tingling lips. That thirst—still there. My gaze flicked to the pitcher on the dresser, then back to Brad. “Maybe you can help me forget how thirsty I am,” I whispered.

I kissed him again—deeper this time, more desperate. Not out of lust. Out of need. Something dark and unfamiliar was driving me. It flowed through my veins, curled in my gut.

The cowboy grabbed me and pushed me down onto the bed, fumbling with my layers. He didn’t seem to notice that something was wrong.

A strange fatigue crept over me. Maybe it was just the dust in this town—or the dry wind blowing through the open window, rustling the curtains. Maybe I was exhausted from working too many nights.

I closed my eyes, pushing the thought away, and let the cowboy do as he pleased.

When we were done, I went over to the washstand to freshen up with a damp cloth, while the cowboy, now dressed again, already had his hand on the doorknob.

“Hey, Brad, would you mind sending the next one up? Didn’t your friend want a turn, too?” I shoved the empty jug into his hand. “And tell him to bring some fresh water, will you?”

“Sure, Belle.” Brad tipped the brim of his hat and shot me a crooked smile before stomping down the stairs to the saloon.

With a sigh, I fixed my hair in front of the mirror and touched up my lipstick. I felt a little better, not quite so thirsty and tired, as if something inside me was satisfied, because I passed on the load.

Yeah, it sounded strange, but I couldn’t put it any other way.

Shared sorrow is half a sorrow, isn’t it?

 

The End

 

Written October 2024, edited again in October 2025

Episode referred to: The Julia Bulette Story

Tags: SJS, Halloween