Summary: In the Season 12 episode “El Jefe,” Joe is unaccountably wearing a red shirt.  This is so strange and unprecedented that it required a What Happened Before to explain it.

Rating: G | Word Count: 2,293

Joe leaned on his pitchfork, wiped the sweat from his brow, and viewed the remaining expanse of barn floor still to be mucked out with dissatisfaction.  Hoss sure had gotten the better end of the deal today, off for a nice wagon ride to get supplies and probably have a beer in town, while he was stuck mucking out the barn.

“This is not my favorite part of having horses,” he informed Cochise, whose stall was next.  “I don’t blame you.  It’s not your fault.  But this is not much fun.”

He’d mucked out plenty of stalls, over plenty of years, but it never got any less smelly.  He heaved a sigh, and hoisted up the pitchfork again.  “All right, let’s get it done,” he said and, when Chub chimed in with a whinny from the next stall over, added, “Don’t worry, I’ll get to you too.  I’ll have you out of your stall in a minute.”

Chub tossed his head up higher, stamping the ground.

“Hey, easy, I said I’ll get to you!” Joe protested.  “You’re like big brother waiting for meal time.”

The horse stamped again, and Joe set down the pitchfork to come over and pat his flank.  “Calm down, there’s no rush.  And if you aren’t happy that Hoss went out without you, well, he’ll be back later.”

The normally-calm horse shied away and Joe backed up, hands raised.  “Hey, take it easy, pal, I just—”

One boot landed on the pitchfork’s handle.  It rolled beneath him, his foot went out from under him, and Joe crashed down onto the barn floor with a thud.  The barn floor that was currently covered in mud and straw and far less savory things.

Joe sat up and glared at the two horses.  “Nobody laugh.”

Cochise whinnied in what was definitely a horse snicker, and Chub looked back as innocently as though he had had no involvement in the situation at all.

“I bet Hoss put you up to this,” Joe muttered, getting up and trying to brush hideous-smelling muck off of his clothes.  Which accomplished nothing except to smear it around.

He was just trying to decide if it was better to finish the job and then change clothes, or if he ought to change first, when he heard the rattle of wheels out in the yard.  He took a quick peek out the half-open barn door, in time to see Hoss helping a man in the back of the wagon.  Looked like one of the Mexican farmers from over Prince River direction, but Joe couldn’t think of the name.

“Big brother and his strays,” Joe murmured.  And big brother was never going to let him forget it, if he saw him covered in all of…this.  He could practically hear Hoss’ big laugh echoing through the barn already.

Only one option available.  As quickly and as quietly as he could, Joe slipped out the side door of the barn, snuck around the house while Hoss was focused on his friend in the wagon, got in at the back door and nipped up the back staircase, sliding safely into his own room with a sigh of relief.

Like mucking out stalls, sneaking around the house was something Joe’d had a great deal of experience with.  It didn’t come up as much as in his younger days, but the skills survived.

He shed his stinking clothes into a pile on the floor, did a quick wash of his hands in the basin in his room, and opened up his wardrobe.  It was easy to grab a pair of pants from the stack on the shelf, but he had to push past several spare green jackets to find a shirt.  Now that he thought about it, wasn’t it laundry day?  He must’ve been pretty rough on his shirts this week, with only three tan ones still hanging in there.  There had to be at least half a dozen or more in Hop Sing’s laundry pile.  He pulled on one of the clean shirts from the wardrobe, checked in the mirror, and pronounced himself fit for human – especially big brother’s – sight again.

As Joe opened his door, he could hear voices from downstairs.  Hoss and Pa and Hop Sing, all in the great room.  Perfect, he could get out the back, dump his clothes in the laundry pile, and get back over to the barn, with no one knowing about his unfortunate tumble and its smelly result.

All went fine, right until he was walking past the kitchen door on his way to the barn, quiet-like to avoid attention.

Too quiet, maybe, when the door opened and Joe suddenly found himself liberally splashed with filthy water.

“Oh…sorry, Joe,” Jamie said, holding a dripping dishpan and looking at him with wide eyes.  “Hop Sing asked me to toss out the dishwater…”

Joe looked down at his fresh shirt, now thoroughly drenched, with bits of scrambled egg and shreds of potato peels clinging to the cloth.  “Shouldn’t you be in school?” he said through clenched teeth, not trusting himself to say more.

“Late start today,” Jamie explained, “so I was helping Hop Sing, and, uh…I am sorry, Joe, you know, I didn’t mean…you know what, I’m just going to go to school.”  He nodded vigorously.  “Yeah, I’ll just…see you later then.”

“Good plan,” Joe managed.

Jamie scampered off towards the barn, while Joe tried to remember if he’d ever thrown dirty water on Hoss or Adam when he was younger.  Pretty sure they would have dumped him in the horse trough if he had.

Gritting his teeth, he went back inside through the kitchen door, just as Hop Sing came in from the direction of the great room, carrying a bundle of cloth.  The man’s eyes opened up wide.  “What Little Joe do?  No dripping on Hop Sing’s floor!”

“I know, I know,” Joe said, waving a hand, and made for the back stair again.  “I was just going to change.”

Back upstairs again, another shirt shed, another one pulled from the wardrobe.  He felt less satisfied as he checked in the mirror this time.  He looked all right, but he was beginning to have an uncomfortable suspicion that some smells of barnyard and breakfast residue still lingered.  Maybe a little sprinkling of aftershave to cover up with a better scent.

When his intended light sprinkling led to a cap popping off, the bottle fumbling in his hand, and most of the contents spilling down his front, he wasn’t really surprised.  It was that kind of day.

What was a nice smell in a small amount was a pretty overpowering reek in this quantity, not to mention his entire front was soaked.

Another shirt for the laundry pile, and Joe reached into the closet for a new replacement…only to come up with nothing but green corduroy.  He frowned, and riffled through the jackets twice, then a third time.

He was sure there had been three shirts in there when he first came in from the barn.  He’d lost one to Jamie’s dishwater, another to the aftershave, there should be one left.

But now that he thought about it…hadn’t Hop Sing been carrying cloth of just about the right color, when he came into the kitchen downstairs?

“Hop Sing!” Joe hollered from his doorway.  Better to yell than to go downstairs with no shirt on and start inviting questions.  “Hey, Hop Sing, where’s my shirt?”

Thumping on the stairs, and the little cook burst into the upstairs hallway on a flood of Chinese.

“My shirt, Hop Sing,” Joe repeated, when there was a pause in the flow.  “What happened to it?”

Hop Sing threw up his hands, glowered at Joe.  “Hop Sing take shirt for Mr. Hoss’ friend.  Friend need new shirt.”

“Why my shirt?  What’s wrong with his clothes?”

“Too dirty,” Hop Sing pronounced.  “And covered in blood.”

Oh, so it was one of that kind of stray.  And it wasn’t that Joe begrudged helping someone, but he was standing here with no shirt and no options.  “Can’t he have one of Hoss’ shirts?”

Hop Sing shook a finger at him.  “Too big.  Little Joe stop trying to take shirt off wounded man’s back!”

“But it’s my shirt!” Joe protested.  “My last one!”  And surely the man hadn’t even had a chance to put it on yet.  “Can’t you find another one for him?”

“Hop Sing not have time to go hunt for shirts!  Little Joe go look for shirt himself!”

Hop Sing whirled and stomped off down the stairs, muttering in Chinese again.  Joe stared at his retreating back, and wondered just what he was supposed to do now.

All of his own shirts were in the laundry.  Even his white one, which hadn’t been washed since Sunday services.  He could just wear a jacket, but…no, even fastened all the way up, it would be obvious if he didn’t have a shirt underneath.

Hoss’ shirts would be tents on him, and wearing one would provoke even more ribbing than if he’d been caught in the barn in his original dirty one.

Pa’s shirts…would probably fit better than Hoss’, but somehow he didn’t quite dare go invade Pa’s wardrobe.  And that went double for Hop Sing’s clothes.

Jamie’s would be too tight, and as ridiculous in their own way as wearing one of Hoss’ shirts.

In desperation, Joe opened up the linen cupboard in the hall.  Maybe some past stray had left some clothes behind.  That would have a sort of poetic justice to it, since a stray was currently in possession of his last clean shirt.

Towels, sheets, spare blankets.  He pulled folded cloth out of the cupboard, searching into the depths for anything left forgotten at the back.  There were unexpected things in there, like the quilt that used to be on Adam’s bed, and a blue dress left by…he wasn’t sure which of their female guests, but one of them must have forgotten it.

Nothing useful until he finally spied a glimpse of red way at the back.  He knew what it was even before he pulled it out, shaking the shirt loose of its folds.

Candy had left about six months ago, for no particularly good reason.  Not one that made sense to Joe, anyway.  Something about wanting to figure out where he belonged and what he wanted and who he was.

It was obvious where he belonged.  Right here, on the Ponderosa, and if Candy couldn’t see that, well, good riddance, then.

Joe sighed, holding up the bright red shirt.  He remembered now, that Hop Sing had found it in the laundry three days after Candy’d gone.

In spite of himself, he found himself picturing the way Candy would grin at his current predicament.

“You went through how many shirts in ten minutes?” Candy’d say, and throw back his head and laugh.  And Joe’d probably laugh too, if Candy was laughing, because they’d always laughed a lot together.  Candy would have helped him sneak into the house if he was here.  And he’d definitely throw him the spare shirt and tell him to go ahead and wear it, if he was that hard-up for a shirt.

“All right then, I will,” Joe said quietly, just as though Candy really had told him that, just as though Candy could hear him answer, from wherever he was.

He pulled the shirt on, took a look in the mirror.  It fit better than Hoss’ would, but although it pained him to admit it, it looked better on Candy.

“Well, if you want it back,” he told the imagined Candy, who would surely shake his head and agree that it looked better on him, “come back and get it.”

Because he didn’t really mean good riddance.

He took another look in the mirror, grimaced, and pulled one of his green jackets on over the shirt.  This did not help, but he gave up and headed downstairs anyway.

Down in the kitchen, Hoss’ friend was sitting at the table, Joe’s shirt draped around his shoulders, explaining to Pa and Hoss and Hop Sing about how he’d been wounded and why he was being accused of murder.

Definitely one of those kinds of strays.

Joe managed to hang at the back, and it was a while before the story paused enough that Hoss and Pa glanced back and took a proper look at him.  Pa’s eyes widened while Hoss did a visible double-take.

“Little Joe,” Hoss said after a moment, “what are you wearing?”

Joe glared at him.  “It’s just a shirt, all right?”

“Yeah, but…”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Joe snapped.

“Yeah, but—”

“Little Joe need cup of coffee,” Hop Sing interrupted, pushing a mug into Joe’s hand.  “And Little Joe take off jacket.  Getting too hot under collar.”

“Doesn’t go with the shirt anyway,” Hoss remarked, and even Pa was grinning, though at least he was trying to hide it.

Joe glowered at everyone, but took a drink of Hop Sing’s coffee.  He had to admit the man made good coffee.  And he was right that it was too warm in the kitchen for the jacket.

The stray, still sitting at the table, was looking confused.  Joe was going to have to find out his name some time.  “I don’t understand…”

“It’s just a shirt,” Joe repeated.  “Go on with your story.”

He’d take off his jacket, and drink his coffee, and hear the stray’s story.  Then he’d go back out to finish his work in the barn, and he’d better do it very carefully, because he didn’t know what he was going to wear if he made a mess of this shirt.

Besides, Candy really might want it back someday.

The End

Author’s Note: Just a warning that if you decide to go watch “El Jefe,” it does not match this story in light-hearted tone! It’s also very much not a Joe episode – he apparently continues not wanting to talk, because he only has one line of dialogue. In one further clarifier, Jamie does not actually appear in this episode, but he should be on the ranch at this time so I wrote him in.