Summary: A What Happens Between and Instead for “Song in the Dark.”  What if the Cartwrights were able to help Mary Johnson to a better ending?  The show is an Adam episode, but this is a mostly Joe, slightly Hoss story, and part of my Lady in the House AU series.  All you need to know to pick up the series here is that Joe married Liza near the beginning of Season 4, a handful of months before this story.

Rating: PG | Word Count: 12,507

Lady in the House Series
A Visitor from San Francisco
Older Brothers
Figures from the Past

1.

Hoss was lying in bed and considering the benefits of throwing a pillow at the window (it would accomplish nothing but might be mildly satisfying) when his door creaked open and a robe-wearing Little Joe stumbled blearily in.

“He’s at it again,” Joe announced.

“Oh, I know, little brother,” Hoss groaned.

The strains of guitar music and Danny Morgan’s voice singing endlessly about the red rock rim filtered in even through the closed window.  Every night since he’d hired on a week ago, he’d been riding and singing, singing and riding, and always the same song.

“We’ve gotta get Adam to talk to him about this,” Joe moaned, dropping into Hoss’ armchair, head leaning on one fist.

“Tried,” Hoss grunted.  “Says he’s got a right to sing.  You know how he feels indebted to Danny for saving his life out in the desert.”

“Yeah, yeah.  You’d think giving him the job would be enough.  But once older brother gets stubborn…”

“Yeah.  You sure it’s not better over at your house?”

Little Joe shook his head.  “Worse.  That’s why Liza and me are here.  He rides by our place even earlier.”  He cracked a slight smile.  “And at least here I’ve got someone to complain to.”

“He doesn’t wake Liza up?”

Joe yawned dramatically.  “Nah.  She says his voice is soothing.”  He grimaced, eyebrows bunching together.  “Women are mysterious.”

“You don’t have to tell me, brother.”

“Don’t tell Liza I said so, though.  She likes to think she makes sense.”

Hoss nodded agreement.  “Must be something about singing that gets to women.  Works when Adam does it.  And remember how the girls all fell over Hank Miller?”

Joe shuddered.  “Big brother, I already can’t get enough sleep.  Don’t give me nightmares.”

“Yeah.”  Hoss scratched his head, rumpling up his already rumpled hair.  “What I can’t figure is why Danny doesn’t wake Pa up.  One of us tries to sneak in or out of the house, Pa’s got ears like a bat.  But this he sleeps through.”

“Just our bad luck.  If Pa was losing sleep, he’d put a stop to it quick.”  Joe yawned again and stretched.  “All right, reckon I’m up.  Might as well go get dressed.”  He stood up and moved to the door.  “When do you suppose Danny sleeps?”

Hoss shrugged.  “Women ain’t the only mysterious ones.”

2.

Mary Johnson always looked forward to her visits to the Ponderosa.  The Cartwrights were among the few people her husband tolerated.

“Toleration is not the same as approval, of course,” he had said many times.  So many times.  “I know Ben Cartwright to be an upstanding, God-fearing man, but those three sons of his…”  And here he always shook his head regretfully.  “The trips to the saloon, the drinking, the fights, the women.  A sad thing, when a father does not provide the proper guidance and discipline to his boys.”

Privately, Mary thought that the Cartwright boys all seemed old enough to make their own decisions, and that on the whole, they seemed about as fine a bunch as any parent could ask for.  Only privately, of course.  If she expressed too much support for the Cartwrights and their supposedly wicked ways, William would only shake his head sorrowfully, pray at her for hours and, much worse, decide that it would be best if she no longer accompanied him on trips to the Ponderosa.

And all William’s tolerations and reservations didn’t stop him from borrowing a plow from the Cartwrights, or from smiling pleasantly when they drove over to the Ponderosa to return the plow, and to bring over her fresh-made preserves.  William had private doubts about the godliness of such sweet things as jams and jellies, but he liked the money they brought in when she sold them.

Adam was playing the guitar on the porch when they drove their wagon up, so Mary knew William’s prayers that evening would be long on the evils of music.  She had played the piano, when she was a girl.  William had tolerated it in the house in the early days of their marriage, as long as she played nothing but hymns.  But even that had been many years ago now. His feelings on music – on everything – had grown more and more severe over the years.  Still, a long prayer about the Devil’s tools, guitars and pianofortes, would be an improvement on William’s treatises on the inherent evils of women.  So on balance, it was another reason to smile as Adam greeted them.

Mary thought she recognized the ranch hand who came to help carry the big boxes of preserves.  She was almost sure she had seen him before, through her window, riding through the night on a big white horse.

When she followed him to the Ponderosa kitchen with the preserves, she even dared to ask him about it, after there was a door closed between them and William outside.  “Are you the one who rides at night?  With your guitar?”

“Yes, ma’am, reckon that’s me,” the ranch hand said, voice slow, with an easy smile.  “Hope I wasn’t disturbing you none.”

“Oh no,” she said quickly.  “No.”  She liked the chance to hear music.  He was always singing just the one song, and somehow, even though she knew it wasn’t true, she liked to pretend that he was singing to her.  Maybe because the woman referenced in the song was named Mary.  Though of course Mary was a desperately common name, and unlike that other Mary of the song, no one would describe her as young and fair.  Once, maybe, but not now.

He set the boxes down on the big block in the center of the room and turned to go.

In a fit of daring, Mary asked, “What’s your name?”

“Danny, ma’am.  Danny Morgan.  And I heard that yer Mrs. Johnson.”

“Yes.  Mary Johnson,” she said, because at least her first name was her own.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Danny Morgan.”

From the bashful look in his eye, she wasn’t sure he would say anything more.  Maybe.

But Liza, Joe Cartwright’s wife, came into the kitchen from the dining room, smiling and calling, “Hello, Mary!  I just heard that you’d dropped by.”

Mary liked Liza.  She was friendly and warm and no-nonsense at the same time, and even though she and Joe had their own house, they seemed to live half at Ben Cartwright’s house too.  That was nice, family all together.

William didn’t like Liza.  He said it was one of Mary’s flaws, that she liked so many people.  Especially people who he not only didn’t approve of, but could only just barely tolerate.  After all, Liza had worked in newspapers before she was married; William said that was no fit occupation for a delicate female, as it meant exposure to all sorts of sordid people and incidents, and newspaper offices were known havens of drinking, smoking and vulgar language.  Even more damning, it was rumored that Liza wrote stories.  Mary had liked the stray novel, once upon a time, but William didn’t approve of fiction, or tolerate it in his presence.

“Are you still sure I can’t tease your recipe for strawberry rhubarb jam out of you?” Liza asked, lifting up jars of preserves to read the labels.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mary saw Danny Morgan slip out the door again.  “If I gave all my recipes away,” Mary said, “what would happen to my reputation?”

“Not all the recipes, just Joe’s favorite,” Liza countered, smiling.  “But I understand, we all need our secrets.”

Mary felt a pang at that, because her life was far too full of secrets.

“Can I persuade you about the sewing circle I want to start up, though?” Liza continued.  “The men all have their cattle drives and their posses and their trips to the saloons, and I still say there ought to be more ways for the women to be sociable too.”

They had spoken about this the last time the Johnsons had visited, when they came to borrow the plow a week ago.  Liza was trying to gather together women from the nearby ranches in some sort of regular social meeting, to sew together but also to talk together, share news and recipes and stave off the loneliness of these big, empty spreads of land.

It sounded like a nice idea.  A cheerful, sociable sort of idea.

William approved of sewing, but he wouldn’t see why women had to do it gathered together.  She could hear exactly what he would say, that it was simply an opportunity for gossip and idleness.  She hadn’t bothered to actually mention it to him, because he would certainly never even tolerate such an idea proposed by Liza Cartwright, writer of stories and former newspaper woman.  The Cartwright name only bought so much sufferance.

“It does sound lovely,” Mary said reluctantly, not wanting to offend, “and I do thank you for inviting me.  But I don’t think I’ll be able to join you.  There’s just so much to do at home, you know.”

She saw it all on Liza’s face, the way her eyes gleamed with more persuasions, the way she started to open her mouth to make them, and then how her eyes narrowed as she saw something – but what exactly? – on Mary’s face that made her change her mind.  “If that’s how you feel,” she said slowly, gaze still fixed on Mary, “it was only an idea.  Just let me know if you ever change your mind.”

“Of course,” Mary murmured.  Had she offended Liza?  Or had the other woman seen something of Mary’s biggest secret, something of what she kept carefully hidden away from everyone?

The secret was such a nebulous thing, such an insubstantial thing.  After all, her husband didn’t beat her or starve her.  She had a good house, good clothes, a respectable place in society.  So many women had less than that.  It was only that, day after day and year after year, one by one William had turned away every little happy thing, every part of life that gave a little joy or a little pleasure.  Music or friends or even jam on toast in the morning.  And always, always, he prayed and lectured and reasoned and insisted, in that ringing voice meant for a wide-open church building and not their narrow, cramped rooms, until finally she agreed, until finally she told him he was right, that such things could only be bad for the soul.  Until finally she said Amen to all of his hateful, hate-filled prayers.

Sometimes she thought it was those Amens that were the worst part, the part that most fed the secret lodged just beneath her heart.  Which was that she was utterly and entirely miserable.  That she was so lonely that a stranger’s voice singing in the dark these last few nights had felt like a gleam of light such as she hadn’t seen in years.

Liza was still looking at her, brow creasing as though she was trying to puzzle something out, and in another moment she was going to say something, ask something—

“I’d best get back outside to William,” Mary said hurriedly.

“I’ll walk out with you,” Liza said.

“No need, I’m sure you’re very busy,” Mary said, knowing she was being rude, knowing that by all rights that would offend the other woman.  But if she walked out with Liza, William would want to know what they had been discussing, and he would be so sure that it had been dreadful, sordid things that the full and entire truth wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him.  He’d spend all evening on the evils of Liza Cartwright instead of music after all.  And she didn’t want to have to say Amen to that.

So she hurried back outside, pretending she hadn’t seen Liza’s frown, and the other woman didn’t emerge from the kitchen behind her.  The rest of the Cartwrights were outside now, but it still took only a brief flurry of conversation before Mary and William were back in the wagon, turning the horses to go home.

Mary saw Danny Morgan standing by the barn as they drove past, caught just a glimpse of his soft smile as he watched them drive out of the yard.

She remembered that smile on the way home.  And she remembered it when she heard the news that Danny Morgan had been arrested for murdering the Widow Baker.  For strangling her with his bare hands, as William had said when he told the story, with a note in his voice that, in another man, she would have said sounded almost like glee.

3.

Liza didn’t have a strong belief about Danny Morgan’s guilt or innocence.  It was shocking, of course, when he was accused of murder and arrested, but more because of proximity than because of the individual involved.  It was disturbing to think of a man who worked for the Cartwrights, who had been in the kitchen with her and Mary Johnson that very day, as a man accused of strangling a woman.  But she knew from her time with The Morning Call that the most unexpected people could be hiding dark secrets, or have unimagined depths within them.

She thought Mary Johnson was hiding something, though she couldn’t see what.

She also knew that sometimes the law made mistakes, that Danny Morgan had only been arrested, not yet tried and not yet convicted.  And Adam was adamant that Danny was innocent, that he couldn’t possibly have killed and robbed anyone, not after he’d saved Adam’s life in the desert and left thousands of dollars untouched in his saddlebags.

Liza wasn’t averse to arguing with Adam as a general principle, not even when he got that stubborn set to his mouth that said he was going to go dog-headedly on no matter what anyone said, no matter the evidence, no matter anything.  But she didn’t have a strong stance to take in this case.

So when Danny Morgan showed up at the door during supper, escaped from jail, and Adam sent him out to the bunkhouse instead of hauling him back into town, she left it to Joe to shake his head in disapproval, and to Ben to question the decision.  And when Hoss walked in the door and announced that Danny had ridden off on his big white horse, she wasn’t going to be the one to tell Adam that he’d made a mistake as he grabbed his hat and gun, and headed into town to talk to Deputy Sykes.

“I don’t understand,” Hoss rumbled, as he began eating the plate of food Adam had handed him on his way out the door, originally intended for the now-fled Danny Morgan.  “Why weren’t you taking Danny back to jail?”

“Adam thought it would be dangerous for him in the jail, with the town riled up,” Ben said, stalking back to the table and dropping into his seat with a frustrated air.

“Gonna be even worse if someone comes across him out loose,” Hoss pointed out.

“For him or for anyone he meets?” Joe asked, eyebrows scrunched low.

“Well, I don’t know,” Hoss said, and carried the plate over to the table.  “Both, maybe?  Either?”

Liza had never stood up from the table to begin with, Joe stepping in front of her chair as soon as Danny appeared in the doorway.  She nudged at the last of her food, but didn’t feel much appetite.  She had the nasty feeling that something terrible was going to happen tonight, that they couldn’t possibly make it all the way to dawn without a new tragedy.  Not with all the things stacked against it.

“We should probably let the nearby ranches know,” Ben said with a sigh, and got to his feet again.  “I’ll walk out to the bunkhouse, send a few men out to warn the neighbors.  And  warn the hands out there, in case Danny rides back in after all.”

“You think he will?” Joe asked.

Ben’s exasperated expression was eloquent.  “No,” was all he said before striding to the door.

“Older brother’s really done it this time,” Hoss said, shaking his head as he worked through the plate of food.

“Yeah, if he can’t get Danny back, isn’t that a crime for letting him go?  Accessory or obstruction or something?” Joe said, finally reclaiming his seat at the table too.

Hoss shrugged.  “Adam’d know.”

“I don’t understand, though,” Liza spoke up.  “Why isn’t anyone trying to catch Danny?”

“I’d’ve stopped him if I’d realized,” Hoss said, “but he’s long out of sight now.”

“But do you think you could track him?” Liza asked.  Hoss was the acknowledged best tracker of the family.

Hoss frowned, scratched at his hair.  “Not usually worth trying to track anybody until daylight.  Finding a trail’s pretty tough by dark.”

“Usually, yeah, but you at least know what direction he started out,” Joe said, leaning across the table towards Hoss, eyes alight.  “Danny only left five minutes ago, and it’s a bright, clear night, with that full moon.  And that big white horse of his will be visible for miles in open country.”

“If he’s smart, he won’t make for open country,” Hoss pointed out.

“When has Danny ever ridden around trying to hide?” Joe countered.  “Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s out there singing again.”

“Well, we could at least try it, see if there’s any trail to pick up,” Hoss said, picking up the last biscuit as he rose from the table again.

“And then we can tell brother Adam all about how we found his escaped criminal,” Joe said, grinning as he got up too.  “Liza, honey, you’d better stay here—”

She shook her head.  “No, I’m coming with you.”

Joe’s grin vanished.  “We don’t know what’ll happen if we catch up to Danny.  This could be dangerous.”

“He didn’t haul off and attack anyone when he was standing right over there,” Liza said, pointing at the entryway.  She knew it could be different out in the dark night, though, and that was exactly why she wanted to go.  It had to be better than sitting here, worrying about what might be happening.  “I’ll stay in the back if we see him.  And either I go with you or I stay here alone, and that doesn’t seem safe either.”

It was probably safer than going, but she knew it was still the argument that would weigh most with Joe.  He was frowning now, visibly thinking this through, when Hoss said, “We’re going to lose any chance if we wait much longer.”

Joe sighed, a gusty exhale of frustration.  “All right, fine.  Come with us.  But stay behind us.”

Getting what she wanted, Liza had better sense than to dispute the details.  So she just nodded, and they all headed for the barn and the horses.

4.

It frightened Mary when Danny Morgan emerged from the shadows, when she was out getting water at the well.  She was remembering about the Widow Baker, seeing him as the man accused of a terrible crime.  But he smiled, and talked about the stars, and soon she could see him again as the man who’d carried her jam into the Cartwrights’ kitchen, the man with the shy smile who rode singing in the nighttime.  A voice that somehow reflected her own loneliness back to her and made it just a little bit lighter.

And how could she believe that such a man had strangled anyone?  Danny Morgan was in trouble, yes, but she couldn’t believe it was trouble of his own making.  So she lifted her eyes up to those endless stars and breathed a brief, heartfelt prayer for Danny Morgan.

As her husband’s prayers had grown longer and more eloquent over the years, her own had grown shorter and shorter.  William wanted to guide and control her in this area too, even more than any other, and yet there was something, some stubborn spark inside her that still believed in a God who was loving and merciful and listened to the softest plea, no matter how many times she had to say Amen to William’s horrid prayers of judgement and vengeance.

When William found her outside and glimpsed Danny Morgan leaving, he insisted she come inside to pray with him, in the attic room where he guarded his beloved wooden pulpit.  Tonight she even dared to question him, when he spoke of praying for Danny Morgan’s death, and of William’s imagined church for only the pure.

It set William off even worse, as questioning always did.  It was predictable, even, after all these years, and yet there was something new here, some new note that didn’t quite fit the litany she was so horribly familiar with.

As William stood at his pulpit, waxing on and on about the church he would build, the strict rules for who would be permitted to enter his pure and holy church, Mary sat in her low chair thinking furiously through the hints and glimmers that something was very, very wrong.

William wanted Danny Morgan to hang.  Nothing so strange in that, William had always believed in the punishment of sinners, harsh and absolute.

William believed he could begin building his church next week.  Very strange because there had never been enough money before, so why would there be money now?

William had hated the Widow Baker.  Mary had heard him speak and pray and rant many times about the Widow’s unholy doings, about the drinking and gambling and worse that went on at her place.  William regarded her, his wife, as a Mary Magdalene, possessed of devils but still with the potential to be saved by a holy man.  She couldn’t, of course, be Holy Mother Mary, since she had never been able to bear children, but Christ had redeemed Mary Magdalene of her seven demons.  The Widow Baker, though, William believed she was a Jezebel, an irredeemable, unsavable sinner.

William believed that sinners must die to protect the righteous, that it was good and right for such people to die.

Whoever killed the Widow Baker had stolen ten-thousand dollars from her.

And she could just see the edges of scratches on William’s arm, barely visible below the cuff of his sleeve as he gripped the sides of his pulpit, scratches he hadn’t mentioned or explained.

William thought he had money to build a church.  The Widow Baker’s murderer had taken her money.  William believed the Widow Baker was a sinner.  William believed sinners should die.

Round and round and round the thoughts went, and Mary knew where they were going, she could see the conclusion, but it was terrible, terrifying, she didn’t want to close the circle and land in that place.  William was still praying and Mary was still caught in her round of thoughts, trying to find another way out, when a sudden pounding on the door made Mary jump and William break-off mid-prayer.

“It’s him,” William hissed, a wild gleam in his eyes.  “Morgan’s come back!”

And then he was out of the room, thundering down the stairs.  Mary hesitated, looking at the pulpit, wondering if there might be some clue there.  And then she remembered that William kept a rifle by the front door, and with a gasp she ran after him.

She was only halfway down the stairs, stumbling in her haste so that only her hand gripping the banister kept her from falling, when William wrenched open the door, rifle in hand.

It wasn’t Danny Morgan anyway.  It was Hoss and Little Joe Cartwright, and as Mary came down the last few steps she could see their horses behind them through the open door, Liza on her silver horse in the yard.

“Easy there, Mr. Johnson, it’s just us,” Hoss said, hands lifted and gaze on the rifle.

William grimaced, lowered the rifle and snapped, “You shouldn’t be pounding on the doors of respectable people in the middle of the night.  There’s a murderer on the loose out there!”

“That’s why we’re here, Mr. Johnson,” Little Joe said.  “Do you know where Danny Morgan might’ve gone?  We tracked him this far, but we’re trying to figure which way he went next.”

“We wanted to see if you were all right too,” Hoss contributed.

William’s shoulders relaxed, a good sign.  The Cartwrights had aligned themselves on the right side according to him, if they were hunting Danny Morgan.  “Yes, my wife saw him.  Out by our well.”

Hoss’ gaze found Mary as she moved up next to William.  “When was that, ma’am?”

“Oh, I think…perhaps fifteen minutes ago?” Mary faltered, a guess at most.  On the best day it was hard to judge time passing when William was deep in his prayers, and tonight she felt in such a tumult of confusion…

Hoss nodded.  “Not too long, then.  Mr. Johnson, you know your land.  Maybe you could come into the yard and at least point some ways he might’ve gone, or judge if there’s any sign of him passing?”

William liked that, liked being an authority and a guide.  Puffed-up and pleased, he stepped out into the yard at once with the Cartwrights, pointing to the different paths and directions leading away from the house.

Mary let out a breath, suddenly feeling entirely wrung-out.  She leaned against the doorframe, clung to it with one hand.

The men weren’t paying any attention to her.  William was full of his own self-importance, and Hoss and Little Joe were talking to him, and none of them were looking at her.

But Liza was.  Liza was sitting there on her horse and looking at Mary, and Mary suddenly felt that everything she was feeling must be written plainly across her face.  All her fears and her doubts and her confusion, and even the horrible conclusion she still hadn’t, quite, been able to admit to herself.

She straightened, tried to pull her tattered composure back together, but Liza was already swinging down from her horse, coming over to join her at the door.

“It’s such a cold night,” Liza said, voice light, loud enough that the men could probably hear her too.  “Would you mind if I stepped inside with you while they decide which way to go next?  Perhaps we could make some tea.”

“Oh…yes, I suppose,” Mary said uncertainly.  William wouldn’t like Liza Cartwright in their house, but William also wouldn’t like to offend the Cartwrights and—and she wanted Liza to come in.  So she stepped out of the doorway, and led the way back to the kitchen, and put the kettle on the stove with a hand that shook.

“Mary,” Liza said in a low voice, “what’s upset you?  Can I help somehow?”

It was the kindness in the other woman’s voice that undid her.  Mary sat down at her well-scrubbed kitchen table, put her face in her hands, and burst into tears.

Liza patted her shoulder and said it would be all right, they’d find some way to make it all right, and she made the tea, and by the time the tea was ready Mary found she could lift her head and take a sip from the cup Liza pushed in front of her.

She could say it was the encounter with Danny Morgan that had upset her.  She could blame it all on that.  But it would be a lie, and what if she was right?  What if that terrible circle of ideas was leading to a true conclusion?

“I think,” she said carefully, “that William has done something horrible.”

Mr. Johnson was not nearly as helpful as they had hoped, or as he seemed to think he was.  Joe had never felt entirely easy around the man, to tell the truth.  Mrs. Johnson, now, she seemed like a sweet lady, and she made the best strawberry rhubarb jam in the territory.  Even Hop Sing admitted it.  But Mr. Johnson, well, he had a way of staring in stern disapproval, and of declaring much too confidently all the things that God disapproved of too.

Joe had always figured God as being a lot like his father.  Definitely there were rules, lines that shouldn’t be crossed, and He could be stern if you fell over some of those lines, but ultimately He was loving, forgiving, and understood that a fellow needed to have some fun along the way too.

But anyway, a man’s religion shouldn’t matter for whether he could track a horseman.  Only it looked like Mr. Johnson couldn’t.

“The ground is torn up here,” Hoss said, voice more patient than Joe’s would have been.  “Did you bring any horses or other animals through here today?”

“Well, now that’s a bit difficult to say,” Mr. Johnson said vaguely.  “I might have.  But you do think it’s quite sure they’ll hang Morgan when they catch him, isn’t it?”

“It’ll be up to the judge,” Hoss said.  “What about those bushes that way, were they trampled before?”

“Surely they wouldn’t let him go again,” Mr. Johnson protested.  “I’ll have a stern word with the sheriff.  Matters need to be handled properly in this town.”

Joe rolled his eyes at Hoss, trying to signal that they’d better get rid of Johnson, collect Liza, and either try to pick up the trail themselves or give it all up as a bad business if they couldn’t, because this wasn’t working.

Only it turned out they didn’t actually need to know anything about tracking for this.  Because suddenly, unmistakable on the night air, came the sound of Danny Morgan’s voice, singing his everlasting song about the red rock rim.

“Told you he’d be out here singing,” Joe said triumphantly, turning in the direction of the voice.  Sure enough, there was Danny on his big white horse, practically shining in the moonlight, guitar held in front of him.  “Hey, Danny!” Joe called, raising a hand.

To his surprise, Johnson shoved past him, lifting his rifle, shouting, “Devil!  Murderous devil!”

Joe and Hoss both converged on him.  Joe grabbed the rifle and Hoss grabbed Johnson and they bodily separated the two.  “He ain’t even armed,” Hoss said furiously.

“He’s the devil,” Johnson spat, struggling entirely ineffectually against Hoss’ grip.  “He’s the devil riding abroad in the night!”

By this point, Joe thoroughly wished they’d never even knocked on the Johnsons’ door.  By all reasonable expectations, this should have been the moment when Danny Morgan spurred his horse into a gallop and was never seen again, possibly fleeing all the way to Mexico.  And then they’d have to explain to the sheriff and Adam and Pa how they’d found and lost Danny Morgan again.

But improbably, Danny brought his horse forward at a slow amble, then slid down and stood there with his guitar in hand.  “I ain’t gonna hurt nobody, Mr. Johnson,” he said in his slow, earnest way.  “That’s what I told Mrs. Johnson too.  H’lo, Hoss, Joe.”

“Don’t talk about my wife!” Johnson snapped, but he’d at least stopped struggling against Hoss and was standing straighter again, like he was stepping back into the smug man of God style he usually had.

Joe reached out with his free hand, rifle in the other, and gripped Danny by the upper arm.  “We’ve been looking for you,” he said, pitching his voice calm.  “You’ve got to come back with us.  Adam will be in a lot of trouble if you don’t come back with us to town.”

He didn’t pretend to understand Danny Morgan, but the man did seem to care about Adam some way, so he thought that last point might do it.  It seemed to, as Danny just nodded and said, “Well, all right, Joe, if you think that’s best.”

He wasn’t as sure as Adam, but it was hard to imagine Danny Morgan flying into a rage and strangling a woman.

“Good!” Johnson said, pulling free of Hoss – who must have decided to let him go – and straightening his coat.  “And then justice will be done, and the world will be cleansed of tangles and snares for the pure-hearted.”

Joe only half-followed that and he was still pretty certain he didn’t like Mr. Johnson.  They managed to get back to the house without anything else going wrong, though, and Liza opened the front door as they approached, Mary Johnson standing just behind her.

“Oh good, you found him,” Liza said, gaze on Danny.

“Yeah, we found him,” Joe acknowledged.  Danny didn’t seem likely to make a run for it, so he let go of him to walk up to the door and lean Johnson’s rifle against the wall.

“And everything was all right?” Mrs. Johnson asked, voice tremulous and gaze on the rifle.  “No one was hurt?”

“Yeah, everybody’s fine,” Joe said, and didn’t add that it was no thanks to her husband.

“That’s such a relief,” Liza said and there was an odd note in her voice he couldn’t quite figure.  She stepped closer to him, slid one arm through his.  “Joe, could you hitch up the Johnsons’ horses to the wagon?  I’m feeling a bit faint, and Mary has very kindly offered to come home with us, just in case.”

Worries about Danny Morgan and Mr. Johnson and this whole mess went right out of Joe’s head.  “What?  You don’t feel well?  What’s wrong?  What happened?”  He studied her face, looking for clues.  She didn’t look sick, just a little tense, but it wasn’t like he’d always managed to realize, when a woman was sick before.

“Everything will be fine,” Liza said, and there was some intensity in her gaze that made him think she was trying to tell him something, but he didn’t know what.  “It’s just best if we go.  Quickly.”

“Why does Mary need to go with you?” Johnson demanded.  “I don’t want my wife out in the middle of the night.  Surely you don’t need her—”

“I thought it would be neighborly, William,” Mary said hesitantly, “but if—”

“It’s a woman’s complaint,” Liza interrupted.  “You know.”

Joe didn’t.  He really didn’t.  Maybe if he had been married longer, he would, but Johnson looked equally or even more at sea about this.  He and Joe and Hoss all looked at each other awkwardly – Danny Morgan barely seemed to be paying attention – and then looked away again in mutual discomfort.

“Oh, well, I suppose…” Johnson said uncertainly.

“Thank you, that means so much,” Liza said, letting go of Joe to stand with Mary again.  “And then you can go with Hoss to help bring Danny Morgan to town.”

Johnson liked that idea.  He liked it so visibly that he swelled up with approval, chest puffing and head rising.  “Yes.  Yes, that would be the right and proper thing to do.”

“I’ll just get the horses,” Joe said, darting a glance at Liza again before he turned to the barn.  She really didn’t look sick, and even if she was sort of leaning against Mary Johnson, well, it wasn’t that easy to see which of them was holding the other one up.  There was something Liza wasn’t saying, that was about all he could work out.

So he hitched up the horses, and Johnson was a little more helpful with that than he had been tracking, and pretty quickly they were all on their way.  Hoss and Johnson rode towards town with Danny, and Joe started the wagon towards the Ponderosa, Mary sitting next to him and Liza in the back, their own horses on leads behind the wagon.

Joe craned his neck to look back over his shoulder.  “You sure you’re all right back there?” he asked, because he still didn’t understand what was going on here, and if Liza was ill, maybe they ought to stay at the Johnsons—

“I’m not sick, Joe,” Liza said, sitting up and looking in the direction Hoss and the others had gone.  “I’m sorry about all that.  We just needed an excuse to get Mary away from her husband.”

Joe blinked, the whole night turning upside down again in a different direction.  “What?”  He looked at the reins in his hands, suddenly wondering if he’d been inveigled into a kidnapping or a desertion.  He trusted Liza, but all the same…

“I’m sorry,” Mary murmured.  “I’m probably just being foolish.”

“You aren’t,” Liza countered.  “They’re out of sight.  Stop the wagon, Joe, I’d rather ride Janie than bounce back here.”

He stopped, which did not resolve any of the confusion, though it was a relief to see Liza slip nimbly down from the wagon.  “So, you aren’t having a woman’s complaint?” he attempted to clarify.  “What was that even supposed to be?”

“I don’t know, it’s just a thing that makes men stop asking questions,” Liza said, untying her horse from the wagon.

“And why are we doing all of this?” Joe asked desperately.

Mary’s voice was faint but steady on the night air.  “Because I think my husband killed the Widow Baker.”

5.

After Mary’s announcement, they rode the rest of the way back to the Ponderosa ranch house mostly in silence.  Liza was relieved that Joe didn’t turn the wagon around, that he took this seriously enough, and trusted her judgment enough, to continue on.  He didn’t say much but he smiled at her when she drew Janie up alongside the wagon, so she knew she was forgiven for lying to him about being ill.

She had wished she could come up with a different excuse; she’d known this one would alarm Joe.  But she hadn’t seen any other way, and she had known, with a deep, clear instinct, that they couldn’t leave Mary in that house.  Not if she was right about William, and not even if she wasn’t, because there had been enough hints about Mary’s life, in there in between Mary’s attempts to explain why she thought William might have committed murder, to show that she needed help.

Ben was already back at the house when they arrived, poised to scold about going out in the night, but he managed a swift reversal when he saw Mary Johnson with them, and heard that they had caught Danny Morgan and sent him with Hoss back to the jail.

Hop Sing emerged from his room, irate about the noise and disturbance so late at night, but he also underwent a quick turn when he saw Mary’s face, and bustled off to the kitchen to make soothing tea.  That, too, felt like some kind of validation of this course, if Hop Sing could see the terror and the misery lurking in Mary’s eyes, even as she tried to hide it.

Adam returned from town just as they were all sitting in the great room, Hop Sing bustling around with the tea.  They greeted Adam with the news that Danny Morgan had been apprehended.

Adam let out a gusty sigh, and reached for the gunbelt he’d only just unbuckled.  “I must’ve missed them on the road.  I suppose I’d better ride back into town and talk to Danny,” he said grimly.

“I think you should hear what Mary has to say first,” Liza said, sitting on the settee with Joe and nodding to the other woman.

Mary was sitting in the blue armchair, dwarfed by its high back, clutching a teacup in white fingers.  She shot one glance at Liza, who tried to smile encouragingly, and then didn’t look at anyone as she falteringly tried to explain.  “William hated the Widow Baker, and he hates Danny Morgan.  He wants him to hang so much, it isn’t right, it doesn’t – and William said he has money now, to build the church he’s wanted to build for years and years, but I know there was no money, nowhere for him to get any.  And he wants Danny Morgan to hang before he builds the church, that was important to him, and I thought – William thinks sinners should die, and he thought the Widow Baker was a sinner, an unsavable sinner, and someone stole her money, so…”  Her voice dropped nearly to a whisper.  “So it could have been William.  He was out, the night she was murdered, and he wouldn’t tell me where.  But when he came back, there were scratches on his arm.  He didn’t say anything about them, and now he says he has money and…oh, I know none of this makes any sense!  I don’t know how to explain!”

“No,” Adam said, voice heavy, “it makes sense.”

And when Adam pronounced judgment on a thing, it had weight.  Sometimes so much weight that Liza found it exasperating, but in this case she was glad to have him on the same side she was on.

“He definitely hates Danny Morgan,” Joe said, frowning, fingers drumming the back of the settee, his arm behind Liza’s shoulders.  “He would have shot him out there, if Hoss and I hadn’t interfered.”

“I hope we didn’t do the wrong thing,” Mary whispered, “sending him to town with poor Danny.  If he tries to do something…”

“Hoss’ll handle it,” Joe said quickly.  “Nothing’s going to happen.  Though I guess if he tried, at least that would be proof of something.”

“And as it stand, we don’t have any proof,” Ben said, then quickly added, “It’s not that I don’t believe what you’re saying, Mary.  But it’s not enough to accuse a man of murder, and certainly not enough to reach a conviction.”

“I have an idea on that,” Adam said slowly.  “A way I could rattle a confession out of him.  It’s too late tonight, but if we can put him off until tomorrow night, I can try something.  If I can borrow Danny’s white horse.”

Mary spent the night in the Cartwrights’ guest bedroom, and was astonished to find that she slept very well.  She would have thought she would be awake thinking and worrying all night.  But she was exhausted from everything that had happened, and it was such an incredible relief, not to be alone with her secrets and her fears.  There was something so warm and steadying about the Cartwrights, the way they simply accepted her into their home, and accepted her problems as something they were going to help her handle.

Adam had been a bit vague about his plans, but he appeared confident in his own idea, whatever it was.  He seemed like a man who never doubted his own ideas, and she wondered what it would be like, to feel that way.  William felt that way too, but it was different.  Adam simply believed what he believed, and didn’t seem to care if anyone else agreed with him or not.

In the morning, the taste of her own blueberry jam on Hop Sing’s good bread at breakfast nearly brought her to tears.  It had been years since she’d had jam on toast, since William had decided such things were a sinful indulgence.  She had tasted her own jam while making it – one had to, to check the flavor – but to eat it as part of a meal, sitting down, having pleasant conversation at the breakfast table…it was like a different world.

As the meal went on, she began to feel she could breathe again for the first time in far too long.  It was so easy here.  No one critiquing every move she made, no stern lectures on how the devil had been at work recently, no endless prayers calling down wrath on half the community.  And the Cartwrights enjoyed each other’s company, talking and teasing and laughing all up and down the table.

Eating her jam on toast, listening to the laughter at the table, Mary knew she was never going back to William, no matter what had happened to the Widow Baker.  Even if William wasn’t guilty of that – no, she could never, never go back.  She didn’t see exactly how she would go forward, but back wasn’t an option.

She went out riding with Liza and Joe late in the morning.  She hadn’t been on a horse in years either, but she had ridden often as a girl, and the skills came back even if some muscles were out of practice.  It was worth it, though, for the sheer freedom in the feeling.  Somehow, in the future she couldn’t really imagine, perhaps she would try to buy a horse.

And because they were out riding, she wasn’t at the house when William came looking for her.

“What did he say?  Is he coming back later?” she asked Ben, feeling fear crawl up her throat, feeling the bars of the cage closing around her again.

“No, not today,” Ben said, patting her hand reassuringly.  “I made an excuse.”

Upright, upstanding and honorable Ben Cartwright surely must have lied to her husband to keep him away, and she had rarely seen a kinder deed.  “Thank you,” she managed, voice faint.  “For—for everything.  I don’t know how I can ever—”

“Neighbors help each other when they can,” Ben said simply.  “And besides, if you’re right about William and the Widow Baker, and Adam can prove it, that will help Danny Morgan too.  It will help everyone, in seeing justice done.”

She liked his way of seeing the world, of how connected everyone was with everyone else.  There was an uncertainty at the heart of this idea though.  “Do you think Adam can prove anything?” she asked in a low voice.

“I think that son of mine can do just about anything he sets his mind to.  And he certainly thinks he can, which is half the battle.”

He said it with a smile, and she managed a faint smile back, and left unsaid the other terror in all of this.  Because if Adam did prove that William had murdered the Widow Baker – what happened then?

6.

Joe knew that he had come up with some wild schemes at times.  Like how no one in the family would ever let him live down robbing that bank that one time (though if he really wanted to forget it, he wouldn’t have put the wanted poster up on his wall).  Even so, when Adam finally laid out the details of his plan to get a confession out of William Johnson, all Joe could do was shake his head.

“That’s a real beaut, Adam,” Joe said, in mingled disbelief and admiration.  They were out in the barn, saddling up Sport and Danny’s white horse.  Adam had brought the white horse from town earlier in the afternoon.  “That’s as far out there as anything I’ve ever come up with.”

Adam frowned, heaving his saddle up onto Sport’s back.  “It’s a perfectly solid plan.  It will rattle Mr. Johnson, and set up the right circumstances for him to trust me and reveal the truth.”

That was the thing about Adam.  He could be just as bull-headed about his own unlikely schemes as anyone in the family, but he wouldn’t admit it.  Like how he still insisted that it was perfectly reasonable he’d been able to recognize Bill Enders with a sack over his entire upper body, without being able to identify a single distinguishing feature, and yeah, he’d turned out to be right, but it had still been a pretty wild claim.

“All right, explain this part to me,” Joe said.  “You ride past the house on Danny’s horse, singing that red rock rim song, and Mr. Johnson thinks you’re Danny.  What’s to stop him from grabbing his rifle and shooting you dead?”

There was the barest pause before Adam said, “I’ll be careful.”

In other words, nothing at all.  Joe sighed.  “Right.  I’ll saddle Cochise after this, and lead Sport while you’re riding the white horse.”

“I can leave Sport ground-tethered out of sight.  You don’t need to come.”

“And I can pick you up if Johnson shoots you off the horse,” Joe continued.  “Look, either I come, or else I go back inside and tell Pa all the details, and then we’ll have to let him decide if you ought to ride out there alone.”

It was an ace card and they both knew it.  When you were chasing a wild, improbable scheme that you just knew was going to work somehow, against the odds, you never tried to explain it to Pa.

Adam glowered at him.  “Fine.  But you stay out of sight, or the whole thing won’t work.”

“You won’t even know I’m there,” Joe promised.

They couldn’t avoid making a few explanations to Pa and Hoss when they went inside, to justify going back out – and to Liza, who Joe was coming to realize could be just about as searching on a thing as Pa.  Though she saw the joke more often too, and it all had a different flavor anyhow.  A wife worrying was a different thing than a father worrying.

The only one who didn’t ask any questions was Mary Johnson, who listened to the discussion, very light on specifics as it was, with a pale face and set lips.  Joe had realized in this past day how little he actually knew her, even though they’d been neighbors for eight years, even though he would have said he knew her well.  But she had laughed today, while they were out riding, and it had struck him that he’d never heard her laugh – not like that, not really – in all those years.  And he didn’t know what she was thinking now, when they were setting off to try to find evidence that her husband was a murderer.

At first, the plan seemed to go along on course.  Adam looked and sounded uncannily like Danny Morgan, riding towards the Johnson house while Joe hung back in the trees on Cochise, Sport next to them.  And Mr. Johnson came tearing out of his house, shouting about murderers and devils just like they’d expected.  Joe couldn’t see him well, with the trees in the way, so it was a shock when he heard the rifle shot go off.

Only kind of a shock, because he’d warned Adam about this, but still, that wouldn’t help if Adam had been shot off the horse.  Joe drew his own gun, heart in his throat, and started Cochise forward, because if Adam had been shot, getting to him was more important than any crazy plan—

But he’d only gone a few paces when Adam appeared through the shadows, striding up to Sport and swinging into the saddle as though this was all perfectly normal.  He looked at Joe’s gun in his hand and frowned.  “Put that away.  Johnson’s got Danny’s horse now, and if you start firing at him you’ll ruin everything.”

Joe shook his head, and shoved the gun back into its holster.  “He took a shot at you, though?  And missed?  He did miss, right?”  He scanned Adam up and down and he wasn’t sitting the horse like anything hurt, but in the dark like this, it would be hard to see blood on Adam’s black clothes.

“Yeah, he missed,” Adam said, “but I flung myself off the horse like I’d been killed, so he ought to be very confused not to find Danny’s body.  Let’s get over to where we can see the house, so we know if he heads into town.”

Johnson did go into town, leading Danny’s horse, and they followed at a distance the whole way.  Johnson sure didn’t seem like he was paying any attention to the road behind him, riding fast towards Virginia City, shoulders hunched and head down.  In town, he hitched both horses at the rail outside the sheriff’s office and charged inside, where he was going to find out that Danny Morgan was still locked up and had never left jail.  So far, all exactly like Adam had predicted.  Joe took the white horse over to the livery stable, where Adam had borrowed it earlier, and by the time he got back to the sheriff’s office, Johnson’s horse was gone.  Adam was gone too, presumably following Johnson, for the next, even wilder, part of the plan.  Sure, Johnson was rattled, but it didn’t necessarily follow that he was going to start confiding murders to Adam.

Joe hesitated out on the deserted street.  He was supposed to go back home now.  That was Adam’s plan.  But maybe he ought to go after Adam.  Just in case older brother’s predictions stopped coming true.

Or…  He studied the door of the sheriff’s office, trying to convince himself to turn and go.  But he had a feeling, one he couldn’t explain, except that he’d chased some pretty wild schemes of his own and eventually you hit that point where it was more like an avalanche than a plan, and all you could do was keep running and hope like Hell you could stay ahead of it, even while you knew it was coming faster and faster and was going to get you at any moment.  Adam’s plan had gone almost too well so far, and he had a feeling the avalanche was picking up speed.  Maybe older brother could outrun it.

Or maybe he was going to need more back-up than he figured.

Frowning, Joe led Cochise over to the hitching rail outside the sheriff’s office, then headed inside.

Deputy Sykes looked up from his desk as Joe came in, and squinted at him with a stern look.  “Oh, Little Joe.  William Johnson was just in here, and rode out like the devil himself was after him.  Adam said that would happen, but are you sure he knows what he’s doing?”

“Older brother usually does,” Joe said, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling this was all going to go wrong.  “I should ride after Adam, but I just thought…”  He didn’t know how to explain it, or what he was trying to ask.

Sykes’ frown deepened.  “Always seemed to me that the smartest thing to do in this business is try to guess at how things might go wrong, and then get ahead of them.  Adam figured on Johnson going back to his own place, right?  Supposing he doesn’t, though.  What else might he do?”

Joe felt a wash of relief just to be talking like this, even if nothing had been solved yet.  At least the deputy seemed to feel a similar concern.  “Johnson might come after Danny,” Joe suggested, glancing towards the closed door to the cells.  If he listened, he could faintly hear Danny singing in there.  About the red rock rim, of course.

“Could be,” Sykes acknowledged, “but Johnson just left here.  Don’t know as he’d decide to turn around again.  What about his wife?  Think he might ride after her at your pa’s house?”

“Yeah, he might,” Joe said.  They’d got Mary away from him and Pa had talked Johnson away this morning, but if he got worked up – it made sense, a man going after his wife when he got upset.  But that gave Joe a new dilemma.  “I should ride after Adam, but…”

But suppose Adam lost Johnson, and Johnson did go after Mary, and Mary was at the house with Liza and Pa and Hoss, and they were all pretty good at handling a situation but even so, Joe didn’t like the way Johnson had waved that rifle around before.  An unhinged man could be even more deadly than a skilled killer, just from sheer unpredictability.  A man with bad aim could hit anyone.

Sykes nodded once, and stood up from his desk.  “I’ve got three different men I can tap to watch the jail for me, just in case.  You go after Adam and I’ll ride over to your pa’s house and see if there’s any trouble there.”

“Thanks,” Joe said gratefully.  And now he had to hurry if he wanted to catch up to Adam.

7.

Joe was certain Cochise was faster than Sport, but they still didn’t manage to overtake Adam.  It was possible they weren’t even on the right trail, since it was too dark for tracking.  Joe stuck stubbornly on that path though, and hoped it was the right choice.

The Johnsons’ house was all lit up when it finally came into view through the trees and, better sign, Sport was standing in the yard next to Johnson’s horse.  Joe was about to go around to the back of the house, to try to slip in discreetly, when Johnson came tearing into the yard.  Joe backed Cochise up into the deeper shadows of the trees, but Johnson never looked around.  He clambered onto his horse and set off at a gallop, heading the direction of the Ponderosa.

Joe’s eyebrows scrunched together, watching Johnson retreat.  Should he go after him, or—

The front door of the house was swinging open, and from inside the sound of Adam’s voice swearing came through audibly on the night air.

Well, he couldn’t ride away from that, could he?  Joe brought Cochise into the yard, swung down and ran inside.

Adam was sitting at the bottom of the staircase, clutching one ankle.  Bizarrely, a huge wooden pulpit was lying on its side nearby, visibly cracked and splintered.  Equally strange, money was scattered all over the floor.

“Are you all right?” Joe demanded, though it couldn’t be too bad if Adam was sitting up and using language that would’ve got either of them a hiding when they were younger.  “What happened?”

“I’m fine, go after Johnson,” Adam said, waving with one arm.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Joe said, crouching next to Adam.  “Here, I’ll help you get to Sport.  And what happened?”

Adam grimaced but threw an arm over Joe’s shoulders and they maneuvered to get upright.  “It was all working fine.  I came in and Johnson was dragging this pulpit down the stairs, raving about the devil riding abroad and the beautiful church he was going to build.  I told him I needed guidance, all that nonsense, and he slipped into admitting he was going to use the Widow Baker’s money to build his church.”

“That’s all this?” Joe said, nodding to the bills scattered around them.

“He had the money hidden in the pulpit.”  They stumbled together out the front door, and Adam continued, “Everything was on track right until the pulpit went crashing down the stairs and hit my leg on the way.”

“Think it’s broken?”

“No,” Adam said, so quickly that Joe knew it didn’t mean a thing, except that Adam didn’t want to admit it if it was broken.  They’d have to get to Doc Martin later.  “The pulpit broke and it’s like something broke in Johnson too.  He collapsed moaning about how it was a magic pulpit, and I thought it was going to be easy to get him tied up and hauled back to town, even with a bad leg.  But then he suddenly reared up again, roared something about how it was all Mary’s fault, and took off into the yard.”

How could it be Mary’s fault?  But it wasn’t like madmen had to make sense.  The unease in the pit of Joe’s stomach that had been there since he saw Johnson riding away, that had really been there all evening, was flaring up bigger and stronger and–  “He was riding towards the Ponderosa.  This is bad, Adam.”

“I know,” Adam snarled, grabbing at Sport’s reins.  “So let’s go.”

It had been, on the surface, a peaceful evening at the Ponderosa.  Except Liza had turned very few pages in her book, Hoss kept finding excuses to get up and walk around, and from the quality of the silence coming from Ben’s desk, Liza didn’t think he was making much progress on paperwork.  Mary was maybe the most honest of them all, simply sitting and staring into the fire, and not pretending to be doing anything else.

Liza hated this sort of thing, the sitting and the waiting and the not knowing what was happening.  It was why she had insisted on going with Joe and Hoss to follow Danny Morgan.  She’d rather be with Joe now, because at least she’d know – and it only sort of helped to tell herself that it was helpful to be here with Mary.

The tense, uneasy silence broke with the thunder of hooves in the yard.  Hoss was on his feet at once, as though he’d been coiled and ready to spring up all the time, and Ben was up from his desk barely a breath later.  They exchanged glances, and Hoss said, “I’ll check who it is.”

But he didn’t have to open the door for all of them to find out.  They could hear the shouting through the heavy wooden door.

“Jezebel!  Daughter of the devil!  How dare you abandon a righteous man in his greatest need!”

Liza looked at Hoss, who was grimacing as he glanced at Ben, and then she looked at Mary, who had gone white as a sheet, trembling hands clasped in her lap.  Liza rose from the settee, put a hand on the older woman’s shoulder.  “It will be all right,” she said, as firmly as she could when she had no real evidence on the subject.  Except for her faith in the Cartwrights which was, in fact, quite strong evidence in its way.  “We’ll deal with this.”

“We’ll talk to him,” Ben said, in the decisive tone of the master of the Ponderosa, as he joined Hoss by the door.  “Liza, get Mary out of sight, just in case.”

In case it set Johnson off worse?  In case he had a gun?  There were no good possibilities here.

Mary stood, wringing her hands together.  “Maybe—this is my problem—I should talk to him—”

“Let us handle it, ma’am,” Hoss said, with his characteristic rough politeness.  “He ain’t in no fit state right now to be talking to a lady.”

“Come on,” Liza said, tugging Mary’s arm.  “We’ll go in the kitchen.  That’s out of the way.”

Mary still looked reluctant, but she followed Liza through the dining room and around the corner into the kitchen.  Hop Sing was already there, face a thundercloud.  Judging by the cookbooks open on the center island, he had been planning future meals, but he hadn’t missed what was going on.  The kitchen was well out of sight of the front door, but shouting in the yard carried just as clearly in here as it did into the great room.

“Bad business, bad business,” Hop Sing muttered, and gave Mary’s arm a reassuring pat.  “Hop Sing make tea for you.  Make tea for everyone.”

“Thank you,” Mary said absently, moving to one of the windows that looked out on the yard.

Which was good thinking, actually.  Liza joined her, twitching aside a bit of the lacy curtain.  It was darker in the yard, but the lantern was lit on the porch, and between that and the moon there was just enough light to make out Johnson, standing a dozen feet from the front door, arms outstretched as he shouted his abuse.  It was hard to see details, but it was clear enough that he wasn’t carrying his rifle, a considerable mercy on the situation.

The front door opened, casting more light onto the scene, and Ben stepped out with Hoss flanking him.  “Now, there’s no call for all of this,” Ben said, voice starting out stern, then shifting into something more soothing.  “We’ve known each other a lot of years, William.  Let’s talk about this like neighbors.”

“Hand of the devil!” Johnson thundered, pointing at Ben.  “You fooled me for years, but I should have known, I should have seen!  A truly godly man could not have such reprobate sons – the music, the drunkenness, the women!  And Danny Morgan, he worked for you.  You harbored him here.  And now you seek to keep my wife from me, to keep me from giving her punishment and guidance, to keep her from giving me the support I need.  It is the hand of the devil at work!”

“That is enough,” Ben said sharply.  “You are not well, William, but that is enough.”

“No, Ben, no,” Johnson breathed.  “It’s not near enough.  Justice must be served!”

Ben and Hoss both started to move forward, but before they made more than a step, Johnson dropped his jabbing, pointing arm to his side.  And brought it up again, lanternlight glinting on the gun in his hand.

Liza heard Mary gasp and her own stomach went queasy and why, why had she assumed that the absence of a big, obvious rifle meant Johnson was unarmed?

8.

This was wrong.  Mary knew this was all, all wrong.  It was wrong that good men like Ben Cartwright and his son should be mixed up in this terrible mess, that her husband should heap such abuse on people who had only ever helped him, her and all their neighbors.

And it was much more wrong that William should threaten them, that he had found the old handgun he rarely ever wore, and use it to threaten and perhaps harm or even kill these good men.

William was a terrible shot, but that was no comfort.  A bullet might go anywhere if William started firing.

Mary looked at that gun in her husband’s hand, and didn’t stop to consider options or to weigh what was best or right or wrong.  Because this was so entirely wrong that it couldn’t be allowed.

She was already standing by the kitchen window, and it was only a step to move to the door, to wrench it open, ignoring Liza calling her name, and to step out into the yard.

“Stop this, William,” she said, voice loud and even and strong in a way that surprised her very much.  “This is not right, William, and you must stop.”

William’s head reared back, his eyes wide, and it was an expression she had only seen a few times before, his wildest, most unpredictable expression, when he was deep, deep into his most hateful, most hurtful lectures and prayers and proclamations about the world.  “You dare, harlot?” he breathed.  “You dare, daughter of Satan, to tell me what is right and what is wrong?  I am the elect, the pure of heart, and I shall not listen to your traps and snares!”

It never worked to oppose William straight-on.  He only pushed back, harder and fiercer and more violently.  But sometimes, just sometimes, she could persuade him that she was on his side, and lead him in another direction by making him believe it was the direction he himself had guided her towards.  “Yes, of course, William,” she said, hands rising automatically in a placating gesture.  “Of course you are.  And it’s been so difficult, so confusing, without you to guide me.”

Expressions flitted across William’s face – rage, surprise, uncertainty, hesitation.  He had not expected her to say this, to take this attitude.  And then came something that was second cousin to hope, hope with a manic desperation inside of it, seizing on something poisonous and dark as though it was life.  “Yes,” William said, nodding vigorously.  “Of course, you went astray because you left me, because you lost the benefit of my guidance.  That was wrong, very wrong to leave.  I couldn’t protect you, when you left.”

“Oh, I know, William,” Mary said, daring to take a step closer.  William was still holding the gun, pointed towards Ben and Hoss, and the two men hadn’t tried to move.  They were still so far away, too far to grab William or the gun.  But perhaps if she could calm him…or, at least, distract him long enough for someone to do something.  “I’ve felt so lost, ever since I left home,” she lied glibly, just the opposite of her true feelings, but it was exactly what William would want to hear.  “I haven’t known which way to turn.”

“Only to be expected, my dear.”  William’s voice began to shift into a more familiar tone, his lecturing, wise, confident tone.  “I’ve told you so many times, you mustn’t rely on your own understanding.  You must trust me for moral guidance.”

“Oh yes, yes, I know,” Mary managed, easing another step forward and by now she was within arm’s-length of William.

The Cartwrights were still too far away, but out of the corner of her eye she could see Hoss shifting his stance, as though he meant to do something.  But he would never make it, not with a dozen feet to cross, not with William still pointing the gun that direction.

So Mary darted her hand out, tried to grab for the gun, because maybe if she could catch him unawares, maybe if she was fast enough – her hand closed on the cold barrel of the pistol but William jerked his hand back, and though she tried to hold on he yanked the gun from her grip.

“Judas!” he thundered, and then he swung with the gun and it crashed against her shoulder, the pain and the surprise combined with her already unsteady stance from trying to grab the gun knocking her off her feet.

She fell heavily to the ground, barely catching herself with one palm against the dirt, lifting her other hand in an instinctive, useless shield above her head.

“Don’t move!” William roared, pointing the gun at the Cartwrights again, and they had only advanced a step or two, not enough to matter.  Not enough to do anything when he swung the gun around to point at Mary again.  “I tried, Mary,” he said, voice almost sorrowful.  “I’ve tried for so many years.  But I was wrong about you.  You’re no better than the Widow Baker after all.  And sinners must die.”

All she could see was the barrel of the gun, silver and gleaming and pointing right at her, at a range close enough for even William to aim truly.  When a shot rang through the night air she flinched, breath catching in her lungs.

But there wasn’t any pain, and after a confused heartbeat she realized there was blood blossoming on William’s shirt.  He looked down at it, expression bewildered too, and then his eyes rolled up towards the heavens as his knees buckled.

“Justice,” he breathed, and the light had gone out of his eyes before he’d even hit the ground.

“William?” Mary whispered, rising onto her knees, reaching out to put a hand on his chest, to feel for a heartbeat, even though she knew, she could see, that he was already gone beyond any justice on this earth.

For the barest moment it was only the two of them, and Mary cast up a prayer that was only please and didn’t know what should follow that single word.

And then there were people everywhere.  Ben and Hoss came forward from the front porch and Liza must have come out of the kitchen because her hand was on Mary’s shoulder and somewhere overhead she could hear Hop Sing clucking his concern.  And, more unexpectedly, hoofbeats signaled the arrival of more riders, and looking up she saw Deputy Sykes swinging down from his horse, his rifle still in his hand.  So that must be the justice that had reached out for William, and probably saved her own life.  Just behind Deputy Sykes came Adam and Little Joe, riding in at a fast clip and swinging down almost before their horses had halted.  Adam knelt down to check on William, and Joe went to Liza, and everything was a confusion of voices and questions and exclamations, all cascading above her head.

The words that reached her first were from Deputy Sykes.  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Johnson.  He was threatening you.  I had no other choice.”

Mary looked up, to see the deputy looking at her with sorrow in his eyes.  “I know,” she said quietly.  “Thank you for…”  And then she didn’t know how to finish that, so she didn’t try.  “I think William killed the Widow Baker, not poor Danny Morgan,” she said, because that was more important now.  Taking care of the living, helping a man who was guilty only of singing in the dark.

“Mr. Johnson as good as confessed it to me earlier,” Adam spoke up.  “And the Widow’s money is scattered all over the Johnsons’ entryway.”

“That should do it then,” Sykes said heavily.  “We’ll probably find even more evidence now that we know which way to look.  There’s a process, but we’ll be able to clear Morgan.”  He was looking at Mary again, and his voice was hesitant as he said, “Mrs. Johnson, I can try to keep this quiet.”  He gestured to William’s body, and she wasn’t certain if he meant the Widow Baker’s true murderer or William’s death.  Either.  Both.

She could see he was trying to do her a kindness.  Though it had not yet occurred to her to think past the present moment, it surely would not be a pleasant thing, to be known ever after this as the widow of a murderer, of a man who was shot by a deputy in the act of trying to kill her.  It would be a scandal for a long time to come.

Perhaps it could all be hushed up, though she doubted it.  And if it somehow was, then doubts and suspicions would continue to follow the innocent Danny Morgan, and that wasn’t right.

And she was so tired of living with secrets.

“William was a great believer in the truth, Deputy Sykes,” Mary said, voice clear, and rose to her feet.  There was no blood on her hands, and so she brushed the dirt from her skirts in an easy, automatic gesture.  “I would like the truth to be told.  That would be justice for everyone.”

The deputy nodded slowly.  “As you say, Mrs. Johnson.”

Ben took her arm, starting to guide her away and towards the house.  “You know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to, Mary,” he said, and she heard it for what it was, a promise of support, of friendship, of standing by her in whatever this uncertain future was going to be.  “And we’ll be glad to help however we can, in whatever you decide to do next.”

It would be a great many decisions.  Perhaps she’d sell the house and the farm and live somewhere new that was just hers alone.  Perhaps she’d buy a horse and a pianoforte.

“Liza,” Mary said over her shoulder, as she and Ben stepped onto the porch, “I believe I will join your sewing circle after all.”

Liza was standing with Joe, his arm around her shoulders, and her smile was warm in the lanternlight.  “We’d be very glad to have you, Mary.”

So that was one thing.  And whatever else happened, whatever else she decided, she would certainly have jam on her toast at breakfast from now on.

The End

For those who enjoy knowing episode references…there aren’t many in this story, but the singing Hank Miller appeared in “The Wooing of Abigail Jones” and Joe robbed a bank (with good intentions!) in “The Bank Run.”  Otherwise, this is all “Song in the Dark.”  Watching the episode, I became very intrigued by Mrs. Johnson, who could pray for Danny Morgan but then was forced to listen to her husband’s rants and say amen at the end.  And unfortunately, she died almost immediately after that!

In the original version (spoilers ahead!), the Cartwrights didn’t come to the Johnsons’ door the night Danny Morgan escaped, Mary discovered the Widow Baker’s money in her husband’s pulpit, and fell down the stairs to her death in the resulting confrontation.  After her funeral, Adam successfully carried out his scheme to pose as Danny and entrap Johnson in a confession.  I kept Adam’s plan essentially the same, though it ends differently.  Even in the episode, although we don’t see Joe in those scenes, he could have been in the background helping out!