After Little Joe’s testimony helps put a noose around the neck of a murderer, his nightmares are nothing compared to the reality that comes to haunt him.

Rated: T (word count: 25,450)

***This story represents 2 firsts: my first brand-new story for the Brand’s new library; and my first prequel! 🙂

*Original title as a WIP: Shadow of the Noose

Haunted

XxXxX

1

That dadburned little brother of his was later than usual getting out of bed, but Hoss was none too eager to do anything about it. He was enjoying the opportunity to fill up on all the food his pa and Adam had left behind when they’d rushed out for an early meeting with the family attorney. Still…doggone it! Joe was going to have to eat, too, wasn’t he? The way that boy had been growing lately, he seemed to need more sleep and food than the rest of the family combined.

Maybe Hoss was doing a good turn by letting his brother get some extra sleep; but he reckoned he wouldn’t be doing either of them any good if he didn’t also make sure the fifteen-year-old had at least enough food to fire up what little muscle he had on that scrawny frame of his. That new acreage wasn’t going to fence in itself, and Hoss didn’t much like the idea of doing all the work himself.

“He’ll just be an ornery, good-for-nothing cuss, if he don’t eat,” Hoss mumbled, eyeing the last bits of scrambled eggs on the platter. “Joe!” he hollered out then. “Hey, Joe! Get down here!”

But the more Hoss thought about it, the more he realized he hadn’t had to face Joe’s ornery side for a good two weeks or more. He hadn’t had to face his little brother’s prankster side either, for that matter. In fact, Little Joe hadn’t been himself at all since that business with Frank Carver and had just gotten worse since the hanging.

Casting a troubled glance toward the stairwell, Hoss found himself wishing yet again Joe had never laid eyes on Frank Carver. Not in the alley next to the Bucket of Blood. And certainly not dangling from the gallows on account of Joe’s testimony. Well, on account of Joe’s and Missus Hatcher’s testimonies.

“Hey, Joe!” Hoss called again as he tossed his napkin to the table and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll saddle the horses. You come down here and eat something so we can get!”

The enthusiasm he’d built up while lingering over breakfast had vanished by the time Hoss reached the barn. Not long after, however, he found a danged good reason to let it build up again.

Joe’s horse was gone.

“Why that little….” He didn’t bother finishing the statement. He let a smile slip into place instead.

Little Joe was back to his tricks. Not only had he already gotten out of bed, he’d snuck out of the house to beat Hoss to work. Joe was aiming to turn the tables on Hoss. He’d claim Hoss had been dilly-dallying while he’d done all the work.

“Well, I’ll show you what for, little brother,” Hoss mumbled, making quick work of saddling Chub and letting his smile grow into a grin. Yep. Little Joe was back to being Little Joe.

Hoss’s loud “Yahoo!” as he kicked his horse’s flanks scattered some stray chickens and brought an irate Chinaman outside to yell uselessly at his retreating back.

It also managed to scatter his little brother’s disturbing dreams.

XxXxX

Joe was surprised to hear Hoss thundering out of the yard and yelling a hearty “Yahoo!” to boot. Had someone delivered good news? Who? What sort of news?

Heck, Joe could do with a bit of good news. Between the guilt he felt for causing a man to hang and his ridiculous, gut-churning fear that Frank Carver would somehow come back to kill him for doing it, Little Joe Cartwright wasn’t sleeping near as much as he ought to be. How could he sleep, with all those dark images haunting him every night? Images of blood-drenched knives and dead men hanging from the gallows with vengeful glares that were always aimed Joe’s way.

It had been well over two weeks, but in Joe’s young, active mind, it seemed like only yesterday that he’d stumbled upon a murder taking place in a shadowed corner of Virginia City–a corner Joe had been told often enough was no place for a boy his age.

He’d gone there for a glimpse of the saloon. Planning to peek over the swinging doors and see what all the excitement was about, Joe’s innocent seeming diversion had been ill-timed. He’d walked past the alley to find Frank Carver kneeling next to a man who wasn’t moving. Frank had held a bloody knife and had shot Joe a look cold enough to freeze the dumbfounded boy in place.

Frank was going to kill him, too. Joe had known it then, and he knew it now. He couldn’t have run, not fast enough or far enough to escape Frank Carver’s longer stride–certainly not the way his head had been spinning and his heart pounding before he’d even taken a single step. Nor could he have fought back, not armed only with the punch of a small-for-his-age fifteen-year-old boy.

Yep. Joe would be dead now if Missus Hatcher hadn’t hurried after him to scold him for being where he oughtn’t. It had been Missus Hatcher’s scream that had torn Frank Carver’s eyes from Joe’s. That’s when Frank had started running–fortunately right into the path of the sheriff. And that’s when Joe had started down a different path, one that had left him plagued with disturbing thoughts and horrific dreams.

But Frank Carver was a week dead already, hanged after a quick trial during which both judge and jury had been eager to see justice done.

And the cheerful sound of Hoss’s Yahoo! in the yard was making Joe eager to forget. Any bit of good news would provide a welcome reprieve.

Pushing himself wearily from bed, Joe filled a basin with fresh water and went to work splashing unspent sleep from his eyes. Dark thoughts were not as easy to wash away. He dressed slowly, suddenly feeling guilty. What right did he have to share in Hoss’s good humor? A man was dead because Joe had seen him with a bloody knife and had been frightened by a cold glare. Frank Carver had been hanged for murder, but Joe had not actually seen him drive that knife into the dead man’s chest. What if Carver had been innocent? What if he had stumbled across the dead man only seconds before Joe? What if…?

“What if you had listened to your father,” Pa had told him just the other day, “and stayed with the buckboard as you’d been told? What if you had listened to your brothers and waited for them to introduce you to the inside of a saloon when the time was right? Joseph, those are good questions to consider the next time you’re faced with a decision to go your own way; but you can’t change what’s already occurred. If you’re not careful, you could drown in a sea of what ifs. And so could I.”

“You, Pa?”

“Yes, me. I have asked myself a thousand what-ifs about that day, too, Little Joe. What if you hadn’t come across Frank Carver? Why, he might never have been caught. He would have been free to kill someone else, maybe even one of your brothers.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, I have. And so did others. That’s why the jury was so quick to decide. Son, Frank Carver was…not the best of men. His reputation for violence offered as much–if not more–proof than your testimony. Surely you must realize that.”

One final, horrific thought had Joe seeing Hoss in that alley at Frank Carver’s feet. Shuddering and anxious once more to learn about the reason behind his big brother’s Yahoo!, Joe slipped into his boots, pulled a clean shirt from the bureau and ventured into the hallway before he’d even gotten one arm sleeved. He sleeved his other arm when he reached the stairs, and then focused on his buttons as he bounded down the steps to the first landing. That’s when he heard his father’s voice again, warning him about watching where he was going.

Feeling a different kind of guilt–one that was far less weighty and almost comforting in its simplicity–Joe turned his attention to the stairs in front of him–

And locked eyes with Frank Carver.

Joe stopped breathing as he stared at the man below him, a man who couldn’t possibly be there. Frank Carver stood at the foot of the stairs, his glare just as cold as it had been in the alley. But this time there was no dripping knife. Instead, he held a gun. And that gun was aimed at Little Joe.

“No,” Joe whispered. It simply wasn’t possible. Frank Carver was dead. Joe had watched him die at the end of a rope.

For a split second, Joe wondered if he was looking into the eyes of a ghost. Then he noticed the man’s fingers moving, the thumb easing back the hammer and the index bending against the trigger. And suddenly it didn’t matter if the creature standing there was a ghost or not.

Joe turned back the way he’d come just as he heard the first explosion. Wood shattered around him, splinters scraping his cheek and tapping against his left arm and torso when he moved from one step to the next. Five more explosions followed him to the top, where something slammed into his right calf, sending him sprawling into the upper hallway. Pain radiated from his toes to his hip, but need drove him to keep moving forward, starting with a crawl and progressing to a desperate, limping gait, with one hand pressed to the wall for added support. Joe was determined not to be left defenseless this time around. This was not the alley. And maybe he didn’t have a weapon just then, but he knew his father kept a loaded gun in a drawer at his bedside.

 

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