Note: In the on-going sequence of my stories, this one takes place after "Ringgold."  There are references to that story, contained in this, so I'd suggest you read that one first.

My usual disclaimer:  The following is a work of fan fiction and is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Bonanza Ventures, David Dortort, NBC Television, or any other holder of Bonanza copyrights.
 

Adam Cartwright mopped the back of one hand across his brow and straightened.  With a slight groan, he worked the knuckles of his right hand into the small of his back, attempting to whittle away the ache that had taken up residence.  "How about a break?"  he said aside to Hoss.

Glancing up from the pile of wood he'd been chopping for fencing, his younger brother expelled a sigh.  Despite the rapidly cooling temperature as the day inched into evening, sweat beaded dew-like drops against Hoss's broad face.  "Sure.  It's probably gonna be awhile 'fore Elliot gets here with that next wagon load of lumber anyhow."  Extracting a kerchief from his pocket, Hoss mopped the rag over his forehead.  One eyebrow inched upward in speculation as he watched Adam step to the water bucket.  "Little Joe must have gotten tied up in town, huh?"

Spooning a ladleful of lukewarm water into his mouth, Adam considered his brother with narrowed eyes.  His glance was direct, making Hoss squirm.  Though he'd been loathe to draw attention to Joe's absence, Hoss had begun to fret over his younger brother's tardiness.

Adam spat the water from his mouth.  "Only thing keeping Little Joe in town is a lack of respect for my instructions."

"Hey, Adam, that ain't fair--" Hoss stepped away from the half completed paddock they'd been constructing in the west pasture.  Dusting splinters of wood from his trousers, he joined Adam at the water pail. Behind him, the sun dipped towards the horizon, giving birth to the first blue-tinged shadows of late afternoon.  "Maybe something came up that got him sidetracked."

"Like a pretty face or a game of cards?"  Adam gave a snort of disgust.  "He went for the mail, Hoss.  When are you going to realize Joe has a different set of priorities than we do?  I just thought with Pa away, he'd listen for a change.  He knows how much Pa wants this fencing finished, not to mention that new string of horses ready for auction."

"Yeah, I know," Hoss conceded hesitantly.  Once again he found himself assuming the role of defender over his younger brother's carefree behavior.  "Joe don't mean to be difficult, Adam--"

"Look, I'm tired of you making excuses for him."  The stress of running the ranch suddenly caught up with Adam.  For the last three weeks he'd been holding things together, planning work around deluging rains and increasing autumn winds.  He'd lost three of his hands to a mining payroll, and rustlers had claimed ten head of cattle.  The last thing he needed was an irresponsible sibling, and another who persisted in defending that conduct.

"I ain't making excuses."  Hoss felt himself growing annoyed.  If he discovered Joe was dallying in the saloon, he'd do more than just reprimand his brother, but at the moment the nature of that dalliance was yet to be established.  It galled Hoss that Adam immediately contributed Joe's tardiness to tomfoolery.  What if something had happened?  Joe was already three hours overdue. He was about to point that out to Adam, when the sound of approaching hoofbeats drew his attention.  Expecting to see Joe's horse broach the horizon, Hoss was surprised by the appearance of Les Cronin--one of the Ponderosa ranch hands.  "What's got him all fired up?"  he muttered to Adam, noting the haste with which the rider approached.

Moving away from the half-completed fence, both men waited for Cronin to draw rein.  The other's normally ruddy face was flushed a deeper shade of red when he came breast.  Tossing a backwards glance over his shoulder, he indicated the direction from which he'd come.  "Got a situation, gents.  Elliot and I were movin' lumber when we found a man back there by the creekbed.  Looks like he had a heart attack or somethin.'  Ain't a mark on 'im, but he's dead as a door nail."

Adam and Hoss exchanged a glance.

"You wait here," Adam told his brother.  "Finish up what you can.  I'll go with Les."

Hoss's head bobbed in agreement.  Sucking his bottom lip, he watched as Adam mounted his horse. In short order, both Adam and Cronin had disappeared into the jagged line of trees bordering the horizon.  Alone, Hoss moved back to the fence.  The autumn wind snaked beneath his collar, puckering goosebumps over his arms.  He shivered, but the touch had nothing to do with the crispness of the wind.  Shadows inched nearer--puddles of gloaming, banked by weak sunlight.  The hair rose on the back of Hoss's neck.  Uneasily, he thought of the body and the overly long absence of his younger brother.

Bending, Hoss retrieved a saw.  If he were a superstitious man, he'd view the body as an omen. Aligning the sawblade with a leaf-stripped piece of wood, Hoss worked the protruding teeth back and forth.  He licked his lips.  Joe would be fine, and he didn't believe in omens.

Even so, Hoss said a hasty prayer.
 

Adam paced restlessly, his fingernails clacking against the edge of a chipped coffee mug.  Shoving the battered cup onto the edge of a table, he turned and took three quick strides to the back of the room.  A solid door greeted him, obstructing his path.  With an irritated sigh, Adam spun and sank into the nearest chair.  "Roy, I really need to get back to the ranch."

Seated across from him, Sheriff Roy Coffee calmly inclined his head.  He was a steady man--rarely rushed, rarely flustered.  Steepling his fingers together, he braced his elbows on the arms of his chair and considered Adam.  "Soon enough, Adam.  Just be patient.  It doesn't look like any foul play took place, but we need Doc Martin to make sure."

"Yeah, I know."  Adam bowed his head into his hand and laced his fingers through his hair.  Earlier, he'd helped Les Cronin load the body into the wagon, replacing the lumber that had rested there--then dismissed both Cronin and Elliott while he drove the buckboard to town.  With Sheriff Coffee's assistance, he'd surrendered the deceased to Doc Martin, then stabled the man's horse at the livery.  Now, he fidgeted restlessly, awaiting the outcome of the autopsy.  A perusal of the man's pockets, performed by Roy Coffee, had produced a wallet and a telegram.  Papers in the wallet identified the man as Leland Folke, but revealed no address or city of origin.

"Let me see that telegram again." Leaning forward, Adam extended his hand.

Roy tugged the slip of paper from his vest pocket and passed it over.  "Doesn't explain a thing," he commented in his soft, lilting drawl.

Adam's eyes fell to the crinkled parchment: Have procured item (stop) Bids accepted (stop) Arrive no later than 16th (stop) W. Learn

Adam shook his head.  "We don't even know where Folke was headed.  Likely, he was just crossing the Ponderosa."  Though uncomfortable over the man's death, Adam found it hard to feel remorse for someone he didn't know.  Though appearing trim and physically fit, Folke also looked upward in years, indicating something may have failed within him.  Adam had no sooner completed the thought, then the rear door opened, and Doc Martin appeared, silently mopping his hands with a towel.

"Well?"  Adam asked, coming to his feet.  At his side, Roy Coffee rose also.

Unrushed, Martin walked to the small stove in the corner of his office and poured a cup of coffee. "It's like we guessed--his heart just gave out.  There's not a mark on him to indicate otherwise.  There's bruising on the chest, but that likely happened when he fell from his horse.  I found an obstruction within the heart wall, clearly indicating trauma within the heart itself."

Adam nodded.  He had his answer.  "Roy do you need me?" he asked.

The sheriff shook his head.  "I'll send out some inquiries to neighboring towns--see if I can find out who he was.  If I come up with anything, I'll let you know."

"Good deal."  Adam started for the door.  It was already dark outside. He'd spent longer in town then he'd anticipated, and was anxious to get home.  As his hand closed over the knob, he hesitated, turning back to the two men who quietly conversed behind him.  "Say, Roy.  You didn't happen to see Little Joe in town today, did you?"

"Actually I did.  Caught him coming from the post office.  He seemed kind of agitated and in a hurry."

"What time was that?"

"Oh . . ." Roy glanced at the ceiling as he contemplated.  "Must have been just before noon."

Adam's lips pressed together.  Plenty of time for his brother to make it back to the Ponderosa and help with the fence.  "Thanks, Roy."  Adam gave a flip of his hand and tugged opened the door.  A rush of cool air washed over him, ushering him outside.  His soles scraped against the scuffed planks of the boardwalk, sending clipped echoes rebounding into the night.  Climbing into the buckboard, Adam collected the reins, his disposition growing increasingly sour.

Where had Joe gone after the post office, he wondered?

With an impatient flick of the reins, he sent the wagon barreling into the night.
 

Hoss met Adam at the door the moment he stepped inside.  His expressive face pickled in an anxious mask, the big man practically danced with impatience.  "Well?  What'd you find out?"

Moving a lot slower than Hoss would have liked, Adam unbuckled his gunbelt and set it on the sideboard by the front door.  "Nobody we ever heard of--just someone passing through.  He had a heart attack, like we thought."

Unconvinced, Hoss licked his lips.  He'd spent most of the day fretting over what he considered a bad omen.  To have Adam dismiss the man's demise so callously seemed unjustly cruel.  At his side, the grandfather's clock struck the hour, sending melodic chimes rippling through the room.

"Is Joe back?"  Removing his hat, Adam cast it aside.  He scrubbed a hand over his face, realizing how dirty he was.  The grime and sweat of the afternoon had congealed to a scale-like crust on his skin.  He was filthy and hungry, not to mention in a foul frame of mind.  "Well?"  he prodded, fixing Hoss with an icy glare.

The bigger man nodded.  Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he scuffed a boot against the floorboards.  "He's back, Adam."

"Well, where is he?"

"He--" Before Hoss could utter another word, Joe's footsteps could be heard coming from the kitchen.  As he rounded the corner of the dining area, Adam pushed past Hoss to confront him.  Drawn up short, Joe halted at the edge of the sofa, his green eyes widening in surprise.  Clean, his hair neatly combed, it was obvious he'd been home for sometime.  A half-eaten apple was held in his left hand. Adam felt his irritation kick in.

"A-Adam," Joe sputtered.  "I-I didn't realize you were back.  I need to talk with you."

"Talk, huh?  I want an explanation of where you've been all day."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you."  The edge of hostility in Adam's words, immediately made Joe defensive.  With effort, he tried to get his emotions under control, realizing an argument would serve no purpose.  "I went to pick up the mail, like you wanted, but Tom flagged me down with a telegram."

Expelling a here-comes-the-story-sigh, Adam considered his brother.  "What was in the telegram, Joe?"

"It's from Shey.  He went to Silverton to look at a horse--"

"I remember," Adam interjected cooly.

Joe hedged.  His brother's arrogant disregard was making him uncomfortable. "On the way back, he must have stopped in Oxbow.  The telegram just says he's in trouble and needs my help."

"Your help?"  Unable to control his smirk, Adam folded his arms across his chest. "This is the same Shey Cutter who set you up with Rob Falcon's *daughter* remember?"  The heavy emphasis on the word "daughter" made Joe visibly bristle.  "Don't be a fool, Joe.  He's just playing another one of his games."

"What if he's not?"  Walking to the dining table, Joe set the apple aside.  He'd already considered what Adam proposed.  Bending forward, he braced his hands against the wood, locking his elbows.  "Shey may like to needle me, but he's not going to run me two days out of my way, when he knows we're short-handed as it is."

"What about that?"  Adam demanded, angrily striding forward. "We've got more work than we can handle--"

"I'm sorry."  Turning to face his brother, Joe tried to make Adam understand.  "I have to go after Shey.  I rode out to the Circle C to see Rob--that's why I was late.  He thinks Shey might be in serious trouble--"

"Rob was involved in the last trick Shey pulled on you," Adam exploded.  "If Shey were really in trouble, why wouldn't he wire Rob?  Why you?"

"I don't know!"  Joe's voice rose in volume.  "Because I'm his friend--"

"Friend?"  Adam cast the word in contemptuous disbelief.  "You've been friends with Shey Cutter for a little over three months.  Prior to that, you couldn't stand to be in the same room with him.  Have you forgotten this is the same kid that used to beat you black-and-blue in the schoolyard? What kind of friendship is that?"

Joe knuckled his hands into fists.  He'd taken about all he was going to take without losing his temper.  His lips compressed in a tight line, green eyes narrowing as he struggled to control his anger.  "So it's an unusual friendship," he spat.  "But it is a friendship. I'm leaving in the morning."

"Wait a minute!"  Adam snagged his arm as he started past, wrenching him to a brutal halt.

Joe's eyes flared.  "Get your hand off me, Adam."

"Fellas--" Mute up until this point, Hoss stepped forward.  He could sense the mood growing ugly--feel the tension crackling through the air like heat lightning on a summer night.  Joe's green eyes were fueled with angry brilliance. While Hoss might trust Adam to remain somewhat level-headed, he knew his impulsive younger sibling would likely say or do something he'd soon regret. "Maybe you two should just take a moment to rethink things--"

"I don't need to rethink things," Joe said tightly.  Though he addressed Hoss, his eyes remained on Adam--angry and challenging.  "This isn't open for discussion.  I'm leaving in the morning."

Adam's hand fell from Joe's arm.  "And if I disagree?"

Joe gave a soft snort of disdain.  "I'm well past the age when you can tell me what to do, Adam." Brushing by his brother, he headed for the stairs, his stride clipped with repressed anger. In a matter of moments, his footsteps could be heard fading down the hallway.  Hoss flinched at the resounding bang of a door swinging violently shut.

Sighing, he moved to the sofa and dropped into the stiff embrace of the cushions.  Scowling heavily, he chanced a glance at Adam. "Ain't you being just a tad unreasonable, older brother?"

"Unreasonable?"  Disgusted, Adam folded into the leather chair by the hearth.  Heat from the fireplace engulfed him, adding to his growing irritability.  "There you go--defending him again.  I don't think there's anything unreasonable about expecting him to stay here and do his share of the work--especially when we're short-handed!"  Adam's voice rose on the last phrase.  For emphasis, he dropped his fist against his knee.  "This thing with Shey Cutter--"

"--look, Adam, it's a strange friendship, I'll admit," Hoss shifted on the sofa, once again assuming the role of mediator.  Not for the first time, he wished his two siblings weren't so extemely different in temperament.  "But, you gotta give Joe credit' for wantin' to stand by Shey."

Exasperated, Adam pinched two fingers against the bridge of his nose.  "Hoss," he said quietly, "Three months ago Shey started a fight with Joe in Ridgeville and swindled him out of seven hundred dollars.  A couple weeks ago, he set him up with a prostitute, then had his foreman go after him with a gun."

Hoss licked his lips trying not to laugh.  Though he knew Adam found the situation humorless, he secretly wished he'd been a mouse in the alley when Rob Falcon had gone after Joe.  " . . . er . . .um . . ." Hoss struggled around the laughter building in his throat.  " . . . Shey's a little wild, I grant you."

Adam pressed his lips together.  Into the silence the fire crackled and hissed.  Once again Adam felt the sticky rush of heat fan over his face.  Bracing his hands against his knees, he pushed to his feet, his gaze never leaving Hoss.  "I'm going to clean up, then I'm going to bed.  Tell your brother, I expect to see him here in the morning."

Hoss pursed his lips, watching Adam depart up the steps.  Wishful thinking made him hope Ben would be home soon.  His father's brief visit to San Francisco, three weeks ago, had developed into a longer stay when a friend became unexpectedly ill.  What would Ben say, given the same situation, Hoss wondered.  Would he allow Joe to go after Shey?   Though Joe might not be as defiant with his father, he'd still chafe to be away.  Denied that opportunity, his explosive temper would flare as easily as it had with Adam.  Hoss grinned.  Of course, Ben would put him in his place a lot quicker too.

With a weary exhalation of breath, Hoss rose to his feet and trudged to the kitchen.  Though his brothers were squabbling and would spend the evening brooding in their rooms, he intended to have dinner and relax before retiring.  Sibling rivalry be hanged.

He'd sort it out in the morning.
 

"Come on, Cooch."  Joe spoke softly to the mare as he led her from the barn.  Residual darkness still clung to the sky, thinning in the east, where dawn lingered a few hours distant.  Though the moon was blotted by clouds, starlight flickered weakly against the steely backdrop--multi-hued icicles, awaiting daily demise.  "Early today, huh?"  Joe whispered, as he adjusted the mare's bridle. His fingers were growing stiff in the cold morning air.  Reaching inside his pocket, he retrieved his gloves, quickly tugging them over his reddening fingers.  A ragged breeze scuttled through the yard, swirling leaves around his boots.

"Way too early for you, little brother."

Joe flinched, startled to be caught unaware.  Glancing over Cochise's broad back, he watched as Hoss materialized from the velvety shadows draping the barn.  Joe's lips thinned in agitation.  "Are you spying on me?"

"I wouldn't call it spying."  Though Joe's tone was terse, Hoss's remained carefully neutral.  Approaching from the opposite side, he confronted Joe across Cochise's back.  "So you're goin' to Oxbow?  Even though Adam don't want you to?"

"That's right."  Crisply, Joe adjusted the cinch strap.  His movements were efficient and clipped, as though his mood--sedate just moments before--had turned suddenly antagonistic.  Sensing that unexpected hostility, Cochise shifted and whickered softly.

Disgruntled, Hoss dispensed a weary sigh.  "You know Joe, if you'd just put your hackles down, you'd realize I ain't here to give you grief."

Hoisting his bedroll onto the rear of the saddle, Joe reached for the tie-down straps.  "Come to say goodbye?" he asked sarcastically.

"Actually I did."  Hoss pursed his lips.  A sudden breeze scattered the leaves at his feet, making him wish he'd had the foresight to grab a coat before venturing outside.  Blue eyes dipping to the ground, he tried to find the words to cut through Joe's anger.  "You're gonna do just what you wanna do, little brother. Ain't no stoppin' you, once you've made up your mind.  I just came to say 'be careful'."

Joe swallowed, uncertain how to respond.  He'd been so sure Hoss was going to try to talk him out of leaving, he'd immediately grown defensive.  Moving around Cochise's hind quarters, Joe stepped to his brother's side.  Bowing his head, he studied his hands a moment, his sandstone hat effectively concealing the heated flush stealing across his highboned cheeks.   "Sorry," he mumbled.  Hesitantly, leaf green eyes rose beneath a thick veil of black lashes.  "I thought--"

"I know what you thought," Hoss interjected with just a hint of smug satisfaction.  "You'd think by now I'd be used to that impulsive streak of yours."  Hoss's lips curved upward, inching into a grin.  "You just make sure you don't bite off more than you can chew in Oxbow.  And another thing--" A thick finger plunked against Joe's chest.  "--if this is Shey Cutter's idea of a joke, you tell him, he's gonna have to square things with me."

Joe chuckled.  "I seem to recall you going after him a time or two in my younger days."

Tucking his tongue in the corner of his mouth, Hoss rocked backwards on his heels, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops.  "Hmm--so I did.  But only when he rounded up a few of his friends to corner you."

Joe's smile was dazzling in the half light of predawn--a crooked grin revealing the precise line of his perfect teeth.  "Big brother's gonna save me again, huh?"

"Get outta here," Hoss said with a shake of his head.  Still grinning, Joe clapped him on the back, then swung up onto Cochise.  Gathering the reins, he looked down at his brother.

"Adam's gonna be a bear when he finds out I'm gone."

"Rightly so."  A hint of amusement crept into Hoss's sapphire eyes.  "One of these days, Joseph, I'll just let him have you."

With an answering smile, Joe tipped his hat, then urged Cochise into the cool embrace of the velvety night.  Behind him the Ponderosa faded, and with it, the protective mantle of his brother.
 

The air warmed as the day progressed closer to noon.  Sticking to a path that led through cottonwoods and pine, Joe wound deeper into the verdant country that surrounded his family's ranch.  He halted shortly after noon, setting up quick camp on the bank of a stream; pausing long enough for a brief meal of beans, hard bread and black coffee.   Already restless over the perceived threat to Shey, he found his mind rambling.  Though his friend's temper was not as volatile as his own, Shey Cutter possessed a streak of arrogance likely to rile anyone.  He'd no doubt done or said something to offend the wrong person in Oxbow.  Though Joe had been to the small town once or twice, he knew little about the community, other than it's people seemed suspicious of outsiders.  Local law enforcement was often hit or miss, depending on who had greased the sheriff's pockets that day.  Of all the towns with which to become entangled, Oxbow was a region better avoided.

Gathering his meager supplies, Joe doused the campfire.  Thin ribbons of smoke plumed into the air--the acrid reek clinging to his jacket, mingling with the tart redolence of fall.  A tapestry of gem-bright leaves crunched beneath Cochise's hooves, whispering in dry parchment voices as Joe urged the mare away from the stream. The bubbling gurgle faded behind him--sunlight laced water giving way before vast grasslands--the undulating terrain already browned with the impending
touch of autumn.

Joe rode well into the evening, stopping only when dusk draped grape-purple shadows over the mountains, consuming the pale pink flesh of the sun.  Starlight emerged with the gloaming--a random dusting of prismatic radiance suspended on a field of silver-blue.  The wind scrolled between the trees, conjuring dragon-tails from fallen leaves; protesting groans from age-brittled branches.

Warming his hands before a hastily built fire, Joe squatted on his haunches and stared into the flames.  He'd long since grown accustomed to nights on the trail, but couldn't help want for a soft bed and home-cooked meal.  At the ranch, his brothers would have finished work for the day and retired to the great room after supper.  Even now, Joe could hear the imagined hiss and crackle of the fire in the large stone hearth; the bark of Hoss's laughter over some humorous quip; the crinkle of paper as Adam paged through a newly purchased novel.

With a sigh for the cold air seeping beneath his collar, Joe dragged cooking supplies from his saddlebag.  Approximately five yards away, Cochise swished her tail as she bent a graceful neck to the ground.  Moonlight accentuated the white patches on her coat with eerie luminance, creating a myth-like glow against darker blots of shadow.

All she needs is a horn on her head, Joe thought with a grin.  "Hey, Fair Lady," he called softly, "No damsels to rescue.  Just one cock-sure rooster.  Shey Cutter owes us for this."

Hours later, the thin edge of his appetite sated, Joe spread out his bed roll, attempting to find a spot of comfort on the cold ground.  Drawing the brim of his hat low over his eyes, he listened to the velvety echos of the night settle around him.

Within moments he was asleep.
 

Hoss rolled his hand into a fist and pressed it against his mouth.  With dramatic emphasis, he cleared his throat.  The sound fell away into the crackling hiss of the hearth, but his brother failed to respond.  Lips thinning in a grimace of annoyance, Hoss tried again.

"Get yourself a drink," Adam commented, without raising his head.  Warmth had been lacking all day from the elder Cartwright, whose dour expression had altered little with the steady progression of hours. Seated in his father's favorite chair by the fireplace, the dark-haired man stiffly flipped through a well-worn book.  Night had settled hours ago, making the interior of the house all the cozier for its welcoming cocoon of yellow light.

Hoss rolled his eyes, the gesture overlooked by his older brother. "Adam," he said at last, "You ain't spoken barely two words all day.  Don't you think you should say what's on your mind?"

"Said it yesterday," Adam returned briefly.  Paper crinkled as he turned a page.

Hoss's lips batted loosely together on a frustrated whuff of air.  Rising from the sofa, the big man paced to the edge of the fireplace where he stood contemplating the frenzied dance of the flames. "Little Joe don't mean no harm," he tried again.

Though Adam made no reply, Hoss could sense a tensing of his muscular frame.  Adam's jaw tightened perceptibly, but his eyes remained on the book.  It was clear from the glower on his face, he no longer saw the words.  "I don't want to get started on this again, Hoss.  You know how I feel about you protecting him.  I expected him here today, and he chose defiance over responsibility."

"Yeah, I know," Hoss said softly.  Turning from the hearth, he looked squarely on his brother. "Just one thing I think you're overlooking--"

Adam raised his head, a thin smirk ghosting across his lips.  "Oh?  And what's that?"

Hoss ignored the trace of sarcasm.  "If Shey Cutter really is in trouble, then Joe's headed there too."

Adam blanched.  The surliness left his eyes, replaced by a ripple of sheer anxiety.  No sooner had that emotion surfaced, then it was tamed beneath a resurgence of anger.  Adam snapped the book closed.  "His choice," he said bruskly, pushing from the chair.

Hoss felt the air quiver as he brushed by.  Adam's brisk strides took him to the staircase, where he ascended with stiff-limbed agitation.  With a sigh, Hoss retreated to the sofa.  Adam would maintain his unforgiving posture right through to the dawn, but secretly Hoss believed he too had begun to fret over Joe's safety.  Though he might berate their younger brother's feckless nature, he'd be the first to defend Joe, should push come to shove.

Hoss bowed his head to his hands.  He prayed that wouldn't be necessary.
 

A day later Joe arrived in Oxbow.  The afternoon had worn thin, inching close to evening when he rode Cochise down the narrow strip of the town's main street.  Those few people who lingered on the boardwalk stopped what they were doing to turn guarded stares on him.  A white-haired shopkeeper swept a broom back and forth across plank boards--the methodic swipe producing a sibilant hiss in the stillness.  The sheriff appeared in the battered frame of his doorway, habitually working a toothpick between his teeth.  A trio of courtesans lounged over the balcony of a ramshackle brothel, eyeing him speculatively as he passed beneath.

Unflustered, Joe drew rein before the saloon.  Though eventually he'd speak with the sheriff, he knew the best source of information was usually found where whiskey flowed and coin changed pockets.  Tethering Cochise to the hitching post, Joe brushed a gloved hand across his jacket, sending a film of white dust whaffling into the air.  If nothing else, after eight hours in the saddle, he could use a beer.

Pushing aside the swinging doors, he stepped into the tavern.  Inside, the room was small, comprised by five circular tables replete with barrel-backed chairs, a worn wooden bar, and an ancient upright piano.  Moving to the bar, Joe ordered a beer.

The directive earned a scowl from a jowl-heavy bartender, who moved away to comply with the order.  Tugging free his gloves, Joe let his gaze sweep the room.  Three cowhands were hunched over a poker game in the back, their eyes carefully adverted to their cards.  At a separate table, a fourth man nursed a bottle of whiskey, oblivious to all but the amber liquid in his glass.  A pair of saloon girls lingered with the cowhands, their gaudy dresses appearing old and dinghy in the
murky light filtering through dirt-encrusted windows.

"Thanks," Joe said when the bartender returned with his beer.  He swallowed the lacy head from the glass, grimacing slightly at the bitter taste.  "Oh, that's aged," he said with a hint of a smile, but his humor was lost on the man behind the bar.  Dispensing a grunt, the heavy-set man wiped a rag over the pock-marked wood.   Water rings stained the blistered surface--the result of numerous glasses leaving their mark through the years.

"Maybe you can help me," Joe said, returning his mug to the bar.  Retrieving his gloves, he tucked them inside his jacket.  Pig-like eyes followed the movement, anything but friendly.  Ignoring the caustic stare, Joe kept his tone casual.  "I'm looking for a friend of mine.  Name of Shey Cutter--"

"Never heard of him," the bartender said quickly.  The rag swiped over the wood as though pushing the question aside.

"Well maybe you've seen him.  He's about my height, my build, with fair hair and dark eyes--"

"Nope."  Once again the response was lightning quick, indicating no thought was involved.

Joe's gaze grew pointed.  He could feel himself growing restless.  The ride hadn't helped, and the curt dismissiveness of the bartender was wearing on nerves already rubbed raw. "Any strangers recently?"  This time the words were bitten off with marked hostility.

Sensing his change in mood, the bartender dispensed a deprecatory glare.  "Look Mister, I ain't seen your friend.  I ain't seen no blonde cowboys, and I ain't seen no strangers."

"I didn't say he was a cowboy."

Rattled by Joe's offhand comment, the bartender flushed scarlet.  Sucking on a fleshy lower lip, he shook the soiled rag in Joe's face.  The sour odor of mildew wafted from the cloth.  "You'd do well to mind your manners, boy.  We don't take kindly to strangers pokin' their nose where it don't belong."

Tilting his head to the side, Joe let his lashes drift down over his eyes until his glance was unmistakably sharp.  "Didn't realize asking about a friend's whereabouts was considered meddlesome."

"Hmph!"  The bartender blew air through a blunt nose.  Stalking to the opposite end of the bar, he busied himself toweling out glasses with the grimy rag.  Joe flipped a coin onto the bar.  He hesitated momentarily before retrieving his beer and moving to the table of poker players.  Though the trio had maintained a steady interest in their cards since his arrival, their attention to the game now carried an air of anxiety.

Joe tipped his beer to his lips, swallowing a mouthful of lukewarm ale.  Behind him, he could feel the suspicious gaze of the bartender lingering on his back.  "Hey, fellas . . ."  Joe's tone was neutral, but it didn't draw so much as an eye in his direction.  The saloon girls had retreated, hovering unobtrusively behind the card players--each with an arm draped over the shoulders of one of the men.  "I'm looking for a friend of mine--" Joe said into the sticky silence.

"Haven't seen him," a dark-haired man said shortly.  Laying two cards face down on the table, he motioned the dealer for replacements.

One again, Joe felt his irritation kick in.  "How do you know?  You--"

"Heard you askin' Lyle," a second man cut him off.  Alarmingly thin, with bright eyes beneath a beetled brow, the speaker was almost wraith-like in appearance.  He gave Joe a passing glance before returning his attention to his cards. "Sorry you made a trip for nuthin'."

Joe pressed his lips into a thin line.  With a loud clunk, he slammed the beer mug onto the table. Five sets of eyes tracked to his face--the girls growing nervous, the men watching guardedly.  "I'm getting a little upset with the short supply of information around here."  Reaching forward, Joe snagged the man nearest him, his fist knotting in the craggy fabric of a homespun shirt.  With an angry wrench of his arm, he hauled the startled cowboy to his feet.  Buff-colored eyes widened in a hollow-cheeked face.  "I want some answers, and I want them now."

"Can't tell you what we don't know!"  the frightened man sputtered.  His fear was so palpable, Joe felt it slice through him like a knife.  At the table, the two remaining men had stiffened, their bodies tensing for flight.  Briefly, Joe's eyes flickered to the bar.  The area was empty now, the heavy-jowled man having vanished into the back.  Though his gaze remained deadly, Joe released his captive.  "Where's the hotel?" he demanded curtly.

"End of the street." His former prisoner gave a quick tilt of his head to indicate direction.  Straightening his shirt, he sank gratefully into his chair.

"And the telegraph office?"

"Other end, by the bank," the dark-haired man supplied.  Collecting his cards, he ducked his head, evidently hoping the brief spurt of information had gained him a reprieve. Sensing something sinister in the trio's forced silence, Joe backed slowly from the table.  His gaze remained scathing--a clear testament of his intent to return, should the information prove false.

Once outside he hesitated, trying to quell the explosive edge of his temper. It would do no good to badger the trio in the saloon.  Shey had sent a wire from the telegraph office.  If anyone had information about his friend, it would be the operator. Though the nervous evasiveness of the men he'd questioned, left Joe decidedly uncomfortable, he knew the only way to gain information would be to continue to pry.  Gathering Cochise's reins, he led the mare down the street to the livery stable.  Once again, wary eyes followed him, every visible townsperson stopping to ponder his passage.

Relinquishing the mare to the stable attendant, Joe asked briefly about Shey.  His questioning produced the same pre-programmed replies as the men in the saloon.  Rather than push the issue, Joe relayed instructions for the care of his horse, retrieved his saddle bag, and slung it over his shoulder.  Stepping from the yawning doors of the barn, he headed across town to the telegraph office.  He was still a few feet distant when a hand appeared in the window, flipping a dangling rectangular sign from "Open" to "Closed."

Feeling a fresh influx of anger, Joe stalked to the door and pounded a rolled up fist against the frame.  "Hey, open up!  I want to talk with you."  Though he heard a scuffling of sound behind the barrier, the door remained shut.  Wrapping his hand around the knob, Joe pulled violently, rattling the obstructing wood.  "Hey!  Open this infernal door!"

"Is there a problem here, son?"

The voice so took him off guard, Joe whirled, his hand dropping instinctively to his gun. Startled, he was greeted by a rawboned man with a spade beard and nut-brown hair. The presence of a five-pointed star pinned to his shirt, identified the newcomer as Oxbow's sheriff.  Nervously, Joe licked his lips, his hand falling from his holstered pistol.

"S-Sorry, Sheriff.  I need to speak with the telegraph clerk."

"Office is closed," the other intoned flatly.

"Yeah, I know, but this is important, and just a moment ago--"

"Office is closed," the sheriff said sharply.  A pointed stare fell to Joe's revolver.  The earlier motion of the younger man's hand had not been overlooked by the taciturn peace officer.  "Don't like fast draws in my town.  Better hand over that weapon, son."

"Why?"  Joe's anger was squelched by sudden bewilderment.

"Told you--no place for trigger-happy fools in Oxbow."  A calloused hand appeared palm-up in the air.  "Now hand it over.  Belt too.  You can have them back when you leave."

Knowing an argument would only make matters worse, Joe unbuckled his gunbelt and surrendered his weapon.  The sheriff checked the chamber, then flipped the cylinder closed, appraising the piece with a shrewd eye.  "Fancy toy.  Rich boy or gunslinger?"

With effort, Joe controlled his temper.  "Neither."

"Hmm."  The sheriff raked him with a discerning gaze, noting the cut of his clothing.  His eyes dipped to the fine tooled leather of the gunbelt he held.  "My guess is rich kid."

Joe bit his tongue.  "I'm looking for a friend--name of Shey Cutter."  Joe's voice was clipped, bristling with the restrained edge of his anger.  "He sent a wire from here about five days ago--"

"Probably moved on."  The sheriff tucked Joe's gun into his waistband.  "You should too.  Cool weather tomorrow, nice day for riding.  You can collect your horse as early as 6:00 A.M."  The directive couldn't have been any blunter.  With a tip of his hat, the sheriff moved away, strolling leisurely down the boardwalk.

Joe hesitated, silently fuming to be dismissed so abruptly.  He shot one furtive glance to the telegraph office, but realized persistence would probably land him in jail.  One thing was certain--this wasn't a joke orchestrated by Shey Cutter.  For the first time since receiving the telegram, Joe felt a blatant stab of fear over his friend's safety.  Scrubbing the back of one hand beneath his chin, he tried to collect his thoughts.  He couldn't afford apprehension or anger if he was to think clearly.  In order to help Shey, he had to leash the emotions that so often defined his erratic personality.

Tomorrow the telegraph office would reopen and he could question the clerk.  The telegram was proof that Shey had been in Oxbow.  In the meantime he would pass the night at the hotel, staying alert for trouble.

Joe found the two-story building a pale imitation of grander hostelries.  Though the lobby was large, it was sparsely decorated--the furnishings clearly having seen hard wear.  The reception area sofa was frayed; the gold tasseling on matching wing-backed chairs dangling from scarred frames.  Though the desk was clean and tidy, it was surprisingly small--shoved into a corner and backed by a wallboard with keys.

A swarthy-faced man with coppery hair sat slouched in the sofa, a newspaper raised for perusal. Behind the desk, a yellow-haired clerk raised a fluttery smile at Joe's entrance.  Still surly from the treatment he'd received elsewhere in town, Joe's greeting was terse.  "Need a room."

The clerk's smile danced upward but never quite reached his eyes.  "Of course, Mister--?"

"Cartwright."  Joe dropped his saddlebag on the desk, then spun the registration book around. Retrieving a pen from the ink well, he scrawled his name across the parchment--the distinctive backwards slant of his writing a stark contrast to the other entries on the page.

The clerk spared a glance for the name.  He'd already retrieved a key.  "Room eight, Mr. Cartwright.  You can pay when you leave."

Accepting the key, Joe hooked his saddlebag with his free hand and dragged it from the desk.  It thumped against his leg, hanging loosely at his side.  His gaze grew flinty as he considered the clerk.  "I don't suppose you remember a Shey Cutter staying here?"

"C-Cutter?"  Watery eyes flicked to the man on the sofa, then hastily darted back to Joe's face.  A quavering smile stretched narrow lips.  "I don't seem to recall--"

"Maybe you could check the register," Joe interrupted bluntly.  He'd scanned it himself when checking in, but the page only went back two days and there were no additional sheets beneath.  Uncertain how to respond, the clerk hesitated, his face frozen in a look of despair.  Recovering, he cleared his throat and produced a second book from beneath the desk.  Moving to open the cover, he gave a startled gasp, when Joe wrenched the ledger from his hands.  Flattening the spine against the counter, the younger man flipped through the pages, frowning when the list of names availed nothing.

With a curt nod, Joe dismissed the clerk and headed for the stairs.  Behind his back, the copper-haired man lowered his paper and rose slowly to his feet.  Joe made it to his room and had the key in the lock before he heard footsteps behind him.  Turning, he saw the other approach.

"You're looking for Shey Cutter--I can take you to him," the man informed briefly.

Suspicious at the offer, Joe hesitated.  "Why didn't you say something in the lobby?"

"Too many ears.  Are you interested or not?"

"Yeah."  Joe stepped away from the door.  He'd taken two steps down the hall, when the door to his room suddenly opened.  He caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye; saw the copper-haired man move forward, a malignant grin stretching his lips.  Joe half-turned, raising an arm to ward off the attack from behind.  The butt of a handgun clipped his arm, continuing a brutal path to his skull.  He felt the impact at the same time the copper-haired man reached him. Joe's legs buckled, sending him face down against the floorboards.

Snagged in a web of descending darkness, he felt a boot toe him in the ribs.  "Mr. Learn will be pleased," a disembodied voice said on the edge of his thoughts.

Joe's eyes rolled into his head, sensation bowing before the oppressive weight of unconsciousness.
 

It was the cold that brought him back to consciousness.  He felt like he was lying on a slab of ice, frigid breath seeping through his thin clothing and burrowing into his veins.  Groaning, he struggled to rise.  A firm hand gripped him and helped him sit up, supporting him across the back until he could prop his shoulders against a wall.  He blinked, trying to bring his surroundings into focus.  The first thing he noted was the slightly enigmatic expression of his friend.

Stunned, Joe sputtered for breath.  "Shey--"

A finely shaped brow wriggled upward into the other's wheat-pale hair.  "You look a little green, pal."  Squatting on his haunches, Shey Cutter reached out a hand and gingerly inspected the tender area on the back of Joe's skull.  "Lucky for you, you've got a hard head.  Being uncooperative as usual, I see."

Frustrated, Joe brushed his friend's arm aside.  His vision had settled enough for him to decipher the shadow-draped walls of a square room.  Exposed crossties acted as braces overhead, while parallel I-beams served as support posts--the construction and deep walls indicating a basement.  The room was windowless, the only illumination coming from two oil lanterns suspended from the rafters.  Shadows lingered in profuse abundance, draping crates and barrels stacked against the opposite wall; snuggling in dense patches against the stout door barring their exit.

Sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, Joe bent one leg, tucking it close to his body.  There was no heat in the room, and the cold quickly made an impression.  "Where are we?" he blurted.

Shey gave a half-hearted shrug.  "Beats me.  Last thing I remember, I was having a beer in the saloon.  I walk outside for some air, and *bang!* I end up here."

Joe pressed two fingers to his temple.  His head was throbbing and he felt slightly nauseated. "I don't get it Shey."

"That makes two of us.  What are you doing in Oxbow?"

Dumbfounded, Joe lowered his arm.  "What do you mean what am I doing here?  You sent for me."

Shey snorted.  "Look Cartwright, I'm glad you're here and all, but I think that knock on the head rattled your brains.  Why would I send for you?"

"Because you were in trouble.  Because--" Perturbed, Joe's mouth tugged downward.  Reaching inside his pocket he withdrew the telegram and passed it to Shey.  The other scanned it briefly, then more slowly a second time.  Shaking his head, he passed it back.

"Sorry, Joe, but I didn't send that."

The sense of bewilderment was growing stronger, and with it the prickly infusion of cold. Suppressing a shiver, Joe rose from the icy floor, bracing a hand against the wall to steady himself.  Shey rose with him, hovering one step shy of his side should he need assistance, his own eyes narrowed in thinly-masked appraisal.

"If you didn't send this--" Crisply, Joe waved the paper in the air.  "Then who did?"

Shey's glance was cutting.  "More importantly--why did they send it?"

Joe licked his lips.  He hadn't stopped to consider that.  Letting his arm fold beneath him, he leaned into the wall.  The nausea had departed, but the splintering ache at the back of his skull made it difficult to concentrate.  "Maybe you better tell me how you got here."

Shey nodded.  Turning on his heel, he strode to the opposite wall, bracing his back against the crates stacked beneath the rafters.  With his legs crossed at the ankles and the tips of his fingers resting just inside his pants pockets, he appeared almost casual.  "Got here . . . I don't know . . .maybe five days ago.  I just intended to pass through on my way back from Silverton.  It was getting cold, and I thought the hotel might be nice, rather than a night on the trail."

Folding his arms across his stomach, Joe turned to face his friend.  Though Shey was wearing a heavy coat, Joe's own light-weight jacket did little to deter the cold.  Pulling his gloves from his pocket, he tugged them on while Shey continued his tale.

"I checked in at the hotel, then went to the saloon for a beer.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  I got in a conversation with someone named McPhee--"

"What'd he look like?"  Joe interrupted.

Shey paused as he considered.  "Not very tall; kind of chunky; reddish hair."

"We've met," Joe said with a tight smile, remembering the man who'd addressed him in the hallway.

"As I recall, he asked about you."  Shey tapped one finger against his lips as the memory resurfaced.  "I mentioned I was from Virginia City and he asked if I knew a family named Cartwright.  I brought up your name--said we were friends."  Shey grinned somewhat cynically. Friendship was still an implausible concept for both men.  "After that he changed the subject, finished his drink, and left.  A half hour later I stepped outside and took a whack on the head.  I've been here ever since."

Joe exhaled.  His mind was still sluggish; slow to grasp the information Shey imparted.  Agitated, he tried to concentrate.  He could feel the cold air across his face, reddening his cheeks and chafing his lips.

"I've heard a name mentioned a couple of times," Shey continued.  "The head honcho who runs this place--and most of the town, from what I've gathered--is called Learn.  That name mean anything to you?"

Joe shook his head.  He closed his eyes briefly, a flicker of pain skittering over his face.  "How long was I out?"

"A couple hours.  McPhee and Steger dropped you off.  One of them normally shows up about twice a day--long enough to leave scraps of food and water, then snicker theatrically."  Shey's bottom lip curled, his sense of sarcasm still firmly intact.

Despite himself, Joe managed a weak grin.  "Hired guns."

"Looks that way, but I don't think we'll have a return visit 'til morning."

Relieved, Joe looked around for a place to sit.  The floor was too cold, but he was beginning to feel the aftershock of the blow to his head, and knew if he didn't sit soon, he'd probably crumble.  Sensing that need, Shey Cutter nodded to the rear of the room.  "There's some blankets back there.  I found them behind one of the crates.  I've got 'em spread over some wooden skids.  Not the most comfortable thing in the world, but it beats the floor."  He grinned brazenly.  "Welcome
to Hotel Cutter."

Joe hesitated.  " . . . um . . ."

"Lay down, Cartwright, before you pass out.  I'd ring for a bellhop, but I'm a little short-staffed right now."  When Joe continued to stare, his mind muddled and slow, Shey stepped forward and hooked his arm.  Pulling him to the rear of the room, he pressed one hand against Joe's chest and pushed him down on the skids.  " 'Night, night."

"Cutter, I'm in no mood."

"Geez, a little blow to the head and you turn into the Ogre of Oxbow."  Tilting his head, Shey gazed at his friend with attentive regard. "No funnin', Joe.  Lie down, okay?  You don't look too good."

Too weary to argue, Joe folded into the blankets.  There was a vague ringing in his ears, nothing serious--just a reminder he had pushed himself too hard that day.  It wasn't that long ago he'd recovered from an impaling injury to his shoulder, sustained outside of Rimsmoke.  He still tended to tire easily and the blow to his head hadn't helped matters.  Against his will, his eyes drifted shut.  He heard a muted shuffling as Shey Cutter moved away.  The scuffling returned a moment later, prompting Joe to watch through slitted eyes as his friend settled for the night.  Shey had found another blanket somewhere and wrapped it around him, tucking in the frayed ends to help combat the icy chill of the earthen floor.  Leaning his head against the wall, Shey let his eyes sweep aside to Joe.  Frowning, he studied the form curled beneath the blanket.

In the ebon-drenched gloaming of the room, the finely chiseled planes of Joe's face were scrolled by shadow.  Shey could see that his eyes had fallen closed--his lashes creating a soft, jet-colored fan against his cheeks.  His breathing slowed to a steady rhythm, indicating he bordered on the peripheral edge of sleep.

The last time Shey had seen Joe Cartwright struggle against a head wound, had been at the hands of his own uncle.  The similarity to their present predicament made Shey distinctly uncomfortable.  Once again Joe was a prisoner, but this time, he was captive as well.  Though Joe was strong, Shey knew he was still recovering from the injury he'd sustained outside Rimsmoke.  Consequently, he knew little about those circumstances, just that Joe had suffered trauma to his shoulder, and the incident involved a map reputed to be of Ringgold.  His friend avoided discussing the affair, clearly unnerved by the memory.  Not for the first time, Shey wondered what had occurred among those mountain passageways.

Satisfied that Joe rested peacefully, Shey shifted, trying to find a position of greater comfort. Though the skids were hardly ideal sleeping mats, they were far more comfortable than the floor.  With a crooked grin, Shey glanced enviously at his friend, curled beneath a mound of ratty blankets.  "Hope you appreciate the sacrifices I make for you, pup."

Oblivious to the comment, Joe slept undistributed.  It was just as well, Shey mused.  He had a feeling come morning, they would find out exactly why they were being held. And that, he was certain, revolved around Joe Cartwright.

As his eyes drifted shut, Shey couldn't help feeling he'd been bait in a carefully laid trap.
 

It was difficult to tell the passage of hours confined in the basement, but there was a lightening of shadow in the room and Joe guessed the hour had inched past dawn.  He was seated cross-legged on the skid, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, more rumpled beneath him.  Lacing a hand through his hair he glanced about the room.

"What's behind the crates?" he asked.

Shey shook his head.  He was pacing restlessly, the overhead light sending his shadow jumping across the floor.  "Just the wall."

"How 'bout inside them?"

"Empty from what I can tell."

 "All of them?"

Shey stopped his impatient wandering.  Turning, he leveled a deliberate stare on his friend.  "Trust me on this, Cartwright.  I've been over every inch of this room and there's no way out, except that door."

"Then we need to find a weapon. If we bust up one of those crates, we've got a good start."

Shey considered.  "Hmm.  Homemade clubs?  Some of those boards have nails in them.  That's good enough to do serious damage."

Stiffly, Joe rose to his feet.  "We'd have to catch McPhee and Steger off guard."  Shrugging the blanket from his shoulders, he crossed to the wall of crates.  He'd slept soundly through most of the night, and though a dull ache still lingered at the base of his skull, it was no longer an debilitating distraction. Rapping his knuckles against the wood, Joe cast Shey a half-grin. "Adam's always been the carpenter in the family.  How long before our friends make an appearance?"

Shey moved to speak but the sound of footsteps beyond the door distracted him.  Normally he wouldn't expect a visit until late morning.  The fact that his jailers came early, drew his attention back to Joe.  Uneasily, he considered his friend.  "Looks like you're something special, Cartwright.  They never come this early."

Moving away from the crates, Joe joined Shey in the center of the room.  The door swung inward and two men entered, each with a drawn pistol.  As though executing a military maneuver they fanned to either side of the confined area.  Joe recognized the one on the left as McPhee, the man from the hotel.  The other, short and squarely-built with salt-and-pepper hair, he assumed was Steger.  Each remained silent, their faces schooled to detached composure.  Joe's eyes tracked back to the door.  He could feel the presence of a third man within the shadows, his face masked by the partial gloaming.

Joe felt his body tense, some sixth sense awakening at that hidden presence.  The hair rose on the back of his neck, his stomach knotting coldly inside.

"Welcome, Mr. Cartwright," a voice said from the darkness, and the touch was like soiled velvet against his skin.  Shadows slithered to the corners as the man moved forward, stepping into the waxy light of the room.

Joe blanched.  The shock of recognition tore through him, causing the breath to snag in his throat. His dismay was so painfully evident, even Shey looked on, aghast.

The newcomer chuckled softly.  "It's good to see you again, Joseph."  Stepping forward, he closed the door behind him.  The sound as the lock clicked into place sent a bolt of despair racing to the soles of Joe's feet.
 

Adam and Hoss were just finishing breakfast when they heard a light rap on the front door.  "I'll get it," Adam said, taking one last gulp of coffee, before setting the cup back on the table and heading for the entryway.  Behind him, Hoss continued to consume a generous portion of steak and eggs, accompanied by a mound of fried potatoes and biscuits.

"Roy!"  Adam's surprise was evident at finding the sheriff of Virginia City on the threshold. Drawing the door wide, he motioned the other inside.  "How about some breakfast?  We're just finishing up."

"No thanks."  Roy gave an acknowledging smile with a tip of his head.  "Already ate earlier.  Hoss . . ." He nodded to the big man, as the younger Cartwright came around the corner.  "Sorry to interrupt you boys.  I've got some information I thought you might be interested in."

Hoss was still nursing his coffee.  Palming the cup in a calloused hand, he lowered it to his waist. His mouth scrunched to the side as he considered the lawman.  "Must be pretty important to bring you out this early."

Roy shrugged.  "Maybe.  Maybe not.  It's about that fella that had the heart attack--you remember, Adam--name of Leland Folke."

"I remember," Adam returned evenly.  "Did you find anything new?"

"Sort of.  Last night a fella came to me in town.  Said he was to meet a Mr. Folke and had heard there'd been an accident.  I explained what had happened, then questioned him about his relationship with Folke.  Seems the two had never met.  Folke hired him through an advertisement to do an appraisal.  They were to meet here, in Virginia City."

"Appraisal?"  Adam's voice lilted up on the word.  His brows drew together in sudden interest. "What kind of appraisal?"

"Folke didn't go into detail, but this gent--Damien Conrad--thinks it must have been on some type of artifact or antiquity.  Apparently, he's renown for his expertise in that area.  He was to meet Folke here, then continue to another location where he was to do the appraisal.  Whatever the item was, there were multiple bidders for it, and Folke hired Conrad to verify its worth.  Guess he was afraid of purchasing a fake."

"Yeah, but a fake what?"  Hoss said, clearly befuddled.

Adam, however, seemed to be cataloging pieces of the puzzle, the assessment taking place behind his dark eyes.  "Did this Damien Conrad happen to mention where he was going to do the appraisal?"

Roy's head dipped in acknowledgment.  "Matter of fact he did.  Said he and Folke were headed for Oxbow."

"Oxbow?"  Hoss's voice cracked in alarm.  Exchanging a quick glance with Adam, he wet his lips uneasily.  "Little Joe headed for Oxbow two days ago."

Uncertain what all the fuss was about, Roy glanced from one to the other.  "Don't see where that's a problem."

"Except that Joe received a telegram from Shey Cutter saying he was in trouble."  Adam was clearly unnerved now.  The smooth planes of his face hardened into rigid lines, his expression severe.  "Say, Roy--do you still have that telegram we found on Folke?"

"Yeah, I got it right here."  Patting his breast pocket, Roy fished the paper from his shirt.  He passed it to Adam who flipped it open with the backwards stroke of an index finger.  Hoss stood behind him, gazing over his shoulder as his eyes scanned the contents once more:

Have procured item (stop) Bids accepted (stop) Arrive no later than 16th (stop) W. Learn

"Obviously this relates to the item Conrad is to appraise." Adam muttered quietly, more to himself then the others, both of whom watched with rapt attention. Tugging his bottom lip into his mouth, he kept his eyes glued to the parchment.  It was all connected somehow--Joe's summons to Oxbow, and this telegram--but the common thread continued to elude him.  His eyes dropped to the name.  "W. Learn . . ."

"Yeah, who's that?"  Hoss ventured, and Adam started, unaware he'd whispered the appellation aloud.  With a guilty flinch he glanced at his brother.  Hoss worked his big shoulders into a shrug.  "That name don't mean nuthin' to me."

Adam's eyes returned to the parchment.  He had a sudden dreadful thought.  Striding quickly for his father's study, he retrieved a pen from the desk.  Behind him he could hear Hoss and Roy's footsteps as they followed.  "You got something, Adam?"  Hoss asked.

"Maybe."  With the paper spread flat on the desk, Adam scratched a short burst of letters across the bottom.  His face was severe as he turned to confront the other two.  "You're right, Hoss.  The name 'Learn' doesn't mean anything to us, but if I realign the letters . . ." he passed Hoss the paper, " . . . they spell something entirely different."

Swallowing hard, Hoss's eyes dropped to the parchment.  He knew without looking, something dreadful awaited his gaze. Beneath the telegraph clerk's slanting scrawl, Adam's precise handwriting defined letters Hoss hoped never to see: A-R-L-E-N.

Raising his head, Hoss met his brothers eyes.

Adam's lips constricted in a tight, bloodless line.  "William Arlen," he said softly.

There was no longer any doubt that Little Joe was in grave danger.
 

It took every ounce of control Joe had not to panic.  He stood stiffly mute, eyes schooled to practiced calm as the albino entered the room.  Inwardly he shuddered, his heart rate accelerating to dangerous levels.  Sweat broke out on his back, and he realized with a detached kind of shock, he was afraid.  Of all the men he'd tangled with over the years, this one had succeeded in scarring him permanently.

Arlen tilted his head, thoughtfully pursing his lips as he contemplated the younger man.  "Well, Joseph, I must say you're looking considerably better than the last time we met."  Stepping smoothly forward, Arlen brushed past him, their shoulders nearly touching as he strode the length of the room.  "I apologize for the accommodations, but the town is rustic.  Surely you've noticed."

Joe half-turned, not wanting the albino at his back.  "What do you want, Arlen?"

"I see you two know each other," Shey Cutter commented casually.  Though his voice was soft, it carried a deadly edge.

Intrigued, the albino turned.  Near colorless eyes settled on Shey in rapt dissection.  Arlen spared barely a moment before tapping three narrow fingers against his mouth, stifling a yawn.  "Oh,  yes--the bait.  Cutter, isn't it?" Arlen's lips curled thinly, the glint in his eyes unmistakably cruel. Folding his arms, he titled his chin down, studying Shey from beneath heavily lidded eyes.  "As it happens, I have very little use for you any longer--"

"Arlen!"  Alarmed, Joe stepped forward, instinctively placing himself between Shey and the albino.  He could feel himself growing panicky, the insides of his palms slick with sweat.  "This doesn't concern him--"

"You're right, it doesn't."  Arlen's voice was suddenly sharp.  Striding forward, he came within inches of Joe, his pale eyes fired with malignant light.  One bone-white finger jabbed beneath Joe's chin.  "You and your father cost me something I struggled most of my life to attain.  I don't look favorably on men who've wronged me, Mr. Cartwright.  In fact, you might say I tend to be overzealous about repaying those debts."

"Is that why I'm here?"  Joe goaded.  "To satisfy your need for revenge?"

Amused by the defiance he heard in the younger man's voice, Arlen fell back on a silky smile. "Nothing so paltry, I assure you.  Like your friend there, you're most useful as bait. As brief as our encounter was, I could hardly hold you responsible for costing me the map of Ringgold.  I lay that blame on another."

The blood drained from Joe's face.  "My father?" he whispered.

Arlen's brow shot into the milk-white fringe of his hair.  "Bright lad."  With a jerk of his head, he motioned McPhee forward into the circle of light.  "Now Joseph, Mr. McPhee is going to leave paper and pencil, and you're going to pen a missive to your father begging him to rescue you.  As I recall, he's quite handy at that."

Joe took a step backwards.  He tried to gauge the distance to McPhee and Steger.  If he lunged, Shey would follow suit, but the albino was likely armed as well.  A sudden rush of anger dispelled Joe's earlier fear. "You're crazy if you think I'm going to bring my father here. There's nothing you can do that will make--"

"Spare me the heroics," Arlen inserted tiredly.  Holding out his hand he accepted pencil and paper from McPhee.  Once dispensing his booty, the red-haired lackey quickly retreated towards the door.  Setting the writing instruments aside on the nearest crate, Arlen's flesh-colored eyes returned to his captive.  "I'll be brief, Joseph:  Seth Chatwin is dead, and I have the map.  I've had no luck in locating Ringgold, thus I intend to auction it to the highest bidder."  His lips thinned.  "That person will meet with an unfortunate accident, similar to Mr. Chatwin's--once I've procured payment, of course."

"And then you turn around and sell the map again," Shey said quietly from the side.

"Exactly.  Thus, while I never locate Ringgold, I benefit from its wealth regardless."

Joe felt sick to the stomach.  It must have showed in his face, for Arlen chuckled.  "Don't look so appalled, boy.  Worse schemes are hatched by business magnates everyday.  You and your father threw a wrench into my plans, but I've rallied.  I hold Oxbow in the palm of my hand--power, control, wealth--it's all mine.  These people have never heard of William Arlen.  To them, I am Willard Learn."

Joe couldn't stop the flicker of revulsion that spread across his face.  His eyes dipped to the floor. "A rose by any other name . . ."

Arlen's lips curled derisively.  "Methinks Shakespeare had something far sweeter in mind--a young man needing his father perhaps?"

Joe's temper snapped.  "I'm not writing your damn letter."

"Oh, I think you will."  Reaching inside his coat, Arlen withdrew a slim pistol.  Eyes cold and deadly, he extended his arm, pressing the muzzle against Shey's temple.  "This man means nothing to me.  The only thing keeping him alive right now, is your cooperation."  The hint of a smile played around Arlen's thin lips.  "Do I make myself clear, Mr. Cartwright?"

Joe's hands balled into fists.  "Yes," he said tightly.

Lifting his free hand, Arlen cupped tapered fingers around his ear.  "I don't believe I heard that."

The man was goading him, but there was little he could do.  "Yes!" Joe hissed with emphasis.

Arlen lowered his arm.  A lizard-like gleam danced in his pastel eyes.  "Yes, Sir," he instructed, clearly enjoying the mastery.

Joe stiffened, every muscle in his body recoiling in self-loathing.  He ground his teeth together. "Yes . . . Sir," he repeated dutifully.

Satisfied, Arlen withdrew the gun.  "You see--that wasn't hard at all."  He smiled pleasantly, tucking the weapon inside his jacket.  "Now I suggest you get busy on your letter, Joseph.  I'll give you until nightfall, only because I want it as emotional as possible.  You beg daddy to come rescue you, and I'll let your friend live."

Dispensing the directive, Arlen moved for the door. The moment his back was turned, Joe lunged forward, grappling the taller man about the waist and bearing them both into the wall.  He heard a surprised grunt from the albino followed by a swiftly spoken string of curses; a shuffling of feet behind him and a sudden shout of warning from Shey.  Joe tried to fling the albino aside, but a horrible weight cracked across his skull, driving him into the ground.

With a startled grunt, Joe released Arlen and crumbled.
 

Damien Conrad was short and dumpy, with upswept brows and a curling crest of chocolate-brown hair.  He fidgeted nervously, pacing in the sheriff's office, his round eyes darting between the lawman and the two cowboys who hovered near the door.  He assumed they were ranchers from the cut of their clothing and the gruff manner in which they conducted themselves.  The larger of the two was a strapping man with a barrel chest and massive arms.  The smaller, dark-haired and muscular, made Damien think of a predator shrewdly measuring it's prey.  Though he'd spoken little, nothing escaped his cooly appraising eyes.

Clearing his throat, Damien addressed the lawman.  "Sheriff Coffee, I really don't see as I have to go along with this."

"You don't."  Leaning forward in his chair, Roy Coffee spread his hands flat on the surface of his desk.  A quick tilt of his head indicated the two men by the door.  " 'Course the Cartwrights are willing to pay you for your time, and since you're expected in Oxbow anyway . . ."  Roy let the sentence dangle like bait on a hook.

The promise of payment had the desired effect.  Damien's eyes shifted back to the Cartwrights.  "How much?"

Unwinding, Adam stepped forward.  "What Folke would have paid you, plus half."

A glint of appreciation flickered through Conrad's gray eyes. "But you're asking me to be dishonest," he protested.  Hedging, he twined his hands together.  Clearly enticed by the promise of payment, he licked his lips.  "I've never met Mr. Learn, and neither had Mr. Folke--"

"All the better," Hoss insisted, stepping to his brother's side.  Stretching out one hand, he smiled in congenial supplication.  "Look, Mr. Conrad, all we're askin' you to do, is go along with your original plans.  Only difference is, Adam here will be pretendin' to be Mr. Folke.  Since Learn ain't never met neither of you, he ain't gonna know the difference."

Conrad pawed one hand over his chin.  "It makes me nervous," he said in a fluttery voice.

"Double," Adam said quietly.

The gray eyes flew to his face.  "Pardon?"

"I said double.  You go with me to Oxbow and I'll pay you double what you would have gotten from Folke."

It was too much to pass by.  It also indicated how desperate his employers were.  Not clear on the circumstances, Conrad could only nod.  "When do we leave?"  he asked.

Stalking to the door, Adam wrenched it open.  "Get your gear together and meet me at the livery stable."

"Now?" Conrad's eyes rounded like marbles in his head.

"Now," Adam returned crisply.  There was little room for discussion in the directive, thus the appraiser moved swiftly through the open door.  When he had disappeared down the street towards the hotel, Adam turned back to the others.  Behind him, the door drifted silently shut.  "Roy, do you have Folke's belongings?  I might need a few of his things if I'm going to pull this off."  Glancing down at his clothes, Adam dusted a hand over his black shirt.  "This doesn't seem the proper attire for a buyer of antiquities."

"You really think it's the map Arlen's sellin'?" Hoss asked doubtfully.

Adam rolled his shoulders into a shrug.  "Seems likely."  Though his manner was steady, inwardly he seethed.  The thought of Joe in Arlen's clutches made him want to rush out the door and barrel into Oxbow, guns blazing.  No time to think, no time to plan--just rescue his kid brother.  The rational side of him insisted he would do Joe more harm than good.  Chafing, he bided his time, carefully aligning his strategy.  Under the guise of Leland Folke, he could stroll beneath the albino's nose.  Since they'd never met, Arlen would be oblivious to his true identity as Adam Cartwright.

"Roy, do you think it's worth wiring the sheriff in Oxbow?" Adam heard Hoss ask.  His eyes skittered aside to the lawman, catching Roy's negative shake of his head.

"We've got no real evidence that this W. Learn is really William Arlen," the older man said reluctantly.  "What's more, we don't even know that Joe's in trouble.  I'm afraid we'd just be tipping our hand in the long run.  Adam can judge the merit of the local law when he gets there."

"Agreed."  Adam turned to Hoss.  "You wire Pa and let him know what's happening.  I'll try to get off a telegraph if there's any information to be had in Oxbow.  And, Hoss--" Adam stopped, seeing the twisted knot of concern on his brother's brow.  "--don't worry." He laid a hand on Hoss's thick shoulder, squeezing gently.  The corners of his lips titled upward in the barest hint of a smile.  "I'll take care of Joe."
 

"Cartwright."

Shey's voice penetrated Joe's thoughts, pushing aside the disorienting mire of returning consciousness.  With a groan voiced more from frustration than pain, Joe allowed his friend to help him sit up.  His back to the crates, legs sprawled out before him, Joe cast the other an off-kilter glance.  Fingering the back of his head, he smiled tightly.  "Is that one lump or two?"

Shey snorted.  "My friend, you're on the way to half a dozen--the latest courtesy of McPhee."

Tucking his legs close, Joe gave a weary shove to his feet.  Shey steadied him with a hand beneath the elbow, aiding him up.  The room tilted, shifting abruptly to the side, then righting itself more slowly.  Ducking his head, Joe pressed one hand against his temple and drew a battered breath. He felt Shey's fingers tighten on his arm.  "Pretty foolish, huh?"

Shey shrugged.  "There were three of them," he pointed out.  " . . . with guns."  His mouth quirked in lazy smile as his fingers fell from Joe's sleeve.  'We're lucky that ivory-haired cadaver values your hide, or we'd both be dead."

Joe wet his lips, decidedly uncomfortable.  His eyes were dusky green, his thin attempts at humor suddenly falling short.  "Shey, I'm sorry I got you into this," he said levelly.

"I seem to recall that being the other way around," his friend corrected, "But since I am involved, how 'bout telling me what happened outside Rimsmoke? This man--Learn, Arlen--whatever he calls himself, appears to have a personal vendetta against you.  Having once felt the same way--" Shey grinned broadly, "--I can see how you'd irritate the hell out of anyone.  Fess up, Cartwright. What'd you do to rile Mr. Grim?"

Despite the bleakness of their present circumstance, Joe found himself amused by his friend's easy banter.  In some ways, trading quips with Shey was a lot like sparring with Hoss.  The only difference was, Shey's barbs were naturally razor-edged, dispensed with a streak of underlying arrogance.  Not for the first time, it struck Joe terribly odd they'd become friends.  "It's a long story."

"Hmm . . ." Shey glanced meaningfully at the confining walls.  "I've got a few minutes to spare."

Reluctantly, Joe nodded.  He really didn't want to talk about Rimsmoke--didn't want to remember the agonizing torture of those few days in the wilderness.  Much of it lingered only as disjointed pieces in his mind--strung together by pain and the stabilizing influence of his father. Unconsciously his eyes dipped to the floor.  He was becoming aware of the cold again--could feel the icy touch of dead air across his cheek.  It took him back to a time when the breath was heavy in his lungs, weighted like stone, and he choked on the smell of his own blood.  "I . . ."  His voice trailed away and he shivered.

Surprised at the uncharacteristic hesitancy, Shey regarded him with narrow eyes.  "Maybe you should sit," he suggested.

Joe nodded.  Though normally loathe to admit a weakness, he feared what reliving the experience might do.  Returning to the skids, he sat on the edge and pulled the blankets around him. There was a dull ache behind his eyes, leaking splinters of pain down his neck.  "It started with a man named Willie Daven," Joe told his friend.  He shifted uneasily. "He sort of ran into me right before Pa and I left Rimsmoke . . ."

Thus the tale unfolded.  In halting speech Joe relayed Arlen's desperate attempt to retrieve the map of Ringgold.  He relived the stage coach attack which resulted in the initial injury to his shoulder, and his captivity at the albino's hands.  He told of Ben's perilous scheme to free them both, and the cruel hours he'd lingered under Durrell's sadistic guard.

When he was through, Shey shifted uncomfortably.  He'd seen the sliver of anxiety in Joe's eyes as he relayed the tale.  He knew, from personal experience, the youngest Cartwright was not easily intimidated.  Even his uncle had not managed to cow Joe, despite physical abuse.  Yet there was something about the tall albino that clearly unnerved his friend.  "So he holds you responsible for losing the map?" Shey ventured.

"He's obviously retrieved it," Joe said carefully.  Once again he touched the back of his head, feeling for the lump beneath his hairline. "And killed Seth Chatwin into the bargain.  I think Arlen is the kind of man who can't stand to lose at anything.  My father tricked him, and that's a personal affront to his pride.  He has to correct it anyway he can."

"So he uses me to lure you here, and now you're bait for your father."  Shey made a chuffing sound.  "Guess I'm a little slow, Cartwright.  Why did McPhee even question me to begin with?"

Standing, Joe walked to the crates.  Tilting his head back, he stared at the ceiling, taking note of the heavy crossbeams and open space above.  "Probably just standard orders from the boss--check out the stranger in town."  Pacing off the few feet around the wooden boxes, Joe kept his eyes on the shadowy recesses overhead.  He felt Shey follow his gaze.  "Arlen would have told his hired guns, he had a personal grudge against anyone named Cartwright.  When you mentioned
Virginia City, McPhee just put two-and-two together.  Pure happenstance, Shey.  You said the wrong thing to the wrong man."

"Uh-huh."  On his feet now, Shey joined his friend, tilting his head to stare at the ceiling.  "So, if I've got this right . . . a few weeks ago, Arlen--or Learn--moves into Oxbow and takes over the town."  Glancing aside, Shey scowled.  "How does a man put a whole populace under his thumb in so short a time?"

Joe looked uncomfortable.  "You've seen him in action and you can still ask that?"

"You're giving him far too much credit, Joe.  He's just a man."

"He's a tyrant."

"Maybe, maybe not.  Right now, he's a damn good jailer, and unless that ceiling's grown holes, I don't see why we're staring at it."

Joe exhaled.  The return of Shey's easy banter helped dismiss the stringent edge of his nerves. His lips curled in a crooked grin.  "I don't know what your plans are, but I wanna get out of here.  How are you with heights?"

Following his train of thought, Shey cast a skeptical eye at the crossbeams.  "What good would it do?"

Restlessly, Joe tapped one finger against his lips. "I'm working on it, pal.  We've got the crates . . .a hidey-hole in the ceiling . . ." his eyes strayed to the lanterns suspended from the rafters.  "Hey, Shey--you wouldn't have a match, would you?"

"What kind of cowboy don't carry a match?"  Shey patted his coat pockets until he located what he wanted.  "Yeah, I got one.  Now what?"

Joe was already rough-handling one of the crates.  "Help me get this below the lantern."

Shey grinned.  "Does this mean you're not going to write Mr. Grim's letter?"

"And spoil all this fun?"  Joe tugged on the crate.  "What's the matter, Cutter--can't you move any faster than that?"

Adding his muscle to the task, Shey gave Joe a half-lidded glance.  "I just knew I should have let McPhee hit you harder."

Hours later, Joe paced restlessly--stalking back and forth in the confined quarters of their prison. The hour inched into evening, heralding the albino's return.  Joe faced that prospect with a combination of dread, and an increasing desire to have the encounter finished.  Despite the chill air of the room, his palms were sweaty inside his gloves.  That nervousness was not lost on Shey Cutter, who reclined almost languidly on the blanket-covered skids.

"Give it a rest, huh, Cartwright?  Pacing isn't gonna bring the snake any faster."

With an irritated glance for his friend, Joe scowled.  "Shouldn't you be getting ready?"

Shey offered a casual shrug. "We'll hear them before they get close, Joe."  Bending one knee, he leaned back against the wall and planted his foot on the skid.  "Guess Arlen's trying to make an impression.  I normally get food and water.  Since you've shown up, I haven't gotten squat--just threatened with a gun to my head.  Any chance you wanna go back to being enemies?  You know what they say about friends like you . . ."

As intended, the remark brought a flicker of a smile to Joe's lips.  The tension eased from his body and his expression grew less severe.  He was about to snap off a retort when he heard footsteps beyond the door.  Immediately, Shey was on his feet.  Working quickly, Joe laced his hands together, creating a cup for Shey's boot.  His friend stepped into the make-shift rung, and Joe pushed upwards towards the rafters.  Catching the crossbeams, Shey pulled himself into the shadows, tucking his legs over the beams.

Beyond the barricade, Joe could hear the key turning in the lock.  Quickly, he retrieved the lantern he'd removed earlier.  He'd already discarded the wick and hurricane shade, needing only the oil-filled base.  His nerves were strung tight, his eyes skittering to Shey as he tried to gauge his friend's position above the crossbeams.  Were it Adam or Hoss crouched overhead, Joe would have felt more confidence in the plan, but he and Shey had only been friends a short time, and were still learning each others' nature.  In this instance, he prayed, they could act in unison.

The door fanned inward, and Joe caught a glimpse of Arlen.  The albino was no sooner across the threshold, then Shey swung from the rafters, driving both feet into the taller man's side.  There was a startled grunt from Arlen as Shey dropped to the floor.  Tossed backwards like a rag doll, the albino cursed, his gun discharging.  Joe heard the ricochet ping against the wall--the sharp report excessively loud in the confined area.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Shey throw a punch at McPhee.  Unprepared, the red-haired man recoiled and Joe stepped into the void.  He tossed the coal-oil at Steger, drenching the older man with the foul-smelling liquid. He heard Steger sputter--a string of bitter vulgarities, and then the other leveled his gun. Joe struck the match against his pants and flung it at his startled adversary.  Shrieking, the older man careened through the doorway, his gun arm engulfed by flames.

Shey stumbled through, his own arm held close to his side.   Joe followed quickly, aware of Arlen's steady stream of curses at his back.

The doorway opened onto a narrow corridor, accessed by a flight of wooden steps.  Without slowing, Shey clambered up the rickety staircase, pushing through a second doorway at the top.  As he followed his friend into the main living area of the house, Joe caught glimpses of plush upholstery, elaborate wallcoverings and tassled draperies.  The trek led them through the kitchen, into a connecting mud room, and onto the back porch.   There, a single man lingered beneath the overhang, leisurely puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette.

Shey gave a grunt of annoyance.  Before he could react, Joe darted past him, barreling into the startled loiterer, bearing them both to the ground.  Following the movement with a swiftly executed punch, he knocked the man out cold.  Quickly confiscating his gun, Joe unbuckled the accompanying belt, hooking it over his shoulder.  He motioned to Shey with the pistol.  "This way . . ."

The house appeared to be located at the edge of town.  Both man slipped from the protective shelter of the porch, darting across a flat stretch of ground.  The bulky silhouettes of Oxbow's buildings rose on either side of a narrow street--stark frames silvered by the pale light of a crescent moon.  Clinging to the squares of gloaming between the buildings, Joe and Shey moved stealthily through the constricting town.

Behind them they could hear shouts, as men raised their voices in pursuit.  Ducking into an alleyway, Joe paused long enough to catch his breath.  Unlooping the gunbelt, he buckled it around his waist--sliding it backwards, so the right-handed holster rested against his left leg.  With one hand splayed flat on the paint-chipped surface of a building, the other clutching the confiscated gun, Joe glanced at Shey.

His friend had one shoulder propped against the framework, his right arm held close to his side. It was the awkward angle of the appendage that drew Joe's eyes to the ink-black stain on Shey's upper arm.  Dark streaks slanted over his friend's coat sleeve, tracking wetly across the back of his hand.

Alarmed, Joe tensed.  His breath hissed between his teeth.  "Damn it, Cutter!  Why didn't you say you were hit?"

As though only now becoming aware of the injury, Shey's eyes dipped to his blood-soaked arm.  "Oh, hell," he muttered, and slid to the ground unconscious.
 

"Well?" Arlen snapped, his pale eyes twin chips of ice.  Annoyed by the pathetic whimpering of the man in the corner, he leveled an abrasive glare on McPhee.

The red-haired cowboy swallowed thickly.  His eyes darted from the belligerent albino to Steger, who sat in a corner chair, nursing his wounded arm.  The latter was hunched over, applying wet compresses to his burned flesh--blunt features contorted in a grisly mask as he fought against pain.  By contrast, Arlen fiddled with his pistol, his manner clearly unsympathetic.

McPhee licked his lips.  "Murdoch and Howell are out lookin' for 'em, boss, and I sent Stone to the sheriff.  If you want, I'll go lend a hand."

"If I want?"  Arlen's voice lowered dangerously, his eyes narrowing into predatory slits.  For a moment there was only silence.  Into that sticky hush, McPhee heard the fluttery thump of his own heart. Further back in the room, Steger groaned softly, folding in on himself as struggled against pain.  Once again, Arlen was unmoved.  "McPhee," he said, enunciating each syllable with deadly precision.  "Have I not made it clear what detaining Mr. Cartwright means to me?"

McPhee gulped.  "Yes, Sir."

"And have I also made it clear how I handle failure?"

Hastily, McPhee nodded.  "Yes, Sir."

"Hmm . . . apparently not."  Emotionlessly, Arlen turned and leveled the gun at Steger.  With the casualness of a practice shot, he calmly squeezed the trigger, implanting a slug dead center in the man's forehead.

With a startled grunt, Steger was thrown backwards in the chair.  His head hit the embroidered backrest with a soft thud, arms flopping uselessly at his sides.  Slowly, gravity pulled his body towards the floor, his chin coming to rest on his chest.  Horrified, McPhee stared at the open eyes and slack mouth; the thin ribbon of blood that oozed from his forehead and trickled over his left eye.

Arlen set the pistol aside on a small table.  Busing himself with a decanter of brandy, he addressed the man at his back.  "Find Sheriff Hall," he instructed dispassionately.  "Inform him we have a casualty.  It seems Mr. Cartwright and his associate broke into my home, intent on stealing the map of Ringgold.  Steger interrupted the robbery and was shot by Joseph Cartwright.  You are, of course, a witness to that murder, Mr. McPhee."

"Y-Yes, Sir."  McPhee bobbed his head quickly, the words sticking to his tongue in his haste to dispel them.  Once more his eyes darted to his dead companion, stark abhorrence mingling with abject terror on his face.

His back turned, Arlen indulged in a savoring grin.  He could feel the man's fear as readily as the cut crystal of the goblet in his hand.  Studying the topaz liquid within the glass, he spoke softly: "Round up more men.  Post Clancy and Rand at the livery stable, and make sure all exits from town are secure.  It's a small area, McPhee.  You should have no trouble in apprehending them. I want this matter resolved before my buyers arrive."

"Yes, Sir."  The acknowledgment dispensed, McPhee backed hastily from the room.  Alone, with the corpse of his former employee, Arlen sank gracefully into a chair, crossing his long legs with leisurely ease.  Milk-white brows drew down over pastel eyes, as he steepled the glass of brandy between his fingers.

"Well, Mr. Cartwright," he said quietly.  "It's seems you're as tricky as your father."  Raising the glass in one hand, Arlen offered a mock salute.  His lips curled slowly, inching into a wicked grin.  "I look forward to the chase, young man."

Tilting his head back, he emptied the glass in a single swallow.
 

Shey Cutter groaned.  Blinking away the muddy haze of unconsciousness, he struggled to orient on his surrounding.   The shadow-draped lines of the alley gradually returned to focus, solidifying into familiar territory.  In the distance he could hear shouts--rising and falling like bells at noon time, the words muffled by the bulk of intervening buildings.  Firm fingers tightened on his good arm and he glanced aside to find Joe crouched at his shoulder.  His friend's green eyes were luminous, iced with silver beneath the faint, phantom glow of moonlight.

"Think you can walk?" Joe asked.  "We've gotta get out of this alley."

Deciding it was wiser to remain silent, Shey gave a clipped nod.

With a hand beneath his friend's arm, Joe pulled the blonde-haired man to his feet.  Shey stood a moment, swaying unsteadily, his face strained and white.  "Come on, pal," Joe urged softly, tugging him forward.  Slowly they passed through the alley, clinging to the walls and shadows. The coverage was minimal, eventually forcing them into open areas.  Here, moving between buildings was far riskier, resulting in exposure to the hired guns scouring the streets.  Sliding between the brothel and a few ramshackle residences at the eastern edge of town, Joe tried to veer for the livery stable.  Twice, he was forced to pull Shey into a shadowed alcove as Arlen's men ventured nearby.  On the second such occasion his friend groaned softly, prompting him to slide his hand over Shey's mouth.  "Quiet!" Joe hissed near his ear.  Understanding the danger, Shey gave a brief nod.  Both men tensed as McPhee hustled by, his boots clacking against the boardwalk in frenzied rhythm.

"Clancy!"  They heard the red-haired man yell.  "Take Rand and get down to the livery.  Mister Learn wants you to stay put until them two are caught. I got Jenks and Flynn at the other end of town.  Ain't no way them boys are gonna slip through this net."

Expelling a whuff of air, Shey leaned back against Joe.  "Did'ya hear that?" he muttered.  On the street, McPhee darted towards the post office, stopping to confer with a shorter man who carried a Winchester braced against his shoulder.  "We got one gun between us, and they're armed to the teeth.  Ain't no way we're gettin' anywhere near that stable."

Joe wet his lips.  Anxiously he glanced down the street, noting the boom of activity as more men moved between the buildings.  A glance at the sky revealed an increase in cloud cover, ideal for concealment, but also threatening rain.  Joe gazed doubtfully at Shey.  His friend's coatsleeve was now almost completely covered with blood--the fabric appearing ink-black in the limited lighting.

'"Maybe we need to lay low for a while," he suggested.  When the other made no reply, merely grunted something unintelligible, Joe tugged him back towards the string of dilapidated homes.  He located the storm cellar for the brothel, finding the doors recessed in the rear of an alleyway. Supporting Shey with one arm, Joe reached down and pulled the heavy barrier open.  Carefully descending the steps, he eased Shey to the ground.  The blonde-haired man gratefully folded against the wall, crossing his wounded arm over his stomach.

Returning to the stairs, Joe disappeared momentarily while he latched the door from the inside. When he was through, he took quick stock of his surroundings, locating a lamp on a metal rung beside the stairway.  Removing the lantern, he crouched at Shey's side.  "Wouldn't happen to have another match, would you?"

"Leach." Patting his pocket, Shey located, then surrendered the requested item.  Joe lit the lamp, adjusting the wick, so the glow was constricted to a small halo.  That faint illumination was enough to decipher a rectangular room.  To the left, a wobbly-looking flight of stairs stretched a skeletal finger to the main floor of the brothel.  Elsewhere, items vied for space along the shadow-darkened walls: coils of rope and gardening equipment; hat boxes which had obviously been investigated by some manner of rodent--their flimsy sides poked full of holes; sacks of potatoes and flour; jars of peaches; even boxes of ammunition, stacked haphazardly on a makeshift shelving unit.

"Accommodations just keep gettin' better," Shey noted with a wry grin.  "Criminee, Cartwright.  We just break out of a basement, and you're throwin' our tail-ends back in."

Ignoring him, Joe moved away to inspect the boxes of shells.  His scrutiny was short-lived.  "These look ancient.  Probably blow up in my face before they'd fire from a gun."  Leaning forward and propping his elbow on the edge of the shelf, Joe laced dirt-covered fingers back through his hair.  "At least we've got some food."

"Don't be plannin' a lengthy stay on my account.  I say we wait until things cool down, then make a go for the livery stable."

"We'll see," Joe said evenly.

Behind him Shey moved restlessly, trying to find a position of comfort on the uneven floor.  "Who made you boss?"

"I did."  Joe routed through the items on the shelf, locating a jar of peaches. "And since you're in no shape to do anything about it, guess you're stuck listening to me."  Turning, he flashed a crooked grin, teeth shining white in the darkness.

Shey swore softly, but his eyes glimmered with mild amusement.  "Now I remember why I used to despise you so much."

Crouching near his shoulder, Joe set the jar aside and bent to examine Shey's arm.  He felt his friend tense--muscles stiffening as he gently prodded torn skin.  Sucking on his lower lip, Joe used both hands to tear the material of Shey's coat.  The fabric gave way with little resistance, and Joe applied the same technique to the shirt beneath.  Finally, the wound lay exposed--an ugly hole punched into blood-fouled skin.

"Well?"  Shey asked, eyeing the wound as best he could.  "How bad is it?"

Joe hesitated.  "I can't rightly tell.  You must have caught the ricochet off Arlen's pistol." Shrugging from his jacket, Joe pulled at his shirt-sleeve until the fabric ripped beneath pressure.  Using the strip as a bandage, he wrapped it around Shey's arm, tying off the ends in hopes of slowing the bleeding.  "Keep pressure on that," he instructed, placing Shey's hand over the bandage.  "The bullet must be lodged against the bone."

Shey grimaced.  "Hurts like the devil."  Bracing his head back against the wall, he watched Joe shrug into his jacket.

The air in the basement was cold, but not as frigid as the temperature in Arlen's prison had been, nor as biting as the night-frosted air outside.  When Joe twisted open the jar of peaches, they both helped themselves to the sweet fruit within, making short work of the contents.  Retrieving a second jar, Joe offered more to Shey, but his friend gave a tried shake of his head.  "You know, Cartwright, I seem to remember something about peaches and a fourth of July picnic . . ."

His fingers dripping with candied syrup, Joe gave a short laugh.  "Maryellen Murray.  I remember that.  We were what--fourteen?  Fifteen?"

"Fifteen," Shey confirmed.

Sitting crosslegged, Joe set the jar aside.  The memory returned, surfacing with the disjointed haze of years past.  "She made a peach pie, and offered me the first slice.   You had a crush on her."

"No.  Eddie Wells had a crush on her.  As I recall, he wanted to fix it so you couldn't eat peach pie for weeks."

Joe's glance was pointed, his smile tight.  "As I recall, you helped."

"Yeah," Shey chuckled softly.  His eyelids drooped as though the conversation tired him. "Two days later you gave me a black eye for the trouble.  My Pa told me I got what I deserved.  He never did like Eddie."

"Smart man your Pa."  Standing, Joe moved back to the stored items.  A brief search produced two moldy blankets, both bearing the pellet-like feces of some small rodent.  Shaking the droppings away, Joe passed one of the blankets to Shey.  "Here.  It doesn't smell too good, but it'll keep you warm."

Shey was silent as he tugged the blanket around him.  He seemed to be considering something.  Joe settled across from him, wrapping himself in the thinner of the two covers.  There was a slight twinge at the back of his scalp, reminding him he'd suffered a certain amount of abuse that day. Stifling a yawn, he realized he was dreadfully tired.  His attention settled on Shey, his eyes wary and discerning. "You gonna be okay, pal?"

Still preoccupied, Shey nodded.

Sensing his distraction, Joe grew concerned.  "Well, you don't look okay."

"Huh?"  Shey grunted as though returning to the present.  With a half-hearted shrug, he offered a lazy grin.  "Sorry.  Just thinkin' about Eddie Wells.  I bought some fencing materials off him a few months back, and he tried to short me on the lumber.  When we were kids, I thought he was the best friend I ever had.  Some friend, huh?"

Joe hedged.  "People change," he said simply.

Shey shook his head.  "No, Cartwright.  Eddie hasn't changed and neither have you.  The scary part is, if I hadn't, I might've been one of those men working for Arlen tonight. Or some other thug like him."

Sensing his friend's increasingly bleak mood, Joe tried to lighten the conversation.  "Nah--you never could take orders from anyone."

With a snort resembling laughter, Shey scrunched lower beneath the blanket.  "Go to sleep, Cartwright.  I've got enough pain without you adding to it."

Joe arced a brow.  Reaching aside, he adjusted the lamp.  The glow withered to a bare pin-prick of light, allowing the shadows to breed.  Nestled in the cool gloaming, Joe closed his eyes.  Briefly, he thought of Adam and Hoss, warm and safe at the Ponderosa; of his father in San Francisco, tending to an ill friend.  He'd been in worse predicaments than present, but at the moment--exhausted and bruised--he saw no easy way free.  The bullet in Shey's arm complicated matters, making him realize escape was going to be difficult.   Six bullets, one gun, and an injured man. The odds were stacked against them.  With a weary sigh, Joe consigned the problem to morning.
 

"Oh, heavens!"  Callie Garrett frowned expressively as she searched the cupboard, only to come up short a jar of peaches.  Pinching her lip between her teeth, she cast a reluctant glance at the basement door.  "We're out of peaches, Molly.  How about fetching a jar from the basement?"

Dark-haired and slender, somewhere in her mid thirties, the woman seated at the breakfast table was the picture of repose.  Daintily sipping a cup of honey-laced tea, she cast a dismissive glance at Callie.  "That's your job, m'dear.  If you want peaches, you'll have to fetch them yourself.  Just remember there are mice down there."

"Bother!"  The younger woman muttered, her bottom lip protruding in an expressive pout. Folding her arms across her chest, she glanced at the basement door.  Stella had ventured down three days ago, without any unpleasant encounters.  If she acted quickly, she should be able to retrieve the peaches and scamper up the steps before any of the bothersome little rodents even realized she was there.  And she so wanted peaches with breakfast!  Tightening the belt on her dressing gown, she marched quickly for the door, cautiously sticking her head into the shadowy recesses below.

The steps felt wobbly beneath her slippered feet, and she paused at the top to light a lamp, located just inside the door.  Removing the lantern from its peg, she ventured down the steps--braver now that the small glow of lamplight held the imagined denizens of the basement at bay.  Stepping from the rickety stairs, she moved quickly for the shelves on the far wall.  She could already see the peaches, there among sacks of flour and a larger bag of potatoes.  "Mice, smice," she whispered in a sing-song voice, the words dripping with disdain.  There probably hadn't been any of the pesky little critters about for--   "Oh, heavens!"  Callie almost dropped the lantern when she spied the wounded man slumped against the wall.  Sucking down a lungful of air, she readied a shrill scream.  The outburst was cut short when someone grabbed her from behind, clamping a hand roughly over her mouth.

"I'm not going to hurt you," a voice whispered tersely near her ear. Her arms were pinned--held in a grip that was frightening for its strength; alarming for its sheer masculinity.  "Don't scream and I'll remove my hand.  Do you understand?"

Her head bobbed up and down in hasty acquiescence.  She wanted free of that restrictive embrace.  Slowly the man removed his hand and she tried to lurch away.  His fingers remained coiled about her wrist, yanking her back against the wall.  Callie's breath hissed between her teeth.

The man that restrained her was not exceptionally tall, but there was a hard edge to his chiseled features, lending a dangerous aura.  Steely green eyes regarded her from a youthful countenance. A recent scrape marred the man's left cheek, and a thin film of dirt clung to his jawline.  His hair was the color of dark earth--rich and dusky after a summer rain--the bangs scattered in unruly curls across his brow.  She could see a thin line of dried blood encrusted on the side of his neck--the rusty stain disappearing beneath his collar.  She guessed his age a few years past her own nineteen summers.  As disheveled as he was, he was also strikingly handsome.  That intoxicating comeliness made her distinctively uncomfortable.

Lifting her chin, she tried to appear brave.  "What do you want?"

The man ignored the question.  "What are you doing down here?"

"I live here," she snapped indignantly.  "The question is, what are you doing here?"  She'd no sooner voiced the inquiry, then realization dawned in her eyes.  Her mouth rounded in a startled "O" of surprise.  "You're the men . . . the two that Sheriff Hall is looking for."  Vainly, she tried to tug her wrist free.  "Dear Lord!"  Her eyes clung to Joe.  "And you're the one that killed Roger Steger."

"What?"  Appalled, Joe wrenched her closer.  "What are you talking about?"

Clawing at his fingers, Callie tried to twist free.  "Let me go!" she protested.

"Sounds like you've been framed for murder, Cartwright."

Caught off guard by the soft voice, Callie whirled towards the injured man.  She caught a brief glimpse of pale hair and warm whiskey-brown eyes, before her attention was diverted back to her captor.  The man released her wrist, snagging her by the upper arm instead.  Drawing her against his side, he gave a slight shake to her arm.  "What's this about murder?"

"R-Roger Steger . . ." Her eyes dipped momentarily to the gun holstered at his left hip, calculating whether or not she could successfully wrench it free.  In odd distraction she noted he wore the belt backwards, indicating it had to be stolen.  "Willard Learn said the two of you broke into his house and tried to steal a map.  Roger caught you in the process and you shot him."  She gulped uneasily, her eyes darting to his face.  "Tad McPhee was there.  Said he saw it happen."

With a look of utter disgust, Joe released his hold on the woman.  "We're wanted for murder?"

Shey gave a short burst of laughter.  "I don't think so, pal.  The lady said you shot Steger.  I'm just wanted for attempted robbery."

Joe cast his friend a black look.  "Cutter, if you weren't already shot, I'd put a bullet in you myself."

Shey's lips stretched in a craggy grin.  "Now there's that famous temper kicking in.  Geez, Cartwright, I was beginning to think you were goin' soft on me."

Callie's eyes darted back and forth between the two as she listened to the exchange.  Although the words indicated one set of emotion, the underlying banter clearly indicated another.  Suddenly relaxing, she looked Joe squarely in the eye.  "Did you kill Steger?" she ventured.

Joe shook his head.  "No, but it hardly matters.  If Arlen--your Mr. Learn," he corrected, "--has anything to say about it, neither my friend or I, are gonna get out of this town alive."

Crossing her arms, Callie rubbed her hands over the sleeves of her dressing gown.  It was chilly in the basement, unlike the hearth-warmed air in the rest of the house.  "I don't think very much of Willard Learn," she said tightly.  "He likes to call on some of the ladies here . . . take them to his home . . ."

Joe's gaze was suddenly dissecting.  "Have you--?"

"No!"  Her cheeks flamed red.  "I-I don't entertain customers.  I cook or sew, or anything else I can for the . . .the courtesans, but I don't . . ." her voice trailed away as her discomfort grew.  She could feel the heat spreading across her cheeks and racing down her neck.  Pressing her lips together, she cleared her throat.  "A few weeks ago, Mr. Learn took Ginny home.  A-A woman in her profession is expected to tolerate a lot of things, but not . . ."  Once again her voice cut out. Callie glanced from one man to the next, clearly nervous.  " . . . not abuse.  Not like that. The doctor says she barely survived the beating.  A man that uses his fists on a woman, don't deserve to live.  And he surely can't be trusted to tell the truth."

Joe hesitated, trying to gauge her level of sincerity.  "What about the sheriff?"

"What about him?  He's in Learn's pocket so deep, the only truth he sees, is what he's been told to see."

"Lovely town," Shey commented.  "So why do you stay?"

"Because I don't have the money to leave," Callie said flatly.

It was all the opening Joe needed.  "Look, I didn't kill Steger," he said crisply.  "And we didn't break into Learn's house.  It's a long story, but the man has a history with me, and not a good one."  Seeing he had her attention, Joe softened his tone.  "My name's Joe Cartwright.  My friend is Shey Cutter.  If you help us get out of town, I'll make sure you have all the money you need to get away from here."

"Just like that?"  Callie's brow arched upward.  "A complete stranger and I'm to trust you?  How do I know you have any money?"

"Because his family owns the largest ranch in Nevada," Shey inserted with a trace of sarcasm. "Haven't you ever heard of the Ponderosa, woman?"

"The Ponderosa?"  The look on her face made it clear she had heard of it.  A brief flicker of recognition touched her eyes.  "Cartwright--I do know that name."  She offered a tentative smile.  "Very well.  I'm Callie Garrett." The smile grew as she extended her hand.

Finding it odd to be exchanging introductions in the dismal basement, Joe nevertheless clasped the slim fingers in a brief grasp.  Attractive, with fawn-colored hair and gray eyes, the girl had a look of youthful innocence, clearly out of place for a brothel.  "Any chance you could get us some water?" Joe asked.  "Maybe some medicinal powders?  Shey's got a bullet in his arm."

With a glance at Shey, Callie nodded.  "I'll be back later.  I'll bring what I can."  Starting for the basement steps, she halted suddenly, remembering what had taken her there in the first place.  With a weak smile, she retrieved a jar of peaches, leaving the two men to their private musings.

A thrill of excitement raced through her as she contemplated the deal she'd just made.  Hesitating at the top of the stairs, she extinguished the lantern and replaced it on its hook by the door.  Straightening her dressing robe, she pushed through into the kitchen, hoping her face didn't betray the racing thump of her heart.

Molly was still seated at the table.  Stella and Colleen had joined her, the latter raising questioning eyes at her appearance.  "We thought you'd vanished down there, child.  You didn't see any mice, did you?"

Callie made a face and pretended to shudder.  "Two large ones and a nest.  I wouldn't go down if I were you.  I"ll stop at the store today and buy some traps."

"Dreadful things," Stella intoned.  The oldest of the three, she was nearing forty.  The age showed plainly on her face in early morning, when the sun was not as kind.  Patting her carefully braided hair, she dipped kohl-lined eyes to her coffee cup.  In the short time that she'd known her, Callie couldn't recall ever seeing Stella without makeup.  "Buy some poison too," the older woman instructed.  "And see if you can't get Herman from the store to come set the wretched things."

"Oh, that's all right," Callie said quickly.  Setting the jar of peaches on the counter, she turned away, keeping her expression neutral.  "I'll set the traps."

"You?"  Molly's voice was positively shrill.  "What do you know about setting traps?"

"I'll learn."  Bracing her back against the counter, Callie faced the women, her arms behind her. "Besides--if you ask Herman, he'll just expect a . . . return favor."  The dangling words made it clear what that favor implied.

The three exchanged an uneasy glance.  "That's true," Stella conceded.  There was an awkward moment of silence, then Molly nodded.

"Very well, but you be careful on your errands, young lady.  Those killers are still on the loose."

"Yes'um."  With a quick nod, Callie hurried from the kitchen, anxious to change clothes and see what information she could glean from the street.  As she started upstairs to her room, she remembered the jar of peaches on the kitchen counter.  She was far too anxious to eat, but she hoped Molly and the others didn't think the oversight odd.  Her story of mice would keep them from the basement, but if Learn or his men came to investigate, it could mean all their lives.

She needed to be level-headed if she was going to be of any assistance to the fugitives.  Though she still wasn't certain if she trusted them, she trusted Learn even less.

That was enough for a start.
 

Joe frowned as he swabbed dried blood from Shey's arm.  The bandage had come away stiff and encrusted.  Beneath, the skin was red, the edges of the wound a ghastly purple.  The bullet hole was puckered, secreting dollops of pus onto raw flesh.

"Don't look so severe, Cartwright," Shey chided, but his voice was strained with the effort.

Joe could feel heat caged inside the arm, the molten intensity warning of fever.   Concerned, he cast a furtive glance at Callie.  "Mix some of that powder in a glass of water," he instructed softly, with a nod for the medicinals she'd secured.  The girl was crouched at his side, gray eyes almost owl-like as they reflected back the weak glow of lamplight.

As she turned to carry out his biding, Joe ducked his head, not wanting Shey to see the naked concern in his eyes.  He continued to bathe the arm in the fresh water Callie had brought.  Outside, the streets were stained with the ruddy glow of the dying sun, as afternoon inched into twilight.  Taking the glass of medicated water from Callie, Joe slipped his hand behind Shey's head supporting him.  "Drink some of this.  You'll feel better."

Joe tipped the glass to his friend's lips and Shey swallowed obediently.  His lips quirked in a grin as Joe eased his head back against the wall.  "I've had prettier nurses, Cartwright.  How 'bout lettin' the woman do that?"

"How 'bout tryin' to eat something?  Callie's got some hot stew here.  You need to get something in your stomach if you're gonna fight infection."

"Hmm."  Shey's eyes dipped tiredly.  "Phase two, as it were."

"Let me--" Callie said.  Kneeling beside Shey, she located the bowl of stew, uncovering the top. Dipping a spoon into the thick mixture, she held the utensil near Shey's mouth.  "You won't get a better offer, Mr. Cutter."

With a sigh, Joe moved away from the other two.  Sinking to a seat on the edge of a small crate, he braced his elbows on his knees and bowed his face into his hands.  He'd spent the day in the confining basement, watching over his friend as Shey tossed fitfully with sleep.  Tomorrow he'd have to venture outside and try to find a means of escape from the hostile town.  From Callie's information, he knew the guard at the livery stable had doubled.  There was also a reward on his head; a smaller one on Shey's.  He didn't see how he could possibly get away with his friend in the condition he was in.

"He ate.  Not much, but at least he ate."

Startled, Joe glanced up as Callie appeared at his side.  She held out a bowl of stew.  "You need to eat too."

Mechanically, Joe accepted the offering, automatically sliding the spoon around to the left side.  He drug a trench through the thick contents, pushing aside celery, carrots and potatoes.  "That bullet has to come out," he said woodenly.

Crouching in front of him, Callie placed a hand on his knee.  "The doctor helped Ginny, but . . ." Helplessly she shook her head.  "The powders I brought are left from when Ginny was sick.  I was afraid to ask Doc Hardwick for more.  He seems kind enough, but I don't trust anyone in this town."

Disgusted, Joe set the bowl down.  "I've got to do something.  He's just going to get worse."  His  eyes darted aside, settling on his friend.  Shey was slumped under the blanket, his head resting against the wall, his feet splayed out before him.  Even from this distance, Joe could see the ashen pallor of his face.  "Arlen doesn't want Shey.  It's me he's after.  Maybe if I turn myself in--"

"That's desperation talking," Callie said sharply.  Rising, she stood glaring down at him.  "From what you've told me about this man Arlen, you can't believe he'd extend any leniency to Shey.  You'd just be getting yourself killed."

"Damn it, Callie.  I have to do something!"  Irritated, Joe pushed from the crate, stalking to the opposite side of the room.  His chest rose and fell sharply with the heated rush of frustration.  Raking a hand through his hair, he struggled to get his emotions under control.  "Do you think you could get off a wire?"

"To your family?"  Callie hesitated, torn between her desire to help and the foolhardiness of the proposal.  "The moment they saw Cartwright as a recipient--"

"No--" Joe waved her objection aside.  "You'd send it to someone else. Someone they don't know."  Pacing now, Joe racked his brain for the ideal party.  "I know."  He snapped his fingers.  "Rob Falcon, Shey's foreman.  They wouldn't recognize that name, and we could word it in such a way, not to draw suspicion."

"But I don't know anyone in Virginia City," Callie protested.  "The mere fact that I'd be wiring someone there--"

"Callie."  Joe cut her off with a direct glance.  Stopping his restless pacing, he turned to face her. "What do you know about the telegraph operator?"

Surprised, Callie blinked.  "Not much.  His name--"

"Is he married?"

"No."

"Then go be friendly," Joe said, placing emphasis on the word.  Striding forward, he gathered her hands in his.  "You're an attractive girl.  All you have to do is turn on the charm.  Convince him he has nothing to be suspicious about and he'll believe you."

Her face colored, anger flashing dangerously in her eyes.  Appalled, she wrenched her hands free.  "Now wait a minute!  Just because I work in a brothel--"

"I'm not implying that," Joe said quickly.  "But I do need your help.  If I don't get Shey out of here--"

"All right!"  She spat the words with sudden venom.  The sting of the implication still lingered, chafing at her nerves.  Casting him a dark glance, she lowered her voice.  "I'll get you some paper and you can write what you want me to send.  I'll be back later."

Nodding, Joe watched her disappear up the stairway.  He knew the other ladies of the brothel were busy entertaining paying customers.  While the prospect of Callie in the same house as men seeking pleasure made him nervous, he'd knew he'd have to trust her instincts.

Retrieving the bowl of stew, he moved back near Shey and sat down to eat.
 

Adam gave a quick perusal to the hotel register before signing his name with a flourish--Leland Folke.  With a casual backwards stroke of his hand, he flecked dust from the sleeve of an expensively tailored coat.  "Your finest room, please."  His nose dipped slightly, as he considered the person at his side.  "Oh yes--with adjoining quarters for my associate, Mr. Conrad."

The yellow-haired desk clerk offered an ingratiating smile.  "Of course, Sir.  Mr. Learn is expecting you.  I already have a room set aside."  Clapping his hands, the clerk summoned a baggage handler.  "It will just be a moment.  Room three is yours Sir, with Mr. Conrad in room five."  As he spoke, a sour-faced man appeared from the rear of the building, hastily tossing aside a stained kitchen apron.  Stalking forward, the newcomer bent and retrieved the two light-weight bags resting on the floor.

"That's fine," Adam said.  "I'm sure my associate would like to take a moment to refresh.  I'd like to see Mr. Learn, however.  Perhaps you could point me in the right direction?"

An elongated face bobbed on a skinny neck, the smile growing almost subservient, in its eagerness to please.  "The end of town, Sir, and please watch your step.  We've had some trouble here lately."

"Yes, I've noticed the men on the streets."  As Conrad and the bell hop moved away, Adam turned his attention back to the desk clerk.  Feigning disinterest, he adjusted his silk string tie.  "Anything I need to be concerned about?"

"Certainly not." The clerk seemed almost affronted.  He gave a bird-like laugh.  "The sheriff has the situation well in hand.  He's working closely with Mr. Learn's personal guard to apprehend the murderers."

"A murder no less?"  Adam took stock of his fingernails.  "And here I thought Oxbow was a quiet town."

"Oh, they're from Virginia City," the clerk assured hastily.  "Two cowboys named Cartwright and Cutter.  None of our local boys, mind you.  Sheriff Hall keeps a tight reign on that sort of thing."

Though his heart had skipped a beat at the name Cartwright, Adam kept his face schooled to bored contempt.  "I should hope so."  With a dismissive flick of his hand, he left the hotel lobby.  Once outside, the night air helped calm the frenzied beat of his heart.  Inhaling a deep breath, he tried to focus on his purpose for being there.

Joe was in deeper trouble then he'd originally thought, but nothing was insurmountable.  He swore softly.

At least he hoped not.
 

Shey groaned, fitfully waking from sleep.  Joe forced more water between his cracked lips, but his friend was near delirium now.  Just moments before, Callie had returned, then hastily departed, bearing the scrawled message he intended for the telegraph operator.  Though the office was closed, Joe hoped feminine persuasion would go a long way in convincing the man to reopen.  Even with that strategy in play, he felt an increasing sense of dread, certain help would never arrive in time.

The infection in Shey's arm spread with distressing alacrity.  Despite the cooling cloths Joe applied to his friend's forehead, Shey's fever steadily increased.  The only way Shey was going to survive was through medical help and a doctor to remove the bullet.  Even the powders Joe mixed in lukewarm water had lost their ability to combat infection.

"Hang in there, Shey."

Waking briefly, roused by the soft words, Shey gripped his arm.  His eyes skewed to the side, his gaze bare of pretense. A wan smile flitted over his lips.  "Damn it, Joe.  I . . . really messed up this time."

"What--are you kidding?"  Joe laughed shortly, the sound strained and hollow.  "You'll be back to your ornery self in no time."

" . . . don't feel like it."  Shey shifted, his eyes dipping closed, his breathing growing rasp.  "I'm tired, Joe . . . cold . . ."

"Here--" Retrieving a second blanket, Joe tucked it around his friend.  Shey barely stirred at the handling, his head sinking lower on his chest. Concerned, Joe stood, nervously scrubbing a hand across the faint stubble on his chin.  Watching his friend's ashen face and labored breathing, he realized there was only one option remaining if Shey was to survive.  Removing the stolen gun, Joe flipped open the chamber, double-checking the load.  Quickly, he pocketed a handful of shells from the ammunition boxes, uncertain if they'd do more harm than good.

With a last glance at his friend, he cracked open the storm cellar doors and ventured into the alleyway.
 

Joe eased through the gloaming, clinging to the edge of the brothel until he could make his way across the street.  Concealing himself in the dense nest of shadows, he scanned the surrounding buildings, spotting occasional forms among the starker framework.  Armed men patrolled the street, stationed here and there throughout the town, but the path to the doctor's office was clear. Though Joe thought that lack of guard suspicious, he realized Arlen had no way of knowing Shey had taken a bullet

Licking his lips, he glanced down at the pistol in his hand.  If it came to a shoot-out, he knew he'd never make it.  He was out numbered and out gunned.  Flipping open the chamber, he double-checked the shells.  Gambling on how the gun would best serve him, he crouched down and scooped up a handful of dirt and stones.  Using his rolled fist as a funnel, he deposited the load in the barrel then used a stick to pack it tight, snapping off the ends.  Satisfied the weapon appeared serviceable, he moved stealthily down the street, drawing abreast of the doctor's office.

Two men lingered across the narrow stretch of road.  Joe could see a thin wisp of blue smoke; the red glow of a coal, as rolled tobacco exchanged hands.  With the men's attention diverted, he slipped from his concealment and through the front door.

Startled, a middle-aged man glanced up from a desk, where he sat jotting notes on scattered slips of paper.  He paused, pen poised over parchment, blue eyes darting anxiously to the gun in Joe's hand.  Moving quickly for the window, Joe drew the blind, then stepped smoothly to the desk.  He kept the gun trained on the nervous physician.

"I need your help, Dr. Hardwick."

Frightened blue eyes clung to the gun.  "You're one of them . . ." the older man stammered.  " . . . one of the men, the sheriff  is after."

"You mean Learn, don't you?"  Joe asked sharply.  Striding to a small table behind the desk, he retrieved the doctor's medical bag, popping open the clasp to glance inside.  Briskly, he sifted through the contents.  "Or should I use his real name--William Arlen?  You probably don't know about that, Doctor, but you do know what kind of man he is."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then you're lying.  Or deceiving yourself.  If you want to close your eyes to the truth, and how he's hurt people in this town, it doesn't make any difference to me.  Personally, I think you deserve one another."  Turning, Joe thrust the bag at the lanky-haired physician.  With a violent motion, he wrenched the man to his feet.  "My friend's got a bullet in him.  All I care about, is how you're gonna get it out."

Too startled to sputter a reply, the man could only stare.  Nervously, his eyes skittered to the rear of the room.  It was the only warning Joe had before the back door flung inward, broached by a trio of armed gaurds.

Reacting quickly, Joe shoved the doctor into their path upending the table, as he bolted for the front entrance.  He'd taken barely two steps when that barrier banged open, allowing more men into the room.  Fortunately, the quarters were far too close to get off a shot.  On equal footing, Joe managed a punch that sent the nearest man reeling backwards.  The victory was short-lived.  Something clipped him on the shoulder, driving him back against the wall.  He had a brief glimpse of a hatchet face and goatish blue eyes, then a meaty fist slammed into his stomach, doubling him over.  He felt the breath waffle up through his lungs; felt fists pummel his sides.  Crumbling to the floor, he tried to roll clear of the vicious attack.  The hard-tipped toe of a boot ground into his ribs, and he twisted to the side in an effort to escape the punishment.  Momentarily vulnerable, he was unprepared when the butt of a rifle drove downward, cracking sharply against his hip.

Joe gasped at the staggering explosion of pain.  For a moment the room swam in a sickening bubble--the leering faces above him, bobbing like hideous jack-o-lanterns.  Shuddering, he tried to catch his breath.  The same meaty hand that had inflicted the previous punishment, snagged his collar and wrenched him brutally to his feet.  Joe blanched, his leg buckling beneath him.  Momentarily off balance, he was shoved forward.  A group of men had gathered outside the doctor's office.  Unable to halt his momentum, he careened into their midst, sprawling face down on the planks of the boardwalk.

"Let's get him to Learn," he heard someone say, the voice distorted and distant.  Rough hands descended, hauling him unceremoniously to his feet.  Dazed, he staggered off balance.  The grip on his arm tightened with savage force, holding him upright.

"Fool kid," a gruff voice chided near his ear.  He recognized it as belonging to McPhee, although he hadn't noticed the red-haired man in the earlier scuffle.  "There was blood all over the porch where you knocked out Clancy.  We knew one of you was hurt, and would be headin' for Doc Hardwick's soon.  Why'dya think we left you waltz in there?"  Laughter followed, throaty and mocking.  "Mr. Learn said you'd fall for the trap, and you sure did."

Joe groaned.  Not so much from pain, but his own stupidity.  From the corner of his eye, he could see a glint of bluing off the gun he'd stolen.  A big-boned man with a yellow beard held it in work-roughened fingers. "Hey, ain't this Clancy's?" he asked.

"Give it to Learn," another man answered.   He snickered.  "I sure wouldn't wanna be Clancy and have to ask for it."

Though the conversation continued, it became a drone in Joe's ears.  Each step he took sent a cold lance of pain spiking from his hip to his ankle.  Barely able to stand on his own, he let the men drag him back to the albino.
 

Pacing before a mammoth fireplace, Adam stilled long enough to study a painting hung above the mantle.  Housed in an elaborate frame of filigree, the scene depicted a night-drenched winter landscape.  A single rider, bent low on a foam-flecked steed, raced across snow-covered hills, a pack of wolves just seconds behind.  The horse's eyes rolled with terror; the wolves with carnivorous glee. Only the rider seemed detached--his face set in an expression that was neither fearful nor anxious.  It was as though he floated above the impending doom, somehow detached from his own plight.

"Interesting, isn't it?"

Adam turned at the casual inquiry.  The man who stood in the doorway, appeared as dispassionate as the rider in the painting.  Cool, pastel eyes watched from a face that was neither young nor old.  White hair framed whiter skin, the effect so startling, that for a moment, Adam could only stare.  Clearing his throat, he found his voice.  "Mr. Learn?"

"And you are Mr. Folke."  Striding forward, the albino offered his hand.

Adam accepted the grip, finding it cold and dry.  He'd been shown to this room by a servant, then kept waiting a good ten minutes.  "I've come at a bad time," he observed.

Arlen waved the statement aside.  Striding to a mahogany table, he located a decanter of brandy. "Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Folke?"  When the pale eyes touched his speculatively, Adam nodded, still not trusting his voice.  "The painting's a bit of a paradox, don't you think?"  Passing a glass to Adam, Arlen moved before the fireplace, his gaze lingering on the artwork.  "The rider doesn't seem aware of his fate."  Bloodless lips curled faintly.  "One would almost think he's resigned to it."

Turning back to the painting, Adam took a sip of the liquor. "Or risen above it."

Arlen chuckled.  "An unique interpretation, but hardly practical.  One would think you're an idealist, Mr. Folke.  An odd trait for a man who collects remnants of the past."  Briefly, his gaze settled on Adam.  "With any luck the map of Ringgold will give you the wealth to put some of those romantic notions to the test.  Then again--"  His eyes returned to the painting, as a faint smile touched his lips.  "--perhaps you'll find the other bidders much like that pack of wolves."

Adam chose to end the game.  "Am I the first to arrive?"

His amusement cut short, Arlen scowled.  "Yes.  The other two arrive tomorrow."

Turning towards the window, Adam swallowed another mouthful of brandy.  Uncommonly smooth, he estimated its worth somewhere near the cost of the painting.  "My appraiser will need to see the map, of course.  He's somewhat rankled right now, so I left him at the hotel.  We were challenged on the way into town by a trio of gunmen."

Arlen gave a short grunt.  "Unfinished business, I'm afraid.  All towns have their unpleasantness. The matter of lawlessness is best left to those most capable of handling it."

Adam set the glass aside.  "Until tomorrow then?"

Without comment, Arlen nodded.  There was something in his gaze that made Adam distinctly uncomfortable--a predatory gleam much like the wolves in the painting.  With a deliberate tip of his hat, Adam strode from the room.  Deciding he would probably catch an earful of gossip in the saloon, he headed across the street to the ramshackle tavern.

Passing in front of the town's brothel, he nearly collided with a young woman hastily descending the stairs.  "I'm sorry--" Adam caught the girl as she stumbled.  A slip of paper fell from her fingers and he bent to retrieve it.  As he handed it back to her, the distinctive backwards slant of the lettering drew his eye.  The breath whistled through Adam's clenched teeth.

"Gimme that!"  the girl snapped, wrenching the paper free.

"Where'd you get that?"  Adam demanded.

"It's mine." Clearly annoyed, the girl tried to move past him.  Adam snagged her arm and wrenched her to a halt.  He didn't want to make a scene on the street and draw attention, but he couldn't afford to let her slip free either.  "My name's Adam Cartwright," he said near her ear.  "I'm looking for my brother."

Though it was a gamble, it was a respectable one.  Adam felt the girl flinch.  Her eyes widened in surprise, the resistance fleeing her slender frame.  "How did you know?" she asked.

"It doesn't matter.  Where's Joe?"

Hesitating only briefly, the girl motioned him into the alley.  "This way--"

They'd taken only two steps when a sudden racket erupted down the street.  Spurred by the sound, Adam left the girl and raced for the source of commotion.  He found a milling cluster of armed men outside the doctor's office.  The door was open, a square of yellow light bleeding onto the boardwalk.  Into that pale illumination, another man stumbled forward.  Adam gasped, recognizing the familiar green jacket and curly dark hair of his brother.  Joe fell and was wrenched brutally back to his feet by a red-haired man.  Even from this distance, Adam could see his brother had been badly beaten.

Enraged, he drew his gun.  Before he could move, a hand stayed his arm.  "There's too many of them.  Please, Mr. Cartwright."  Glancing down, he saw the girl at his side, her eyes wide and filled with fright.  Licking his lips, he glanced back to the throng of angry men.  They'd already encircled Joe and were ushering him down the street--not towards the sheriff's office, Adam noted, but towards Arlen's immaculate home.

Swearing, he holstered his pistol and allowed the girl to tug him back towards the brothel.
 

Impatiently, the bald-headed man rang the bell at the hotel desk.  Somewhat shabby in appearance, his frumpy coat displaying tell-tale signs of arduous travel, he looked the part of hardened mercenary.  It was that poisonous look which sent the desk clerk scurrying from the back room, quickly scampering around his counter.   The fluttery smile fell quickly in place.  "I'm sorry, Sir.  I wasn't expecting anyone so late."

"Didn't plan on getting here 'til tomorrow," the newcomer groused.  "Made up time outside Virginia City.  Name's Graham Law.  Willard Learn's expecting me."

"Oh!"  The desk clerk uttered a bleat of surprise.  He'd been forewarned of all the potential buyers for the map.  A quick restocking of the bald-headed man's attire still came up lacking.

"What's the matter?"  Law growled.  "You got a problem with my appearance?"

Short lashes batted over red-veined eyes.  "Certainly not."  Quickly spinning the registration book around, the clerk offered the pen with a benign smile.  "If you'd just sign here, Mr. Law."

With a grunt of displeasure, Law complied.  Eyes lingering on the page, his brow beetled in annoyed perusal.  Stabbing an index finger against the book, he sneered at the clerk.  "Someone's pulling a ruse on you, half-wit.  This gent right here--" the finger tapped restlessly against the page.  "--died a couple days back in Virginia City."

Alarmed, the clerk grabbed the register and spun it around so he could read the name: Leland Folke.  His glance was bewildered.  "Are you sure?"

Law guffawed.  "Hell's bells, you stupid rube--of course I'm sure.  The man's my competition. Now give me my room key, I'm tired."

Quickly complying, the clerk surrendered the key.   Waiting until his newly arrived guest had departed up the steps, he grabbed his coat and headed for the door--intent on beating a path for Learn's home.
 

Slinking back around the corner from which he'd emerged, Damien Conrad nibbled on his ragged nails, alarmed by the exchange he'd just witnessed.  Though he could claim ignorance, having never truly met Leland Folke, things probably would not go well for him if the mood of the town turned ugly.  Judging from the number of guns in Learn's employ, he didn't think he wanted to leave that option to chance.

The Cartwrights had already paid him half his money, and that seemed better then nothing.  He knew he should probably warn Adam of the potential danger, but that meant lingering when it was defiantly wiser to flee.   Satisfied that a hastily scrawled note would suffice, Conrad hurried to his room, where he packed his bag and departed.
 

"This really is growing tiresome, Mr. Cartwright."  Pulling a linen handkerchief from his pocket, Arlen carefully wiped blood from his knuckles.  "I'll ask you once again--where is Mr. Cutter?"  A downward fleck of his eyes revealed the young man sprawled at his feet.  Having already suffered a beating at the doctor's office, his prisoner had been unable to withstand much further abuse.  This latest beating had given Arlen little enjoyment, and he made a mental note to punish the men who'd robbed him of the pleasure.  He already intended to discipline them for their hasty actions.  If they'd allowed the boy to lead the doctor to Shey Cutter, he wouldn't be going through this interrogation now.

Stepping over his prisoner's legs, he crossed to a chair in the comfortable living room and leisurely sank to the tuffed seat.  A single crook of his finger summoned the man behind him.  "Brandy, McPhee, " he instructed. Removing the prisoner's confiscated gun from his waistband, Arlen set it on a nearby table.  "Surely Joseph, you don't want to go through this unpleasantness all over again?"

Barely aware he was being addressed, Joe stirred.  His cheek was pressed to a braided rug, the raised knots digging into his torn skin.  He could taste blood in his mouth; feel more tracking in sticky slivers along his jaw.  Heat from the hearth engulfed him, sending a prickly wave of sweat washing over him from head to toe. Wedging his hands beneath him, he struggled to push from the floor.  He made it as far as his knees before he had to stop and draw breath--hands splayed flat
against the rug; head hanging forward as he sucked down unsteady gulps of stale air.

"You're stubborn, I'll give you that," Arlen observed mildly.

The sight of the albino brought a scourge of memories tumbling back to Joe: A desperate plight to the doctor's office . . . a plea for the man to assist him . . . the arrival of Arlen's hired guns and the subsequent battle.  Vaguely, he recalled being brought before the albino and questioned about Shey's whereabouts.  A shudder rippled through him as he remembered Arlen's sadistic enjoyment of the interrogation--conducted entirely with his fists.  His right side had taken the brunt of the
abuse, further aggravating the almost intolerable pain in his hip.

Dragging one leg forward, Joe planted the sole of his boot against the floor.  With a groan of effort he pushed to his feet.  Pain flared in his hip.  Swaying unsteadily, he gripped the back of a chair for support, waiting for the sickening tilt of the room to right itself.

Arlen remained seated, delicately sipping a glass of brandy.  "Someone was hiding you, Mr. Cartwright.  Who was it?"

"Go to hell," Joe spat.

Arlen yawned.  "You're dreadfully predictable, young man, do you know that?"

A knock on the door momentarily diverted his attention.  Thankful for the reprieve, Joe tried to gather his senses.  From the corner of his eye he saw McPhee move towards the foyer.  He was having trouble stringing coherent thoughts together; more in getting his battered body to respond. A searing pain coiled across his ribs, aggravated with each fluttery breath, but it was the pain in his hip that made him grind his teeth together.  His legs were weak, threatening collapse with the slightest fluctuation of movement. It was sheer defiance alone that kept him on his feet.  With a sluggish glance, he calculated the distance to the fireplace.  The shells he'd taken from the basement still rested in his pocket.  Though probably not serviceable in a gun, they'd ignite with heat.

Amused by his silence, Arlen smiled thinly. "We seem to be at a stalemate, Joseph."  The honey-laced tone of his voice was as artificial as his genteel facade.  Crossing his legs, he set the brandy aside.  "I should hate to think what lengths may be necessary to break that impasse."  The smile grew into a leering grin--the curve of colorless lips suggesting something distinctively demonic.

Unable to bear the thought of further abuse, Joe lurched forward, flinging the handful of ancient cartridges into the fireplace.  Momentum tumbled him to his knees, even as Arlen sprang to his feet.  There followed a split second delay before the ammunition exploded, pinging against the inner wall of the hearth.  Ricochets bounced into the room, sending splinters of fiery wood skirling against the floor.  Joe plunged for the door, propelled by the shrill dissonance behind him. Agony screamed from his hip.

"Damn you!"  Arlen caught him before he'd covered half the distance.  The albino snagged him by the jacket, flinging him backwards onto the floor.  Joe's hip struck the boards, wrenching a startled cry from his lips.  Pain shot upwards, spiking into his head, threatening to render him unconscious.  A veil of darkness descended and he moaned softly, pain and blackness mingling in a suffocating web.  Arlen's boot came down upon his hip and this time he screamed in earnest.

"I should kill you for that, boy," Arlen hissed.

Wedging an elbow beneath his body, Joe dragged himself a safe distance from the albino. Slowly the pain receded, curling from his hip in shivery strips.  A shudder ran through his body, and he lowered his head, greedily sucking air.  From the corner of his eye, he could see McPhee had returned to the room, gun drawn.  Hovering in the doorway, making an odd night-time appearance, was the desk clerk--his stick-like figure shrouded in rumpled clothing, face pinched and oddly anxious.  In the hearth, the shells had spent themselves silent.

McPhee said something to Arlen and the albino nodded.  The rage that consumed him only moments before appeared to have dissipated with the arrival of the clerk. "Put Mr. Cartwright downstairs," he  instructed McPhee.  "I'll deal with him later."

Secretly grateful for the reprieve, Joe allowed himself to be led to the small basement room.  Though he had no idea what had earned him the stay, he was thankful for any news that diverted Arlen's attention, however briefly.  McPhee hauled him to the basement and shoved him through the door.  Stumbling, he fell to his knees, grunting at the impact of bone striking earth.  The door swung shut behind him, and he was sealed in opaque darkness. There was irony to be found in the return to his original prison, he was sure, but at the moment it eluded him.

Painfully rising to his feet, he felt his way along the wall, until he located the blanket-covered skids at the rear of the room.  With a groan, he rolled onto his side, tugging the blankets around him. Gingerly he felt beneath his shirt, skimming his fingers across battered flesh.  His right side was tender, the area of inflammation stretching from below his ribs to the upper curve of his hip.  Belatedly, he recalled the hatchet-faced man at the doctor's office, striking him with a rifle stock.  Sucking in his breath, he ran his hand over the bruised hip, wincing when the faint touch induced a skittering backlash of pain.

At least they hadn't found Shey, he thought.  At least he hadn't told them anything.

Cold air slithered across his face.  Drawing his knees to his chest, he wrapped his arms over his tender middle, wishing for all the world he'd never heard of Ringgold.  Perhaps the telegram would work.  Perhaps Callie would find a way to help his friend.  When she realized he was missing . . . when she realized what had happened . . .

Joe's thoughts trailed away, sluggish once again.  He hadn't succeeded in helping Shey.  He'd only succeeded in making matters worse.

Grimacing, he bowed his face against his arm.

Thoroughly exhausted, he fell asleep within moments.
 

Callie bit her lip, watching as Adam checked the bandage on Shey's arm.

"Stupid, impulsive fool," she heard him mutter, and instinctively knew the words were not directed at Shey who was unconscious, but rather the younger brother who'd fallen into Arlen's clutches.

"I told him we couldn't trust the doctor," she whispered.

"You can't trust the telegraph clerk either," Adam returned, casting a glance over his shoulder.  "Forget about that wire.  We've got to find some other way to get help." His eyes raked over her in mild speculation.  "Think you could ride to Linden Falls?  It's only about half a day from here.  I need you to wire for a U.S. Marshall, plus send a telegram to my brother Hoss in Virginia City."

Callie hedged.  "How will I get out of town?"

"I'll divert their attention long enough for you to slip by."

"What about Shey?" she persisted.

Adam pressed his lips together.  Folding his fingers into his palm, he laid his knuckles against the younger man's cheek, feeling for fever.  Shey stirred slightly but failed to open his eyes.  "Now that I know he's here, I'll look after him until we get help."  Adam told the girl.  "Arlen thinks I'm a buyer for his map--a man named Leland Folke.  He's got no reason to suspect me.  I should be able to come and go as I like."

"All right," Callie said.  "I'll do it."  She hesitated, her expression bewildered.

Adam saw the hint of indecisiveness in her eyes.  "What is it?"

"Only that . . ." she stalled, the words catching on her tongue.  Twining her hands together, she took a step forward.  "I'll do whatever it takes for Shey.  It's got nothing to do with that."

"Then what is it?"  Adam asked.

Callie wet her lips.  "When I first met Joe and heard his name, it reminded me of a friend I haven't seen in a long time.  We worked together a few years back at a saloon in Trader's Fork.  I-I was only sixteen at the time, an-and my friend said it was no place for someone my age.  Somehow, she managed to find me a job at a dress shop."  Callie laughed shortly, the sound fluttery like birdsong.  "I probably should have stayed there, but I moved on and so did she.  We lost touch for a long while.  Then a few months ago we traded some letters.  That's how I knew the name Cartwright.  She was in love with you Adam."

"What?"  Adam couldn't have been more shocked if the girl had drawn a gun on him.  "What-who are you talking about?"

Callie smiled.   "Lorna David."

Adam swore softly.  One ghost he thought he'd buried, and she came back to haunt him yet again. "Callie," he said, rising to his feet.  "There's a lot about Lorna I didn't know.  Like the fact she worked in a saloon--"

"Oh!"  Mortified, Callie raised one hand to her lips, fearing she'd done irreparable harm.

Smiling, Adam shook his head.  "Don't worry.  Things fell apart between Lorna and I, and she headed back east."

Truly bewildered, Callie bit her lip.  "I'm sorry."

"Don't be.  It's all in the past.  But you might want to avoid mentioning her letters to Joe."

Startled, Callie raised a brow.  "Why Joe?"

Before Adam could answer, Shey came awake with a groan.  His eyes fluttered weakly as he fought to orient on his surroundings.  Twisting his head to the side, he squinted at the man hovering nearby. "Cartwright?"

Adam knelt at his shoulder.  "I think you've got the wrong Cartwright, Shey."

"Huh?"  Shey's brown eyes tracked to his face, confusion evident. "Adam.  What are you doing here . . . where's Joe?"

Sliding his hand onto Shey's shoulder, Adam adjusted the bandage.  It had shifted with Shey's movement.  A fresh trickle of blood seeped from beneath the stained cloth as testament of a new rupture. The blonde-haired man appeared immune to the discomfort, his whiskey-colored eyes glazed with fever.  "It's a long story," Adam informed him. "Right now, Arlen's got Joe."

With a softly spoken stream of profanity, Shey shrugged the blanket aside.  A look of clipped determination crossed his face.  "Help me up," he ordered crisply.

Scowling, Adam pressed him back against the wall.  "Listen, Cutter--in case it's eluded you, you've got a bullet in your arm, and a fever that's going to tumble you face down inside of three steps."

"Yeah, and that white-haired freak's got a personal vendetta against Joe.  He used me as bait to lure your brother here.  I know you don't trust me, Adam . . . but I do care about what happens to Joe.  I ain't gonna sit by why that skunk takes him apart."

Adam stared, considering.  It was true he didn't entirely trust Shey.  He found it difficult to believe two men could set aside years of differences in favor of friendship.  But that was exactly what Shey and Joe had done, and that prospect left Adam uncomfortable for reasons he couldn't quite pinpoint.  It was possible he envied Cutter for being able to cut through old scars and reach a side of Joe he hadn't touched.  Adam's own relationship with Joe had been tumultuous over the years, and try as he may to rectify it, a thin barrier always seemed to exist between them.  The situation with Lorna hadn't helped.  He'd give his life for Joe.  He just didn't know how to tell him that, and he was afraid his brother had no inkling of his love.

"Joe's afraid of Arlen," Shey said bluntly, drawing Adam back to the present.

Adam cocked his head.  "What?"

"You didn't see his face--I did." Shey wet his lips, trying to make Adam understand.  "I saw Joe when my uncle was through with him--he'd taken a beatin' that would've left most men whimperin', and he barely batted an eye."  Hitching in an uneven breath, Shey fought silent a sudden ripple of pain.  "Then that milk white cadaver strolls into the room--that's all he did, Adam--just waltzed in like he owned the world, and I saw the look in Joe's eyes.  Oh, he covered it real quick, but for a moment there I thought he was gonna bolt."

"That doesn't change the fact that you'd do me more harm then good.  Listen to me, Shey--" Adam said sharply when the younger man moved to protest, "--if my brother really is your friend, you'll stay put and do as you're told.  Arlen doesn't know who I am.  He thinks I'm someone named Leland Folke, here to buy his map. Tomorrow, I'll go back to his house and get Joe out of there."

"How?" Shey challenged.  There was a buzzing in his ears; a heated flush on his cheeks, but the memory of Joe when he'd first seen Arlen kept him alert.  Somewhat surprised by the strength of his loyalty to a man he would have once eagerly beaten, he realized he hadn't just changed--he grown into someone his father, four years dead, would have been proud to call son.

"He's my brother," Adam said tightly, "I'll work it out."

"When should I leave?"

Callie's voice, coming from the shadows startled both men.  Intent on their own conversation, they'd forgotten she was even there.  With a guilty flush, Adam cast her a glance.

"The cloud cover's minimal tonight, with a full moon," he said evenly.  "Riding shouldn't be difficult, and most of the men are diverted with Joe's capture.  If we act now, they're likely to be lax."

Callie bit her lip.  "I need to change clothes."

"Do it quickly," Adam ordered.  As the girl moved towards the steps, Adam's gaze shifted back to Shey.  "I'm sorry I can't do anything for the pain," he said.  "After I get Callie out of town, I'll come back with some hot food and warmer blankets."

"How 'bout a gun?" Shey asked.

Adam nodded.  "All right.  That too."  Rising, he hesitated, staring down at the younger man. "And, Shey--I'm sorry if I gave the impression I didn't trust you.  It's just all my life I've looked out for Joe.  It's kind of hard to stop now."

Shey's smile was a faint sliver.  "Yeah.  Kid's damn lucky, and he don't even know it."  His eyes drifted shut as Adam moved towards the cellar door.  If they ever got out of this one, Shey vowed  to tell Joe just how truly fortunate he was.
 

There were only two men at the stable and Adam diverted them by playing the role of frazzled buyer, wondering what all the previous commotion had been about.  Preening in his immaculate suit, he played the fastidious cockscomb, frightened by the prospect of gunplay.  It escaped both men that he wore a shoulder holster beneath his jacket, the handle of a Colt pistol within easy reach.

The two guards snickered between themselves, while pacifying him with assurances he need not fret for his safety.  Behind them, Callie slipped into the stable, secured a horse, and led the animal quietly into the night.  When he was certain she was gone, Adam returned with the promised items for Shey Cutter.  The other was only half coherent on his arrival, but he managed to get some food and water into him, then left a gun placed within easy reach.

By the time he returned to the hotel, the hour had grown late.  The desk clerk gave him an uneasy glance, then busied himself over the ledger book.  Trudging up the steps to his room, Adam stopped outside Damien Conrad's door, long enough to rap two knuckles against the polished wood.  When no answer came, he assumed the other had already retired, and proceeded to his own room.  Tossing his hat on the bureau, he never noticed the written note Conrad had left, informing him of the discussion between Graham Law and the desk clerk.

The following morning Adam dressed, and retrieved his hat.  Snagged by the brim, the note fluttered unnoticed to the floor.  Unaware that he'd disturbed anything, Adam headed next door to retrieve the appraiser.  When there was still no answer, he tried the handle and found the door unlocked.  The room was empty--all of Conrad's items conspicuously missing.

Adam scowled.  He had thought the man would remain long enough to collect full payment, but apparently the sight of so many armed guards the previous night, had been enough to send him packing.

"Have you seen Mr. Conrad?"  he asked the desk clerk, when he headed downstairs.

"No, Sir, I haven't."  The watery eyes dipped almost guiltily.  Bony hands grew busy fussing with the ledger; discarded key tags; the ink well--anything that could occupy them.  "Is there a problem?"

Adam frowned at the clerk's unusually jittery demeanor.  "No, " he said coolly. "I can't wait for my associate.  Should Mr. Conrad return, please inform him I've already gone to meet Mr. Learn.  He should come as soon as he's able."

The clerk sighed almost audibly. "Of course, Sir."

Still disturbed by the clerk's nervousness and Conrad's absence, Adam crossed the street and headed for Arlen's home.  There were less gunmen lingering about this morning, but the ones that remained, eyed him suspiciously as he passed by.  The hair rose on the nape of his neck.  He had the distinct impression something was wrong, but couldn't put his finger on it.  Overhead the sky was brilliant blue, streaked by a low-lying fleece of clouds.  A crisp breeze scuttled around his legs, the edges warmed by the buttery kiss of a marigold sun.

He'd slept little last night, and was feeling the payment for that restlessness this morning.  He still had no idea how he was going to free Joe--just knew he couldn't let his brother spend another night in the albino's clutches.  When he had managed to drift to sleep, he'd tossed and turned with nightmares of Joe begging for rescue, while Arlen inflicted sadistic torture.

Drawing a ragged breath, Adam marched onto the porch of Arlen's stately home and pounded on the door.  It took only a moment before McPhee answered it.  The red-haired man's face broke with a slippery smile.  "Mr. Folke," he beamed.  "Mr. Learn has been expecting you."  The door was drawn inward, and McPhee stepped aside.  He gave a tilt of his head to the living room. "That way," he instructed briefly.

The feeling of disquiet increased.  Adam gave a tight nod and headed where he was told.

"Mr. Folke," Arlen greeted as he entered the room.  The tall albino was dressed entirely in black this morning--the startling contrast to his bleached skin, almost vulgar.  Smiling benignly, he placed a cup of coffee in Adam's hand.  "May I introduce your competitors for the map," he said smoothly.

Adam's eyes flicked to two men seated in matching wing-backed chairs.  The first was coarse looking, his bald pate gleaming in the glow of firelight from the hearth.  "Graham Law," Arlen introduced.  Adam set his coffee aside, but merely inclined his head.  There was a constricting tension in the room, almost tangible for its choking hold.

The second man was smaller, nondescript, with a tallow complexion and light brown hair. "Leonard Cooper," Arlen identified him.  "He arrived just a short while ago, riding in from Crescent Ring."  With the pleasantries out of the way, the albino's gaze grew suddenly calculating.  His pale eyes skewed aside to McPhee who hovered in the doorway.  "Please bring our other guest, Mr. McPhee," he instructed.

Adam's eyebrows shot upward in a questioning arc, but Arlen had turned away.  He strode towards the fireplace, long-legged grace carrying him with elegant ease.  Clasping his hands behind his back, he gazed up at the painting of the rider and wolves.  "I don't see your appraiser, Mr. Folke," he observed coolly.  "Could it be you trust your own judgement . . ?" The sentence dangled almost insultingly.  Arlen cast an glance over his shoulder, lips curling in a goading grin. " . . . regarding the map, of course."

Unable to decipher where the veiled hostility came from, Adam strode forward.  He could feel Law and Cooper watching intently. "Mr. Conrad's been detained.  If need be, I'll judge the map myself."

Arlen made a soft tsking sound.  "Oh, but you see, the wolves are closing in.  And unlike that rider in the painting, I don't think you can afford to remain immune any longer."

A sliver of annoyance pierced Adam's confusion.  "You're talking in circles, Learn."

"How distressing!"  A twinge of icy amusement flitted through pink eyes.  "And here I thought I was being cleverly cryptic."  Suddenly sharp, his gaze flashed aside, skewing the bald-headed man.  "Mr. Law would you kindly relieve Mr. Folke of his gun?"

Taken by surprise, Adam tensed, ready to draw his pistol.  The familiar cock of a hammer stopped him cold.  Glancing aside, he saw Law grinning wickedly, a pistol trained on his back.  The bald-headed man had risen to his feet and was standing just behind him.  Adam's eyes returned to the albino.

Arlen extended his hand.  "Your weapon please."

Trying to appear indignant, Adam withdrew the revolver and placed it in the milk-white hand. "What's this all about?" he huffed.

"Of course you wouldn't know," Arlen said coolly.  He placed the gun on a small table and Adam noted that another rested beside it.  "It's a simple matter really--one that involves another kind of payment.  A short while ago I initiated a game, intending to snag a specific player.  Now, I find the one I've netted is sufficient enough."

Adam wet his lips.  "What's any of this have to do with the map?  If this is how you treat your buyers--"

"Please--" Arlen laughed, waving a dismissive hand.  "We really should drop the pretense." A secondary glance flitted aside to encompass Cooper and Law.  "Perhaps you gentlemen would like to leave us alone now?  Mr. Rand is waiting in the next room.  He'll escort you to my den, where you can study the map.  Take the morning to confirm its value. This afternoon I'll entertain your bids."

Fascinated, Adam watched the men file from the room.  There was something almost hypnotic about the albino, and for the first time Adam could see how Joe might be afraid of him.  An underlying blackness couched the perfected facade of elegance and grace--the taint of that evil so dark, Adam felt his stomach roil.  Repulsed, yet mesmerized, he found he couldn't look away.

"You're wondering why I haven't included you with the other two."  Arlen's announcement was not a question, but a statement of fact.  Strolling across the room, he paused to flick a long finger against the expensive drapes framing the window.  Seemingly disinterested in the other's answer, he gazed down the street.  Immediately Adam's eyes darted to the two guns resting on the tabletop.  Briefly, he wondered if the man was so conceited, he thought Adam wouldn't make a play for the weapon--or, if in fact, his security rested with another gun secreted among his funeral-black clothing.

"An explanation would help," Adam returned, deciding the latter was true, and it was best to bide his time.

"Oh, but that would spoil the surprise."  Crossing to a velveteen chair, Arlen sank into its opulent embrace.  He motioned for Adam to take a seat across from him.  "Do sit down, Mr. Folke.  McPhee will return momentarily and then we can clear the air between us."

With a last furtive glance for the guns, Adam did as he was instructed.  He kept his expression neutral, his face schooled to calm, but inwardly he'd begun to panic.

He was now certain, something had gone dreadfully wrong.
 

"Come on--get on your feet, you lazy slob."

Joe grunted, legs buckling beneath him as he was wrenched from the skid. The weight of his body dragged him to the floor, and he groaned aloud as his bruised hip struck the hard-packed dirt. The sound seemed to please the red-haired demon who manhandled him.  He heard a snide chuckle of laughter.  Hands pawed at him, oblivious to the crackling surge of pain in his battered right side. Angered, Joe threw a punch and felt it connect solidly with a square jaw.  The laughter died abruptly.  A string of curses burned Joe's ears; a hand cuffed him sharply across the face.

"Ain't no time for this," McPhee spat.  "Mr. Learn wants you upstairs now."

At the mention of Arlen, Joe felt himself grow cold with fear.  The previous night came back to him--the influx of memories, tearing a moan from his lips.  As painful as his injuries were now, he didn't think he could withstand another session of abuse.

McPhee hauled him to his feet and dragged him towards the door.  Biting down on his lip, Joe stifled a scream.  The strike of his boot against the floor, sent a knot of pain exploding from his hip.  It was all he could do to keep from crying out as McPhee manhandled him up the stairway.  He caught vague glimpses of papered walls and wainscoting; mahogany furniture and glass lamps.  The images whirled through his head in a distorted blur.  Finally, he was deposited in the same room as the previous night, shoved roughly to the floor.

Joe could feel the albino's presence long before he raised his head.  A malignant stain, it had a way of sidling beneath his skin, turning his stomach inside out.  "Joseph.  You really need to pull yourself together and say hello to our guest."

Forcing himself to his hands and knees, Joe raised his head and stared across the room--directly at Adam.
 

Stunned, Adam rose to his feet.  The breath snagged in his throat as he gazed at his younger brother.  Joe was battered and bruised, his face twisted with pain. His shirt hung open, revealing ugly black splotches over the right side of his body.  The discoloration extended beneath his waistband, spreading like a cancerous stain.  He shifted, and it was evident from the way he favored his right hip, the pain was tantamount to unbearable. There were cuts on his face--across his cheek and around his eye--the skin swollen and split, caked with dried blood.  A sliver of confusion lingered in his green eyes, underscored by a fainter ribbon of fear.  " . . .Adam," he breathed.

Inwardly, Adam boiled.  He would kill the monster who inflicted this abuse on his brother.  Still he hesitated--torn between his desire to help Joe, and the fear of destorying his guise as Folke.  He took a step forward, then drew up short.

"You look decidedly incensed," Arlen said smoothly.  "I don't treat all my guests like this particular young man.  He seems to know you--*Adam*."

Hearing the venom in the name, Adam glanced aside in time to catch Arlen's smirk.

"It's all very interesting," he said smoothly.  "You see, Mr. Law was passing through Virginia City when he learned of Mr. Folke's unfortunate demise.  That told me who you weren't, but not who you are.  Then last night, my man Clancy happened upon your Mr. Conrad trying to leave town.  The poor man was so fearful for his life, he spilled his guts."  Arlen smiled with fanged malice.  "--literally."

"You bastard."  Brushing past Arlen, Adam knelt quickly at Joe's side.  His hand settled on his brother's shoulder, and he felt muscle quiver beneath his fingertips.

"Help me up," Joe said tightly, grinding his teeth against the pain.  Hitching in his breath, he bit silent a groan as Adam grasped him by the biceps and tugged him to his feet.  Keeping his right knee bent so the pressure was off his hip, he gripped the back of a chair for support.  His knuckles were white beneath the strain, his face pallid under the darker discoloration of dried blood.

"You see, Adam," the albino commented mildly.  "Wolves are instinctively barbarous.  Your brother insisted on protecting the whereabouts of his friend, but my patience--like the wolf--is severely limited."

Savagely, Adam whirled on his antagonizer.  "You might have killed him."

"Oh, I doubt that."  In one graceful movement, Arlen stood.  Adam's eyes flicked to the table bearing the guns.  Though he still supported Joe, he silently calculated the distance to the weapons.  "Joseph is annoyingly stubborn," he heard the albino say, "But he's also pathetically loyal.  If he took a beating to protect his friend, I wonder what he'd do to protect you?"

Beneath his fingertips, Adam could feel his brother tremble.  Joe's head was bent forward, his face partially hidden from view, the hair hanging ragged over his forehead.  "Go to hell," he told the albino.

Arlen chuckled, the sound silken and staged.  "You are intent on sending me there, aren't you boy?"

With the albino's attention momentarily diverted, Adam made a dive for the table. He heard Joe cry out as he jerked away.  From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement as Arlen also lurched for the guns.  Startled that the albino really did not have a weapon beneath his coat, Adam felt his shoulder jar against the white-haired man.   In one continuous motion, he snatched the pistol from the table, tucking and rolling across the floor.  Coming to his feet, he extended his
arm, leveling the gun on Arlen.

The albino leered.  He also held a gun--pointed directly at Joe's head.

"We seem to have a stalemate," he said to Adam.  His gaze was implacable, the diamond-like edge of his eyes glittering with malice.  "Drop the weapon--if you value your brother's life."

"Don't listen to him, Adam."  Joe's voice was strained, his face showing the laborious effort of remaining on his feet. The room had begun to blur, and he could feel himself growing light-headed.  The gun in Arlen's hand was the one he'd stolen--the same weapon he'd rigged with a packed barrel. "Shoot him!" Joe shouted at Adam, knowing if Arlen pulled the trigger it would only backfire.  While he'd intended that trap to neutralize one of Arlen's men, he'd never thought it would be the albino himself.  Near-panic made Joe's voice crack.  "Damn it, Adam, pull the trigger."

Adam hesitated, concern for his brother overriding all other instincts.  Near senseless with pain, Joe lurched for Arlen, trying to force Adam into a decision.  Unprepared for the sheer recklessness of the move, the albino's finger convulsed on the trigger.  The weapon exploded like a small cannon.  Blocked by the obstructed barrel, the gun backfired--the charge blowing through the chamber, splintering the pistol like wood.

Arlen shrieked.  Almost simultaneously, Adam's bullet struck him in the chest, slamming him backwards into the wall.  Stunned, he slumped to the floor, arms drooping at his sides with rag-doll flaccidness.  Horrified eyes tracked to Joe, realizing he'd been fatally duped.  Powder-blackened and bloody, his head rolled to the side--pale eyes frozen in sudden, violent death.  It all happened so quickly, Adam could only stare.

Joe moaned softly and crumbled.

"Joe!"  In three quick strides Adam was at his side.  His brother was trembling--whether from exhaustion or relief, Adam wasn't certain.  Gathering him in his arms, he pressed his cheek to Joe's disheveled hair.  "Geez, buddy, you gave me one hell of a scare going for his gun like that.  How did you know--"

"I rigged it to explode," Joe explained weakly.  He was half on his side, the pressure off his right hip.  Molten layers of pain rippled to his ankle, making him wince.  "We've got to get out of here.  Shey--"

"I know all about Shey.  And Callie."  Standing, Adam tried to pull Joe to his feet.  "I sent her to Linden Falls for help."

Locking his fingers in his brother's shirt, Joe let himself be hauled upward.  Bowing his head, he sucked down a quavering breath.  "I think my hip's busted," he mumbled.  The words were muffled, his face lodged against the warm knob of Adam's shoulder.

"I'll get you help.  I promise."  Adam's voice caught in his throat.  The sensation of his brother clinging to him, left him slightly off-kilter.  Years ago it had been natural to act as protector and surrogate father, but that had been with a Joe who was less volatile--one who hadn't grown to manhood.  Once again, he could feel the tremor of exhaustion in his brother's constricted muscles.  He knew he had to get Joe out of the house.  It would only be a matter of moments before Arlen's men arrived, summoned by the noise of gunplay.

"We've got to get out of here," he whispered, trying to instill a sense of urgency. He knew Joe was only half lucid--his injuries fogging his mind with pain.  Wrapping Joe's left arm over his shoulders, Adam placed his own arm around his brother's slender waist.  At the touch of his hand, Joe stiffened an cried aloud.  "I'm sorry, buddy."  Though, he tried to find a place of minimal damage, Joe's right side was so battered, even the slightest touch brought exquisite pain.

"Stop . . ." he heard Joe plead, his voice like broken string.  "I-I can't do this."

"You've got to," Adam coaxed.  Pressing his lips together, he said the only thing he could think of to make Joe respond: "That man put you through hell.  You're not going to let him get the best of you now."

"No," Joe choked.  With Adam's assistance he managed to reach the front door.  Though he writhed in his brother's grasp, his face streaked with sweat, he forced himself to continue.  Once outside, Adam helped him down the steps and into the street.  At first no one seemed to notice their passage.  Then a shout rebounded from the house and Joe glanced back to see McPhee on the front porch, a pistol in his hand.

"That's it," Adam hissed.  Jerking up the gun, he fired at McPhee.  "I'm sorry, Joe."  There was no option now.  He ran for cover, wrenching his brother along in his grasp, his ears closed to the sound of Joe's tormented screams.  Taking cover beside the general store, Adam used the protective shelter of two barrels for concealment.  Sliding Joe to the ground behind him, he braced one arm across the top of the largest and sent a bullet whistling towards McPhee.

More men rushed onto the street.  Adam ducked as a volley of bullets pinged past his head. Behind him, he heard Joe moan, struggling to rise.  "Stay still," Adam hissed.  The bullets stopped suddenly, as though choked short.

"Cartwright--" a voice hailed from the opposite side of the street.  Adam recognized McPhee's grating tone.  He could just distinguish the red-haired man, concealed at the edge of a bush.  "We got you outnumbered and outgunned.  Give it up."

Adam licked his lips.  "We haven't done anything.  What you're attempting is murder."

"Your brother killed Steger," a new voice asserted.  "He's a wanted man, with a price on his head."  From the shadows, Adam saw a bearded man step forward.  He did so boldly, the tin-star pinned to his shirt, providing confidence the others lacked.  "Give it up son.  You'll get a fair trial in Oxbow."

Adam laughed bitterly.  "Fair, Sheriff?  My brother's been badly beaten and his friend has a bullet in him. I don't see anything fair about your wretched little town."

"Mr. Learn--"

"--Learn is dead," Adam spat.  It struck him then, McPhee was probably the only one who knew that startling bit of news.  Silence settled on the street, thick and sticky as molasses.

"Adam . . ."  Momentarily diverted by Joe's tug on his sleeve, Adam turned.  His brother had managed to prop himself up against the building, his left hip wedged against the ground, leaving his right free of pressure.  Joe's lips were parted, the bottom trembling ever so slightly.  His eyes were unnaturally bright--the irises like cut crystal drenched in verdant green.  Desperately, he tightened his hold on Adam's arm.  "I'm the one they want . . . give me your gun, and I'll . . . hold them off . . . you . . . get away . . ."

Adam exhaled.  "Joe, you're a fool if you think I'm leaving you."

"Shey needs help.  Adam, it's the only way."

Angry that Joe would propose something so foolish, Adam wrenched free.  "I'll help Shey, but not before I help you."  Though he started to turn away, Joe snagged his sleeve.

"This is my fault--"

His words were cut short by a single bullet pinging against the building.  Adam ducked, instinctively shielding Joe with his body.  "That was a warning shot," the sheriff called.  "I got a dead man, his face and hand all but blown off, and a bullet in his chest. Can't let you go anywhere now.  Not with Learn lying dead back there.  I say again, you'll get a fair trial."

"We've been through all that, Sheriff," Adam shot back.  He flipped open his gun, checking the chamber.  Three bullets left.  With a glance back the alley, he noted a side entrance to the store.  There'd be ammunition inside and blankets to keep Joe warm--maybe something to use as binding for his brother's battered hip and side.  If he covered the front entrance, and Joe held up the rear, they just might fend off Arlen's private militia until help arrived.  "You're wasting your time, Sheriff.  You've got outsiders in Learn's house, who probably just figured out he's dead.  While you're out here, wasting your bullets on me, one of them is probably making off with the map." Adam paused for effect.  "There goes all that fortune."

"Forget about the map," the sheriff snapped.

Adam had an sudden notion.  "Forget about Ringgold?"  He pitched his voice louder than necessary.  "Don't your men know about that Sheriff?  Don't they realize what they've been protecting."

"Shut up!"  McPhee yelled.  Now Adam was certain only a select few had been in on Arlen's secret.  Across the street, he could see movement among scattered shrubs and doorways.  A steady steam of grumbling rose from the men concealed there.

"Joe, come on."  Hooking his arm behind his brother's back, Adam hauled him to his feet.  Joe gave a choked cry and slumped in his brother's grasp. Burying his face in the crook of Adam's neck, he shuddered with pain.  "Buddy, I'm sorry I'm hurting you, but we've got to move."

Joe ground his teeth together. " . . . s'kay . . ."

Before Adam could move, a booming avalanche of sound washed over him--the thunderous swell of hooves drumming against a dirt-packed street.  Startled, he turned.  The sight that greeted him brought an influx of relief rushing along every nerve ending, not already chafed raw.

A U.S. Marshall, with an escort of deputies, rode boldly through the center of town.
 

Bowing his face into his hands, Adam raked his fingers back through his hair.  Though the hotel room was comfortable and Joe slept sedated, he found his own rest limited.  He'd dozed fitfully through the night, rising to check on Shey in the next room, then returning to his brother's side, fearful that Joe would awaken without anyone nearby.

The telegraph clerk--Lewis Walker--and Dr. Hardwick provided assistance, along with a few of the ladies from the brothel.  Adam thought it odd, it had been Hardwick's telegram--sent days before Joe even arrived in Oxbow--which had brought the Marshall and his deputies.  Acting in unison with Walker, both men had played the role of fearful lackeys, all the while conspiring to end the leash-hold Arlen exerted on the small town.  It was simply fortuitous the Marshall arrived when he did.  Adam knew it was unlikely he and Joe would have held off McPhee and his men, until help arrived from Linden Falls.

One of the ladies from the brothel had gone to fetch Callie.  Though she'd made the gruelling ride to Linden Falls unnecessarily,  Adam owed her more than a simple thanks.  Had it not been for her initial intervention, both Shey and Joe might be dead.

With weary sigh, Adam leaned back in the chair he'd drawn to Joe's bedside.  It had been over twenty-four hours since the Marshall's arrival.  Both Graham Law and Leonard Cooper had disappeared, but the map of Ringgold was secure--confiscated by the lawman.

Outside, the sun inched higher into the sky, slanting rods of dusky light through lace-trimmed curtains.  Squares of almond-colored brilliance dappled the foot of Joe's bed.  Leaning forward in the chair, Adam brushed a gentle hand over his brother's forehead.  It worried him that Joe had yet to regain consciousness.  The bruises on his right side had settled into a mottled snarl of black and puce --foul discolorations that made Adam curse each time he thought of the abuse Arlen inflicted on his brother.  As feared, Joe's hip had suffered the most damage, but the bone remained intact. Though it would be some time before he could walk without assistance, the recuperation would not be as drastic as originally feared.

Last night, Joe had twisted in half-sleep--alternately calling aloud for Adam, as he writhed with pain and nightmares.  Today he slept sounder, but an occasional whimper still passed his lips, hinting at inner turmoil.  As Adam watched, his brother's eyes opened, the long lashes drawing back to reveal a look of confusion.  In the split second it took for him to orient, sheer panic entered his gaze.

"Joe--" Adam gripped his hand.

Though the initial touch made him flinch, the tension quickly snaked from Joe's body.  Collapsing against the pillows, he expelled a ragged breath.   "I thought--" He wet his lips, green eyes latching on to Adam.  "For a moment . . ."  The words wouldn't come, the struggle so apparent, Adam felt sick inside.

"Joe, Arlen's dead."

The breath left Joe in a shuddering exhalation.  "I remember."  Closing his eyes, he struggled to get his emotions under control.  He felt Adam touch his face--the tenderness in that simple gesture, making him choke back a sob.  Why was he always at odds with this brother, whom he loved so dearly?  He tried to shift onto his side, but the movement brought an unexpected barrage of pain across his stomach and ribs; a merciless conflagration in his right hip.  Suddenly, all the abuse came tumbling back.

Adam pressed both hands to his chest.  "Lie still, Little Joe."

"I . . ."  Joe's bottom lip trembled.  "Where's Shey?"

"He's in the next room.  Doctor Hardwick's taken out the bullet and he's going to be fine."

"Hardwick?"  Joe's bewilderment was evident.

"I'll explain everything later." Adam smiled--the curl of his lips, affectionate indulgence from an older brother.  Grazing his knuckles down Joe's cheek, he let his hand fall onto the younger man's shoulder.  Long fingers tightened over warm skin.  "You gave me a real scare out there, buddy.  I don't ever want to feel that way again.  And I don't want to feel the way I did when you left for Oxbow."

Joe's eyes dipped to the blanket.  "I should have listened to you Adam.  I'm sorry."

"No, you were right to go after Shey.  I was wrong for doubting your friendship."  Adam offered a one-shouldered shrug.  "It's just that . . ." he hesitated, clearly uncomfortable.  " . . . I didn't understand how you could put aside years of differences with Shey, when you can't seem to get past yesterday with me."

Wounded, Joe stared at his brother.  "Adam, I . . . I didn't realize--" Tears stung the back of his eyes, making him swallow.  "I'm so sorry . . ."

Leaning forward, Adam hooked his hand behind Joe's neck, and gently guided his head against his shoulder.  "So am I," he whispered.  "I don't say it near enough, buddy--I love you."

Undone by the contact, Joe clung to his brother.  The sheer exhaustion and punishment of the last few days came to an emotional head.  Everything he'd endured, coupled with the hazy stupor of the drugs they'd given him, left him extremely vulnerable.  Adam's soft declaration was the final straw.  "I'm so sorry," he choked, never realizing that in defending Shey, he'd also hurt his brother.  His tears came in earnest.

"Ssh," Adam coaxed, holding him close.  Bending forward, he pressed his cheek to the top of Joe's hair.  "You're safe--that's all that matters.  And just for the record, Joe--you've got a pretty good friend in Shey Cutter."

Raising his head, Joe gazed at Adam through wet lashes.  "Right now, brother, all I care about is you."  Reluctant for the contact to end, it was a long while before either man broke the embrace.
 

"Geez, Cartwright.  I leave you alone for a couple minutes and you get yourself beat up again." Shey Cutter stood at the foot of Joe's bed, grinning broadly.  Catching a ladder-back chair, he spun it around and straddled the back.  A black sling encased his right arm, pinning it close to his chest.  Though a smudge of shadow lingered beneath his sparkling brown eyes, he appeared otherwise whole.

Outside the sun had made a complete circuit through the sky, the hour now inching into late afternoon.  Shey arced one teasing brow at his friend. "Yes, sir, Joseph--you done got that pretty face all messed up again.  Guess the gals in Virginia City are gonna be trippin' over one another, wantin' to fuss over you.  Probably won't even take note I got a bullet hole in my arm."

Joe's own smile hinted at slyness.  "From what I've heard, you've got a personal nursemaid in Callie. Adam tells me you two are all but inseparable."

Shey shrugged.  "She's got a little crush on me.  Can you blame her?"

"When did that happen?"

Shey rolled a hand in the air.  "I don't know.  We've been spending time together last couple of days.  And no, it ain't like that--" Shey glowered fiercely at Joe's cagey grin.  "She's gonna settle in Virginia City with the money you promised her.  Guess I should contribute to that too--" he added as afterthought.  "--but I ain't thinking about any ties with a woman.  You won't catch me looking calf-faced at some filly, only to have her trot off back east."

Joe shot him a warning glare.  "If you're referring to Lorna David--"

Shey held up both hands.  "Not me," he said quickly, though it was annoyingly clear he was.  To soften the mood, he flashed another grin.  "Adam tells me Hoss should be here today, and your Pa tomorrow.  They'll be transporting you by the end of the week--Hoss bringing the wagon and all.  Don't know what I'm gonna do with so many Cartwrights around.  'Took me too many years not to want to choke the youngest."

Joe laughed softly and for a moment Shey was silent.  Slowly his smile filtered away, replaced by seriousness.  Uncomfortable, he cleared his throat.  "Um, Joe . . . about what happened."  Tugging his bottom lip between his teeth, he let his eyes skim over Joe's chest and side.  Bruised skin was visible beneath the edge of the blankets.  "You should have just told the bastard where I was."

Joe's own gaze dipped momentarily.  He knew Shey was uncomfortable with the truth.  "And lose a hard-won reputation for stubbornness?" A smile flickered over his lips, but in the end he opted for seriousness.  "You saved my life once."

Misunderstanding, Shey cocked his head.  "So we're even?"

"No," Joe said quickly.  "I'd do it again.  And again.  You're a friend, Shey, and that's what friends do for each other."

"Hmm."  Folding his arms across the back of the chair, Shey dropped his chin to his hands.  "I didn't realize this was gonna be so complicated. We got it all messed up, Cartwright.  You're not supposed to take a beating for me.  You're supposed to take one from me.  This was a hell of a lot easier when you and I were on opposite sides of the fence."

Joe laughed.  "That can be fixed, you know."

Shey shook his head.  "Not likely.  I think the damn thing's mended permanently.  Next thing you know, folks'll be calling me respectable--saying 'there goes that nice boy, Joe Cartwright's friend.' At least I had twenty-one years of delinquency."

"Get out of here," Joe said with a short chuckle.  "I'm tired."  Scrunching beneath the blankets, he tried to find a position of comfort.  Though his lashes drifted shut, the hint of a smile lingered on his lips.  He heard Shey stand, his footsteps leading to the door.

"Hey, Cartwright--"

Joe popped one eye open.  Shey stood on the threshold, his expression laced with warmth.

"--Thanks."

It was the only word necessary between friends.