Hoss paced in front of the fireplace. He had tried sitting, tried standing with one hand on the mantle, tried leaning against Pa’s desk and the back of the couch. Nothing settled him. His whole body itched with anxiety, and he had to keep moving.Hop Sing came in from the kitchen. “No Little Joe?” he asked, his face lined with worry. Hoss shook his head, unable to speak around the lump in his throat. Hop Sing, muttering something in Chinese, went back to the kitchen. From the aroma that wafted through the great room from the open kitchen door, Hoss knew he was baking cookies for Little Joe’s return.

He’s lucky, Hoss thought. Cooking helps him. All I can do is pace.

The front door opened, and a gust of wind came in with Adam. Cold wind. Cold and getting colder. Adam looked at Hoss, his eyes hopeful, for the space of a second. Then he looked away.

Hoss answered Adam’s unspoken question. “He ain’t come back. You didn’t find him?”

“No.” A single word with the weight of a millstone. Hoss closed his eyes in despair, and Adam asked, “Is Pa back yet?”

Hoss’s eyes flew open. Before he could stop himself, he snapped, “Don’t you think I’d have told you if he was?”

“Don’t bite my head off. I was just asking.”

Hoss sat down heavily in Pa’s chair. “I know. I’m just…”

“Yeah. Me, too.” Adam took off his gun belt and set it on the table inside the door. He laid his hat beside it and came over. Still wearing his jacket, he sat on the coffee table and dropped his head into his hands.

Hoss eyed him worriedly. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?” he suggested.

Adam didn’t raise his head. “Do you actually think I could sleep?”

“Look, Adam, there’s no use in both of us being exhausted. We got to ride out at daylight and look for him, and it might be a long day.”

“You’re the better tracker. You need the sleep more than I do, so you’ll be fresh enough to read the signs.”

“I might miss something,” Hoss insisted. “I’ll need you fresh enough to catch any mistakes I might make.”

Adam finally lifted his head. “Tell you what. You go to bed—” He raised his hand as Hoss started to protest. “I’ll sleep down here on the settee, in case Pa or Joe comes in.”

Hoss hesitated. “You promise you’ll sleep?”

“I promise.” Adam’s eyes were steady—bloodshot, but steady. Hoss nodded, even though he knew his brother was lying. Adam wasn’t going to sleep, especially on that short settee, but Hoss knew he couldn’t make him—and like he’d said, one of them had better be fresh. Of course, Hoss knew he wouldn’t sleep either, but he might as well make the attempt. He stood.

“You’ll wake me up if Pa or Joe gets home, won’t you?”

“Of course I will.”

Hoss nodded and trudged upstairs.

Alone in the living room, Adam got up and threw another log on the fire. It landed in a shower of sparks, and as the wood began to catch, he wondered if Joe had a fire tonight, wherever he was. Although if he were able to gather wood and build a fire, why wouldn’t he be able to make his way home? Was he injured? Was he unconscious? Was he…

No. He couldn’t be that.

Leaning against the fireplace, Adam blinked rapidly. He wouldn’t give in to despair. He would not. He bit his lip until he tasted blood. For some reason, that helped.

Turning away from the fire, he went over to Pa’s chair and sat down. Funny how both Hoss and I chose this chair, he mused. As if some of Pa’s strength has seeped down into its back and arms, and we can absorb it into ourselves. He closed his eyes and imagined the chair was Pa, holding him, supporting him, keeping him from breaking down entirely.

Who was holding Joe?

Nobody. Joe was somewhere out there, alone.

Adam wasn’t much given to praying, at least not in words. For him, riding around the Ponderosa with the sun on his face and a good horse under his legs, that was usually prayer enough. But now he laced his fingers, placed his elbows on his knees, and rested his chin on his knuckles. The words came out in a whisper, but they were hard and fierce.

“God, keep him safe. Bring him home.” Then his tone softened. “Please.”

Upstairs, Hoss’s face crumpled at the sound of Adam’s brief, choked sob. Hoss had kept his door open so he’d hear if Joe or Pa came home, knowing he’d sleep lightly if he slept at all, and not entirely trusting Adam to come get him. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, the way he had when he was a kid and Pa had come up to listen to him recite, “Now I lay me down to sleep.”

“Lord,” he said now, “you gotta bring Joe back. You just gotta.” He stood up, wiped his eyes, and got into into bed. Staring at the ceiling, he whispered, “You know Pa can’t take losin’ somebody else. And Adam—” He lay quiet, and then added, “And me. You just gotta bring Joe back.”

Miles away, Sheriff Roy Coffee rode beside Ben toward the Ponderosa. Ben had woken Roy up to ask if he knew anything of Joe’s whereabouts, knowing it was a foolish question; if Joe had made it to Virginia City, Roy would have collared him and hauled him toward home, and would have met Ben on the way.

Standing awkwardly on Roy’s front porch, Ben had twisted his hat brim and mumbled, “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“No bother.” Roy had motioned him into the house. “I’ll be dressed in a minute.”

“No, no. No sense in that, Roy. I’ll get on back to the Ponderosa. Adam’s probably found him by now. You go back to bed.”

“Don’t be a fool, Ben. Come on in and sit down.” Roy had disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Ben in the living room. Ben had not sat down; he’d remained standing, still turning his hat in his hands.

Now, riding in silence beside his friend, he prayed. Like Adam and Hoss, he prayed—but unlike either of them, he prayed wordlessly. He was beyond words, even beyond coherent thought. Yet somehow, he knew he was praying.

***

The next time he woke, Joe found himself lying on a thick, heavy fur with another one over him. He was inside some kind of large shelter; the walls sloped upward and almost met at the top, where a hole let out the thick smoke from a fire in the center of the floor…although “let out” and “floor” were both a bit of a stretch. Joe’s eyes stung, and he coughed. Patting the ground beside him, he felt packed dirt covered with woven mats and pine needles.

A flap opened on the side of the shelter, and a tall man stepped inside. His chest and arms were bare and gleaming, and he wore buckskin breeches. Stone beads hung around his neck on leather cords, and his black hair fell loose around his shoulders. A leather band around his forehead held three feathers in place; Joe recognized one as an eagle feather. Even in the firelight, Joe could see that the man was darker than anyone he’d ever known, except for Jack, that old Paiute Indian he sometimes saw in Virginia City. His eyes widened as realization dawned.

He tried to sit up, but he fell back weakly. His leg hurt like the devil.

“Toohoo’o,” the man said sharply toward the tent flap. A black-haired boy about Joe’s age, also shirtless, appeared in the opening. He came forward and knelt beside Joe.

“Name,” he said to Joe. His tone was commanding.

“Joe.”

The boy’s black eyes sparked with amusement. “Cho,” he repeated to the man, who smiled slightly as he folded his arms across his chest. He said something to the boy, who grinned back at him.

“What’s so funny?” Joe demanded. His voice wasn’t as strong as he would have liked, but at least he kept it steady.

The boy moved his tongue inside his cheek, apparently translating in his head. Enunciating carefully, he said, “Cho. Means ‘fall.’ Good name for boy fall-off-horse.” His eyes danced.

Joe glared at him, and then tried to glare at the man. That stern countenance was too much for him, though, so he turned his attention back to the boy. “Your name,” he said, pointing to him.

The boy puffed up. “Toohoo’o. Bobcat.”

Joe groaned. “Bobcat” was sure a lot better than “Fall Off Horse.” He wondered if the man had actually seen him take his tumble, or if he’d found him afterward.

Suddenly he thought of Nightshade. “My horse!” he said urgently, trying again to sit up. The man moved quickly, taking him by the arms and gently forcing him down again. Joe wiggled in his grasp, but a jagged pain shot up his leg. He pressed his lips tightly together to keep from crying out, but he couldn’t suppress a tiny whimper. Taking a deep breath, he said urgently to Toohoo’o, “Ask him if he knows where my horse is.” Toohoo’o translated, and the man shook his head. Toohoo’o turned back to Joe.

“Kinna’a not follow booghoo…horse. He take care of boy.”

Joe sagged back, shutting his eyes tightly to hide his despair. When he opened them, Kinna’a was leaving the shelter, letting the flap fall shut behind him.

Toohoo’o sat back on his heels and gazed unblinkingly at Joe. Joe stared back for a minute, then looked away. It was unnerving, having someone look at you that way. Funny, Pa had told him Indians didn’t stare. He said they considered it rude, or maybe they were taking their cue from the animals. If a wild animal refused to look away from you, it was a challenge. But maybe Indians acted different if you were the one in their territory.

A minute later he the flap opened again, and Kinna’a ducked back inside, followed by two other Indian men. One had white hair woven into plaits on either side. He was wearing a buckskin shirt, but the other, younger man was bare-chested like Kinna’a and Toohoo’o.

Joe looked at Toohoo’o. “Aren’t you guys cold?”

Toohoo’o moved his tongue inside his cheek again as he translated. Then his face broke into a smile. He said something to the three men, and the shelter rang with their laughter. Joe’s face burned. Toohoo’o, still grinning, told him, “White boy get cold. Paiute not get cold till snow come.”

Joe was still trying to think of a retort when he felt the fur being lifted off his legs. He tried to see his legs, but the old man bundled the fur up around Joe’s middle, and he couldn’t see over it. The three men were conferring solemnly, and Kinna’a said something to Toohoo’o. The boy instantly sobered.

“What is it?” Joe asked, determined not to show fear to these people.

Toohoo’o hesitated, and this time Joe didn’t think it was because he didn’t know the words. He just didn’t want to say them.

“What is it?” he repeated between clenched teeth. He grabbed the other boy’s wrist. “Tell me.”

One of the men was laying a long pole beside Joe. Another was unrolling several leather straps. Joe gripped Toohoo’o’s arm tighter.

“Tell me!”

“They must…what is word?”

“How should I know?” Joe heard his own voice, shrill and close to panic. He steadied himself and stared into Toohoo’o’s eyes. Slowly he said, “Think of the word, Bobcat. You have to tell me what they’re doing.”

Toohoo’o screwed his face up in concentration. “Make leg go straight,” he said finally.

“You mean set the bone?”

“Not know ‘set the bone.’ Make leg go straight.”

Joe felt strong hands on his knee and his thigh, and he fought to keep from trembling. Kinna’a moved from his position with the other two men to squat beside him, and Joe was surprised to see concern in the man’s eyes. He handed Joe a wide strip of tough leather and motioned for him to put it between his teeth.

I want my Pa, Joe thought desperately, staring at the leather strip in his hand. He didn’t want this man with his bare chest and his black hair and black eyes. He wanted Pa. He turned his face away from Kinna’a.

Gentle fingers touched his cheek, and Joe reluctantly looked back at the Indian man. “Kaibab,” the man said. His voice was firm, but it somehow reminded Joe of Pa’s voice, saying, We both don’t want you to get hurt.

That seemed like years ago.

“Kaibab,” Toohoo’o said softly, and Joe looked from the man to the boy. “Kinna’a give you new name,” Toohoo’o explained. “Kaibab.” Too scared to ask what this new name meant, Joe could only assume that it was better than Fall Off Horse. Grimly, he put the leather strip between his teeth and bit down. The hands on his leg tightened, and Kinna’a held his arms firmly. Joe grabbed Toohoo’o’s wrist and dug his fingers into it. A sweat broke out on his forehead as he felt the bones in his leg shift. He had thought the actual break was the worst pain anyone could imagine, but there really was something beyond it.

His whole world narrowed into two focal points: the pain in his leg and Kinna’a’s black eyes. He bit down on the leather for all he was worth, moaning but refusing to scream. As long as he looked at Kinna’a, he would not scream. He would not. He would not.

And then the hands let him go, and he fell asleep—or passed out—once more.