Summary:  Home from college, Adam is feeling out of sorts. What dark secret haunts his dreams? Past and present collide as he and Hoss are faced with a life-and-death struggle in the desert. Originally posted on bonanzaworld.

Rated: T  WC  14,000

Dark Pink

By JoaniePaiute

I run.

I don’t know what’s after me, and it doesn’t matter.  Blindly, I sprint between trees, ignoring the briars that snatch at my clothes and whip across my face. A thorny branch catches my sleeve, and I jerk loose, barely registering the sound of ripping fabric.  Then a pair of strong hands grabs my arms, and I try to twist free.  The hands only tighten, though, and I buck and yell with all the fierceness I can rally, “No! No!”

“Adam!”  My brother’s voice shatters the dream, and I open my eyes to see Hoss staring at me, concern in his eyes. He’s still holding my arms, having shaken me awake.  Drawing in a ragged breath, I look around at our campsite.  The fire has settled down to blood-red embers, and moonlight filters through the branches, throwing mottled patterns across the ground.

Hoss lets go of my arms.  “Boy, that must’ve been some dream,” he says, sitting back on his heels.

I sit up, looking for my blanket.  It’s lying in a heap, as if I threw it off in a frenzy.  “Yeah,” I say shortly, spreading the blanket over myself and lying back down.

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.”  I close my eyes.  What would I say? That I dreamed something was chasing me?  Being chased by an unseen monster is a boy’s dream.  Joe is ten, and I’ll bet even he doesn’t have dreams like this.

“Adam…”  Hoss is using the same worried tone he uses with sick or abandoned animals.  Things that need caring for.  Well, I don’t need my younger brother to take care of me.

Still, there’s no reason to hurt his feelings.  Reluctantly, I open my eyes.  “I’m fine,” I say, willing my voice to stay steady.  “It was just a stupid dream.”

“Second one in two nights,” Hoss says stubbornly.

I hear my voice harden.  “I said I’m fine.”

Hoss studies me a long moment, working his jaw back and forth.  Finally he nods and stretches out on his own blanket, pulling a second one over himself.  “All right,” he says gruffly.  “You don’t have to tell me.  But if you change your mind, I’ll be here.”

I almost smile.  Where else would he be?  We’re two days from the house, it’s the middle of the night, and he insisted on coming with me in the first place.  Does he think I’d expect him to go home?

Hoss is already breathing deeply.  Ordinarily, I’d try to get back to sleep before he starts snoring like a freight train, but suddenly I’m not interested in sleeping anymore.  Quietly I toss the blanket aside and ease into a sitting position with my back against a pine.  Drawing my knees up to my chest, I wrap my arms around my legs, staring at the dying embers.  A chilly breeze caresses the back of my neck, and I shudder.

I suppose I could build up the fire, or I could at least retrieve my blanket.  Then again, I don’t want to be warm.  If I get warm, I might fall asleep again.

And I don’t want to fall asleep

***
As it turns out, I do doze off for a while.  When I open my eyes, the sunlight has found its way into the clearing, although it’s anything but warm yet. Flexing my stiff fingers, I move toward the fire that Hoss is tending.  He gives me that transparent grin of his, completely at ease, and nods toward the coffeepot.  If he remembers last night, he gives no sign.

That’s one good thing about Hoss:  he knows when to keep quiet.  That’s why I didn’t argue—well, not much, anyway—when he asked to come with me, although I really wanted to be by myself, completely and utterly alone.  Sometimes a man has to get away and think.

Well, maybe later I can think of a reason to leave him for a while.  Maybe he can set up our next campsite while I slip away to get some small game for our supper.  Nothing tastes as good as fresh rabbit roasted over a fire.

The stated reason for this little trip is to check fence lines and scout for signs of trespassers.  In the short time I’ve been back home, I’ve seen how the local folks’ opinions of the Cartwrights have hardened.  Oh, we do have friends in Virginia City, and most of the nearby settlers respect my father, but there’s an undercurrent of jealousy among a sizeable portion of the population.  Pa seems certain that over time, we’ll convince people that they can trust us and rely on us.  I hope he’s right, but in the meantime, I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my family’s interests.

So that’s the stated reason. The real reason is that I…well, I just needed to get away.  It’s different being home—the Ponderosa is both larger and smaller than I remembered.  The perimeter of the yard used to look so wide, and the front porch so accommodating.  Now I’m surprised at how few steps it takes me to cross either one. My bedroom is larger than my dormitory room was, but it feels cramped somehow.  The meadows seem to stretch out forever when I view them from horseback, and the sky is enormous without roof edges to get in the way…and yet, Boston felt more expansive, as if I could get pleasantly lost in its streets and shops, not to mention the library at the university.

And Joe…he’s really getting on my nerves.  I know he’s only ten, but that’s old enough to have a little respect for other people’s property.  Two days ago, I walked into the great room and caught him trying to play my new guitar.  What if he’d nicked it against the coffee table…or worse?  Lucky for him, Pa came in at that moment and made him put it down.  If anything had happened to it, the kid wouldn’t have lived to see his eleventh birthday.  As it was, he and I squared off, and if Pa hadn’t been there, I might have killed him anyway.

Later that night Hoss asked me to go out to the barn with him to check on a horse that was about to foal.  I was sitting by the fire reading Tom Jones, which I’d been meaning to get around to for ages, and Hoss didn’t need me to help him.  Later, I realized he knew very well that he didn’t need me.  He just thought I needed him. So I really shouldn’t have bitten his head off.

After Hoss and Joe had gone up to bed, Pa asked me straight out, “What’s bothering you, son?”  I stared into the fire and finally told him I was just feeling unsettled, being home and all.  Pa was quiet for a while, and then he suggested I ride the fence lines for a few days.  The next day at breakfast, Hoss asked if he could come with me.  At first I said no, but I didn’t have the heart to stick to it.

Now, watching him fry two thick slabs of cured ham over the fire, I’m glad I let him come along.  Sure, I’d rather be alone.  But as I said, Hoss doesn’t talk too much.  And if I can make amends to him for being so irritable, then I should.

I stretch and pour myself a cup of coffee, my mouth watering at the smell of frying meat.  Hoss flips the slices of ham and reaches for a couple of tin plates.  After we’re settled with our ham, flat bread, and coffee, he asks, “So which way are we heading today?”

“I thought we’d follow the north fence to where it borders that arroyo near Sophie’s Mill.  Pa said we’ve had some cattle go missing in that area.”

“Sounds good.”  He chews thoughtfully for a minute.  “Hey, Adam?”

“Yeah?”  I glance at him suspiciously.  I figure I know what’s coming.

Sure enough, he says hesitantly, “About last night…”

“Look, Hoss,” I say abruptly.  “I let you come specifically because you don’t talk too much.”  It’s harsh, I know, but I want him to understand that I mean what I say.

He looks down.  “Sorry,” he says, and I don’t answer.

As we’re packing up camp, a flash of pink catches my eye.  It’s a flower, what Martha Greenberg called rockcress.  Martha’s the wife of the stableman at school back in Boston.  She and Isaac took me under their wing while I was there, and I loved sitting in her garden while she clipped herbs and told me what she used them for.

The rockcress is nestled in a clump of sharp-edged grass, its dark pink petals stark against the green.  I stare a moment, then close my eyes, suddenly angry. That color…

“Adam?”  I open my eyes to see Hoss frowning at me.  I tighten Nightshade’s cinch.

“Let’s go,” I say, swinging up.

***
As we ride, woods give way to meadows, and the meadows gradually become less grassy and more rock-strewn.  The trees grow sparser, and by midmorning the air is already hot.  I give Nightshade his head and let him pick his way along the fenceline, figuring he knows more than I do about where to set down his hooves.  Besides, I’m lost in my own wandering thoughts; in a way, I’ve given my mind its head, too.

I miss Martha and Isaac. Out here, sleeping in the open air last night and feeling the sun on my shoulders now, I realize that’s one thing that’s been bothering me.  There’s a clarity that comes from being out here.  I got the same kind of clarity in Martha’s garden, especially when she made me work beside her. My thoughts return to Boston, to the cottage behind the dormitory, and to the garden behind the cottage.

“Here, Adam.  These seedlings need transplanting.”  She handed me a shallow crate, about two feet long and a foot wide, divided into three-inch sections that were filled with black, sweet-smelling soil.  I was sitting on a bench, watching her work, and I held the crate awkwardly above my lap.  She laughed.  “You’re going to have to get those trousers dirty if you want to stay out here with me.  Don’t worry, I’ll wash them.”

Sheepishly, I lowered the crate to my legs.  It wasn’t as if I minded getting dirty; I grew up on a ranch, after all.  But two months of classrooms, library, and chapel had lessened my “down and dirty” time considerably.  Twice, my cousin Jack had taken me flyfishing, and it had been a relief to get into the woods with him and not worry about how I looked.  But right now I was wearing the clothes I’d worn to class, not gardening clothes.  I’d never gardened, anyway.  That was Hop Sing’s territory.

Martha set a double handful of seedlings on the bench beside me and showed me how to poke my finger into the soil up to the second knuckle, and then to hold my fingertip steady while moving my hand in a circle to widen the hole.  “Now put in a seedling,” she said, demonstrating.  “Careful of the root—don’t bend it.  Press the soil around it.  Gently, Adam, gently.”  I felt the moist earth caking beneath my fingernails, and later I would realize that my breathing had slowed, my heartbeat had settled, and my shoulders had relaxed for the first time since I’d left home.

“Adam,” Hoss says, and I snap out of my reverie.  How long has that calf been bawling?  The mother’s voice cuts through the air too, and I wonder how I could have been too distracted to notice it.  Stupid, I berate myself, and then stop wasting energy over it.  The calf is shoulder-deep in a muddy pool, and the mother is anxiously pacing the edges.  I wonder how much of the mud is natural and how much has been churned up by the calf’s thrashing.

It takes us a good twenty minutes to get the calf out, with Hoss finally wading into the pool and shoving while I pull on the lariat.  Finally its legs come loose with an audible suck-and-pop, and it scrambles up onto the bank.  I lift the rope free and reach down for Hoss.  Our hands grip each other’s forearms, and I lean back to give him leverage as he climbs out.

He stands there a moment, breathing hard and dripping onto the grass, and then he grins at me.  “You’re almost as wet as I am,” he says.  I look down at myself.  Sure enough, my shirt is damp with perspiration—but only damp.

“Not nearly that wet,” I tell him, and then I see the gleam in his eye.  “Oh, no,” I say, backing up.

For such a big kid, he’s awfully quick.  His shoulder is under my ribs in a flash, and he hoists me like a sack of grain before flipping me into the water. I land on my back in a reverse belly-flop and go under.  When I get my feet under me, I feel my boots sink ankle-deep in the mud.  I come up sputtering to see Hoss squatting on the bank, holding his sides as he laughs.

My hat is floating close to the edge of the water, and Hoss scoops it up.  “Sorry,” he says—clearly not a bit sorry.  I have to laugh, too, as I reach up for him to help me out.  And of course (doesn’t he see this coming?), I yank him down to join me.  His splash is bigger than mine, and it’s extremely satisfying.

We lie barefoot on the bank for a while, letting our socks dry on the grass and the rest of our clothes dry on our bodies.  An intrusive thought niggles at the corner of my mind—we’re wasting time—but I push it away.  Hoss breaks out the bread and jerky, and we have lunch.

“Where next?” he asks as we pull our boots on and prepare to remount.  “Just keep following the fenceline?”

“No,” I tell him.  “I don’t think this is where the cattle are getting out.  Let’s strike out to the east.  We can cut across the dry patch and reconnect with the fence on the other side.”

He chuckles.  “I wouldn’t call that a dry patch.”

“What would you call it, then?”

“You’ve been away too long, Adam.  That’s desert.”

“We’ve got water.  And we’re talking about half an afternoon, not a trek across the Mojave.”

“Well, sure.  Ain’t nothing wrong with doing it.  I’m just saying, call it what it is.”  He’s still smiling, still amiable Hoss, but something in his tone gets my attention.

“All right, desert,” I say.  “As long as we agree on that, can we go now?”

“Sure, Adam.  Let’s go.”  We turn the horses east.

***

Hoss is right: this is desert.  Wide-open and desolate.  The faint path we’ve been following disappears, and we keep our shadows in front of us as the afternoon wears on.  Pines and junipers fade into memory, replaced by yucca, mesquite, and sage.  A sidewinder rattlesnake thrusts its head forward and drags its body behind, leaving J-shaped patterns in the sand.  The snake is a good ten feet away from us, and I don’t notice it until Nightshade shies.

Hoss halts to watch the snake a moment.  “Pretty, ain’t it?” he says softly.

I give a little “hmph” and say, “‘Pretty’ isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Well, I would,” he insists.  “Look at it, Adam.  Ain’t nothing else like it on God’s green earth.”

“Or his brown one.” Suddenly uneasy, I scan the terrain.  A cliff wall rises to our right, and it flashes through my mind that those rocks and crevices could conceal all sorts of things.  “Let’s go,” I say and nudge Nightshade forward.

As we move out, I reach down and touch my gun in its holster.  Its weight on my hip settles my nerves.  I’m glad I emptied it and reloaded right after my dunking.  Just knowing we have two weapons at the ready makes me feel better.

Out of the blue, I suddenly remember Martha exclaiming, “Isaac, you’re soaked!  What happened?”

Isaac smiled at her, the craggy lines in his face deepening and his eyes gleaming with mock indignation.  “Our boy here pushed me in the creek.”

“Did not,” I protested.  “Well, not on purpose, anyway.  If you hadn’t stopped so fast to take a shot at that goose, I wouldn’t have bumped into you. And it was a blind shot, Isaac, a useless—”

“Oh, stop it, both of you,” she interrupted, laughing.  “Isaac, go take off those wet clothes before you catch your death.  Oh, goodness, your rifle!  Is it damaged?”

“Nah.”  Confidently, he sighted down the barrel toward the floor.  “You could shoot this beauty underwater and she’d still fire true.  Course, I’ll have to repack some bullets tonight.”  He looked meaningfully at me.  “We’ll have to repack.  You go get us some powder and cartridges out of that cabinet while I change clothes.”

“Which cabinet?” I asked.

Martha said briskly, “I’ll show you,” and led the way into the living room.

She was wearing a pink dress, but not the pale pink that little girls wear.  It was dark, almost purple.  The color of Candia edges, dark pink against ivory.

Now, the hot sun on my back fades from my consciousness as the names of flowers parade through my mind.  Candia.  Jacaranda.  Bleeding heart.

A shot next to me snaps me back to the present, and I yank Nightshade’s reins with my left hand while my right hand goes to my pistol.  My gun is out before Nightshade’s whinny becomes a snort.  He prances a moment, but Hoss’ mount stands fast.  Hoss slips his pistol back into its holster and nods in the direction he’s just fired.  A jackrabbit, nearly three feet long from forehead to hind feet, lies on the ground, its ears askew.

I give a low whistle, hoping Hoss doesn’t notice how off-guard I was taken.  What’s wrong with me?  I’d better start keeping my mind right here, right now.  Mistakes aren’t forgiven, not out here.

“Nice shot,” I tell him.

“Thanks.” I’ve heard the expression “grinning from ear to ear,” but I’ve never seen anyone come so close to actually doing it.  He swings down and goes to collect the jackrabbit.  Holding it up by the ears, he says proudly, “Good eating tonight.”

I nod, and an idea comes to me.  It’s getting on toward sundown, and the thin air is already cooling.  The sky to the west is beginning to take on a faint orange hue, and I’m suddenly overcome with the desire to see a desert sunset.  I haven’t seen one for over four years.  The colors out here will be different from sunsets over the lake or the meadows—less muted, more intense.

The uneasiness I felt a few moments ago has receded.  Sure, the cliffs can hide danger, but so can the forest.  So can city streets and cottage gardens.  There’s no such thing as a completely safe place, is there?

“Let’s camp here tonight,” I say, expecting Hoss to resist or at least to ask why.  To my surprise, he studies me for one, two, three seconds and then nods.  Does he want to see the sunset too?  Or is he just going along with me because…well, because he’s Hoss?

It doesn’t matter.  I dismount, and we lead our horses toward the cliff and the shelter of an overhanging rock.

***
The desert is on fire.

Not really, of course.  Still, a good sunset makes it look that way.  And this is beyond good.  The sun has narrowed to a white slit on the horizon, and the earth seems to float in silhouette against the fierce red sky.  A half-circle of gold envelopes the whiteness of the sun, which slips lower and lower until only burnt orange and scarlet remain.

Oh, yes.  This is what I needed.

I sip my coffee and look down at Hoss, who’s supposedly skinning his jackrabbit.  I’m not surprised to see him sitting motionless, the half-skinned animal across his lap and his knife poised above it.  He’s staring at the sunset, as lost in those colors as I am.

“Nice, isn’t it?” I say.

Startled, he looks up, as if he’s forgotten I’m here.  Then his face relaxes into a smile, and he turns his gaze back to the western sky. “Nice,” he agrees, and I sip my coffee.

Leaning back against a boulder, I pick up a stick and poke at the fire.  I’ve already unpacked the metal spit and the plates, and as Hoss finishes peeling the skin from the rabbit’s glistening muscles, I wonder—just for a second—what it would taste like raw.  I’m that hungry.  But just as Pa talks about “a good kind of tired,” the kind that comes after a hard day’s labor, this is a good kind of “hungry.”  An honest, well earned hunger.

The sky’s colors have settled down to a dark maroon that fades to black.  I toss the stick into the fire and cross my arms, tucking my hands into my armpits.  Hoss has separated the rabbit’s haunches and is spearing them onto the spit, and I feel a slow smile cross my face.

The sizzling meat smells even better than this morning’s ham, and it tastes as good as it smells.  Finally, with comfortably tight stomachs, we stretch out on our tarps and pull our blankets up to our shoulders.  Lacing my hands together behind my head, I stare up at the bottomless sky.  The stars look close enough to touch.  I imagine myself teetering on the edge of a dark abyss, about to fall down—or up—into a field of silver fireflies.

“Adam?”

“Yeah?”

I hear him sigh.  It’s a contented sound.  “This is good, ain’t it?”

I smile up into the darkness.  “Yeah, Hoss.  This is good.”

I guess I fall asleep before he does, because I don’t hear him snoring.  I don’t hear anything until the unmistakable click of a rifle being cocked.  Jerking awake, I bolt up onto my elbows, meaning to roll to my feet.  My hand is on my pistol, but before I can draw, someone says, “Don’t do it.”  The voice is low and menacing, like a dog’s growl.  I look up, straight into the barrel of a Winchester.

Without moving my head, I cut my eyes toward Hoss.  Like me, he’s up on his elbows, staring at another man with a rifle.

The man standing over me laughs softly.  “Well, Jake,” he drawls, “looks like we got us a couple of live ones.”

***

The two men take our guns and then search our pockets and saddlebags.  There isn’t much there, almost nothing in the way of cash, but the first man’s eyes light up when he pulls Isaac’s latest letter from my vest pocket.  I’ve carried it with me ever since it arrived last week, rereading parts now and then.  It takes every ounce of strength I have to keep from lunging at the man as he turns it in his grimy hands.

A slow, nasty grin spreads across his face as he reads the address on the envelope.  Raising his eyes to mine, he says, “You’re lucky, boy.  This is your ticket to live.”

I flick my eyes toward Jake, who stands a few feet away with his rifle trained on us.  “What do you mean?” I ask, glad that my voice comes out cold and steely.  Fear grips my chest, lurking just below my anger, but I can’t afford to let the fear show.

“I mean we were just going to take your money and your horses and leave you here.  Maybe kill you, if you put up a fight.”  He appraises me with eyes as hard as pebbles.  “We can still do that, so don’t get any ideas.  But this letter says you’re a Cartwright.”  He glances at Jake.  “These boys’ daddy will pay a nice penny to get them back safe and sound.”

Jake spits onto the ground.  “I reckon he will, Thatcher.”

Hoss speaks up.  His voice is a little too loud, but it’s as steady as mine was.  “Our pa won’t deal with criminals.”

Thatcher laughs.  “I’m betting he will.”  He jams Isaac’s letter in his pocket and jerks his chin toward our campsite.  “Pack up, and be quick.”

I generally leave a campsite so clean it’s hard to tell I’ve been there.  Not this time. Thatcher lets us roll up our tarps and blankets, but the spit stays over the still-glowing embers of our fire.  As he ties my hands in front of me, an end of rope uncoils and falls to the sand, twisting like a snake in the moonlight.  I wish Thatcher had been a snake instead of a man.  Even if he had bitten one of us, I could have blown his head off afterward.  And a snakebite—even a rattler’s—rarely kills a full-grown, healthy man.

A man killing another man, though…that happens all the time.

The full moon throws its light across the sand, making it easy to see where we’re going.  Jake leads the way, and Hoss and I follow side by side, with Thatcher right behind.  When I look back over my shoulder, I see that he’s replaced his rifle in the scabbard and is holding a pistol on us as we ride.  I look more closely and see that it’s my Colt that he’s holding.  For some reason, that makes the blood surge to my temples, and I feel my jaw clench.

Thatcher raises an eyebrow and lifts the pistol slightly.  “Watch yourself, boy,” he growls, and I narrow my eyes at him before turning back around.

“Adam?” Hoss says quietly.

“What?”

“This is bad, ain’t it?”

I say nothing for a moment.  Then I tell him the truth.  “Yeah, Hoss. It’s bad.”  What I don’t say is, How many times lately have I told myself to pay attention?  Didn’t I say that mistakes aren’t forgiven out here?

One of us should have stayed awake.  We shouldn’t have been in the desert anyway.  For the sake of a sunset, we slept exposed and vulnerable.

Where are we going now?  What is Thatcher planning?

How can we get away?

There are a hundred things I could say, a thousand things I could ask, but I keep my mouth shut.  I’ve done enough stupid things over the past two days, and I don’t want to say anything stupid now.

“Adam?”

“What, Hoss?”

“If I see a chance to jump one of ’em…”

“Don’t do it.”  My voice sounds more like Pa’s than my own, sharp and commanding.  Hoss looks at me, startled.

“But Adam—”

“No buts.  It’s bad enough that I dragged you into this.”  I’m about to say more, but I break off, staring at him.  He’s chuckling softly, a sound as incongruous as a ship’s bell would be out here.  “What’s so funny?” I hiss.

“You are.”  He shakes his head slowly.  “For somebody so smart, you sure are dumb sometimes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t drag me here, Adam.  I was bound to come.”  He gives a soft snort.  “You would’ve had to drag me away.”

Thatcher’s voice interrupts.  “Shut up, you two. No more talking.”

We ride in silence for at least another hour, until we top a hill and see two small, makeshift lean-tos below us, sheltered between rockfaces.  A muddy pool lies a short distance from the lean-tos, and a firepit appears as a darker patch in the shadows.  As we pick our way down to the camp, one of the horses dislodges a small rock.  It rattles down the hill, and a woman comes out of one of the structures, pointing a rifle up the trail toward us.  Jake raises his hand and calls softly, “It’s us, May.”  She hesitates, but then she lowers the rifle.

As we come nearer, I see that she’s young, maybe twenty.  Both Jake and Thatcher are at least twice that old.  Her ash-blond hair is tied back, low against her neck, and her face is pretty but hard.  Her dress is dirty, and between the dirt and the shadows, I can’t tell what color it is.  But there’s no mistaking the color of the sash around her waist.  Even in the soft moonlight, it gleams pink.

Dark pink.

***
I run.

Pushing off with the balls of my feet, I try to leap with each step like a jackrabbit, but I know I’m not moving fast enough.  The beast behind me snarls, or purrs, or does something in between, and I choke back a scream as I run.

Something hard rams into the side of my shin, and I jerk awake.  I must have fallen asleep sitting up, tied with my back against a Joshua tree.  With my wrists secured behind me, I don’t think it was necessary for Thatcher to tie my ankles as well, but he didn’t ask me.

Hoss is trussed up in the same way, tied to a tree beside mine.  His bound ankles didn’t stop him from kicking me awake, and I wince, wishing I could rub my throbbing leg.

“Sorry,” he says.  “But you were dreaming again, and I didn’t think you’d want the others to hear.”  Gratefully, I nod as I strain against the ropes—not out of any hope of escaping, but trying to keep the blood circulating in my arms and legs.

I wish I could wipe the sleep out of my eyes.  When your hands are tied, suddenly you realize how much you use them.  I’d give anything just to be able to rub my face.

“You gonna tell me about that dream now?” Hoss asks, and for half a second, I’d like to be able to use my hands to punch him.  Only half a second, though.  Maybe less.

I sigh.  “No, Hoss, I’m not.”

“You might not get another chance.”

It takes me a moment to realize what he means.  Then I close my eyes, rallying all my energy to put every ounce of confidence into my next words.  “We’re not going to die.”  I’m not sure if I believe it, but I want him to.

“We’re all gonna die sometime.”  He sounds both amused and sad.

“Of course we are,” I snap. “But not here, not now.”

“All right.  Say we get out of this.  And then you go on, night after night, dreaming that dream.”

“So I go on.  I can do that.”  I hear the stubbornness in my voice, and I know I sound like Joe—which gives me yet another bit of anger to level at myself.

“I reckon you can.”  Now he just sounds sad.  “But you don’t have to.  It ain’t like you’re alone, Adam.”

My throat is closing up.  Gritting my teeth, I force out the words.  “Joe is ten, for crying out loud.  And you—”  I halt, not wanting to hurt him.

“I know, I’m sixteen.  What about Pa?”

“No.”

“Why not?” he shouts.

Startled, I shout back, “Because I can’t!”

I hear movement inside one of the lean-tos, and Thatcher’s head pokes out. His hair is rumpled, and he’s rubbing the back of his neck.  “You two shut up,” he snarls before he disappears again.

The sky is beginning to lighten a little.  Black is giving way to a dustier color, not yet gray, but edging in that direction.  To the east, where the two cliff faces widen, a faint paleness gleams on the horizon.  Soon it will become a powdery pink.

The silence between us grows, just like the dawn.  Unlike the dawn, it feels heavy.  Finally I speak.

“Have you heard me mention Isaac Greenberg?”  I ask.

“Sure,” Hoss says.  “The stable man.”

“Yes.”  I fall silent again.  When Hoss doesn’t press, I say, “I spent a lot of time with him and his wife.  He let me help him in the stables, and one night my classmate Roland and I missed supper because we lost track of time.”  I swallow; I haven’t said Roland’s name aloud in ages.  “Isaac took us home with him, and Martha—his wife—fed us this incredible chicken pie.”  I close my eyes, the memory so strong I can taste the buttery crust, the savory gravy, the chunks of tender dark meat.  “I asked her how she seasoned it, and she answered by showing me her herb garden after supper.  After that, I spent almost as much time in that garden as in Isaac’s stables.”

I hear the smile in Hoss’ voice.  “I wouldn’t have taken you for a gardener.”

“Me neither,” I admit.  “But it was fascinating.  She had all kinds of plants out there, things I’d never heard of.  And she used them for all sorts of things:  cooking, medicines, and just plain beauty.  Flowers, stems, leaves, roots—everything had its use, and she knew just how to use it.  Martha was like…”  My throat tightens.

“Like what?”

“Never mind.”

Behind my closed eyelids, I see a woodcut from a children’s book.  A woman stands in a garden, holding a fistful of bell-shaped flowers.  My little-boy index finger traces the flowers, and I hear myself asking, “Who is she, Mother?”

Inger answers, “She’s an enchantress, sweetheart.  A wise and good enchantress.”

I smile up at her.  “She’s pretty, Mother.  She’s pretty like you.”

A soft thump jolts me back to the present, and I open my eyes to see May, the woman from last night, arranging kindling over a pile of dry tinder in the fire pit.  In no time, she has a nice blaze crackling in the growing morning light, and she lays two logs across it and starts brewing coffee.  A minute later, Jake emerges from one of the lean-tos and comes to warm his hands over the flames.  May pours coffee into two cups and hands him one.  She eyes Hoss and me speculatively and asks, “You two want some coffee?”

I shrug, feeling the ropes around my wrists chafe as I do so.  “I wouldn’t mind some,” I say, adding dryly, “Are you offering to hold the cups for us?”

Her mouth twitches, and I think she’d be pretty if she smiled.  She looks questioningly at Jake, and he draws his pistol and sits down on a rock, watching us closely.  She pours two more cups of coffee and comes over to set them beside us, then moves behind us to untie our hands. I feel her fingers working the knots, and as the rope loosens, the blood surges painfully through my fingers.  She hisses softly as she touches the raw skin on the insides of my wrists.  I jerk away.

“Good Lord,” she mutters, then goes to Hoss.  I look down at my wrists and see angry red lines.  The skin has broken in several places, and the edges are puffy and sore.  I glance over at Hoss, who’s pulled his hands in front of him and is touching his wrists gingerly.  They look about as bad as mine.

May returns to the fire, giving Jake a sidelong glare as she settles herself on another rock.  “Did you tie those ropes?”

“You know I didn’t.”  His voice is flat.

“Thatcher did it.”  She swears under her breath, just loud enough for me to make out a couple of words.

“He was just making sure they wouldn’t get loose.”

“Don’t you dare defend him.  He’s an animal.  I don’t see why we have to stay with him.”

“Don’t start, May.”  His voice is no louder than before, but there’s an edge to it.  She bites her lip and reaches behind her for a gunnysack.  Rummaging in it for a moment, she draws out a small brown pouch.  She brings it over and kneels in front of me, loosening the drawstring on the pouch.

“Give me your hands,” she orders, taking out an amber jar about two inches high and almost as wide.  I set my cup down and hold out my hands, and she smears a sweet-smelling brown paste on my wrists.  It stings for an instant, but then settles into a cool tingle, then a comfortable numbness.  I watch her fingers dipping into the jar and working the paste into the split skin.

“Goldenseal root,” I say softly.  Surprised, she lifts gray eyes to mine.  I smile at her.  “And comfrey.  And…”  I sniff.  “Myrrh.”

“How do you know that?” she asks warily.

I shrug.  “I just know.”  She gazes at me another moment, then breaks eye contact and moves to Hoss, and I raise my coffee to my lips.  It’s weak but hot, and I’m grateful for the warmth that spreads through my body as I sip.

Thatcher startles me when he snaps, “What do you think you’re doing, May?”  I turn to see him standing in front of a lean-to, tucking his shirt into his pants.

May glares at him.  “What does it look like I’m doing?” she retorts, and he takes a step toward her.

“Back off, Thatcher.”  Jake sounds more tired than angry.

Turning to him, Thatcher sneers, “You aim to use that gun on me?”

“No,” Jake says evenly.  “You can see I’m holding it on these two.  You’ve given me no call to shoot you.”  He raises an eyebrow, and I hear the unspoken word: yet.

Thatcher grunts dismissively, as if this conversation is suddenly requiring more energy than it’s worth.  He goes to the fire and squats in front of it, pours his coffee, and turns his attention back to May, who’s still attending to Hoss’ wrists. “You planning to do any cooking today?” he demands.

“Something wrong with your hands?”

“Look, you little hussy—”

“I’ll get to your breakfast when I’m done repairing your damage.”

Thatcher’s eyes narrow dangerously, and he snarls at Jake, “If she was my woman, I’d teach her some respect, quick and permanent.”

“Well, she’s not your woman,” Jake replies, and once again, his voice takes on a hardness that belies its evenness.  His gun is still trained on Hoss and me, but his eyes are on Thatcher.  I look over at Hoss, trying to signal him with my eyes:  Maybe we can use this.  He gives me a barely perceptible nod over May’s shoulder as she finishes doctoring his wrists.

Standing, she packs the jar back into the drawstring bag, then returns to the gunnysack to stow the smaller bag away.  It appears to me that she’s taking her sweet time.  Finally she goes back to the fire, opens another burlap sack, and pours oats into a pot.  A bucket covered with a short board stands close by, and she removes the board and pours water into the pot, tipping the bucket to drain its contents.  She turns toward the pond, but Thatcher stands and snatches the bucket from her.

“I’ll fetch the water,” he says curtly.  “You just see to my breakfast.”  He stalks away, and she puts her fists on her hips, glaring at his back.  Jake stands and grabs her arm, yanking her around to face him.  Caught off guard, she almost stumbles.  She raises her eyes to his, and I’m surprised to see her chin tremble.

“You may not be his woman,” Jake says, so low I can barely hear him, “but you’re mine.  And if you ever embarrass me like that in front of him again…”  His fingers tighten around her arm, and she winces.  I hear Hoss shift, and I know what he wants to do, because I want to do it too.  It’s hopeless, though.  Jake still holds the gun, our feet are still tied, and we wouldn’t stand a chance.  I look at Hoss and see sheer anguish in his eyes.  I’m pretty sure he’s never seen a woman treated roughly.  I’ve seen it only a few times myself.  The last time, I…

The image from my nightmare slams into my mind with such force that I almost cry out.

Martha, eyes wide and hair coming loose, attempting to cover her bare shoulder with the torn fabric of her dress.

Roland…oh, no.  No.  No.

Isaac’s voice trembles with urgency.  “Run, Adam. Get the doctor.”  I hesitate, and he barks, eyes blazing, “Run!”

And I run.

***
The sun has been climbing steadily for the past several hours, and the shadows have shrunk to almost nothing.  Hoss and I were allowed a short walk to relieve ourselves—at gunpoint, of course.  (Nothing like a pistol at your back to inhibit that particular process.)  Jake and Thatcher have ridden out, presumably to arrange for our ransom, and maybe to pick up some supplies.

The Joshua trees cast dark images onto the sand directly below their limbs.  I lean against the trunk of the one I’m tied to, hugging its small shade.  May sits beneath a rock overhang about ten feet from us, crushing something with a mortar and pestle.  My Colt lies beside her.

Sitting still for so long has made me stiff and sore, not to mention cranky.  I stretch my arms in front of me as best I can.  When Jake retied our hands in front of us, not behind, I allowed myself a fleeting moment of hope before admitting that we still can’t escape.  Having my hands in front of me just means I can scratch my nose if it itches.  It would still be impossible to untie my ankles and the rope around my waist without May seeing me; I don’t think a full minute’s gone by without her looking at us.  As if in answer to my thought, she pauses in her work and lifts her chin, gazing at me steadily.

Glancing at Hoss, I see that he’s dozing with his chin on his chest.  Sweat beads cover his forehead, and a trickle of sweat runs down his jawline.  I look back at May, remembering what she said as Jake and Thatcher rode away.  Holding the pistol with two hands and leveling it at my chest, she cocked it and said, “I’ve bandaged your sores and given you breakfast.  But don’t you mistake that for softness.  You give me a reason to shoot you, and I’ll do it as quick as Thatcher would.”

“Or Jake?” I asked.

She studied me, searching my face for my meaning.  “Or Jake,” she said finally.

Hoss asked the question I was thinking.  “Why do you stay with him, ma’am?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said tersely and began clearing away the breakfast things.

I watch her now, admiring the smooth, push-and-twist motion of the pestle in her right hand.  She stops and looks into the mortar.  Apparently satisfied with what she sees, she pours the powder onto a flat rock in the sun and spreads it with her fingers.  A mound of reddish-brown pods lies beside her; she picks up a handful and puts them into the mortar.

Push, twist.  Push, twist.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“What does it look like?” she asks, her voice heavy with sarcasm.  “I’m getting dressed for the ball.”

“Ah,” I say.  “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but it looks like we’re fresh out of escorts.”

“Yeah,” Hoss agrees, stirring.  I wonder if he really was sleeping at all. “I’d take you, ma’am, but it looks like I’m tied up tonight.”  He snorts at his own lame joke, and I can’t refrain from rolling my eyes.

“That was really bad,” I tell him.  Then, to my surprise, May laughs.

“Yes,” she agrees.  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard worse.”

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.  “I’m not much for telling jokes. Besides, I’m not feeling very funny right now.”

“No, I wouldn’t think so,” she says, and begins grinding the pods in her mortar again.

“I can do that if you want,” I tell her.

“Why?”

“Because I’m bored out of my skull, that’s why,” I say, more sharply than I intended.

She eyes my bound wrists a moment, then stands and brings the mortar and pestle to me.  “Give it a try,” she says, setting the mortar down beside me and placing the pestle in my right hand.  I lean sideways and try to mash it down onto the pods, but since I can’t hold the mortar steady with my left hand, it tilts and spills its contents onto the sand.  Frustrated, I drop the pestle.

May shrugs. “Well, you tried.”  She starts gathering up the pods.

“Untie my wrists,” I say suddenly, and she stares at me.

“You’ve lost your mind,” she says.

“No, I haven’t,” I tell her, “not yet.  But if I have to sit here with nothing to do for one more minute, I will.  You’ll still have the gun, May, and I’ll still be tied to this tree.  And my legs will still be tied.  Not to mention my brother.  Do you think I’d go off and leave him?”

She hesitates, and I press my advantage.  “May, I give you my word.  If you untie my wrists, just for a while, I won’t try to escape.”

“Your word.”  She gives a small, bitter laugh.

“Yes,” I say, fastening my eyes on hers and willing her to believe me.  “My word.”

Beside me, I think Hoss has stopped breathing.  May’s gray eyes hold my gaze, and finally she mutters, “I am a complete fool,” before she stoops to untie my wrists.  When she finishes, she steps back, reaching for the Colt and swinging it up quickly.  Although she holds it two-handed, she looks comfortable with it, the way some women would look with a baby.  Leveling it at my head this time, she says, “You break that word of yours, and I’ll blow your head off.”

“Charming,” I say dryly.  “You’re an angel, May.”

“A bit fallen, I reckon,” she says without inflection.  She motions to the mortar, which still lies on its side.  “Go ahead, grind some mesquite if that’s what’ll make you happy.”  Then, to Hoss, she says, “I suppose you’ll want to help.  Do I have your word, too?”

Hoss nods, and I see him trying to suppress his eagerness. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “My solemn word: no escape attempts.  Not yet, anyway,” he adds, grinning.  “Maybe after supper.”  I want to shake him.  But May’s mouth twitches in barely concealed amusement, and I realize Hoss’ instinct was true.  May wants to laugh.  Any excuse will do:  a groan-worthy pun, a stupid escape joke, anything at all.

“I’m a fool,” she mutters, laying the Colt down out of my reach to untie Hoss.  “A complete fool.”

She gives Hoss a small paring knife and a pile of mesquite roots, with instructions to peel off the outer coverings and slice the pulpy insides into inch-long strips.  I work on imitating her push-twist motions, enjoying the way the pestle becomes an extension of my hand.  The nightmare images have receded again, although I know they’re lurking.  Right now, I push them aside and try to concentrate on our current situation.

I could hurl this granite pestle at May’s head.  If I throw it hard and fast and straight, she’ll be out like a light.  Hoss and I could be miles away before Jake and Thatcher return.

A blow like that could kill her.

I gave my word.

Under duress, I gave my word.  Does that count?

Hoss has a paring knife.  No, that’s no good.  She has a Colt. I pause in my work, watching her mend a jacket that belongs to one of the men.  She must feel my eyes on her, because she lifts hers to mine again.

Her eyes are the most unusual gray.  Like storm clouds, but harder.  Their hardness keeps them from being beautiful.

For a moment, May and I are the only two people in the desert.  Then Hoss interrupts.  “Why do you stay with Jake?” he asks.

May frowns, then glances at me.  “Your brother’s awful nosy, isn’t he?” she says.

I give Hoss a pointed look.  “Not usually.  But the last couple of days, he seems to have found his curiosity.”

She turns her attention back to the jacket.  Finishing the seam she’s on, she ties off the thread and breaks it with her teeth.  Then she leans back against the cliff face and says slowly, “I guess I’m with Jake for the same reason he’s with Thatcher.”

“Which is?”

She gives Hoss an appraising look.  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever been beholden to anyone.  Those clothes, that fine horse you’re riding, your firearms—you were born with everything you’ll ever need, and then some.”

I set my pestle down on the ground beside me and close my eyes so she won’t see the anger in them.  I get tired of this.  “You rich Cartwrights, you spoiled Cartwrights,” as if we never had to work for anything we have.  I remember those days of trekking across the country…Pa looking desperate and depressed when he ran out of money and I had a fever.  Pa taking a menial job in a saloon and accepting a homemade remedy from a woman he’d only just met.  Pa kneeling over Inger’s lifeless body as the blood seeped through the back of her dress around the arrow shaft.

No, we’ve never suffered.

Hoss sounds puzzled.  “You stay with Jake ’cause you’re beholden to him?”

“It’s more than that.”  She shakes her head.  “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You keep saying that, ma’am.  But you don’t know it.”

She doesn’t answer, and I open my eyes, expecting to see her concentrating on her mending again.  But she’s sitting still, gazing at Hoss—or rather, through Hoss. Her eyes are open, but she doesn’t seem to see anything.  Finally she says, “I love him.”

“Oh.”  Hoss is quiet.  Then, “Where are you going?  I mean, are you just drifting?  Or do you have a plan?”

Her eyes brighten, and for a second, they’re beautiful.  “We’re heading for San Francisco. I’m going to open a shop—an emporium, with all sorts of healing remedies.  I’m good at that.  And I hear in San Francisco, the Chinese have such things.  I’m hoping one of them will teach me.”

“Not likely,” I say flatly.  I know it’s mean, but I’m still angry about the assumptions she made about us.  “No Chinese doctor will take on a Fan Guay woman.”

Her brow furrows.  “A what?”

“Fan Guay.  White ghost.  It’s what they call us.”  Not quite knowing why, I add, “It’s just another word for ‘Other.’”

Hoss puts in hopefully, “Hop Sing—that’s our cook—has relatives in San Francisco.  I think he’s got a cousin or an uncle or something that’s a doctor.  I bet he’d take you on as a student.”

May laughs, sounding genuinely amused.  “Sure.  Your Chinese cook will ask his uncle to teach the wife of one of your kidnappers.  You’re as big a fool as I am.”

“Well…”  Hoss hesitates, but then he plunges ahead, speaking quickly.  “I’m not the brightest one in my family, ma’am.  But it seems to me that this thing ain’t gone so far it can’t be undone.  If you was to talk to Jake—”

“No.”  There’s no trace of laughter in her voice now.

“But ma’am—”

“Forget it.”

A sound from the top of the cliff makes us all look up.  Jake and Thatcher are riding down the path, and May nervously puts a hand to her throat.  They enter the camp and dismount.  Thatcher takes in the scene:  May with her mending, Hoss with his paring knife, me with my mortar and pestle.  He snorts.

“I knew she was stupid,” he tells Jake, “but I didn’t think she was a complete idiot.”

When Jake reties our hands, he pulls the ropes as tight as Thatcher did last night.  May’s bandages keep them from cutting into my flesh, but I’m certain there won’t be any circulation left by suppertime.

***

No one unties us, not even for supper.  I quickly give up trying to use a fork and settle for dried meat and hardtack, no beans.  No one talks much, and our three captors turn in early.  I wonder what they’ve done about demanding ransom.  How will they collect it?  When and where will they turn us over to someone?  Will it be to Pa or someone else?
Will it happen at all?

There’s no desert sunset to admire tonight, not for us.  The western sky is blocked by the cliff faces, and darkness descends quickly.  A day of inactivity, not to mention high anxiety, has left me too keyed-up to sleep.  It’s just as well.  Until this morning, my memory of what happened to Martha and Roland was like recalling a scene in a book.  If necessary, I could have recited the facts, including some minor details, but I wouldn’t have been there.

Now wakefulness is my last defense.

“Adam?”  Hoss’ voice sounds small in the darkness.

“What?”  Please, please don’t ask me about the dreams again.

“What do you reckon Pa’s doing right now?”

The question is both easier and harder to deal with than the one I’d expected.  I consider.  “Assuming that Pa’s gotten some kind of ransom demand, I guess he’s…”  I don’t know how to finish the sentence.  What would Pa be doing now?  Has he gone to Virginia City to withdraw cash from the bank?  How much have Jake and Thatcher demanded?  Will Pa refuse to deal with them, as Hoss predicted?  No, I’m sure he’ll deal.  Or will he just pretend to comply?

Has he gone for Sheriff Coffee?  Gathered his own informal posse?  A friend or two, a couple of trusted hands?

Is he looking for us?

“Adam?”  Apparently Hoss is waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know,” I admit.  “What do you think?”

Silence.  Then, “I think he’s looking for us.  With this full moon, if he’s found our campsite, we won’t be hard to track.”

That’s a mighty big “if,” I think, but I don’t say it.

“Adam?”

“What?”

“How’d you know what was in that salve May put on our wrists?”

I’d forgotten all about that.  “It was partly a lucky guess.  Goldenroot and comfrey are good for open sores.  And the color was right.”

“You said myrrh too, didn’t you?”

“Yes.  That has a distinct smell.  I’m surprised May has something like that, though.  It’s expensive stuff.”

“We really don’t know anything about her.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Adam?”

“What, Hoss?”

“You were good with that mortar and pestle.  Did Martha teach you that?”

“Yes, Hoss.”  I really don’t want to talk about Martha, but I figure Hoss will ask more.  I’m wrong.  He says nothing, and the silence grows…and grows…and suddenly I hear my voice rising and falling on the cold, thin air.

But I’m not telling him about Martha, or even Isaac.  I’m talking about Roland, about how funny he was, how energetic and full of life.  Always ready to cut class, to sneak out of the dormitory and go down to the river after dark.  A little arrogant, but in a charming way.  Red hair, roguish grin, a smooth way with the ladies.

He teased me about spending so much time with the Greenbergs.  “The peasants,” he called them once, but he backed off when he saw the fury in my eyes.  And I forgave him, because…well, because he was Roland, and he was harmless.  Just unthinking sometimes.

“He wasn’t a bad person,” I say softly, and my voice breaks.

Hoss says nothing.  And in the silence, I continue.

We were down by the river with our rifles, near the place where Isaac had fallen in.  I’d told Roland that if I bagged a goose, Martha would fix us a meal like he’d never had.  He’d rolled his eyes but had come along.

If Roland and I hadn’t split up, things would have turned out differently.  Neither of us expected to see anyone else on the river.  Certainly not Martha, and certainly not alone.  Certainly not with her shoes and stockings off, and her skirts tied up around her waist, wading like a little girl.  Alone.

“Roland wasn’t a bad person,” I say again, and Hoss says nothing.

The rest of it I say in a cold, clinical voice, reciting the facts that are, after all, a matter of public record.  When I finish, Hoss knows everything Pa knows:  the blast of Isaac’s rifle, the stricken look on his face as he crashed through the bushes behind me, Martha’s collapse on the bank.  Roland face down in the red water.  Red fading to pink as his blood spread and feathered on its way downstream.

It’s so dark I don’t even need to close my eyes.  I hear Isaac:  “Run, Adam. Get the doctor.  Run!”

Isaac’s voice fades, and once again there’s silence when I finish.

“Adam?”

“What?”

“Are you going to tell me the rest?”

I freeze.  “What rest?”

“Whatever it is you can’t tell Pa.”

Silence again, and this time Hoss isn’t the one who breaks it.  From inside the lean-to, we hear voices.  They murmur at first, but they gradually grow louder.  I can’t make out every word, but from Thatcher I hear, “…they can identify…” and “…safer that way.”  Jake seems to be arguing with him, and every once in a while May’s voice breaks in.

Suddenly she wails, “You promised, Jake!  You gave me your word!”

Thatcher’s harsh laugh cuts the night air.  “His word!  You really thought you’d run a shop in San Francisco?  You see yourself as some sort of magic fairy, don’t you?”  In a high falsetto, he taunts, “Get your potions and lotions from Magical May!”

Now, along with May’s choked sobs, we hear Jake’s voice.  It’s low and urgent, and the words “mining,” and “just for a little while” stand out.  After a while, May’s sobs grow quieter, and Jake stops talking.  Thatcher steps out of the lean-to and walks to the edge of the campsite.  He takes a pouch out of his vest and dips his thumb and forefinger into it, then pokes a wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth.

“Thatcher,” Hoss says suddenly, and I jump.  What could Hoss possibly have to say to him?

“What do you want, boy?”

“Just to tell you…”  Hoss draws in a breath.  “May was right about you.  You’re an animal.”

Thatcher stands motionless a moment.  Then slowly, he walks over to Hoss and stoops down, eye to eye.  The whites of Thatcher’s eyes gleam in the moonlight.  Then his lips pull back in a wolf-like grin.  I smell his tobacco, and I think he’s about to spit in Hoss’ face.

But without warning, he backhands him, hard.  Reflexively, I strain against my ropes, but it’s no good.  Hoss’ head snaps to the side, but he recovers quickly, straightening up to meet Thatcher’s stare again.

Thatcher is still grinning.  “Yeah, boy,” he says softly.  “I’m an animal.  And don’t you forget it.”

***

“Not smart,” I whisper to Hoss after Thatcher has gone back inside.  I shouldn’t say it; I’m sure Hoss knows that provoking Thatcher was foolhardy, and I shouldn’t rub it in.  But I want to make sure he understands, so he won’t do it again.

“I know,” he says ruefully, twisting against his ropes as if trying to get comfortable.  “I couldn’t help it, Adam.  I was just so mad.”

“You couldn’t help it?  That’s something Joe would say.”

“I’m sorry, Adam.”  I remind myself that he’s sixteen, after all.  It’s just that he’s usually so levelheaded and even-tempered that this took me by surprise.  I chalk it up to being confined all day, feeling helpless and overwhelmed—and of course, wishing he could protect May.

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him.  “No harm done.”

“Yeah?  You didn’t catch his backfist.”

“Are you all right?”

“Sure.”

I wonder if he’s telling the truth, but I don’t push it.  My mind is going back over the snatches of argument we overheard.  Thatcher’s voice: “…kill them if they…” and “…safer that way.”

We’ve spent twenty-four hours with these people.  They can’t just meet up with Pa, exchange us for the money then and there, and expect to ride away.  Maybe they’ve arranged for the ransom to be in one place, and they’ll leave us in another place for Pa to find, but they’re bound to know that a posse will be after them as soon as we’re in safe hands.  And with Hoss and me to identify them…

I feel sick.  Our chances of getting out of this alive are dwindling by the moment.

“Hoss,” I whisper.

“What?”

“I need you to think.  Think hard.  We’ve got to figure a way out of this.”  Why didn’t I throw that pestle at May earlier?  Was it some sort of misplaced chivalry?  Just one more reason to be angry with myself…but that won’t do any good now.

“I’m thinking, Adam.”  Is that despair I hear?

The anxiety of the day is beginning to catch up with me.  Earlier I was too keyed up to sleep, but suddenly I can’t keep my eyes open.  I hope I’m too exhausted to dream, because I know I won’t be able to stay awake much longer.

That’s the last thought I remember until two low murmurs wake me up.  The moon is high, peeking over the western cliff.  I must have slept for a couple of hours.

May is sitting facing Hoss, whispering, “How do you know it’s a filly?”

“I don’t know how I know.  I just do.”

It takes me a minute to figure out what they’re talking about.  Then I remember the mare that we thought was going to foal a few days ago, the one Hoss asked me to help him check on.  She didn’t go into labor that night, nor by the time we left the next day.  Presumably, she’s had her foal by now.  But I’m with May:  what makes Hoss so sure it’s a filly?

May surprises me with her teasing tone.  “You must have been drinking eyebright tea.”

“What’s that?”

“Eyebright?  The flower looks a little like a Lady’s Slipper on top, light purple.  Almost pink, but not quite.  The bottom petals are white with some yellow near the stamen.”

“It sounds pretty.”

“It is.  And it’s very useful.  Every part of it can be used—roots, stem, leaves, flower.”  Her voice is quietly passionate.  “Some people say it gives the second sight.”

“Second sight?”

“Knowing things you can’t possibly know.  Like whether your mare’s going to have a colt or a filly.”

“Oh.”  He laughs softly.  “I don’t reckon I need eyebright for that.  I just generally know.”

This is news to me, but I’m not surprised that Hoss has never mentioned it.  It’s not something I’d talk about either.

“Ma’am?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.  I’m not that much older than you.”

“All right…May.  You know they’re probably gonna kill us, don’t you?”

I hold my breath.  Every second that passes seems like ten.  Then she says, “No, Hoss, they’re not.”  She stands, and her posture is determined, as if she’s suddenly decided something and there’s no turning back.  Quickly and deliberately, she steps forward and kneels beside him, and I see something flash in the moonlight.  The next thing I know, Hoss is staring at his hands as the rope that was around his wrists drops into his lap.

May stands again, and now she’s untying the dark pink sash around her waist.  Leaning forward, she loops it around Hoss’ neck.  “You’re a sweet boy,” she says softly, and kisses him on the forehead.  His lips part as he gazes at her, wide-eyed like the boy she’s just called him.  She closes her eyes a moment before straightening up and handing him the knife. Then she turns to me.

I look up at her, having given up any pretense of being asleep.  She smiles slightly—a sad smile.  Reaching into her coat, she pulls out my Colt and lays it on the ground beside me. Then she turns and walks toward the lean-to.  She goes inside, and she doesn’t look back.

***
Hoss quickly slices through his ropes and then mine.  Our legs wobble when we stand, and I flex my ankles as I slip the Colt into my holster.  Its weight settles against my hip, and I breathe a silent Thank you.  I wish Hoss had his pistol too, but one weapon is better than none.

The horses are tethered by the pond, and Hoss turns in that direction.  I grab his arm.

“We’ll go on foot,” I whisper.

His eyes widen. “We can’t leave our horses.”

“We have to.  We’ll never get them up that path without making any noise.”

“We could set their horses loose, and then take ours.”

“No.”  I don’t have time to explain it to him, but there are only two ways out of this camp, and the horses can’t navigate either one quietly.  It doesn’t matter if we’re leading them, riding them, or sending them on their way with a slap on the hindquarters; they’re bound to wake up Jake and Thatcher.  The thought of leaving Nightshade sends a stab of agony through me, but I steel myself.

Hoping I sound more confident than I feel, I whisper, “If we hike fast, we’ll make the northeast pasture by daybreak.  Once we’re home, Pa and the sheriff will organize a posse, and we’ll get our horses back.”

“And we’ll see Jake and Thatcher in jail,” he whispers back.  I nod reassuringly and turn toward the path, but now it’s his turn to grab my arm.  Impatiently, I look back at him.  He stares at me as if something alarming has just occurred to him.  “What about May?”

“What about her?”  I know what’s coming, just as sure as I know my name is Adam Stoddard Cartwright.  Oh, Lord.  Please let me be wrong.

“We can’t leave her, Adam.  When they find out what she’s done—”

“Hoss.”  I turn to face him, gripping his arms with both my hands, and I squeeze hard, hoping to squeeze some sense into him.  “She made her choice.  She could have come with us, but she went back to Jake.”

He works his jaw back and forth.  Oh, this is bad.  He’s got that stubborn-mule look on his face, and we can’t stand here in the moonlight arguing in whispers forever.

“I won’t leave her, Adam.”

“You have to!”

“You go.  I’ll hide here and keep an eye on her while you go for that posse.”

“That’s stupid.  We stay together.”

“This is my choice, Adam.  I won’t drag you into it.”

Suddenly I feel the corners of my mouth begin to twitch, and I have to cover my mouth with one hand to keep from laughing out loud.  Hoss stares at me, and I manage to compose myself.  I drop my hand, still smiling, and I have the sensation that the pins in a tumbler lock have dropped into place.  Somewhere inside me, there’s a satisfying “click” as everything fits together.

“What’s so funny?” Hoss hisses.

“You are,” I tell him as solemnly as I can, but I know I’m giving him that crooked smile he and Joe tease me about.  “You aren’t dragging me anywhere.  You’d have to drag me away.”

***

It’s perfect; I’ve always loved the symmetry of poetic justice.  And it’s simple.  I’ve been trying to make everything complicated, but it doesn’t need to be.  The scripture “Do unto others” pops into my head, but it comes out distorted:  “Do unto others as they’ve done to you.”  I slam my mind shut against any ethical qualms I might have; this is not the time for debate.  Later, sitting safely by the fireplace in the ranch house, that will be the time.  Goethe’s words race through my mind:

Words have been interchanged enough;
Let me at last see action too.

There’s more, isn’t there? Yes…

With resolution seize the possible straightway,
By forelock and with quick, courageous trust.

“By forelock,” I murmur, flexing my fingers, and Hoss furrows his brow.

“What?”

“Never mind.  Come on.” Quickly and quietly, I lead him to the second lean-to where Thatcher sleeps.  The first order of business is to get Hoss a weapon, and I know Thatcher’s rifle is in there.  I’m hoping we can get it without waking him.

He’s sleeping sprawled out on a pile of dirty blankets, a flask lying close to his left hand.  My pent-up nerves threaten to make me laugh again, but I bite the inside of my cheek to quell the urge.  Thatcher’s stupidity is our gain, and with any luck, Jake is in the same state.  I suppose that’s why he didn’t miss May when she was talking with Hoss.

Glancing at Hoss, I nod toward the rifle standing in the corner, and he steps gingerly under the shelter of the lean-to.  But either he makes a noise I don’t hear, or Thatcher isn’t as inebriated as I assumed, because suddenly his eyes are wide open and his hand is hovering over the pistol on his hip.

“Don’t do it,” I say softly, drawing back the hammer of my Colt.  But part of me hopes he does do it.  Part of me remembers how hard he hit my younger brother, who was tied to a tree at the time.  It’s that part of me that thinks, Go ahead, Thatcher.  Give me a reason to shoot you.

For a moment, his eyes are confused, but now they clear, and his lips draw back over his teeth in that canine smile of his.  “Be careful with that gun, boy,” he says.  “It’s a terrible thing to kill a man.”  He gets to one knee, his right hand twitching over his pistol, and I keep mine pointed at his chest.  His grin widens.  “Course, you wouldn’t know that.”

“I know it,” I say shortly.  In my peripheral vision, I see that Hoss has the rifle now and is pointing it at Thatcher.

“Give your gun to Hoss,” I order.  Thatcher slides his pistol from the holster and dangles it above the ground. Dropping it, he stands up.

“If he wants it, he can come get it,” he sneers.

Hoss steps forward, but I say, “Leave it,” and motion Thatcher out of the lean-to. Once Thatcher is outside, I tell Hoss, “Get it now,” and he does.  I keep my eyes on Thatcher, feeling fully alert for the first time in days.  Every nerve in my body tingles.  A cool breeze dries the sweat on the back of my neck, carrying the sharp scent of mesquite from our earlier supper fire.  A desert toad makes a creaking croak of a sound, and a coyote’s yip elongates into a yowl.  Everything’s alive.

I’m alive.

I march Thatcher to stand in front of the other lean-to, and Hoss glances at me. I barely nod, and he steps toward the opening.  We don’t need words, and that’s part of the rightness, the aliveness of all this.  Hoss and I are pins in the tumbler, and we’ve slid into place.  Thatcher starts to turn around, but I move forward and jam my pistol between his shoulder blades.  “Don’t move,” I say grimly, and he freezes.

When Hoss levels the Winchester at Jake, I have the strangest sensation of watching something that’s already happened to me.  I hear the unmistakable click of the rifle being cocked as Jake bolts up on his elbows, staring straight into the barrel of the gun.  Fleetingly, I wonder:  Can anything ever happen that hasn’t happened before?

May is up on her elbows too, gazing first at Hoss and then at me in utter disbelief.  “No,” she says softly, then louder, “No!”  Is that anger on her face?  Oh, yes.  “No!” she yells as she and Jake get to their feet.

Hoss looks uncertain, and suddenly I realize I’ve made a serious error.  Hoss should have been holding Thatcher; I should be the one pointing the rifle at Jake.  Praying that I’m the only one who sees this, I snap, “May! Take Jake’s gun and drop it.”  When she hesitates, I bark, “Now!”  Jake holds his hands up, palms out, and she takes his pistol and drops it on the blankets.  Jake is glaring a hole through Hoss—or rather, through the dark pink sash around his neck.

“You,” Jake snarls, but he isn’t talking to Hoss.  His eyes are flicking from the sash to May and back again.  “You little tramp.”

“No, Jake,” she protests.  “It’s not like that.”

“Get outside,” I order, before this can go any farther.  The feeling of rightness is fast unraveling, and I wish I could go back in time and try again to convince Hoss to make our escape.  This was a mistake.  I was right the first time:  May doesn’t want to be rescued, and we should have left her here.  Too late now.  The only way out of this is to plow on through.  “Let’s go,” I tell them, prodding Thatcher with my pistol.  Hoss steps back to let May and Jake pass, and I motion them toward the Joshua trees.

I make Thatcher sit with his back to the tree I’ve come to think of as “mine,” and I tell May to tie him to it.  She yanks the ropes so tightly around his wrists that he winces, and I know he hates himself for showing even that much weakness.  Her hands are trembling, but she manages the knots all right.

With Thatcher secured, I have to fight the temptation to relax a little.  I’m feeling none too steady right now; I haven’t slept well in days, and I know that fatigue can play with a man’s mind as well as his body.  Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that Jake is every bit as dangerous as Thatcher, and May is quite the wild card at this point.

“Tie him,” I tell May, jerking my chin at Jake.  I’m not really surprised when she shakes her head.

The corner of Jake’s mouth curls up.  “Didn’t count on that, did you, Cartwright?  What’s your plan now?”

“No problem.”  Don’t panic.  I take one cautious step back, the better to cover both May and Jake with my gun.  “May, sit.  Hoss, you tie him.”  May starts to crouch, Hoss half-lowers his rifle, and then everything happens at lightning speed.  I see Jake’s hand inside his vest for less than half a second, and I recognize the small Derringer pistol just before I hear it pop.  May lunges at Hoss’ rifle, and she’s between Jake and me, right in my line of fire.  Now Hoss stumbles backward with her on top of him, and I can see Jake again.  I feel the cold steel of the trigger against my index finger, hear the sharp report, and smell the acrid blue smoke as Jake goes down.  The Derringer drops from his fingers, and his vest falls open.  A deep red stain blooms on his shirt front and begins to spread.  He stares at it a moment, and then goes limp against the tree.

May abandons Hoss and flies to Jake, bending over him and sobbing his name over and over.  Hoss struggles to sit up, leaving the rifle where it dropped beside him.  He gapes at me, clutching his left arm.  The pink sash falls in graceful folds across his chest, and suddenly I’m back in Boston, standing dazed beside the river, staring at the pink water under Roland’s body as my firearm clatters to the ground.  I hear Isaac crashing through the bushes, turn to see the horror on his face, hear myself stammering, “I didn’t—Isaac, I couldn’t—oh god, oh god, oh—”

Desert camp and riverside have become one, so it doesn’t seem at all strange to hear a crash behind me.  I turn to see Pa running toward us, pistol drawn.  He reaches for Hoss, who’s already gotten to his feet and is moving toward me.

“Adam!” Hoss is yelling, but his voice sounds far away, as if I’m underwater.

“Roland,” I say hoarsely.

Hoss takes me by the shoulders, the way I gripped him less than an hour ago.  “Adam!” he shouts in my face.  I stare at him, barely seeing him.

“Adam, this is now!” Hoss says urgently, his face inches from my own.  “That’s Jake, not Roland.  That’s Pa, not Isaac.  This is now, Adam.”  I blink, and suddenly I feel my knees buckle.  My sixteen-year-old brother’s arms come around me, supporting me as I struggle to stand up straight.

“Oh, god, Hoss,” I hear myself saying.  “I killed Roland.  Not Isaac, me.”

“I know,” he says simply, holding me.

Taking a shuddering breath, I get my feet back under me and step away.  Hoss lets go, but his blue eyes meet mine, full of concern.  Behind him, Pa is taking all of this in: Hoss and me, Thatcher tied up and glaring, May still weeping over Jake’s body.  Sheriff Coffee has appeared and is kneeling beside May.

Weakly, I ask, “How did you know?”

He shrugs.  “I don’t know how.  But I’ve known for a while.”

I shake my head, and suddenly I notice his left arm.  The sleeve is torn, and the edges of the rip are stained red.  Focusing on that, I raise one eyebrow and strive for my best big-brother voice.  “Since you know so much, do you know you’ve been shot?”

He looks down, genuinely surprised.  “I knew it a minute ago,” he says, “but I reckon I forgot.”

“Well, do you reckon we should take care of that?”

“Sure,” he says, looking a little dazed.  “I don’t see why not.”  He turns too quickly and stumbles.  Pa catches him under the elbow.

“Easy, son,” Pa says as he lowers him to a sitting position.  “Let’s have a look.”

“Hey, Pa?” Hoss says, wincing as Pa slides the jacket off him.

“Mm?” Pa mutters, examining the flesh wound.  It looks to me like the bullet just grazed him, damaging his shirt more than his skin, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Hoss grins.  “I sure am glad to see you.”

“Me, too,” I add fervently.

Pa glances up at me, then turns his attention back to Hoss.  “Looks to me like you boys had everything under control,” he says.  I can’t tell if he’s serious or not.

“No, Pa,” I say.  “Not by a long shot.”  I pause.  “Not for a long time.”  A sob threatens to escape, but I swallow hard and keep it down.  Time enough for that later.  Later, when I tell Pa everything.

Right now I just want to go home.

***

It feels great to be back on Nightshade, so wonderful that it’s hard for me to keep from breaking into a full gallop across the desert.  Pa and Sheriff Coffee ride in front, with May and Thatcher between them. Hoss and I come after, and I know part of the reason is so Hoss won’t have to look at May’s hands tied to her saddle horn.  I saw the anguish in his eyes as the sheriff tied her.

One end of the pink sash has escaped from Hoss’ trousers pocket, and it flaps there, shockingly bright against the dingy fabric of his pants.  I decide not to mention it.  Instead I say, “Wonder how Pa and the sheriff found us.”

He chuckles.  “Pa told me while you were loading the horses.  He said we left a trail wider than a stampede.”

I laugh, remembering how Thatcher made us leave our campsite such a mess. Sure enough, his stupidity was our gain.  And even before that, we hadn’t been trying to be sneaky, so to the practiced eye, we wouldn’t have been hard to follow.

Hoss glances over his shoulder at Jake’s horse.  The man’s body, wrapped in a blanket, lies across the saddle.  Hoss shakes his head.

“It don’t seem fair,” he mutters.

“What doesn’t seem fair?”

“Everything.  Jake dead, Thatcher alive, May…”  He pauses, and I wait.  “Hop Sing would have helped her.  I know he would have.”

“Yes, he would have.”

“I should have played it your way.  We should have gotten out of there and come back for her later.”

“They would have killed her, Hoss.  At least, Thatcher would have.  Maybe even Jake.”

His voice is low and sad.  “I think Jake killed her anyway.”

***
I run.  As I run, I think, No!  I thought this was over.  Won’t it ever be over?

As I round a stand of trees, a man steps into my path and grabs my arms.  I try to twist away, and then I realize it’s Pa.  The beast behind me snarls, and I yell, “Run, Pa!”

“No, Adam,” he says evenly, and his eyes match his voice: firm, calm, and confident. “Turn around, son.  I’m here.”

“I’m here, too,” Hoss says beside me as he touches my arm.

“Me, too,” Joe’s eager voice pipes up, and I see him peering out from behind Pa.

I stare at him, aghast, and then at Pa.  “He’s only ten!”  I protest.

“He’s your brother,” Pa replies, and gently turns me around.

Roland stands there, his freckles standing out against his pale face.  His red hair hangs dripping over his forehead, and the pink sash around his neck ripples in a nonexistent breeze.  His eyes mirror the pain I know is in mine.  I open my mouth.  There’s so much I want to say, but the words freeze in my brain before they even reach my throat.

He just stands there watching me, and then his mouth crooks up in a trembling, hopeful smile.

I can’t smile, but I nod.

He chews his lip.  Then he nods, too.  Slowly, he turns and disappears into the woods.

When I wake, it takes me a moment to realize where I am.  Not home yet; the Ponderosa is a big place, and Hoss and I were three days away when we stopped for that desert sunset. We’ve made camp in the woods, and I roll onto my side to gaze into the fire.  Its flames are small but comforting.

Roland hasn’t really gone.  I know that.  He’ll be with me until the day I die.  But Hoss lies snoring a few yards away, and Pa sits with his back against a tree, his rifle lying across his knees.  He sees me watching him, and he raises an eyebrow.  Pushing my blanket aside, I get up and go to sit beside him.

We don’t have to speak.  We just sit there, and every once in a while, one of us pokes the fire with a stick.  When we do, a knothole pops or a piece of wood shifts, sending a shower of sparks into the air.  They rise like a swarm of fireflies and fade away.