XxXxX

10

Walking from where he’d been ambushed to the house was a slow process; and Hoss had to lean heavily on Adam every bit of the way. Anxious to ease the burden on his older but smaller brother, Hoss grabbed for the doorframe with his free hand as soon as he got close enough.

“I’m sorry, Adam,” he said as he extricated his arm from around his brother’s shoulders. “I was plumb sure the ground wouldn’t move so much after I got to walking for a bit. Probably should have let Hank help.”

“Hank’s the best tracker we have, next to you.” Adam stepped away, moving into the house. “That trail you found is fresh. I didn’t want to hold the men back any more than you did.”

“Yeah, I reckon.” Hoss thought harder on what his brother had said. “Should’ve asked someone to stay back and help, though. I’m just glad I didn’t knock you over on the way here.”

“I’m stronger than I look.” Adam gave him a small grin, but there was something hollow to it. “Come on,” he said, reaching his hand around Hoss’s shoulders again. “Let’s get you inside. I’ll find Hop Sing to take care of that gash on the back of your head.”

“I sure wish I knew where that fella’ came from. I didn’t know he was there until he clobbered me.”

“Just like,” Adam grunted as he took on Hoss’s weight, “we never knew anyone was here during the night.” He stiffened as he eased Hoss down onto the settee.

The settee wasn’t quite empty. “What’s this shotgun doin’ here?” Hoss asked after he was settled.

Adam didn’t answer. “I’ll get Hop Sing,” he said instead. There was an odd sound to his voice, like it was strained–like Hoss was still leaning against him.

Hoss looked over to where Adam had gone. “Adam? What’s goin’ on?” The question stopped his brother, but did not pull him around to face Hoss again. “Why was the front door open when we got here? And this shotgun; what’s that about?”

Adam’s shoulders rose, showing Hoss he was taking a real deep breath.

“Adam?”

Finally, Adam turned back. “I gave that gun to Joe.”

“He brought it downstairs with him? Then where is he?”

“No, he did not bring it down. He was sitting in Pa’s chair when I gave it to him; and he was still sitting there, with that gun in his lap, when I went out to help you.”

At that, Hoss glanced around the room. “Joe?” he called out. “Little Joe?”

But it was Adam who answered. “He’s not here.”

“Of course, he is. Where else would he be? Little Joe!” he shouted again.

“Hoss!” Adam shouted back at him. “He went outside!”

“We would’ve seen him if he was outside. Little Joe!”

“Stop it, Hoss! I saw his tracks when I brought you in here! They’re clear as day with that crutch of his. And they only go in one direction–away from the porch.”

“Why didn’t you say that right off? Go out there and get him! He shouldn’t be wanderin’ around by himself with that leg like it is and that fella’ still on the loose.”

Adam sighed. “I know. I’ll find him. Don’t you worry.”

But before he could take another step toward the door, Hop Sing came running toward him from the same path Joe had taken. “Mistah Adam! Mistah Hoss!” the cook hollered as he scurried inside. “Little Joe gone!”

“Yes, Hop Sing.” Adam sounded tired…or frustrated, maybe. “I know. I’m going to–”

“No! Mistah Adam.” Hop Sing shook his head. “Little Joe gone! Not on Ponderosa!”

“What?” Adam’s voice rose in pitch, while Hoss’s heart dropped down into his stomach.

“Hop Sing see marks in sand. Think Little Joe foolishment. But no Little Joe when marks end. Only marks from horses.”

“Horses?” Hoss was horrified to imagine what that had to mean.

“Mistah Adam come see!” Hop Sing grabbed Adam’s arm.

Adam pushed him away. “Wait, Hop Sing. You stay here with Hoss. I’ll saddle up and follow those tracks.”

“Adam–” Hoss barely got that one word out before his brother cut him off.

“Pa should be home soon,” Adam insisted. “And with any luck, he’ll have Sheriff Coffee with him. Tell them where I’ve gone.”

“Adam!” Hoss tried to get up, but the floor tilted, sending him right back into the settee. “Dadburnit!”

“Help Hoss, Hop Sing,” Adam’s voice said from behind him. “Let me worry about Little Joe.”

“Mistah Adam not only one who worry!”

“I know. I’ll find him.”

A heavy thud told Hoss that the front door had finally been closed. It also sent a stab of pain throughout Hoss’s skull. Dadburnit, he thought to himself. How could he let someone get the drop on him like that fella had done out there? And, for that matter, sneak into the house without any of them knowing, to boot?

You’d better find him, Adam. Find ‘em both–that fella and Little Joe. And you’d better find ‘em before that fella finds you.

XxXxX

Joe trembled, both from the pain in his leg and the fear in his belly. Yeah, he was afraid. Anyone would be afraid, trussed up like he was and lying on the floor right next to a noose hitched up to the rafters. They’d hung the noose low enough to tap at Joe’s head every now and then, pushed by stray breezes coming in through an open window.

Frank Carver and the Indian were sitting at the table in the center of the room, a table where Joe had sat many times through the years, listening to old man Ferguson’s stories about soldiering and sailing and trapping and heading west. But old man Ferguson was dead, and his cabin had already grown dusty from abandonment…dusty enough to attract another man’s ghost and an Indian who seemed like a ghost himself…who Joe thought might be a ghost, too…a ghost who’d ridden a ghost horse that had suddenly appeared right next to Joe, close enough for the Indian to snatch him up and carry him there, to that dusty cabin.

Joe had already given up when that Indian had come by. He’d watched Frank Carver’s ghost disappear into the trees, and had realized he would never catch up. Joe had been standing still, trembling from the effort of keeping himself propped up with that crutch, with the muscles in his arm burning almost as much as his leg had been throbbing, when the bluster of a horse had turned his attention. The Indian’s hand had come down to grab him and Joe had been hoisted into the saddle so quick he’d hardly known what was happening–and so forcefully his leg had been bumped and banged enough to make Joe believe he’d been shot all over again.

And now Joe was on the dusty floor of old man Ferguson’s dusty cabin, with his leg bleeding again and his hands tied behind his back–tight enough to make his wrists sting and his hands tingle. Sure, he was afraid. Who wouldn’t be afraid lying there like that, getting smacked in the head by a dangling noose and watching two ghosts play poker with a deck of dusty cards?

Maybe even Adam would be afraid.

“You showed a lot of courage, Little Joe,” Adam had told him not long ago. “First by facing Carver down in trial like you did, and then by seeing it all the way through to the hanging.”

“I didn’t want to,” Joe had replied, softly, meaningfully.

“I know. But you did. And that took courage.”

Joe had treasured hearing his brother tell him he’d shown courage. But showing it and knowing it were different, somehow. Joe knew he hadn’t been courageous. He’d trembled back at those gallows almost as much as he was trembling now. He hadn’t wanted to watch Frank Carver die. Heck, he hadn’t wanted the man to die at all. He wasn’t even sure why the judge had said Carver had to die. No one saw Carver kill that man in the alley, not even Joe. All Joe saw was him holding a knife and looking at Joe with murder in his eyes–first in the alley, and then at the gallows.

But…Carver had been afraid, too; hadn’t he? Up on those gallows, Joe had seen fear in the man’s eyes, right before those eyes had looked his way. It wasn’t until their eyes had met that fear had turned to hatred–a killing kind of hatred.

And now those eyes were meeting Joe’s again. Carver nodded to the Indian and set his cards on the table, keeping his eyes on Joe the whole time. “You ready to get down to business, boy?”

And Joe stopped trembling. He was suddenly too cold to tremble.

 

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