Part 2:  Into the River

Ben passed the potatoes to Joe.  He tried not to watch too closely as Joe served himself, and he carefully turned his attention to the platter of roast beef that Hoss was handing him.

Once all the dishes had been passed, Ben shot a quick look at his youngest son’s plate.  Barely enough to keep a bird alive, he thought.  And if tonight were anything like the last several nights, Little Joe wouldn’t even finish what he’d taken.

Ben was at a loss.  The doctor had said just yesterday that Joe’s body was healing well.  His wrist was nearly as good as new, and the headaches were almost gone.  The newer wounds on his back had pretty much healed, and Hop Sing had an herbal salve that he insisted would eventually make the scars disappear.  The same salve had lessened the redness and softened the calluses on his wrists and ankles.  And as for the other—well, Doc had told Ben point blank that that was for Joe to talk about, if he chose to.  And so far, at least, Joe had chosen not to mention it.

And yet, something definitely wasn’t right.  In the days since the fight with the Barnes brothers, Ben had caught glimpses of something unsettled in his son’s face.  In those moments, Joe reminded him of a caged animal, restless and tense.  He showed progressively less interest in pastimes he’d enjoyed since coming home, such as checkers or those dreadful detective novels; instead, he spent entire evenings staring unseeingly at the fire, often seeming not to hear when someone spoke to him.  When he’d first arrived home, he’d started gaining weight, but now his face was thin and drawn, with dark circles under his eyes.

And yet, Joe routinely denied that anything was wrong.

Gradually, Ben became aware of Adam talking.  “Red and Dale said that the other line shack is nearly out of provisions, too,” his eldest son concluded.  “So, I guess somebody’d better get out there and restock everything.”

“I’ll go,” said Little Joe unexpectedly.

“Joseph, what are you talking about?”  Ben’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth.

“I said I’ll go and restock the line shacks,” said Little Joe.  “I want to.”

“Joe, don’t be ridiculous,” said Ben without thinking.  His sons stared, and he backtracked hastily.  “It’s a three-week job.  I need you around here,” he said lamely.

“You mean you don’t think I can handle it.”  Joe leveled a hard stare at his father.

Ben met the stare.  “Not yet,” he admitted, his voice quiet.  “I don’t think you’re ready to go off for three weeks by yourself.”

“Pa, I’m fine,” said Little Joe.  “It’s just a few weeks riding around the ranch.  I probably wouldn’t even see anybody the entire time.”  At least, I hope not, he thought.  Three weeks without people watching him.  It sounded like heaven.

“Even so, I don’t want you going off by yourself right now,” said Ben.

Joe took a deep breath to steady himself.  “Pa, I’d really like to do it,” he said, and even he could hear the angry tremor in his words.

His father shot him a sharp look.  “I appreciate you volunteering, but I just don’t think this is the time.”  He turned his attention back to his plate, the subject obviously closed.

“But, Pa—”

“That’s enough, Joseph,” said Ben.

Joe slammed his fork on the table.  His voice was even and intense.  “You won’t even listen to me?”  He clenched his fists.

“My mind is made up,” said Ben.  “I don’t think you’re ready, that’s all.”

“So, what I think doesn’t matter?” Joe challenged him.

“I don’t think that’s what Pa’s sayin’,” said Hoss mildly.

“Sure it is,” said Little Joe.  “Pa’s made up his mind, and that’s all that counts.  Nothing else is even worth hearing about.”  He shoved back his chair and stormed out of the house, ignoring his father’s calls for him to return to the table.

The rest of the family was at breakfast when Joe let himself back into the house the next morning.  They all looked up when he walked in, but no one spoke.  He met each gaze in turn, waiting.  It was one of the prison habits that had served him well, that of not speaking first.  That way, you kept the advantage.

Hop Sing brought out a platter of eggs.  When he saw Little Joe standing silently by the settee, he launched into a harsh reprimand in his native tongue.  Only he and Joe knew what he was saying.  The others watched as Joe flinched at what he heard.  Finally, Hop Sing threw up his hands and headed back into the kitchen.  Joe turned to go upstairs, but Ben’s voice stopped him.

“Don’t you want any breakfast?”

There was something in his father’s voice that Joe had never heard, at least not in any words directed at him.  He turned back, and this time, he studied Pa’s face.  He saw anger there, and much more—hope, worry, frustration, fear—and hurt.

Joe rested his hand against the settee so casually that no one would have known it was holding him up at that moment.  Of all the things he’d never thought of, probably the one farthest from his mind was the notion that his father would have been hurt by his staying out last night.  It wasn’t as if he’d done anything dangerous or stupid.  It hadn’t even been intentional.  He’d gone up to the bluff overlooking the lake, where his mother was buried.  No one should have been surprised by that; ever since he was old enough to leave the house by himself, that had been his destination when he was troubled.  As he’d done many times before, he’d sat by her grave, listening to the gentle lapping of the water, until he could feel himself nodding off.  Without thinking about anything more than how tired he was, he stretched out on the ground.  The next thing he knew, the sun was in his eyes.

He looked from Pa to his brothers.  Adam and Hoss looked like they wanted to thrash the daylights out of him.  Oddly, the thought gave him strength; he knew how to deal with that.  He straightened and said, “No, thanks, Pa.  I’m just going to clean up a little.”

“You didn’t eat anything last night, either,” his father reminded him, his voice tight with the effort of not saying more.

“I’m not hungry.”  He started for the stairs, then turned back.  “Sorry if I worried you last night.  I went to visit Mama.”  It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do.  He headed upstairs without waiting for an answer.

Joe had just pulled off his shirt when Hoss entered the room without knocking.  “Do you mind?” snapped Joe.

“You ’n’ me’s gonna have a little talk,” said Hoss.

Joe stood very still.  He couldn’t believe Hoss would fight him in the house, but that look on his big brother’s face could only mean one thing.  He waited, unmoving, as Hoss began to pace.

“Now, you listen here,” said the big man after a minute.  “I know you got all sorts of troubles and you ain’t havin’ an easy time, an’ I don’t mean to make things harder for you.”  He paused as if he expected Joe to speak, but his brother remained silent.  Finally, Hoss said, “Little Joe, you just can’t keep doing this to Pa.”

“Doing what?”

“All this,” said Hoss, his hands describing a universe with large, sweeping gestures.  “I don’t think Pa slept at all last night.  He wanted all three of us to go out and look for you. It took Adam and me half the night to convince him to wait until morning.”

“Why would you need to look for me?  I wasn’t lost,” said Joe.  At Hoss’ expression, he said more softly, “I just wanted some time to myself, that’s all.  Was that so wrong?”

“No,” said Hoss.  “That ain’t wrong.  But the thing is, Joe, you gotta remember that you ain’t the only one who got hurt with this whole thing.  What happens to one of us happens to the rest.”  He looked somberly at Joe.  “I know Pa can be a real mother hen sometimes, but—you don’t know what it was like for him.  He don’t mean to smother you, but he’s worried.  First, there’s all that stuff with Adam and Doc, and then the Barnes boys, and now, you don’t talk to nobody and you’re barely eatin’, and you know how Pa is about that anyway—and he don’t know what to do, and so he’s frettin’ about everything.”  He rested one big hand on his brother’s bony shoulder.  “I don’t know what it was like for you there, and I don’t mean to say that what it was like for us was anywhere near what happened to you, but—well, you can’t shut Pa out.”

Joe was silent.  At last, he looked up, his eyes unbearably sad.  “I don’t want to hurt anybody,” he said.  “I just don’t know how to be strong for you all.  Hell, I don’t even know how to be strong for myself most of the time.”  He bowed his head, unable to face his brother as he continued, “I feel like I’m in a river, trying to fight the current to get to shore, only I can’t remember why I wanted to be on shore in the first place, and sometimes, it just feels like too damned much trouble and I want to just let go and let whatever’s gonna happen, happen.”

“No!”  Hoss grabbed both of Joe’s arms.  “Don’t you let go.  You gotta get to shore, ’cause that’s where we are, and we’re pullin’ for you.  You gotta keep fighting, Joe.”  He lifted Joe’s chin and met his brother’s eyes as hard as he could.  “You’re gonna be okay,” he promised.  “I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but one of these days, you’re gonna be okay.  I ain’t never lied to you, Little Brother, and I ain’t lyin’ now.  You got too dang much grit and stubbornness and downright orneriness to let that river get you.  Not after everything you did to survive in there.  You’re gonna make it, ’cause you wouldn’t know how to do anything else.”

Joe swallowed hard.  “I wish I could believe you,” he said.

“You believe me,” said Hoss.  “I’m tellin’ you the truth.  You’re gonna get to shore, and if it means we have to jump in the water and haul you out, then that’s what we’re gonna do.”  He pulled Joe into a fierce, protective hug.  “You ain’t goin’ under,” he whispered.  “Not if I have anything to say about it.”  He held his brother close, rubbing the scarred back, willing his own strength to be enough for both of them.  Then he released the embrace and smacked the back of Joe’s head lightly.  “Now, you get yourself downstairs and get somethin’ to eat.  No wonder you’re so worn out—you don’t eat nothin’.”

Joe poured water into the washbowl and splashed his face.  “I never seem to be hungry,” he said, toweling off.

“Well, you gotta eat anyway,” said the big man.

“It’s hard when everybody’s watching,” said Joe, buttoning a fresh shirt.  “Feels like whatever I do, there’s somebody watching me do it.”  He shook his head as he tucked in the shirttails.  “That’s why I wanted to go out and take care of the line shacks,” he admitted.  “Just for a few days by myself, with nobody watching.”

Hoss regarded his brother.  This, he understood.  “Tell you what,” he said.  “You go down and have breakfast—and I mean a real breakfast, not just a biscuit and coffee— and I’ll talk to Pa and see if we can’t figure somethin’ out.”

“Deal,” said Joe with a crooked little half-grin.

Three hours later, he walked into the living room, around the corner to his father’s desk.  “Hoss said you wanted to see me,” he said.

Ben nodded, gesturing for his son to sit.  Neither spoke.  Finally, Ben said,  “Hoss is going to take care of the line shacks,” he said.  Joe’s face remained impassive.  “But I suspect he could probably use some help,” he added.  “The two of you can go together if you want.”  He watched his son carefully, hoping for some sort of pleased reaction, but Joe wasn’t giving anything away.

Ben’s heart ached.  There was a time when they could have talked about everything that was bothering the boy.  Boy, he reflected.  He caught his breath as he realized the truth, that Joe could leave any time he chose.  He didn’t need his father’s permission, or even his approval.  Joe was free, white and twenty-one, and he could do as he liked.  Nothing required him to stay on the Ponderosa if he didn’t want to.

But he was here.  He hadn’t left.  That had to mean something.

“I know you’re disappointed,” Ben said.  “I’m sorry, son.  That’s the best I can do right now.”

“Yes, sir.”  Joe rose.  The hardness in his eyes softened for just a moment.  “I’m sorry if I worried you last night.”

Ben swallowed hard.  “Go on, finish fixing that wagon,” he said.  Joe nodded, and his father watched him go.  When he heard the door close, he let his head fall back against the back of the chair.

As much as his son wanted to believe he was capable of being out there on his own, he simply wasn’t ready for that.

And neither was his father.

* * * * * * * * * *

They’d been riding for about an hour when Hoss held up his hand.  Joe rode up alongside him.  “What’s the matter?  You ain’t ready for a rest already, are you?”

“I been thinkin’,” said Hoss.  “Now, Pa’s figgerin’ this is a three-week job, so he ain’t expecting to see us before the 23rd or thereabouts.”

“So?”

“So, if’n we get done a little early, we might be able to take some time and relax— mebbe do some fishin’ or huntin’.  This here’s the prettiest time of the year up toward Long Horn Ridge, and we could head up that way.”  Long Horn Ridge was out on the far edge of the Ponderosa.  Hoss waited for Joe to ask more, but his little brother just watched him with that same guarded look he wore most of the time anymore.

“So, here’s what I’m thinkin’,” said Hoss.  “I’ll start with the old cabin, and take care of the shacks over toward the east edge, and you head out toward the west road and take care of the shack over near the lake and the one up by the north pasture and that other one where we got stuck that time in that snowstorm, and we could meet up at the one by Black Wolf Canyon, say about suppertime tomorrow.  What do you think?”

Joe felt his heart lift.  He should have known Hoss would figure something out.  It wasn’t everything he’d wanted, but it was close.  And maybe by suppertime tomorrow, he’d even want a little company.  “Sounds good to me,” he said.

As Joe leaned over to untie one of the pack horses, Hoss added, “Oh, and Joe?”  His brother looked up.  “I don’t reckon we need to tell Pa just how we’re doin’ everything.”

Joe grinned.  “I don’t reckon we do, at that,” he said.  “See you tomorrow.”  He could feel his big brother watching as he rode off, but somehow, that kind of watching was all right, and he lifted his hand in a wave to let Hoss know.

* * * * * * * * * *

There.  There it was.  He’d definitely heard something this time.  Joe pressed his back against the wall, gun in hand.  He was ready.

At first, this had seemed like such a wonderful idea.  After he left Hoss, he moseyed along the road, listening to the clopping of hooves, the rustle of the breeze in the leaves, the sound of the brook that ran near the road in some spots.  The air smelled of pine and vanilla and leaf mulch.  The sun was so bright that he had to tilt the brim of his hat down, but amazingly, it wasn’t too hot.

After an hour, he stopped to rest the horses.  They drank from the brook as he filled his canteen.  He sat back, luxuriating in this delicious freedom.  Nobody for miles around.  Nobody watching him.  Nobody to threaten him.  It occurred to Joe that, except for being asleep or going up to his mother’s grave, this was the first time he’d been all alone since before he got arrested.  He stretched out on the bank, eyes closed, and let his mind drift.

Then, his eyes snapped open.  Left unattended, his thoughts had returned to the question that was never far from his consciousness:  how could Sally Barnes have made such a mistake?  No, he told himself.  I’m not thinking about that now.  I’m just not.  He forced himself to notice the sparkling of the water as it splashed over the rocks in the sun, the hawk that circled high above, the soft whinnying of the horses.  He dug with his fingers into the cool earth, crumbling it to release its rich scent, and he concentrated on the moist texture as intently as if he were a farmer assessing his fields.  Then, he let the dirt fall, and casually, he dropped his hand to the butt of his gun, the smooth hardness reassuring him as nothing else did.

When his mind refused to be tamed, he decided to get going.  Movement, action—that was what he needed.  He tightened Cochise’s cinch and the pack horse’s load, and defiantly, he swung into the saddle.  “Come on,” he said, urging the horses to move on.

It was late afternoon when he arrived at the first cabin.  To say it was ramshackle was an understatement.  Joe reflected that, in addition to stocking it, he was going to need to do some cleaning as well.  He grimaced as if someone were present who would see his displeasure and offer to take over the chore.  Then, resolutely, he unsaddled his horse and unloaded the pack horse, hauling everything inside.  He found a bucket, a rag and a old corn broom with bristles bent from years of use.

It took a couple hours, but eventually, the shack was inhabitable.  He stacked the cleaning supplies in the corner and yawned.  It was tempting just to lie down and sleep, but he’d promised himself that he would try to eat better on this trip.  At least there was no one to watch him, and no one to be disappointed if he couldn’t manage it.

He stuffed kindling and wood in the stove and held a match to it.  “Light, damn you, light,” he muttered.  The wood and kindling hadn’t seemed wet, but they wouldn’t catch for anything.  Eventually, he opened a can of beans and forced himself to eat them cold.  Pa should see me now, he reflected.

As the sun dipped below the trees, Joe went out to tend to the horses.  “You two be good,” he cautioned.  “I’ll see you in the morning.”  He headed back into the cabin, grateful for the one lamp and the new supply of oil.

The darkness deepened.  Joe wondered what time it was.  It seemed early to go to sleep, and yet there was nothing else to do.  He hadn’t remembered to throw one of his detective novels into his saddlebag, so he had nothing to read.  Hoss was probably a day’s ride from here, and likely there wasn’t anybody any closer.  With the sun down and no fire, he was getting pretty chilly.  He tried to picture what it would be like for someone to come upon this cabin in a few months, when the nighttime temperatures would dip so low.  They would be so grateful for all his hard work today.

Joe spread his bedroll out on the cot.  Like most of the shacks, this one had only one cot.  He kicked off his boots, snuffed out the lamp, and lay back, waiting for sleep to claim him.

He was just dozing off when he heard the noise outside.  The sharp snap of a branch.  Instantly alert, he sat up, listening as hard as he could.  When he heard shuffling that sounded a little too much like footsteps, he reached for his gun.  A couple years ago, in another lifetime, he would have gone outside to see what made the noise.  But not now.  Not for anything was he leaving his back unguarded.  Now, with his back pressed up against the wall and the gun in his hand, Joe Cartwright waited to see who would walk through that door.

The shuffling stopped.  Joe waited to hear what would come next.  For what felt like a long time, he listened.  Nothing.  He wanted to believe that whatever—whoever—it was had left, but he hadn’t heard any more shuffling.  So, the shuffler was right outside the cabin.  On the other side of the very wall he was leaning against.

He was shivering.  He told himself it was because of the cold.  Clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering, he crept to the window.  He heard nothing.  He poked his head up just a bit, but he saw nothing.

They want me to come outside.

Once upon a time, he’d have done it.  Back then, he’d never have let anybody hole him up like a rabbit.  He clutched his gun.  He was the same man now he’d been then, the very same.  He could go out and confront whoever it was.

What if it’s Carlton?

He didn’t know where the thought came from, but it made his heart pound.  Suddenly lightheaded, he slid down to sit on the floor beneath the window.  Carlton had had only a few months left on his sentence.  He could have gotten out early.  He could have come to find Little Joe.  He could have found the Ponderosa, seen them leave, trailed Joe all day.  He could be standing outside the cabin right now.

Joe wiped the sweat from his brow.  It wouldn’t do for Carlton to see him sweating in this cold weather.  He’d know Joe was nervous about seeing him.

The solitude that was so inviting in the light and warmth of the day was cold and oppressive now.  Nobody around for miles. . . .  It had been a much more comforting thought when there was truly nobody, when there was no need to worry about intruders.  The thought of being alone with Carlton felt like a punch to his gut.  Only his fear of making noise, of alerting Carlton to his location, enabled him to keep his supper down.

Silent, Joe sat beneath the window, gun at the ready, waiting for his cellmate to burst through the door.  If it’s him, I’ll kill him, he thought.  And so he sat, tense and poised for action, shifting position silently when cramping muscles demanded a change.

It seemed forever before the dark lessened.  Slowly, blackness faded to gray, first dark and then lighter.  There was no east window, but eventually, trickles of daylight spilled in through the window above Joe’s head.

He listened again.  His head was pounding.  At the far edge of hearing, he caught shuffling in the dry leaves.  He listened harder.  Then, he knelt and peeked out the window.  Still nothing visible from here.  Whoever it was, he was too smart to be near the window.

Cochise whinnied, and Joe felt his blood run cold.  If Carlton tried to take his horse, that would be the last straw.  He’d shoot the man where he stood.  He’d shoot him in the back as he rode away.  Carlton the monster would never, ever have Cochise.

He stood, flattening himself against the wall.  His legs were cramped from long hours of sitting.  He flexed his fingers, stiff from clutching the gun all night.  All right, here we go.  Let’s see what that son of a bitch is made of.  Slowly, silently, he made his way across the room to the door and opened it.  He made no noise as he stepped outside.  Then, when he heard the same rustling leaves again, he whirled and fired, and his bullet found its mark.

The raccoon lay dead where he’d shot it, red blood seeping across light brown fur.  Joe listened with all his strength.  There was no other sound.  He crept around the cabin.  No footprints.  No sign of anyone.

He straightened up and walked deliberately, purposefully, over to the horses.  He untied them and led them down to the brook to drink.  When they had drunk their fill, he brought them back up and fed them.

And then, he sank down in the doorway to the cabin, dropping his gun to the ground as he wrapped his arms around his knees and bowed his head.

* * * * * * * * * *

The smell that drifted to Hoss on the breeze was so startling that, for a minute, he thought Hop Sing must be there.  When he walked into the shack, though, he saw only Little Joe, stirring something in an iron pot on the stove.

“Dadburnit, Little Brother, what’ve you got goin’ on there?”  He leaned over to get a whiff.

“Now, you just stay back,” said Joe.  His attempt to shove his large brother aside was ineffectual, but he managed to guard the spoon.

“What’re you makin’, anyway?”  Hoss tried to see into the pot, but Joe was blocking it with his body.

“Rabbit stew,” said Joe.  He peered intently into the pot, hiding his vast relief at Hoss’s arrival.  He’d raced through the remaining shacks, pushing the horses more than he should have, to get here.  All day, he’d berated himself for his cowardice, but the truth was that he was glad he wasn’t going to be alone tonight.  Grimly, he reflected that his father had been right.  Thank God Pa hadn’t listened to him.  Three weeks on his own—he’d either have pulled himself together or lost his mind entirely.

Joe made a big show of dipping the spoon into the pot and bringing a spoonful to his lips to taste.  He smacked his lips and returned the spoon to the pot.  “Almost ready,” he announced, pleased.  Hop Sing had done well by them.

The cook had tucked several packets of herbs and seasonings into Joe’s saddlebags, together with carefully written directions for what to do with them.  “Just do what Hop Sing say, food good,” he’d promised.  The little Chinaman was as aware of Joe’s lack of appetite as the rest of the family, and he’d enlisted Adam’s help in writing down his recipes in English, hoping that the youngest Cartwright might be tempted.  And so, Joe had dutifully added a pinch of this, and a handful of that, and the results smelled better than he would ever have expected.

“Doncha think maybe you need another opinion?” offered Hoss hopefully.

“Nope,” said Joe.  “You can go and wash up, and if there’s any left when you get back, you can have some.”

“There’d better be a lot, ’cause I’m hungry!”  Hoss hustled down to the brook and back, bursting through the door just as Joe was dishing up the stew.

Between them, the brothers finished off the pot of stew.  Hoss was careful not to comment, or even to be seen noticing, but he was most satisfied to see that Little Joe ate a substantial helping of the stew.  Maybe Joe had been right all along about what he needed—time to himself, and room to breathe.

Hoss leaned back against the wall, letting out a loud belch.  “Compliments to the chef,” he said as Joe snorted.

“You think a half-assed little noise like that is a compliment?  That’s almost an insult, Brother.  Now, this would be a compliment!”  Joe let rip with a burp that was surprisingly loud for someone his size.

“What, that little puny thing?  You jest listen here, Little Brother, and I’ll show you how it’s done!”  Hoss demonstrated a long, loud belch that left Joe doubled over, laughing and trying to gather enough breath for a response.

“You know what we need, don’t you?”  Joe scrambled up and grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the newly-stocked shelf.  Returning to his seat on the floor, he poured a generous amount into two coffee cups and handed one to Hoss.  “To compliments!” he chortled, raising his cup, and Hoss did the same as both brothers let rip with another loud, long burp.

“Can’t you just imagine Pa if he could hear us now?”  Hoss emptied his cup in one swallow and held it out for more.

“‘You boys know better than that!’” said Joe in his deepest voice as he refilled both their cups.  “‘Mind your manners, now!’”

“You always did get me in trouble,” said Hoss.

“That’s ’cause you were older,” said Joe.  “You were supposed to know better than to listen to the likes of me.”

“Reckon I should’ve, at that,” mused Hoss, holding out his cup again.

“Besides, I usually got in trouble right alongside you,” Joe said.  The whiskey was warming him.  He leaned back against the cot.  “Remember the time Mama and Hop Sing made Christmas cookies, and we snuck into the kitchen in the middle of the night and ate a whole plateful?”

“For a little kid, you could eat a lot,” Hoss recalled.  “You ate near as many as I did.”

“And you were ten, and I was only four!”  Joe pointed out.

“’Course, I wasn’t the one who got sick all over the kitchen floor,” Hoss reminded him.

“I’ve never been able to look at a Christmas cookie quite the same way since,” admitted Joe.  He poured another round.  “To Christmas cookies!”  The tin cups clanked, and the brothers drank.

“You ever wonder how life would have been different if Mama hadn’t died?” Joe mused.

“Sometimes,” said Hoss.  “I’ve wondered that about my ma, too.”

“If your ma hadn’t died, Pa wouldn’t have married Mama,” said Joe.  He squinted as if trying to picture such a world.  “If your ma had been my ma, I’d probably be as big as you.”

“Wouldn’t be callin’ you ‘Little’ Joe, then, would we?” said Hoss.

“You ’n’ me could pound Adam into the ground,” Joe grinned.  Then, he fell silent, his grin fading as his gaze turned inward.

“What?” asked Hoss after a minute.

“Nothing,” said Joe.  Hoss’s silence was skeptical.  Finally, he admitted, “I was just thinking—Sally couldn’t have confused me with whoever attacked her, if he was the size I am now and I was as big as you.”

Hoss reached for the bottle and poured another round.  “That’s always on your mind, one way or another, ain’t it?” he asked quietly.

Joe nodded.  “Pretty much,” he admitted.

Hoss studied the amber liquid in his cup.  Then, he looked up to see Joe watching him, and he asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Joe shook his head.  “No,” he said.  “I wish there was.  But thanks for asking.”  He emptied his cup and set it down.  Hoss reached for the bottle, and Joe shook his head.  “I think I’m gonna turn in,” he said.  Hoss gathered up the whiskey and cups and set them on the shelf as Joe spread out his bedroll on the floor.  At Hoss’ questioning look, he said, “You take the cot.  I’ll get it next time.”

“If you want,” said Hoss.  He spread out his bedroll on the cot.  “’Night, Little Brother.”

Joe snuffed out the lamp and lay down on his bedroll.  “’Night, Hoss.”  He smiled in the darkness as Hoss’ familiar snoring filled the room.  Then, he reached up, resting his hand on his brother’s strong arm, and fell asleep.

And in years to come, Joe Cartwright would remember that night as the first time that he truly believed he might not drown.

* * * * * * * * * *

The days fell into an easy pattern.  Two or three days separate, and then the brothers would join up for a night.  Slowly, determinedly, Joe became accustomed to the nights on his own.  By the second week, he was comfortable enough to sit on the threshold with his coffee after supper, looking up at the stars.  He still kept his gun right beside him when he slept, but he did sleep, and that was something.

They finished stocking the shacks early enough to give them six days up at Long Horn Ridge.  Hoss was right:  this was the prettiest time of year up there.  The tall grasses swayed gracefully in the hot summer breeze.  The sun sparkled on the river below, and the banks were lush and green.  Flowers whose names they didn’t know peeked out of crevices where the rock shaded them, keeping them from burning away in the heat of the day.

For the umpteenth time since they’d left, Joe found himself glad that Hoss had come with him.  His big brother was an easy person to be with.  He’d laugh himself silly over the worst jokes.  He was perfectly comfortable passing an entire afternoon without talking, but it was a good, uncomplicated silence  It was shamefully easy to sell him on practically any harebrained idea.  And if a man needed to discuss something serious, there was no better listener.

Not that Joe had any intention of talking about anything serious.  They were having a good time, and he didn’t want to spoil it.  He was doing a good job of keeping his moments of panic to himself.  Besides, so far, he hadn’t wakened Hoss with any of his nightmares; as Joe sat up, cold with terror and gasping for breath, Hoss snored on.

The nightmares weren’t even happening every night now.  Since they’d left the house, he’d had three nights with no nightmares, and one of them was when he was by himself.  It wouldn’t have sounded like much to somebody who didn’t know, but Joe took it as a sign that things were indeed getting better.

On their second day at Long Horn Ridge, Hoss and Joe went swimming in the river.  They weren’t foolish about where they swam, but there still came a point when Joe misjudged and found himself caught in the current.  A minute later, he had grabbed onto a tree branch, shaken, but safe, and that should have been that.

But the incident was too close to far too many nightmares.  Frantic, he floundered through the water until he gained the riverbank and scrambled up.  Once on dry land, the current safely behind him, he fell to his hands and knees and was sick.

“You okay, Little Brother?”  Immediately, Hoss was beside him.

Joe nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  “I’m fine,” he said after a minute.

Hoss rested one large hand on Joe’s forehead.  Satisfied, he said, “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough swimming for one day.  Let’s get dressed, and after lunch, we can go out hunting for supper.  What do you think?”

“Sounds good.”  It was as much as Joe could have said without the wobble in his voice giving him away.  He could feel Hoss’s eyes on him as they dressed, and he forced himself to go slowly, breathing deeply and trying to keep his hands from shaking.

Back at the cabin, Hoss started to dish up beans for both of them, but Joe held up his hand.  “I’m not hungry,” he said.

“You feelin’ okay?”  Hoss’s eyes were dark with concern.

Joe nodded.  “I’m fine,” he said.  “I’m just not hungry.”

Hoss appraised his brother.  Finally, he said, “Suit yourself.  There’ll be some here if you get hungry later.”

Joe nodded.  “Thanks,” he said.

And that night, the nightmare came, swift and fierce. . . .

The current buffeted him as he twisted and turned and tried to grab at something, anything, to stop the rough waters from battering him.  He went under once, twice, a third time, and when he came up that time, Carlton was standing on the shore, laughing and pointing at him.

“If you try to get out, I’ll push you back in!” Carlton shouted.  “Give it up, Cartwright! That’s where you’re going to die!”

“No!” Joe tried to scream, trying desperately to keep his head above water.  “No!”  As always in these night terrors, his voice was barely a whisper.

“When you come out, you’ll be mine, all mine,” said Carlton.

“No!”  Joe fought for sound.  “I’ll kill you, Carlton!  I’ll kill you first!”

Carlton laughed and laughed.  “You can’t kill me,” he said.  “But I can have you any time I want.  We’ll have lots of special times, just wait and see!”

“No!”  For a moment, he sank below the surface, the churning water turning him around and around until he had no idea which way was up.  Then, he broke through to the surface, gasping for air.  “No!” he shouted, finding his voice for the first time.  “No!  Stay away from me!  I’ll kill you!”

“Joe!  Joseph!”

“Stay away, Carlton!  I swear to God, I’ll kill you!”

And then, somehow, he was out of the river, and Carlton was holding onto him.  He struggled, but Carlton was stronger.  Panic gripped him, and he fought even harder, screaming and swearing as he clawed and kicked, but nothing worked.  “Let me go!” he screamed.  “Let me go!”

And there was a crash, and searing pain in his hand, and—

“Joe!  Wake up!  Joe, it’s me!  Wake up!”

Chest heaving, Joe opened his eyes.  Before him was a broken window.  Blood dripped from his right hand.  From behind, Hoss held him fast, arms wrapped around Joe’s arms and chest.

“It’s all right, Joe, it’s just a dream,” Hoss was repeating.  “It’s all right.  You’re safe. Ain’t nobody gonna get you.  Ol’ Hoss is here.  It was just a dream.”

“Hoss?”  As he’d fought for voice, Joe now fought for breath.  He was shaking uncontrollably.  “Hoss?”

At the tentative word, Hoss turned Joe around, holding him close.  “You’re all right, Little Brother,” he said.  “Just take it easy.  You’re fine.”  He guided Joe over to the cot and sat him down, still holding him.  “Easy, Joe.  You’re safe now.”  He kept repeating the soft words, rubbing Joe’s arm, until his brother’s breathing was slower.

“I’m sorry,” Joe said.  He made himself sit up straight, even though everything in him wanted to curl up in a ball with his eyes tightly closed.

“Nothin’ to be sorry about,” said Hoss.  “It ain’t your fault.”  He picked up Joe’s hand, and the dark blood was visible even in the moonlight.  “We need to clean this up.”  He guided Joe over to the corner where the supplies were stored.  He lit the lamp and ladled water from the barrel into a bowl.  With all the gentleness Joe had long ago come to expect from his brother, Hoss placed Joe’s hand into the cool water and held it there, allowing the blood to soak off.  Then, he took the wounded hand out and patted it dry, holding the light close so that he could inspect the cuts for shards of glass.

“That don’t look too bad,” he opined.  “I don’t even think we need to bother Doc Martin for this.  I’ll just clean it out real good and wrap it up, and you’ll take it easy for a couple days, and it’ll be fine.”  As he spoke, he assembled whiskey and bandages.  “You ready?”  Joe nodded, and Hoss poured whiskey over the cuts.  Reflexively, Joe grabbed for Hoss’s arm with his free hand, biting his lip against the fiery alcohol.

Finally, the hand was cleaned and bound.  Hoss set Joe on the cot and swept up the broken glass.  He inspected the broken pane; after a minute’s thought, he crumpled up paper and stuffed it in the hole.  “That’ll do for tonight,” he said.  “Tomorrow, I’ll head into town and get a new windowpane.”

He sat down next to Joe, who hadn’t spoken or moved.  “You all right, Little Brother?”

Joe nodded.  “First time I ever yelled,” he said.

Hoss’s brow crinkled.  “What do you mean?”

“In that nightmare,” said Joe.  “Usually, I can’t make any noise.  This was the first time I could ever yell at him.”

Questions swarmed in Hoss’s head.  He started with an easy one.  “What do you mean, ‘usually’?  You been havin’ nightmares before now?”

Joe laughed, a short, humorless bark.  “Only for the last two and a half years,” he said.

“But how come we ain’t never heard you?”  Hoss remembered Joe’s nightmares from long ago.  The boy’s screams would wake the entire household.

“I guess because I couldn’t make noise,” said Joe.  “If you don’t scream, nobody knows.  It started like that when I was inside, just for survival.  And when I got out—well, I don’t know.  Maybe it was still survival in a way.”

Hoss frowned.  “How often do you have these nightmares?”

Joe shrugged.  “Almost every night,” he admitted.  “But sometimes I don’t.  I didn’t have one last night.”  He sounded almost proud, and Hoss’s heart ached.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“What was there to say?  I lived in hell, and I have nightmares about it.  Probably means I’m sane.  If I were used to it—then, I’d be crazy.”

Hoss pondered this.  Then, he gathered up his nerve and asked the question.  “Joe—who’s Carlton?”

Shutters slammed shut in Joe’s eyes.  “My cellmate,” he said tonelessly.

Bitter fear filled Hoss’ mouth.  “Joe—what—did he—”  He couldn’t make himself finish.

Abruptly, Joe turned away, shaking his head and hugging himself as if he were suddenly cold.  Hoss laid a hand on Joe’s shoulder, and Joe jerked out from under his touch.

Hoss thought back to the talks they’d had, he and Adam and Pa, in the early days after Joe’s release.  He thought about what Doc had said when he examined Joe.  They’d all said it must have happened, but Hoss hadn’t believed it.  They’d been guessing.  Nobody knew for sure.

Until now.

Slowly, carefully, Hoss rested his hand on Joe’s shoulder again.  Joe jerked, but Hoss kept his hand steady.  Gradually, as if his brother were a skittish horse, he began to rub Joe’s shoulder, and then his back.  With gentle reassurance, he drew him close, and he held the rigid body, whispering quiet words intended to comfort both of them.  After a long time, he felt the tension begin to ease, and finally, Joe allowed his head to rest against Hoss’s broad shoulder, his eyes closed.

“You think you can sleep now?” Hoss asked at last.

Joe sat up, nodding.  “Just give me a drink, and I’ll sleep fine.”  At Hoss’s frown, he said, “How do you think I usually get back to sleep?”

Hoss fetched the whiskey.  Joe took a swig from the bottle and handed it back.  Hoss took a swig for himself before he corked the bottle.  He picked up Joe’s bandaged hand.  “This should be good until morning,” he said.  “I’ll redo the bandage then.”

“Okay.”  Joe watched as Hoss replaced the whiskey bottle on the shelf.  When the big man turned, his eyes were ineffably sad.

“I’m sorry, Hoss,” Joe whispered.  I’m sorry you ever had to know this.  It was the last thing in the world that he’d ever wanted.

“You got nothin’ to be sorry for,” said Hoss firmly.  “Now, you get yourself some sleep.  No, stay where you are,” he added as Joe started to move back to his bedroll on the floor.  “I said ‘stay there’,” he said as Joe opened his mouth to protest.

“Yes, sir,” said Joe with the faintest of mocking grins.

The lump in his throat kept Hoss from answering.  He tousled his brother’s hair and snuffed out the lamp.  Eventually, he heard Joe’s breathing become deep and even.

And Hoss sat beside the cot, keeping watch over his little brother, first in the dim light of the moon, and then in the dawning of the sun.

* * * * * * * * * *

Hoss heard the quiet step behind him.  He turned from his seat on the tiny porch to see Little Joe standing, watching.  Even in the gray light of dawn, pain flamed in his little brother’s eyes.

“What’re you doin’ up this early?” Hoss asked.

“I was just going to ask you that,” said Joe.  He settled himself on the step and held out the bottle.  When Hoss shook his head, Joe said simply, “It helps.”

Two nights had passed since Joe’s nightmare.  They were heading home the day after tomorrow, but Hoss had never felt less like going home.  He could feel Joe’s eyes on him, silently questioning, as he tried to act normally.

It was, he supposed, the difference between suspecting and knowing.  As long as there had been a question, he could pretend it hadn’t happened.  But knowing—that was taking some getting used to.

And whenever he had that thought, he immediately reprimanded himself.  If Joe could live with what had been done to him, surely Hoss could live with knowing.

He took the bottle, tossed back a swig, and handed it back.  “Does Pa know?”

“I’m sure he does,” said Joe.  “I figured Doc had told you all.”

Hoss thought back to that day at Doc’s office.  “I reckon maybe he did,” he said.  “I just didn’t want to hear it, I guess.”

Joe drank and held the bottle out again.  “Can’t blame you for that.”

They sat quietly, passing the bottle back and forth as the sun rose over the ridge.  The scent of pine drifted on the breeze as the river below continued to splash over rocks.  Something—a fox, maybe—darted through the clearing and disappeared into the trees, a swift rustling the only evidence of its presence.

Hoss reached for the bottle again.  There was so much he wanted to say.  He wanted to make sure Joe knew he understood that it was a terrible, horrific thing that had happened, and that he knew there was nothing Joe could have done to prevent it.  He wanted to tell Joe how sorry he was for taking him to task about how he should be concerned about Pa, how Hoss had had no idea what he was talking about.  He wanted to ask how Joe had survived, and how he lived day to day.  He wanted to let Joe know that he would listen to whatever his little brother wanted to tell him.  He wanted to swear on his mother’s grave that he would make sure nothing like that would ever, ever happen to Joe again.

But all he could say was, “I’m so sorry, Little Brother.”

Wordlessly, Joe took the bottle from his brother’s hand.  He corked it and set it down by his feet.

“I know,” he whispered at last.  “Thanks.”

And he rested his bandaged hand on Hoss’ shoulder as the tears on his big brother’s cheeks glistened in the light of dawn.