Joe hobbled out of the teepee and blinked in the sunlight. Kinna’a had made him a crutch out of a strong piece of oak. His leg hardly hurt at all now. He looked around the familiar cluster of teepees, the cooking fires just getting started, the working women and the lounging men and the playing children. The smell of porridge and meat made his stomach growl. Louder than that, though, was the question burning in his mind.Will they take me home today?

He didn’t mind saying it: he was homesick, even though he dreaded facing Pa. And he felt truly sick when he thought about Adam’s reproach. If Nightshade had been killed from a fall on the trail, or had been shot for a broken leg, Adam would, quite simply, never forgive him.

As if he’d ever forgive himself.

“Padaki’e!” Toohoo’o said, so close to his ear that he jumped, wobbling on his crutch. He realized the boy had said his name at least twice. It was hard, getting used to answering to those strange syllables.

I don’t want to be a raccoon, he thought miserably. I want to be me.

Toohoo’o was staring at him again, but by now Joe could recognize the concern in his eyes. Joe wondered what he should do. These people had saved his life. Heck, one of them had adopted him, so he didn’t want to seem ungrateful. On the other hand, he didn’t want to stay here forever. He took a deep breath.

“Toohoo’o,” he said, and for good measure, added, “my brother.” It felt a little stilted, but he figured it couldn’t hurt. “I need to see my father.” Toohoo’o turned, poised to fetch Kinna’a. “No,” Joe said quickly, and the boy turned back, frowning uncertainly. Joe held his eyes.

“My real father,” he said, and then quickly amended, “My other father.”

Toohoo’o bit his lip. He looked at Joe like one betrayed. Joe steadied himself on his crutch and reached out to touch Toohoo’s arm.

“You’re my brother,” he said gently, “but I need my other brothers, too.”

Slowly, his Indian brother’s face relaxed. With a rueful, crooked grin, he nodded. Then he turned to go toward his…no, their…father.

Joe watched him approach Kinna’a, who was squatting in front of a teepee chewing on a piece of dried meat. Toohoo’o squatted beside him, and they talked for a minute. Joe tried to stand there with an air of patience, like someone who had all day to decide if he wanted eggs or flapjacks for breakfast. The trouble was, he did have all day. If he had to stay here much longer, he would die of boredom. You could only play so many games of marbles.

Finally Toohoo’o stood and came back to Joe. “Not take you home,” he said cheerfully, and Joe’s heart skipped a beat.

“What are you talking about?” he burst out. “Are you going to—to—” Anger surged in him, and he forgot his vow not to appear ungrateful. “To keep me?” he shouted. “I’m not some stray dog, Toohoo’o, and I’m not your pet squirrel, or raccoon, or whatever. I’m—”

Toohoo’o raised his palms. “Slow, Padaki’e,” he protested. “Not keep you, my brother.” Joe gritted his teeth, confused and furious. “Other brother of you, white brother coming here.”

“Joe!” someone yelled. Joe’s head whipped toward the sound. Two braves flanked two white men, clad in trousers and jackets and wide-brimmed hats, poised at the edge of the camp. “Joe!” Adam cried again.

And then Adam was running and Joe was hobbling as fast as he could, and Adam caught him up and wrapped him in his arms so tightly he thought his ribs would crack.

***

“No!” Roy insisted, covering his badge with one hand. “You can’t have my sheriff’s badge, and that’s final!” Kinna’a, his face a mask, but his eyes clearly showing displeasure, sat cross-legged in front of the sheriff, his back rigid.

Adam, sitting with his lap full of cured animal pelts, chuckled. They’d been trading for the last two hours. Joe fidgeted, and Toohoo’o gave him a sidelong smile, his usual crooked one. Joe reflected that when his Indian brother smiled like that, he and Adam could have been twins. Well, except for their ages. And dress. And skin color, and language, and the way Toohoo’o ate with his fingers while Adam used a fork. And…Joe stifled a giggle, and Toohoo’o’s eyes danced.

Adam had relinquished two silver dollars and his exquisitely tooled leather belt, which Kinna’a now wore around his waist. Roy had contributed a pouch of tobacco, a fine buckskin canteen, and the rattles from the snake that had spooked Nightshade. Plainly, he thought that was quite enough. Kinna’a gave up and turned to Adam again. To Joe’s surprise, Kinna’a took off his headband with the feathers. Plucking the eagle feather out and keeping it in his lap, he offered Adam the band with other two still in, and pointed to Adam’s hat. Joe caught his breath.

Slowly Adam reached out and let Kinna’a drop the headband into his hands. Adam shot Joe a fierce look. You had just better appreciate this, that look said, and Joe winced.

As slowly as he had accepted the headband, Adam reached for his hat. The black hat he’d bought in Boston. The one with the brass buckle on the band, a buckle he kept polished to gleaming perfection. The one he’d snatched back from Joe when he’d worn it for a joke, and given him a tongue-lashing he’d never forget. The only black hat he’d ever planned to own.

But now that he had it off, he didn’t hesitate. He handed it to Kinna’a, who beamed and put it on. Adam put on the headband, and at the sight of his brother decked out in feathers, Joe didn’t even try to stifle his laugh. Neither did Toohoo’o.

Now Kinna’a gave Roy an expectant look and held out the eagle feather—and pointed at the tin star again. With a sigh of resignation, the sheriff took off his badge and made the trade, but not before looking daggers at Joe.

Are we finished now? Joe pled silently. I want to go home. But no; now Kinna’a turned to him. He said something, and Toohoo’o translated.

“Father says you good boy. Brave boy. Welcome in Paiute camp always.”

“You’re welcome in our home, too,” Joe said solemnly. “Always.” He didn’t have to look at Adam to know it was all right to say that. Toohoo’o translated for his father, who looked pleased. Then Kinna’a reached for the deerskin pouch that he’d hung on his newly acquired tooled leather belt.

Untying the pouch, he searched its contents with his fingers and pulled out a clear crystal stone. He handed it to Joe. It lay in his palm, reflecting the sunlight off its smooth, irregular sides, and he looked into Kinna’a’s black eyes and realized that this was no ordinary token. Somehow, this was as big as the adoption. “Thank you,” he said softly. Toohoo’o didn’t bother to translate, and Kinna’a nodded.

A return-gift was expected from him, he knew. But he didn’t have anything of value. His marbles, sure, but they wouldn’t mean anything to a grown Indian man. Then he thought of his pocketknife. He’d bought it at the mercantile; it had taken him almost a year to save that much money. But this was his other father, after all. Joe fished in his pocket, drew out the knife, and handed it over.

Kinna’a examined it, put his finger in the little indentation in the side of the blade, and pulled it open. Delight covered his face, and he picked up a twig and sliced off a piece. He looked at Toohoo’o and spoke, and the boy said to Joe, “Is good.”

Now it was Toohoo’o’s turn. He reached in his own pouch and pulled out three flat sticks, carved from soft pine, with a different number of scratches on each end. Joe grinned and took them in his hand. Maybe he and Hoss could make up a game to play with them.

Well, a gift for Toohoo’o was easy. Pulling the pouch from his pocket, he spilled the marbles into his palm, except for his steel shooter, which he knew by feel and purposely left in. He assuaged a stab of guilt by picking out the three next-best: the sky blue one Toohoo’o had admired, plus a yellow and a red. Toohoo’o took them, grinning so hugely it looked like his face would split.

Kinna’a stood, and Joe breathed a sigh of relief. It was over, and he could go home. Adam helped him up, and he saw that one of the braves was waiting with a pony. That was good; he wouldn’t have to hobble back to where Roy’s and Adam’s horses were.

The horses. Joe hadn’t dared the question yet, but it had to be asked. “Adam?” His brother looked at him, eyebrows raised. He knows, Joe thought resentfully. He knows what I’m going to ask, but he’s going to make me say it. “Is Nightshade…?” He couldn’t finish.

Adam gave in, his eyes grave. “He came home, Joe,” he said. “He’s all right.”

Joe looked down, blinking hard with relief.

As they left the camp with Joe perched awkwardly on the pony, he caught sight of a barefoot Indian girl standing by one of the teepees. She gazed at him mournfully. “Wait,” Joe said to Roy, who was leading the pony. The girl came toward Joe and looked up at him, her eyes glistening. Slowly, ever so slowly, Joe pulled out the pouch of marbles, felt inside it, and drew out the steel shooter. Slowly, ever so slowly, he dropped it into her outstretched palm. She stared openmouthed at it, and when she looked at him again, her eyes shone as bright as the steel.

Adam watched, amazement clearly written on his face. He motioned for Joe to lean down.

“That was your best shooter,” he whispered in his ear. Joe felt his ears redden, and he jerked upright. Relentlessly, Adam grabbed his arm and pulled him down again. He whispered, “You gave Toohoo’o your second best.”

Joe knew that his ears were as scarlet as Toohoo’o’s red marble.

***

Of course, Adam wasn’t glad Joe had broken his leg, but there was one good thing about it. It gave Adam an excuse to wrap his arms around him all the way home…just for balance, as far as Joe was concerned. Probably. As Joe leaned back against him in the saddle, Adam wondered a little, and smiled.

As the trail widened enough for Roy to pull up beside them, Adam glanced down at the sheriff’s pistol in its holster. He’d been blessedly conscious of the weight of his own ever since Kinna’a had returned it to him.

He didn’t have to give it back, he thought. Just like he didn’t have to save Joe. He wondered if a feeling of gratitude could actually burst a person’s chest. It sure felt that way. Kinna’a…there’s an honorable man, he thought. And that Toohoo’o…talk about smart. Bright as a freshly minted dime.

Tightening his arms around Joe, Adam breathed in the musty scent of the boy’s hair. They would have to have a talk eventually. Joe probably understood the seriousness of what he had done, but Adam couldn’t be sure. And he needed to be sure. Absolutely certain.

Plenty of time enough for that later, he thought. For now, he let his lips form two words, repeating them silently over and over. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

***

Joe watched the house grow larger as they came closer. The familiar cleared area out front, the water trough, the barn to the right. The smoke house. The front porch with the comfortable oak rocker, where Adam sat so often with a book. It seemed smaller somehow, after the last two days. But home. Definitely home.

The front door burst open and Hoss dashed out, yelling at the top of his lungs, “Pa! Pa!” Even before Hoss reached them, Joe slid down from the saddle and was waiting for him, one hand on Adam’s leg for balance. Hoss grabbed him and swung him around, Joe’s right leg dangling like a pendulum. Another set of arms encircled them both, and he heard Pa choking out, “Joe! Thank God, thank God!”

Hoss echoed, “Thank God,” and added, “Thanks.”

“What happening?” he heard Hop Sing shout, and the sound of running feet grew closer and closer. The little man squeezed between them and wrapped his arms around Joe too, and the ensuing group hug was almost too much to bear.

“Can’t—breathe!” Joe gasped, and Adam laughed from somewhere above them.

Finally they let go, and he steadied himself on Pa’s arm. He looked up at him. Pa looked smaller than he remembered, too…but big enough, Joe thought, with a sudden tightening of his stomach. Was it too much to hope…

Yeah. He knew it was.

Hoss, as usual, saved him. “Come on, little brother. Hop Sing’s got you some cookies ready.”

***

Roy sat in the saddle and watched Ben carry Joe toward the house, flanked by Hoss and Hop Sing. Adam turned Old Pete toward the barn and said over his shoulder, “Come stable your horse, Roy. Stay for supper.”

“No thanks,” Roy told him. “I think I’ll go get Doc Martin. He’ll want to take a look at Joe’s leg. Although,” he added, “I have a feeling those Indians set it just fine.” He pulled on one rein and nudged his horse toward the road. “See you later, Adam.”

“Roy?”

He turned back. Adam looked like Roy felt: as if there were half a dozen different things he wanted to say, but not one he actually could. Roy studied the boy—the young man—and knew what Adam was wanting to ask.

“Yeah,” Roy said quietly. “It helped.” He cleared his throat. “It wasn’t quite like finding Johnny—but it helped.”

Adam’s eyes looked older than twenty-two. Well, Roy thought, I guess the last two days have grown you up a little. There are some things you can’t learn from books, after all. He forced a smile, and turned toward Virginia City.

***