XxXxX

3

With his pa’s gun in hand, Joe made a slow, desperate trek back to the stairwell. He felt like a frightened animal, a rabbit caught in the crosshairs of a wily fox. Like in the alley, he wanted to run; but the fire in his leg made it hard enough to take the few steps from his pa’s room to the top of the stairs. He also wanted to hole up beside his pa’s bureau, to wait for the fox to wander into the rabbit’s crosshairs, instead. But he couldn’t do that, either. He just…couldn’t. That felt too much like cowering, like giving up…like showing the fox he was nothing but prey.

Breathing hard and worrying about how loud his heart was thumping in his chest, Joe took one, final, lurching step away from the protection of the wall and grabbed hold of the newel post. He tossed a quick glance to the foot of the stairs, and then sucked in a deeper breath of relief. No one was there.

But Carver had to be nearby. And Joe had to figure where.

Using the newel post for support, Joe pulled himself into position on the top landing. Well aware that he would be a bull’s-eye target where he now stood, he held still for a long moment, scanning the empty space below.

Maybe Carver had left already. Maybe ghosts couldn’t stick around for too long–that’s why people didn’t see them too often. Maybe…maybe Joe was safe for now.

The waning strength of his right hand gripping desperately to the top of newel post forced him to ease closer to the post itself, where he could rest his hip and hopefully ease the pressure on his leg. Joe considered lowering himself to sit on the first stair. But what if he couldn’t get up again? He felt tired and dizzy, and his leg hurt like the devil; and he just didn’t know what to do. He wished his pa were home. He wished–

A clatter of hooves in the yard told Joe someone was in an awful hurry to get there. But who?

Steeling himself, Joe tightened his slippery, sweaty grip on his pa’s gun and aimed it toward the front door. Then he took as deep a breath as he dared without alerting the fox–wherever it might be–and he waited.

XxXxX

Ben barreled across the threshold, driven by a combination of rage and dread. His fear for his youngest son was palpable enough to taste it in the acid that rose up from his throat. But he bit back at that fear with anger. Joe knew better. He’d been around guns all his life. He’d been taught to respect them, to handle them wisely, to use them only when there was need. How could he–how dare he–fire a gun in the house for no reason?

“Pa?” The voice calling down to him from the top of the stairs sounded…small. Still, it was loud enough to reach him and to pull his attention upward to where his frightened, careless, youngest son stood amidst the splintered wreck that had become of the upper stair railing.

“Joseph!” Ben hollered out, enraged as much over what had happened as at what might have happened. What if…? What if…? “What in heaven’s name have you done? Is that…. Is that my gun? Come down here this instant!”

Joe’s form was crossed with shadows, but Ben could see him well enough, even from that distance…. Yes, well enough to recognize that Joe’s face was pale and his eyes glistened. Within those eyes, a brief flash of relief vanished under the weight of Ben’s harsh words. “You…didn’t see him; did you?”

Floundering in that sea of what ifs he’d warned Joe about so recently, Ben didn’t have the patience for his young son’s games. “You had better start explaining yourself, young man!”

Joe’s mouth opened on words that were long in coming. “I…I couldn’t…,” he said finally.

“You couldn’t what?” Ben pressed. “Listen to your father for a change? What on earth possessed you to shoot my gun in the house?”

“I didn’t. I…couldn’t reach it in time. He was already gone.”

“Who, Joe?” Adam asked while Ben was still filling his lungs with more ammunition. “Who was already gone?”

Ben’s oldest boy pushed cautiously past him to prop his foot upon the last stair and lean against the newel post. He was almost a mirror of his youngest brother at the top, despite the significant difference in their postures, with Adam’s firm and strong, and Joe’s…frightened and uncertain.

“Frank,” Joe answered quietly. “Frank Carver.”

“Oh, for the love of….” Ben threw an exasperated look toward Hoss beside him. Then he took in a long, heavy breath. “Joseph, please come down here and tell us exactly what happened.”

“I…I don’t think I can.” And then Joe sat down. He tucked Ben’s gun into his waistband so he could use both hands to lever himself to the floor. And he sat right down on the top step, bending his left leg and extending his right across the stairs in front of him.

Part of Ben wanted to rush up those stairs to close the distance between them and get straight to the heart of this…this nonsense–but if he did, he was likely to grab the boy and start tanning him right there and then. In another part of him, dread was gaining ground on his anger. He, too, was afraid. As afraid as Little Joe sounded.

“Joe?” Adam asked calmly then, coming to Ben’s–and Joe’s–rescue in a way that made Ben as proud as he was relieved. “What’s wrong?”

Ben held his tongue. And his breath. And waited for Joe’s frustratingly slow response.

“By the time I got…I got Pa’s gun and…and made it back here…he was already gone.”

“I meant what’s wrong with you,” Adam went on as he climbed to the middle landing. “Why can’t you come downstairs?”

“I don’t feel so good.”

Joe’s words might have described how Ben felt, himself. But Adam’s next words struck a blow that made him feel far worse.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Splinters.” Joe gave a small, sad smile and absently rubbed at a bleeding cheek. “There were a lot of splinters flying around when he started shooting.”

Ben could hardly remember climbing the stairs. All he knew was he was finally standing directly in front of Little Joe, close enough to know for certain that something was very wrong. Joe was far too pale. And he was both sweating and shivering. And the scrapes on his cheek were nothing to whatever had happened to his right calf. There was a small pool of blood forming on the step beneath his leg.

“Ain’t been fired, Pa.” Hoss said, holding Ben’s gun. Ben hadn’t even noticed his middle son taking it from Joe’s waistband. Now those words…ain’t been fired, Pa…struck Ben another blow.

“I don’t think a splinter did that to your leg,” Adam said, adding more fuel to the fire of Ben’s remorse.

But Joe’s eyes were on Ben’s. “I’m sorry, Pa. I didn’t know what else to do. I had to find a way to stop him. I thought…maybe…your gun….”

Ben swallowed bile. And pride. And…so much more. “Yes. Of course. I was a fool, Joe. I’m the one who’s sorry, son. I didn’t realize–”

“Ahh!” Joe cried out suddenly, drawing Ben’s attention to where Adam had been prodding at Joe’s injured leg.

“I guess it’s my turn to say sorry, Joe,” Adam said then. “It’s pretty obvious one of those bullets did more than tear up this stairwell. He’s been shot, Pa. Bullet’s still in there.”

An old, stubborn, miserable fool, Ben said to no one but himself.

 

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