XxXxX

12

Ben’s heart sank when he saw his eldest son racing toward him alone. “What did you find? Do you know where Joe is? Is he all right?” The questions blustered out of him like gusts in a storm. And every one hit Adam with a palpable blow, curling his brow, thinning his lips and tightening his jaw.

Adam shook his head once as he reined in. “This trail led nowhere,” he complained as he dismounted. “There’s more than one man; has to be. Someone made a calculated effort to send me the wrong way.”

“There’s two of ‘em, I’d say.” Sheriff Coffee rose to his feet. “One’s unshod. Impression’s a mite deeper right after Little Joe’s tracks stop.”

“Like he’s riding double?” Adam asked.

“Looks that way.”

“Adam?” Ben touched his son’s arm, hoping to turn the young man toward him; but Adam crouched to the ground instead, giving his full attention to the marks in the dirt.

“This set of tracks is heading east,” the sheriff pointed out.

Adam followed the direction with his eyes. “Then what are we waiting for?” Rising to his feet, he started back toward his horse.

“Adam?” Ben asked sternly, this time taking a firm hold of his son’s arm to pull him around. “How was he? How was Joe when you left him?”

Adam’s eyes darkened. “That’s just it. I left him! Alone!” He turned away abruptly, mounting in an instant and then bolting eastward.

“Adam!” Ben shouted, but his son did not slow. That fool boy! he thought angrily. Adam did what he had to do. Why can’t he realize that?

“Ben?” He looked up to see that Roy had already mounted. “Maybe you ought to stay here, look after Hoss.”

“Hoss is fine,” he answered tersely, hurrying now to join Roy and, eventually, Adam. “Or at least I know he will be. Let’s find Joe.”

A moment later, he was following Adam’s dust but staying close to Roy Coffee–and a trail he didn’t dare lose sight of.

XxXxX

The rope was high enough now that Joe had to stand on his toes to keep from choking. The strain on his injured calf was unbearable, but he had no choice, none at all. He must not only endure the pain, he must ignore it, focus every thought on catching one more breath…and then another.

Blinking fast and hard, his eyes already tearing, Joe saw Frank Carver turn away while Clyde tied off the far end of the rope.

“P…pl….” Joe wanted to beg the Indian to help him; but he couldn’t even manage to spit out a single word. The effort put too much pressure on his throat, drawing the rope fractionally–excruciatingly–tighter.

But something in Clyde’s expression told Joe he understood. He glanced toward the door, and then stepped silently toward Joe, the soles of his moccasins stirring dust but making no clatter on the floorboards.

“You will not die here today.” Clyde was right in front of Joe now, his face swimming into view through the fog of Joe’s tears. “The spirits of the land do not will it. They directed Daniel’s bullet when he shot you. He assured me he closed his eyes to let it be so. I believe him. The spirits also protected you from the poison. They wish you to live; so today, you will not die.”

The words were meaningless to Joe. He just wanted to be released, to breathe free and easy and to rest his leg. “Pl….” he tried again.

Clyde breathed deeply, his chest expanding. To Joe, it was a cruel display, however unintended. “I cannot help you. Daniel was my brother among the Comanche and the Kiowa. He is still my brother, even now. We have shared hardship and blood. We endured together the trials of slavery and the later trials that prepared us to become Kiowa warriors. Those trials are what marked us as brothers. Now this trial is for you. And for Daniel. It is not for me to change.”

Joe closed his eyes tightly, desperate to will the pain away…silently begging Clyde to reconsider.

“An old wound came open in him,” the Indian went on, oblivious…or not caring. “It has changed him. He was mistaken for another in Carson City, a man named Frank Carver. Now he knows his young brother did not die long ago. He feels pain for not helping this brother sooner. He does not recognize that the spirits did not will it to be so.”

Joe tried to meet his eyes, tried to plead for help with his own.

“Just as the spirits do not will you to die.” Clyde nodded. “Someone will come.” Then Joe felt a gentle tugging at his waistband. “This paper holds the names of Daniel Fisher’s brothers and sisters. Help them to be remembered. Then maybe the spirits will allow my brother’s wound to heal again.”

With that, the Indian turned away. A moment later, Joe heard a thud and knew it to be the door closing. He was alone.

Please! he begged silently. He was sure not even Clyde’s spirits could hear him. If they did, Joe would hear horses approaching, not riding away. Please!

The tears now came from a different kind of pain. He found himself praying to feel the comfort of his pa’s strong, protective arms lifting him out of this trap. It was a trap, wasn’t it? And he’d stumbled blindly into it because he was the rabbit again. Maybe he was destined to forever be the rabbit. Is that what Clyde’s spirits had in store for him?

No, Joe told himself. If he survived this, he would never be the rabbit again. He would fight the whole world if he had to; and he would do it with his eyes wide open.

If he survived. But how could he survive? He couldn’t even try to work his hands free; every time he did, the movement left him choking.

Please! he cried once more in silence when a bright ray of sun eased in through a far window. Joe saw it raising a bridge of dust motes and wondered briefly if it led straight to Heaven–although it really didn’t matter. Joe wasn’t ready to follow such a bridge. Not yet. Not today.

“You will not die here today.” Clyde had promised him.

Joe could only pray that the Indian was right and someone would come before his leg gave out completely or he simply passed out from the effort. He truly was in the hands of the spirits or angels…or maybe even God Himself.

Oddly, that thought gave him comfort. Don’t let go, he prayed then.

And that was all he could do. From that moment onward, he focused all of his efforts on staying upright and collecting one short gasp of air after another.

 

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