Disclaimer #1:  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.

Disclaimer #2: I know "beans" about the medical field, so please excuse any and all implausibilities in this story.  It's fiction folks, with a capital "F."
 

Tugging down the brim of his hat, Joe Cartwright squinted up at the stage coach driver, narrowing his eyes against the glare of early morning sunlight.  Silhouetted in that shimmering haze, a pot-bellied man busily tied down the last of the Cartwright bundles.  With a belated glance at his surroundings, Joe realized the only two bags on the stage belonged to him and his father.  Opening the door, he cast his canteen on the seat, rewarded with a sloshing gurgle as it slid to the corner.

"Light load today, huh?"

"Just you and your Pa."  The man chewed around a wad of tobacco, working the soggy brown lump through yellow-stained teeth.  Sitting back on his haunches, he dragged a torn sleeve over his brow, mopping up sweat.  Already encrusted with the dry dust of the bordering mountains, it left a dirty streak in stark relief against his sun-reddened face.  With a clipped nod, he indicated the bank.  "Seen your Pa go in there.  You better collect him, son.  We leave in five minutes."

"Sure."  With his eyes still on the driver, Joe took a step backwards.  Not watching where he was going, he collided unexpectedly with someone at his back.  "Hey, I'm sorry--" Joe half turned, catching the unsuspecting man when he would have fallen.  Wide blue eyes met his through a pair of gold-rimmed glasses.  Short and small-boned, with ginger-colored sideburns, and a tallow-hued complexion, the man glanced nervously over his shoulder.

"Sorry.  Didn't see you . . ."

"It was my fault," Joe attempted to explain.  Once again the close-set eyes darted hastily down the street.  There was something almost panicky in that anxious glance.  Joe followed his gaze, noting nothing unusual in the throng of people idly making their way among the streets of Rimsmoke. The man shifted, clearly ill-at-ease.  Joe could feel the nervousness radiating off him like heat across the desert.  "Hey--are you okay?"  Still holding the man by the shoulders, he gave the other a light shake, drawing his attention.  "Everything all right, friend?"

"F-fine."  The man seemed to collect himself.  His eyes darted towards the stage. "Where are you headed?"

Joe drew back.  "Virginia City."  Whatever had troubled the shorter man, he appeared to be regaining control.  Impeccably dressed in a tailored suit with silk hat, he looked more eastern dandy, than typical western stock.  Joe offered his hand. "Name's Joe Cartwright."

A hesitant grip closed over his, the touch sweaty and cold.  "Daven.  Willie Daven."  Freckle-dusted fingers adjusted his glasses, a betraying tremor in his arm attesting to some inner turmoil. Licking his lips, Daven took a wobbly step backwards.  "It's been a pleasure Mr. Cartwright.  Hope you have a safe trip."

"Sure--I--" But Joe got no further.  Turning quickly, Daven hustled down the street, his short legs pumping in almost comical haste as he rounded the corner and vanished between clapboard-fronted buildings.  Shaking his head, Joe blew air through his teeth.

"Who was that?"

"Hmm?"  Joe turned, distracted to find Ben Cartwright at his shoulder.  "Oh hi, Pa."  His father appeared only half-interested in the reply, as he folded a slip of paper and slid it into his inner vest pocket.  Joe recognized the markings of a bank draft and knew his father had collected payment on the horses they'd sold.  Though they'd driven stock in, they elected to take the stage back. Originally Joe had groaned over those plans, but since arrival in Rimsmoke Ben had developed a slight fever, and Joe thought the journey would be easier on him.  "That was Willie Daven," he returned, quickly dismissing the matter. "I wired Adam and Hoss like you wanted.  Told them we should be home in about five days."

"Good."  Ben's reply was short, a clear testament to his present mood.

Joe frowned slightly.  "Feeling any better?"

"Joseph, I'm fine."  The words were bitten off with an acid sting.  Ben Cartwright immediately cringed, angry at himself for the flicker of wounded dismay in his son's green eyes.  He didn't mean to be so short, but the inside of his head felt like it was under siege by a battering ram, and his whole body was plagued by the unpleasant aches of a waxing fever.  Ben struggled for composure.  "Let's get in the coach, huh?  I think the driver's ready to leave."

"Sure, Pa."  Joe's lashes dipped as he turned towards the door.  Lithely, he sprinted inside, his body bending effortlessly with the youthful agility of a twenty-two year old.  Ben followed more slowly, stifling a groan as he pulled himself into the carriage.  Collapsing on the bench seat across from his son, he gave Joe a quick wink.

"You don't tell your brothers about this, young man, and maybe--just maybe--I'll bring Adam or Hoss on this cursed trip next year."

Joe's mouth curled upward in an animated grin.  As quickly as his bewilderment surfaced, it was replaced by a sense of well-being.  It was not so much what Ben said, as the way he said it--with a sliver of teasing warmth in his tone.  For his own part, Ben relaxed against the seat, his lips lifting slightly at his son's breezy expression.  It never failed to amaze him what Joe's smile did to him.  There was something about that dazzling grin--like a prism of light infusing him with unexpected warmth on a rain-soaked day.  His son's eyes crinkled at the corners, etching tiny white lines in smooth, tanned skin.

"Deal," Joe confirmed.  He hated the trip to Rimsmoke.  For that matter Ben did too.  A tiny town tucked among mountain passes, there was little to recommend it.  Were it not for Rimsmoke's insatiable need for quality working stock, the Cartwrights would have willingly driven their Ponderosa horses a greater distance, than traverse the rugged trail required to reach the mountainside community.

With a shout for the horses, the stage driver urged the dusty coach forward.  Joe slumped lower in his seat, watching the squat shapes of Rimsmoke's scattered buildings roll by the windows. Eyes skewing aside to his father, he noted the heavy droop of the older man's lids.  There was a slight flush on Ben's skin, heightened by a glittering sheen of sweat over his cheekbones.

Joe shifted uneasily.  He spared a glance for the canteen he'd deposited earlier.  Briefly, he considered offering  Ben water, but feared disturbing him.  It was clear he needed sleep more than anything.  Judging by the continual droop of his eyelids, that seemed a distinct possibility.

Ben was aware of his son's concentrated gaze.  The shifting patches of light angling through the windows, touched Joe's eyes, altering that luminous hue as shadows deepened then scattered within the coach.  One moment his son's eyes were breathtakingly green--sun-drenched leaves beneath a cloudless sky; the next murky and dark, like the tree-shaded waters of a mountain lake. Ben thought that quicksilver change much like Joe's personality--one moment effervescent and warm, the next withdrawn and moody.  He'd never been able to gauge his son's volatile emotions with any true success. It had always been like groping in the dark--an erratic path consisting of soaring peaks and sunken valleys.  Rarely did his son tread the middle ground.

Ben smiled slightly, thinking of the unusual bond he had with this, his third child. Perhaps it was because Joe came so late in life that Ben felt an inclination of overprotectiveness.  The irony was, Joe bristled the most when he thought he was being coddled.  Particularly when he measured that same display against the amount bestowed on his two older brothers.  Though easily the most demonstrative of his children, Ben knew affection had to be on Joe's terms.

"What are you thinking about, Pa?"

"Hmm?"  Ben gave a short grunt of distraction.  He shifted slightly, unaware that he'd been staring.  The inside of the coach was warm--relief offered in the form of a cooling breeze, induced now and again, by a cross-draft through the open windows.  Dry dust clung to its tail, waffling into the carriage and making Ben yearn for something to clear the chalk from his throat.  Sensing that need, Joe passed him the canteen.  Both men swayed in the jarring grip of the ride.

"Thanks."  Ben took a short swallow, once again aware of his son's scrutiny.  With a slap of his hand, he drove the cork into the mouth of the canteen.  "Joseph, you can stopping looking so worried.  I've survived worse things than a little bit of fever."

Unconvinced, Joe licked his lips.  His father was always so healthy, this uncharacteristic display of illness left him feeling unsettled.  "I know, Pa.  It's just . . . I'd feel better if you'd seen the doctor in Rimsmoke."

"And what makes you think I didn't?"

His interest now razor-sharp, Joe sat forward on the edge of the seat.  "Did you?"

Ben's smile was a trifle too fleeting.  "Let's just say I didn't get to be my age by being foolish."

Joe waited, his long-lashed eyes narrowed in uncertain perusal.  "So what you're saying--"

"What I'm saying is--I have a fever, nothing more.  A little rest, some hot food, and I'll be fine." Ben raised his hand when he saw his son about to protest.  "And no, Joseph, we should not have remained in Rimsmoke.  I'm not an invalid."

Joe leaned back against the seat, momentarily appeased.  "When did you see the doctor?"

Ben's glance was pointed.  "I didn't realize this was an interrogation."  Though he kept his tone light, his son flushed nevertheless.  Black lashes dipped against Joe's cheeks, causing Ben to grin briefly.  Clearing his throat, he drew Joe's gaze back to him. "I saw the doctor last night--after you'd fallen asleep.  You were pretty exhausted from the trip.  You did most of the work with the horses."

"I still should have gone with you."

Ben considered, mildly amused. "I think I'm a little old for hand-holding."

Ignoring the thinly veiled rebuke, Joe retrieved the canteen.  Wrenching the cork free, he took a swallow, swishing the lukewarm liquid around his mouth before allowing it to trickle down his throat.  Though autumn was still weeks away, he could feel the crisp edge of undercurrent to the wind funneling through the windows.  It disturbed him that his father found no evident relief in the cooling touch, despite the increased frequency of its presence.

Stoppering the canteen once again, he glanced out the window.  A strip of dark clouds hugged the horizon, hinting at impending rain.  Banked to the east by clear cobalt sky, and white slipper- clouds to the north, the jet-colored mass appeared oddly foreign.  Joe could feel the touch of moisture gathering in the air. "You should try to sleep," he said to his father.

Ben shrugged--a half-hearted lift of his shoulders, but made no argument.  Folding his arms across his chest, he slumped lower in the seat.  Though the brim of his hat concealed the upper portion of his face in shadow, Joe saw his eyes dip shut.  That moment of rest was so unlike his perpetually active father, Joe again felt a twinge of unease.  He would be glad when the miles thinned and Virginia City beckoned--when they were home once again on the Ponderosa.

Joe scowled.

Unfortunately that was still days in the future.
 

When evening settled, their driver halted for the night at a waystation, the small cabin tucked beneath the shadowing bulk of the surrounding mountains.  Ben slept through most of the journey, but roused when Joe directed him inside.  A short time later, son convinced father to eat a bowl of stew, accompanied by hard bread and coffee. The meal complete, the older man retired, while the younger made casual conversation with the station manager and driver.  The rain started shortly after--a soft patter that drummed against the rooftop and left silvery streaks trickling down the windowpanes.  Minutes later the clouds released their moisture in earnest, drenching the ground in a vigorous downpour.  The rain lasted well into the night, abating before dawn, then retreating altogether when the sun broke the horizon.

Blinking against the soft haze of almond-colored light, Joe stepped around a sizable puddle on his way to the stage.  He could feel the ground sucking at his boots; clumps of mud and wet grass clinging tenaciously to the soles.  His father had already boarded the coach, his demeanor more animated this morning, though he still obviously felt the effects of the fever.  Joe was glad Ben had taken the time to eat breakfast--and although the amount of that meal was not up to his ususal standards, it was sustenance nonetheless.

Once again the jarring ride wound into the cradle of the mountains, the journey slowed slightly due to the muddy passage.  The rain had drilled ruts in the road, and washed beds of mud and rock from surrounding slopes.  Ben remained awake this time, a certain vigor back in his dark eyes as he conversed with his son.  Minutes slipped into hours as the slow, lumbering trek continued.  The sun inched higher across the sky--a marigold-bright orb in a bowl of cloudless blue.  It was somewhere after noon when Joe heard a gunshot ping past the window.

"We got company," the driver shouted from above.  Instinctively Joe reacted, reaching for the Colt revolver resting against his hip.  He could hear the thunder of hooves now--horses and men engaged in pursuit of the stage.  Sticking his head through the window, he caught a glimpse of a five men, bent low over the backs of foam-flecked steeds.  A bullet whizzed past his ear.

"Careful," Ben hissed.  He was leaning out the other side of the coach, his own weapon drawn. Joe heard the report of the pistol as Ben sent a quick volley in reply.

Another bullet whined past Joe's ear, ricocheting off the side of the stage.  Wood splintered beneath the onslaught, pelting against Joe's sleeve.  "What the hell are you carrying?"  he yelled up at the driver.

"Nothing.  Passengers.  What the hell are you worth?"

Joe frowned.  The gun pumped in his hand as he sent two carefully aimed bullets against their pursuers.  The first missed its mark, but the second struck true.  A long-limbed rider tumbled from his horse.  Joe could feel the stage pulling away, the distance growing greater as the driver urged the horses to greater speeds.  The stage rounded a corner in the trail, lumbering on it's massive wheels.  For a moment the pursuing riders were blocked from view.  With his gun still clutched in his fingers, Joe drew the back of his hand across his mouth.  He glanced aside at his father. "What do you think they want?"

Despite the respite, Ben's eyes were still turned out the window.  "Who knows?  Stage robbers rarely care what you're carrying."

"They're going to an awful lot of trouble, as rough as this trail is."

Ben nodded.  "They must think we have something of value."  The statement was no sooner past his lips, then the bend straightened and the riders came back into view.  Immediately the coach was inundated with a spray of bullets.  Ducking, Joe squeezed off a shot, but a rut in the road threw his aim off.  Bullets pelted the stage.  He heard the driver grunt.  There followed a sickening thud; the unexpected lurch of the coach as it struck something in the road, then a jangling looseness as the horses bolted through the muddy passage.

Joe choked back a strangled sound when he saw the rear wheels crush the driver's body.  He knew a bullet had taken the man first, and prayed that his life had ended with that shot, rather than the organ-rupturing weight of the massive stage.  He could feel it lurching violently to the side, and knew they were headed for disaster unless he managed to get the horses under control.  Holstering his pistol, he pushed through the narrow window, twisting his body as he reached for the upper rungs of the coach.  "Cover me," he yelled at his father, already half exposed to an onslaught of deadly lead.  He heard Ben's gun fire in return.

The stage rounded a second bend and Joe was blocked from view.  He used the advantage to push off the thin lip of the window.  Though most of the mud had dried on his boots, the bottoms remained slick.  His foot slipped out from under him at the same moment the wheels struck a deep rut in the road.  Though he tried to cling to the rungs, the jolt of the impact wrenched him free.  Cast like a leaf in a gale, he was thrown backwards.

Joe heard the sickening snap of tree branches; felt an explosion of pain so intense it ripped a scream from his lips.  He hung weightless, suspended, and then he tumbled--down into all-consuming darkness.
 

"Joe.  Joe, son, please, wake up."

The words slowly ingrained his subconscious, dragging him back to the painful realm of coherency.  He opened his eyes, feeling the sting of returning light knife beneath his lashes.  He could feel someone hovering over him, gentle hands cupping his neck.  A thumb stroked down his jawline, the warmth and sensitivity of that touch inducing a shiver of goosebumps along his arms.  He tried to move and almost blacked out when a cherry-red fissure of pain erupted in his shoulder.

"Pa . . ."  Arching his head back, Joe raised his left hand and gripped his father's arm, his nails embedding with white-knuckle force.  "Oh, God, Pa . . ."  The agony washed over him again, the intensity so severe, he thought he'd go insane from the punishment.

"Don't move."  Ben's voice was near his ear--a firm anchor in the blinding tide of his torment.  Joe could feel the warm trickle of his father's breath against his cheek.  He clung to the voice--to the assurance and familiarity that had seen him through so many afflictions.  With effort he focused his gaze.

"I-I can't . . ."

"Joseph, listen to me."  Ben leaned close.  One warm palm slid up the side of Joe's face, wiping away clinging bits of debris; flecks of blood.  "You took a bad fall," Ben said carefully.  "There's a branch, broken from the tree--it's punched through your back and out your shoulder."  Though Ben kept his tone carefully modulated, betraying none of his own terror, he could feel his son begin to shudder. "It's snapped off in the back, but part is still protruding from your shoulder." Even as Ben spoke, his eyes dropped to the blood-soaked piece of wood torn through his son's flesh.  The quaking ripple of Joe's body alerted him to the returning spasm of pain. "You've got to lay still," he warned.

But Joe was beyond all sensibility.  The gorging agony in his shoulder lifted him from the ground. His back arched upward with the razor-sharp deluge of torture.  He could feel a trickle of blood against his chest--a thin ribbon, nothing more, hot and slick as the sun-baked skin of a snake.  His right arm wouldn't move, but fire bracketed the bones all the way to his fingertips.  "God, Pa, take it out--" Knotting the fingers of his left hand in his father's shirt, he tried to drag himself forward.  Quickly, Ben moved behind him, leaning back on his heels, so Joe was supported against his chest.  Convulsive shudders ran through his son's lean frame.

Gasping, Joe pressed his cheek to his father's chest.  "Pl-please Pa, it hurts so bad."

"Joe," Ben couldn't stop the remorse now.  Lowering his head, he pressed his lips to the silky crown of his son's hair.  Raising one hand, he brushed his fingertips across Joe's face, collecting the wet track of his son's tears.  "Joe, listen to me--you're not bleeding.  The pressure of the branch is the only thing keeping you from bleeding to death.  If I remove it, you're liable to hemorrhage."

Joe made a strangled sound and burrowed deeper against his father's chest.  He felt Ben's arms go around his waist, holding him tight.  He was crying in earnest now; the pain and hopelessness of the situation, stripping away his last waning reserves of strength. His breath hitched between his teeth, each painful gasp making him shudder with the effort.  "I-I c-can't breathe.  You have to . . . remove it."

"Lay back, you'll breathe easier."  Ben tried to lower him to the ground, but Joe only tightened his grip on his father's shirt, using the material as leverage to remain upright.

"No!  I-I'm not gonna die out here, like some stuck pig.  Take this damn branch out!  Oh, God!" He'd no sooner spouted off the angry directive then a debilitating knife sliced through him.  Biting back a cry, Joe flinched, his entire body stiffening beneath the torturous onslaught.  At last he crumbled against his father's chest, fingers hanging limply in the craggy fabric of Ben's shirt.  "Please," he muttered weakly.

Ben touched his son's brow, gently pushing aside the heavy fringe of chestnut-dark hair.  His fingers stroked downward, contouring the familiar high cheekbone, the narrow nose and finely sculpted jawline.  He could feel tears and blood against his fingertips, the latter oozing from a deep gash beneath Joe's hairline.  "Pa . . ." Joe's fingers tightened again.

"All right, son."  Each word was like a knife driven in Ben's chest.  "But you have to lay down now.  I have to gather some things from the coach."  As carefully as he could, Ben eased his son back against the cushioning grass.  Though the movement obviously pained him, Joe bit his lip to keep from crying out. His lashes were wet, tipped with tears as he gazed up at his father, but his eyes were dry.

"What happened . . . to the coach?"

"It overturned up the road."  As he talked, Ben loosened Joe's collar, trying to make him as comfortable as possible.  Shrugging from his vest, he folded it in a makeshift pillow and slid it beneath his son's head.  "The horses are gone--taken by the men who were chasing us.  I was able to hide in the trees.  I guess they figure we were both thrown clear in the accident and killed."  Ben wet his lips.  He didn't like the translucent look of his son's skin--almost as if he was insubstantial, waning with each passing moment.  "They rummaged through our bags, then left without taking anything."

"That doesn't make sense."  Joe's voice was reed-thin, the words like fragile pieces of glass.  Ben touched his face.

"I'm going to go see what I can salvage--blankets, warm clothes, anything.  I need you to be as still as possible while I'm gone."  The fingers stroked downward in an affectionate caress.  "Promise, Little Joe?"

Joe nodded, not trusting his voice.  If he laid very still, the pain retreated to a throbbing distraction, leaking splinters of fire like lava, across his shoulder and back.  He was beginning to grow aware of the other aches and pains in his body--the tender skin across his ribcage; the bruised muscles of his right thigh; the scraped skin of his palms, the deep laceration on his brow. "Don't be long," he pleaded, but Ben had already walked away, the crunch of his boots on broken twigs, fading in the distance.  Joe swallowed hard and glanced up at the sky.  Tree branches reeled above his head like ribbons from a maypole; leaves dancing in sun-dusted brightness, gilded and vivid with the plump maturity of late summer.

Slowly Joe's eyes fluttered shut.  His head rolled to the side and he slept.
 

He awoke much later, shivering in the chill grip of long, slanting shadows.  The sun dipped low on the rim of the earth, staining the jagged mountainside with a hue like blood.  Moaning, Joe struggled to rise.

"Stay still."  Instantly, Ben was at his side, gently pressing him back against the warm soil.

Still dazed, Joe attempted to collect his thoughts.  Returning consciousness brought a renewed influx of pain--the brutal torment ripping through his shoulder and back with merciless abandon. Reflexively, Joe reached for Ben's hand, gasping as his body jerked beneath the onslaught.

Ben fought to still the rat-a-tat thump of his own heart as he watched his son twist in agony.  His grip tightened on Joe's sweat-slick fingers.  "I'm here, Little Joe.  I'm right here."

Weakly, Joe collapsed against his arm.  Though he shivered, sweat stippled his upper lip and glistened in the curling fringe of his bangs.  Nestling his cheek against his father's arm, Joe surrendered to the punishment afflicting his body.  His eyes fluttered shut.  "Can't keep this up," he muttered.

Ben wet his lips.  His own lingering fever made him question the clarity of his thoughts.  He still feared what removing the impaling object might do.  If Joe should start to hemorrhage . . .

Unable to finish the thought, Ben's eyes dropped to the protruding wood--the splintered end jutting obscenely from his son's lacerated flesh.  Beneath the impalement, Joe's jacket was discolored, the corduroy fabric wet with blood where the branch punched through.  Sitting back on his haunches, Ben listened to the labored rattle of his son's breath.  If the branch had punctured a lung, there could be serious consequences when he removed it.  On the other hand, it might be the pressure itself that made Joe's breathing so grueling.

With trembling fingers, Ben touched his son's shoulder.  Lost in the limbo of half-sleep, Joe moaned softly, but did not awaken.  He turned his head, his face contorting as raw sensation spiked down his right arm.  Earlier, Ben had built a small fire, hoping to hold the chill of descending night at bay.  In the amber glow of flames, Joe's face appeared waxen, his lips dry and cracked with the first vestiges of fever.  Anxiously, Ben fetched a canteen, then knelt once again at his son's side.  Pouring water onto his fingertips, he lifted his hand and lightly brushed his fingers across Joe's lips.  He felt his son's mouth move beneath his touch, the presence of cooling water, a soothing tonic on parched skin.

"Joseph . . ." Ben coaxed softly.

Joe eyes flickered open--his pupils opaque stones, imbued with a flicker of gold near the center. When he saw Ben leaning over him, he sucked down an unsteady breath, trembling with the effort.  "Pa . . . I don't feel well . . ." Moistening his lips, Joe grimaced as sudden nausea battered his stomach.  Groaning, he clutched his abdomen, his body awash with a jarring inrush of heat.  He twisted on the ground, futilely attempting to escape the torture.

Sensing his turmoil, Ben loosened his son's jacket, hoping the cool breeze would quiet him.  "I know it hurts, Joe.  Try to lie still."  Deftly he unbuttoned his son's shirt, pushing the fabric aside with a soothing hand.  Beneath his fingertips, his son's flesh blistered with heat.

"I'm gonna be sick," Joe panted.

Fearing what such a violent action might inflict, Ben helped him to lean forward.  The world reeled above Joe's head, a kaleidoscope of broken images and sound, his vision see-sawing with each shuddering moment.  Sweat dripped into his eyes, further blurring his surroundings.  Though sitting alleviated the acid churning of his stomach, it intensified his shortness of breath.  A folded slip of paper fell from his pocket, the scrap fluttering weakly in the breeze.  Oddly distracted, Joe's eyes clung to the parchment, the focus helping him to momentarily block the pain.  Feebly, he panted for air.

"You've got to lie back," Ben insisted.

"No."  Joe clung to his father, uncertain which was worse--the nausea or the sickening rasp of his breath.  "I . . . feel better . . . like this."

Ben doubted that was true, but he also knew if Joe vomited, the pressure of the wood would likely cause an internal rupture.  Settling on a compromise, he leaned back against a small outcropping of rock and drew his son against him.  Half supported in his father's lap, Joe sagged into his embrace, willingly nestling his cheek against Ben's broad chest.  Belatedly, his eyes fell to the paper.  "What's . . . that?"  he whispered.

Ben was able to stretch out his arm without disturbing Joe and retrieve the scrap.  Raising it to eye level, he bent the edge back between thumb and index finger.  A moment of silence followed, broken only by Joe's reedy wheezing.  "It's a map."

" . . . not mine . . ." Joe said with effort.  He shuddered.

Setting the paper aside, Ben grazed his knuckle down Joe's cheek.  His fingers dropped to his son's left arm.  Reassuringly, he traced his thumb over corded muscle. "I should think not, but it's probably what those robbers were after."

Talking made Joe concentrate on something other than the pain.  "A map?"

Ben nodded.  Bowing his head, he pressed his cheek to his son's hair.  He could smell a hint of soap still clinging to the soft curls, the vague fragrance overshadowed by the heavier taint of sweat and blood.  "Joe, it's a map of Ringgold."

Joe drew an uneven breath.  His father's embrace was warm.  For a blissful moment that delicious warmth seemed to soak up his pain--folding it in something greater than its own wretched existence.  He could feel the gentle track of Ben's thumb against his arm, the movement quieting him, as it had when he was a child.  The thought of childhood brought a flicker of remembrance about Ringgold--a fabled city, secreted away in hidden mountain passages.  A utopia brimming with treasure, its wealth overshadowed only by its Eden-like properties.

"Pa.  Ringgold's just a myth."

"I know that."  The fact that his son had quieted and his breathing seemed improved, encouraged Ben to continue his soothing tactics. His fingers curled around Joe's wrist, then brushed over the back of his hand.  Slowly, the tension eased from the slender frame.  Joe made a soft sound, similar to a sigh, and allowed his lash-heavy eyes to drift shut.  "That man," he whispered.  "Daven.  Must have slipped me the map . . . when he . . . bumped into me."

"Why?"  Ben wondered aloud.  Raising his head, he slipped his fingers into Joe's hair, threading aside the unruly curls.

"Men . . . after him . . ."  Belatedly, Joe recalled how Daven had seemed anxious, almost as though he was being followed.

"Someone saw him with you."  Ben scowled.  If that was the case, the stage robbers would likely return, intent on finding bodies.  Though they had rifled through the baggage, their brief scouring of the area had produced neither Ben nor Joe.  If they were truly after the map, they wouldn't stop until they had pawed through the clothing of their victims.  Ben's eyes fell to the bloody piece of wood protruding from Joe's shoulder.  Once again, he debated about removing it.  To get Joe back to the waystation would be almost impossible.  To go himself and leave his son unprotected, meant exposing him to the threat of the robbers.  Angrily, Ben gnawed on his lip.   There really was only one alternative.  "Joe, I've got to go for help."

Joe grunted, rousing from half-sleep.  He caught the tail end of his father's words, the implication making him writhe with grim determination.  "No. Take. This. Thing. Out."

Ben tried to hold him still.  "Son, that's utter foolishness.  You'll bleed--"

Choking back a cry, Joe gripped the edge of the wood with his left hand and tugged.  The action was so sudden; so unexpected, Ben was unable to stop him.  It was only when Joe's body arced backwards, convulsing against pain, that Ben was able to restrain him.  Joe screamed and crumbled weakly into his father's embrace.  The wood had not moved.

"Oh, God, Pa, please."  Once again Joe struggled to remain coherent in the face of excruciating torture.  Choking back a sob, he buried his face in his father's chest.  He felt Ben's arms go around him and hold his quaking shoulders.  Bile burned the back of his throat, his stomach ballooning with acid.  His breath came in short, ragged gasps, dragging dry air across his fever- cracked lips.  "Please, Pa, don't leave me."

"I'm right here, Little Joe.  I'm not going anywhere."  Ben heard the tremor of fear in his son's voice.  He'd once dug a bullet from Joe's side, expecting that to be the worst horror he'd ever need face. To choose between leaving his son to possibly die alone, or move him and have him die on the trail, was a choice he couldn't make.  Ben's eyes fell to the wood.  Joe was only half coherent, swooning in the grip of disorientation.  Shifting aside, Ben eased him to the ground.

"Pa--?"  Joe's hand groped blindly in the air.

"I'm right here."  Ben's fingers wrapped around the questing hand. He held firm, leaning forward as he stroked his son's hair.  Behind him, neatly folded in a bag by the fire, were strips of clothing he'd cut up in the event he required bandages.  The fire itself could be used as a cauterizing aide, if necessity dictated.

Ben swallowed, his throat dry.  He was sweating profusely, but didn't know if it was from fever or fear.  He could tell by the puffy, discolored skin around the impalement, infection was setting in.  Joe would likely die before help arrived if the broken wood was not removed. Dragging a hand across the back of his mouth, he drew a harrowed breath.

"Joseph, I'll remove the wood, but I've got to prepare.  Can you lay very still?"

Joe's eyes were black pools in the ashen shell of his face.  Slowly, he nodded, long lashes dipping to brush his cheeks.  " . . . hurts," he mumbled.

"I know it does, son."  Sensitive fingertips grazed over heated flesh.  "Rest for awhile."

Joe's breathing evened to a steady rhythm.  Slowly, Ben drew away, rising to his feet.  He stood a moment, fighting off his own bout of light-headedness as he gazed down at his young son.  He'd never seen Joe look so frail.  There was a crease of pain on his forehead, his brows drawn together even in sleep, as he battled discomfort.  His skin was whey-colored, shimmering with beads of perspiration.  Sweat trickled down his neck, puddling in the hollow of his throat.  It beaded on the muscular planes of his chest and left glistening trails across his flat stomach. Bowing his head, Ben rubbed his fingers against his temples, trying to silence a persistent ache.  He couldn't afford illness now.  He needed every sense, no matter how small, alert and functioning for his son.  With a glance at the sky to gauge the last feeble hours of daylight, Ben gazed between the trees. He knew little about folklore, but Hop-Sing had once showed him the plants needed to make a poultice for hindering the flow of blood.  Coupled with an herbal paste, he planned to heat as a cauterizing agent, Ben hoped the makeshift medicinals would keep his son alive.

As he readied to move into the pass of rock and trees, the discarded map caught his attention. Bending, he retrieved it and tucked it into his pocket.  A last glance at Joe revealed his son in deep slumber.  With a silent prayer for that sleep to last until he returned, Ben vanished into the lengthening shadows.
 

"We should stop soon."

Adam Cartwright surveyed the uneven terrain, noting the exaggerated length of intertwining shadows.  Though the territory was fairly familiar, recent rains had created pockets of obstruction on normally clear passageways.  The thought of groping blindly in the dark, possibly injuring the horses, made him realize the folly of continuing.  A glance aside at his younger brother, confirmed the decision.

Hoss gave a frustrated sigh.  "I suppose."  Frowning heavily, his generous lips pressed in a severe scrawl, Hoss hunched his shoulders in resignation.  "I'd sure feel a lot better if we'd covered more ground."

"Me too."  Adam's voice was flat.  He urged his horse forward at an easy pace; Hoss falling in step beside him.  Around them, the ground was blanketed with the soft smoke of early evening--a pattern reflected in the murky bow of the sky.  "At least the sheriff of Rimsmoke has men out looking."

"Kind of an odd situation," Hoss countered.  "What was that fella's name again?"

"Willie Daven."

"Yeah."  Canting his head to the side, Hoss watched his brother's profile.  "And he just gave the map to Little Joe?"

"No."  Adam tried to remember exactly what the telegram had said.  He could hear the gentle clop of hooves as his mount moved steadily forward.  Were it not for the anxious knot in his stomach, he might think he was on a leisurely ride.  "I think Daven slipped Joe the map without him being aware.  He probably intended to retrieve it later. The man who was chasing him--a William Arlen--eventually caught him.  Daven told him about Joe, thinking he'd get away unharmed."

Hoss shook his head, his scowl dipping lower.  "And Arlen beat him anyway?"

Adam nodded grimly.  "Left him for dead in an alley.  The sheriff says it's a miracle he survived."

"Lucky for us he did, or he'd never been able to tell the sheriff about that map in the first place. I'd feel a lot better if I knew for certain the stage had reached the waystation."

"You and me both."  Adam chewed the inside of his mouth.  He knew from the sheriff, there'd been only two passengers on the outbound stage--his father and brother.  While he knew both were capable of defending themselves, a gunfight with multiple players was a scenario they weren't likely to escape unscathed.  If they'd only received the telegram earlier, they might have covered more ground.  As it was, Rimsmoke was still four days away.

Tamping down his frustration, Adam drew rein.  "We might as well camp here."  Banked by a copse of trees and a sheltering ledge of rock, the site was as serviceable as any other.  Wordlessly, Hoss nodded, and the two men began preparations for the evening.  By the time the horses were unsaddled and groomed--each given a measure of feed--and a small fire built, the shadows had swollen to full-fledged darkness.

Swallowing the last of a lukewarm supper, Hoss set aside a tin plate and retrieved his coffee. Though the liquid was warm, it was oddly bitter.  Grimacing, he tossed the astringent beverage on the ground.  "Never thought I'd have such a strong hankerin' for Pa's coffee."

Adam steepled his cup between his fingers and grinned over the edge.  "Hmm . . . or Little Joe's."

Hoss pursed his lips, scrunching his nose into a wrinkled prune.  "Naw.  That I could do without, though I sure could stand that giggle of his right about now."  Inching down into the cradle of his overturned saddle, Hoss crossed his legs at the ankles and folded his arms across his chest.  He was silent a moment, listening to the thin hiss of the fire as it sang to the night.  After a pause, his eyes swept aside to Adam.  "They can take care of themselves, huh?"

"Sure they can."  Adam tipped his cup to his lips, his expression perfectly neutral.  He watched as Hoss squirmed, judging the validity of the statement.  What must it be like to be able to express that doubt, Adam wondered.  Just once, he wanted to give voice to his own concerns--to have someone console him--but he'd surrendered that opportunity years ago when he'd adopted the mantle of eldest.  It wasn't that he minded his brothers looking up to him, coming to him for reassurance--it was just occasionally he felt the need for encouragement himself.  Inwardly, he fretted for the safety of both father and brother; outwardly he offered a confident roll of his shoulders.  "Knowing Joe, he'd probably pick those robbers off like tin cans, if they got within seventy-five yards of that stage."

Hoss gave a short chuckle.  "Yeah, he's awful good with that six-gun, ain't he?"

"Too good," Adam said, thankful to steer the subject elsewhere.  "And cocky about it, no less."

"Aw, that ain't true!"  Hoss pawed the air with a big hand.  "He only preens over it when he's trying to impress some girl."

Adam gave his brother a pointed look.  "And when isn't he trying to do that?"  The words were no sooner out of his mouth, than he thought of the last girl Joe had impressed with a gun.  It was Lorna David's need of a fast-draw, that had first brought Joe to her attention. As he set his coffee aside, Adam wondered what had become of the dark-haired woman who'd left to live in the east.  He could think of her now without pain, without guilt, but it wasn't so long ago, she'd strung his emotions in a harrowing knot.  Belatedly, he wondered whether Joe could think of her without feeling twisted inside.  "Time to get some sleep," he said to Hoss.  "We can start as soon as it's light.  A lot of the mud damage should be dry by then."

"Yeah."  Tugging his egg-white hat over his brow, Hoss closed his eyes.  He blew air through his teeth, sighing heavily, as he settled for the night.

Adam crawled into his bedroll, drawing the scratchy wool blanket over his shoulder.  Turning on his side, he stared into the flames, watching the hypnotic sway of jewel-bright light.  Closing his eyes, he invited the impression behind his lids--resurrecting the dance of fire within the heavily cloaked veil of his thoughts.

If nothing else, it served as distraction from his own gnawing worry.
 

Waning light made it difficult for Ben to locate the plants he needed.  Most grew in the passage, but a number had been too badly damaged by torrential rains.  One in particular, from which he required the bloom, had been smothered beneath mud and shale, damaging the flower beyond hope of use.  Foraging further than he cared, Ben cast an anxious glance at the deepening sky. The edge was riddled with plum-dark streaks, broken now and again by filtering bands of claret and rose.  Already stars bled through the vast expanse--inducing an opalescent dance of light.  A full moon hugged the horizon, bloated with the wine-reddened flesh of early birth.

Taking a moment to collect his breath, Ben removed his hat and raked nervous fingers through his hair.  He could feel himself weakening, afflicted by the returning tide of his fever. Grimly determined, he pushed forward.  The plants he'd already gathered felt coarse and sticky in his hand. He could feel his palm sweating, heated by the limp bouquet of pungent leaves.  Fearing he'd bruise or damage the herbs, Ben removed the map and carefully wrapped the greenery within.

Once again, he plodded forward, his boots grating over hard rock, then sinking in soft earth--the variance in terrain as striking as the fickle shift of his moods.  One moment he believed he would save Joe; the next he feared doing the wrong thing.  A man not usually given to see-sawing doubts, Ben knew his own illness was at fault for the inconsistency.  The fever continually fogged his thoughts, making him question every decision.

He taken no more than five steps when a sound he feared more than any other, broke over the rugged terrain--the sound of his son screaming.
 

Shadows moved within the darkness--a creeping rustle of that tugged Joe up from the prickly soot of half-sleep.  Blinking, he tried to focus.  His surroundings were like images viewed through cracked glass--off center and watery; backed by a gossamer web of moonlight.

Joe groaned.

"Hello, boy."  The voice was unfamiliar; the tone languid, yet snide.  Joe felt something hovering over him--a presence that exuded poison cloaked in gentility.  Something tracked down the side of his face, cold and shivery, with the kiss of snake-skin.  Slowly his vision settled.

Joe blinked, concentrating on the countenance above him--an alabaster shell with hair like milk. Sharp, slanting features heightened the effect of pale pink eyes.  The coldness slid from his face--the flat edge of a knife retreating.  A soft tsking sound came from the albino.  "You've really gotten yourself into a mess, haven't you, boy?"  The speaker was strangely ageless--chalky flesh lending neither maturity nor youth to the narrow face.  One white hand floated into the air, hovering above Joe's shoulder, before settling on a swollen edge of torn flesh.

Joe gave a quick hitch of breath, instinctively groping for his gun.  The holster was empty.

The albino chuckled.  "Only a fool leaves his enemy with a means of defense."

Joe found his voice.  "I'm not your enemy."

The finger pressed slightly, intruding further into raw flesh.  "That remains to be seen."

Joe blanched.  Spurred by the lethal knife of pain from that small touch, he pushed backwards, his left hand instinctively clamping down on the source of his discomfort.  Muscle popped the length of his forearm.  The albino gave a surprised cry, followed by a vicious curse.  Wrenching his arm free, he pressed the knife, edge first, against Joe's throat.  "I suggest you stay still," he hissed.

Behind him, another man moved in repressed agitation.  "Come on, Arlen.  Just find out where the map is."

Pale lips thinned in mocking disregard.  "You've no patience, Durrell.  You may as well be herded like any other mindless animal."

The man named Durrell frowned.  Physically, he appeared a match for the albino--tall, with a broad chest and rounded features.  Yet there was something about the white-haired man that went beyond physical strength--a malignant presence, almost demonic in nature.  Joe felt the unnatural chill of that rabid spirit sidle into his bones.

Another man moved off to the left--this one short and barrel-chested with sand-colored hair and a coarse beard.  "Durrell's right, Arlen.  We're in this for the map."

"You're in it for the money, Plath.  Don't be so pathetically noble."  Arlen's eyes darted back to Joe. "Go check on Lowry and see if he's found the other one," he instructed the man behind him.  "This boy and I need to continue our conversation."  Once again the white finger dipped to the blood-fouled piece of wood.  "This looks terribly nasty.  I imagine you'd find it excruciatingly unpleasant, if I simply ripped it out."

The more Arlen talked, the more Joe thought the cultured voice seemed staged.  He could feel the light skim of the albino's finger circling the piece of wood--each teasing ripple of movement sending shivers of pain ghosting across his chest.  With effort, Joe controlled the quickened hitch of his breath.  "What do you want?"

Arlen gave a delicate snort.  "Good Lord, haven't you been listening to these simpletons?  Come now boy--" the tip of the knife dropped to the hollow of Joe's throat where it lodged with firm pressure.  "--don't be foolish.  All I want is the map."

The map.  In the pain-laced fog of his mind, it took Joe a moment to realize what the white-haired man was referring to. He couldn't remember what had happened to the map; didn't really care.  Ringgold was fantasy and these men were ready to kill for it--had probably done so in the past. Frantically, Joe tried to remember where Ben had gone.  Had his father taken the map?  He knew once Arlen had what he wanted, their lives were as good as forfeit.  His left hand twitched, unobtrusively brushing a jagged rock near his hip.

"I hid it," he said.

The red eyes narrowed.  "Where?"

Joe pressed his lips together.  He saw the flicker of rage in the albino's eyes--murderous and intense, like a serpent-tail of lightning forking across a desert sky.  It was the only warning Joe had before the knife flicked away from his neck, drawing a splinter of blood.  Arlen hissed in rage. His hand descended, cracking across Joe's face, grinding his cheek into the ground. "Don't make me hurt you, boy.  Tell me where it is."

Behind the albino, Durrell drew his gun.  Joe's eyes passed between the two, before settling with undisguised contempt on Arlen.  Unseen, his fingers curled over the rock.  "What'd you do to Willie Daven?"

The albino was vaguely amused.  "A foolish man to steal from his master.  You didn't know that did you boy--that the map belonged to me?"

"I doubt that."

"I'm dismayed."  The thin lips poised in feigned melancholy.  Arlen made a soft clucking sound.  "You're much too young to be so cynical."

"Quit stalling," Durrell growled.  "Just find out where the blasted map is."

Arlen raised a brow at Joe.  "My associate grows weary.  For that matter, I do too."  One long, spectral finger danced across the wood.  "I'll give you one more chance, Mr. Cartwright.  Where is the map of Ringgold?"

Joe hesitated.  He racked his brain for another stalling tactic, but came up short.  Spurred more by instinct than plan, he lurched forward, releasing the rock like a projectile. Though he gasped at the sudden force of movement, his aim was true, knocking the gun from Durrell's hand.  As the tall man scrambled for the weapon, Joe threw his weight into Arlen, bowling him aside.  Blinded by pain, he groped for the gun, fingers coming up short when Arlen unexpectedly wrenched him
backwards.

Joe's back was slammed against the ground, all the breath waffling upward through his lungs. Granulated light danced before his eyes, meshing with the grotesquely distorted lines of Arlen's narrow face.  The world reeled at a sickening angle, spiraling in an elongated bubble over his head.  Joe fought back from the staggering sense of vertigo, frantically groping for the albino's hand.  Gasping, he fought for breath, the struggle building abrasive pressure in his lungs.  He felt a hand cuff his face; the sharp point of a knee jab into his abdomen.  His own fist connected with milk-white flesh, and then there was only liquid agony as Arlen's hand closed over the protruding shaft of wood and wrenched upwards.

Joe screamed.

The wood came free with a sickening plop--cold air and blood mingling with a whip-edged stream of fire.  The heat knifed down into his stomach, gouging his abdomen, then curling back into his throat.  Joe rolled on to his side and vomited.

Blood saturated his shirt and jacket; tracked sticky fingers over his back.  Darkness swallowed him, pushing into his throat and lungs, then expelling him in a world of raw agony.  Trying to make that punishment as small as possible, Joe folded in on himself, wrapping his arms over his stomach, drawing his knees to his chest.  He wallowed in blood--the very scent of life-draining liquid, conjuring more acid in his stomach.  He could hear voices rumbling in agitation; another, vaguely familiar, raised in alarm.  He clung to the thread of that voice--the same that had comforted him through the years.

He wanted it to chase away the pain and the darkness--to soothe the fear that told him he was dying.  His breath came quick and short, labored in the harrowing shell of his misery.  He flinched from the touch on his shoulder--tried to jerk away from fingers that applied a pressure-bandage to the wound.

"Joseph, be still."

He heard the voice again--the only stabilizing influence in his personal hell.  His lips moved, parting without sound, until at last, one syllable trembled on the air: ". . . Pa . . ."

Joe fainted.
 

"That's enough, old man."

Ben knew the voice belonged to the albino.  It had been almost an hour since he'd returned to camp, summoned by the coarse horror of Joe's scream.  An hour in which his captors had allowed him to care for his son--silently watching as he attempted to staunch the profuse flow of blood with a poultice of herbs and a thick wad of pressure bandages.

With a glance over his shoulder, Ben trained his face in a carefully schooled mask.  Inwardly, he could still hear the sound of Joe's scream as it rebounded through the darkness.  That cry had pierced his flesh--tearing him with claws, unlike any, man or beast possessed.  Rising slowly to his feet, Ben faced the albino.

"My son needs a doctor."

"Your son'll be lucky if he lives."  That callous retort came from the man who'd earlier drawn down on Ben, when he'd hastily approached the camp--a gunslinger known simply as Lowry.  Thin-lipped, with an angular face and long-legged stride, he seemed as heartlessly cold-blooded as Arlen.

"You told me you'd let me care for him," Ben protested to Arlen.

The albino scraped one fish-white nail over his chin.  He rolled his shoulders in an impassive shrug.  "He's all yours, as long as we get the map."

Ben knelt at the side of his unconscious son.  The amount of blood Joe had lost, left his skin with the appearance of paper--thin and translucent with a wax-like pallor.  Though he'd been astute enough to conceal the map inside his boot before returning to camp, Ben knew surrendering the prize would sentence both he and Joe to instant death.  The only way to keep his son alive, was to make the albino believe they were worth something.

Lightly stroking his hand over Joe's forehead, he addressed the man behind him.  "I don't have it."

He could feel glances being exchanged--Arlen, Lowry and the man called Plath.  The other--Durrell--was further back, guarding the perimeter.  A pause lengthened and grew.  Arlen's voice cut through the darkness, as steely and cold as the blade of a knife: "Don't make me lose patience, Mr. Cartwright.  Your son said he hid it."

"My son said that to stay alive."  Ben rose to his full height, squaring his shoulders, his dark eyes glittering with undisguised enmity.  "I don't have the map, Arlen--I destroyed it.  It's there, in the ashes." A nod of his head indicated the charred remains of the camp fire.

Lowry sputtered, nearly choking on the whuff of air that left his lungs. "Didcha hear that, Arlen? Didcha hear what the fool said?  He burned the map!"  The tall man was practically spitting,  his eyes widening in panicky incredulity.

With apparent disinterest, Arlen waved the statement aside.  A thin smile touched the corner of his mouth as he contemplated Ben.  "Mr. Cartwright, your value grows exceedingly thin--not to mention the rapidly dwindling merit of your son."

Ben had expected as much.  "Don't worry, Arlen.  Help me get my son to a doctor and I'll see you to Ringgold."  He tapped one finger against his temple.  "The path is in my head."

Plath guffawed.  "He ain't bright, is he, Arlen?"

"No.  He's beyond bright--he's calculating."  For the first time, Arlen's lips turned in an irritated scowl.  Something deadly entered his pale eyes.  "I don't like games, Mr. Cartwright.  Be warned, your son's worth is minimal. He's already cost me one man in the pursuit.  It was his bullet that killed Farrow."

"You don't seem the mourning kind," Ben said flatly.

Arlen inclined his head.  "Touche.  But if I were you, I'd worry more about your son than my convention with grief.  See me to Ringgold, and I'll allow the boy to live."

"A doctor--"

"--is not part of the deal." The albino's voice had lost it's feigned benevolence, replaced by lethal hostility.  "In the morning, you and I, along with Plath and Lowry, will depart for Ringgold.  Durrell will remain here with your son.  See us to the hidden city, and I'll allow you to return to the boy."

Ben moistened his lips. "Joseph won't last that long.  He's lost too much blood."

Arlen smiled coldly.  "Then I suggest you pray."  The words signaled an abrupt end to the conversation.  The finality was heard in the last ringing syllable as Arlen turned and walked slowly away.  Plath hesitated, his indecision brief, before obediently following in his master's footsteps.  With a snide smile, Lowry retreated a few paces, squatting down by a tree to maintain vigil through the night.  Left alone, Ben needed no further coercing to return to his son.

Kneeling at Joe's side, he carefully checked the thick wadding of bandages he'd applied to the wound.  Though it had suffered greater trauma on entry, the hole in Joe's back bled little compared to the ragged laceration beneath his right shoulder.  That area had born the brunt of the foreign object, swelling with infection--the skin growing cankerous as minutes slipped into hours.  Ben had pressed the compress so far into the wound, he knew the folded cloth impinged the cavity itself.  He could smell the odor of sour flesh, mingled with the thin reek of vomit clinging to his son's clothing.  Turning to rummage in the bags he'd retrieved from the stage, Ben collected his heavy coat and draped it over Joe.

His son moaned softly.

"Ssh, Joe . . . "  Ben threaded his fingers into the silken hair.  He adjusted the folded vest still pillowing his son's head, attempting to make him as comfortable as possible.  Joe's eyelids fluttered open.

"Pa?"

"Be still," the older man admonished.  The glazed look in his son's eyes told him Joe was only half coherent.  Turning his hand against the smooth skin of his son's cheek, Ben let his fingers sweep downward in a slow caress.  "Joe, I don't know how much you can understand--" Ben kept his voice low, his back turned, effectively blocking his son from Lowry's view.  "I've got to go with these men tomorrow--convince them I know where Ringgold is.  As soon as I can get away, I'll
circle back--"

With effort, Joe turned his head.  " . . . No.  Go with . . ."

"Joe--"

"Pa, you can't."  Joe's voice rose slightly.  "Not alone."  Grimacing, he struggled to sit.Immediately, his face contorted--blood draining from pasty flesh beneath the staggering influx of sheer agony.  Panting, Joe fell back against the ground.  His right hand dangled useless; his left frantically clawing at his shoulder, trying to rip away the soiled bandages.

"No."  Ben caught his wrist, easily pinning his arm across his stomach.

In his weakened state, Joe offered little resistance.  His chest rose and fell with the labored wheeze of his breath. "They'll kill you."

Ben's fingers constricted over the fine bones in his son's wrist.  Joe's pulse fluttered beneath his fingertips--a thin thread attesting to life.  As battered as he was, Joe's first thought was still for his father. That realization brought a tightness to Ben's chest that had nothing to do with fever or pain.  "I can take care of myself," he replied.  Reaching for the coat, he tugged it closer to his son's throat, adjusting it like a blanket.  "You have to get some sleep, Little Joe.  Don't worry about these men."

"No . . ."  Despite his efforts to resist, Joe's eyelids drooped shut.  With effort he dragged his left arm from beneath the coat.  It was difficult to think--hard to concentrate on anything but the multi-layered levels of pain pulsing through his shoulder and back.  His fingers slid over Ben's sleeve, lodging in the crook of his arm. His head was spinning; a sound like rushing water creating tumult within his ears.  Plagued by light-headedness and a badgering resurgence of nausea, Joe groaned deep in his throat. "Don't go," he pleaded, intending the supplication to keep his father from departing in the morning.  But Ben read present need into the quavering words.

"Son, I won't leave you," he promised, stroking his fingers down the side of Joe's face.  "I'll stay with you through the night."

The water rushed up over Joe's head, pulling him down into soft, murky depths.  He floated for a moment, vaguely aware of his father's touch; the velvety tone of his voice.  Then the water became a roar, tangled with the gloating shriek of a witch-wind, and sensation shriveled into emptiness.
 

Adam woke when dawn was still a whisper of peach on the horizon.  Shrugging aside his dew-soaked blanket, he rose stiffly to his feet, taking a moment to stretch and work the knotted kinks from his shoulders and back.  Across the remains of a cold campfire, Hoss snored softly, his ten gallon hat pulled low over his eyes.

Watching his brother, Adam was reminded of another Cartwright who could sleep most anywhere. Joe had an uncanny knack for curling up like a cat, and making himself comfortable in the unlikeliest of places.  Right now, he was no doubt nuzzled in some welcoming cot in a waystation, while he and Hoss fretted unnecessarily over his well-being.

Adam scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble of beard beneath his fingertips.  He needed a bath and a shave; a hot meal and soft bed.  Each new image made him yearn for the hour when the matter would be resolved and they were all safely back at the Ponderosa.  He needed the routine of chores and work--the mundane passage of day-to-day existence, carefully holding his world in balance.  "Come on, Hoss," he said, giving his brother a light kick.  "Wake up."

Hoss grunted and rolled onto his side.  Adam raked a hand through his hair, already anxious to be under way.  He'd slept fitfully last night, dreaming of his father and brother at the mercy of stage robbers.  Foolishness, in all likelihood, but he couldn't shake the images that plagued him. "Hoss, come on."

This time the big man blinked, coming groggily awake.  Bleary-eyed, he stared up at Adam. "What is it?"

"It's morning," Adam supplied simply.  "Come on, get up.  We've got to get moving."

Once he knew Hoss was awake and stirring, Adam set about preparing a quick breakfast.  A short time later, they were mounted and underway, guided by the pastel light of half-dawn.

"How much ground do you think we'll cover?"  Hoss asked after they'd been riding for awhile. He glanced aside at his brother, noting the rigid set of his jaw.  At first Adam didn't answer, immersed in the bower of his own thoughts.  At last he shrugged.

"We'll make good time.  A lot better than the stage.  With any luck we'll reach the Flatrock Waystation tonight."

Hoss calculated the miles in his head.  They'd already ridden one full day, and were probably averaging close to double the distance on horseback.  Flatrock was the third waystation on the trek from Rimsmoke to Virginia City.  With any luck--assuming the stage hadn't encountered problems--they would cross paths tomorrow night.  Two more days of riding and he would know how his father and younger brother fared.  "They're gonna be okay," he said to Adam, mostly because he needed to hear the words himself.

"Sure they are," Adam responded quickly.  Too quickly.  They'd faced adversity before; been in worse situations then this.  His father had built an empire, facing down Indians, bandits and cutthroats in the process.  Why then, did Adam have such an inborn sense of foreboding about this latest threat?

He swallowed thickly, surprised to find his mouth dry.  Overhead, the sun unraveled like a ball of twine, streaking buttery light across the sky.  The wind blew from the east, carrying with it, the scent of a new day--wet grass and shale; puddles of blue shade.  "Joe might be impulsive, but Pa's level-headed.  Even if something did happen, they'd see their way free of it.  The sheriff's probably already caught up with them by now."

Hoss gave a soft snort of laughter.  "Yeah.  All this ridin' and Pa will be upset we left the ranch to come looking for him."

Adam gave a quick smile, hoping his nervousness didn't convey.  They were both playing games--talking positives while thinking negatives.  Already Adam could feel a tightness in his belly--a gnawing sense of dread that made him contemplate life without father or brother. Ben was so much a part of himself--an extension of his own existence--he would surely wither and die if anything happened to his father.

And what of the brother he had helped raise, sometimes going so far as to assume the role of surrogate father?  As different as he and Joe were in temperament, they were bound by ties deeper than blood.  The doe-eyed child had grown into an impulsive, emotionally-complex man, dragging him, bristling and protesting, along for the ride.  The child had worshiped him.  The man frequently enraged him.

Adam grimaced.

He would give his right arm to experience that torment now.
 

"Joseph.  Joseph, can you hear me?"  Ben's voice held a sliver of panic when his unconscious son didn't respond.  Pressing his hand to Joe's cheek, he ignored the man hovering at his back.  The skin beneath his touch was fevered, blistering with heat.  Reaching aside for a canteen and a strip of cloth, Ben poured water onto the torn material, then drew the moistened rag over Joe's face.  Though his son stirred, moaning softly, he never opened his eyes.

"We've wasted enough time, old man," Lowry growled at his back.  He shifted restlessly, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he fidgeted impatiently.  Behind his shoulder, the sun splattered waxy light on jagged rock, comprising snaking mountain passages.

Ben bit down on his lip, holding his temper in check.  "His fever's risen. If I don't get his temperature down, he may die."

Lowry drew his gun. "If you don't get moving, I'll fix it so you won't have to worry.  The kid's expendable, Cartwright.  You get this trek underway, or I'll put a bullet in him right now."

Slowly Ben rose to his feet.  A short distance away, he heard Arlen chuckle.  "I'm afraid Lowry is the restless sort, Mr. Cartwright.  It isn't wise to upset him."  He gave an indulgent stretch of his lips.  "Durrell will look after your son."

Off to the side, Durrell grunted, clearly unsatisfied with the role of nursemaid.  Presently lacking for options, Ben shoved the canteen at the red-haired man.  "Keep cool compresses on his skin, and see that he gets plenty of water."  He stalked towards the horses, sensing when the others fell in behind him.  He didn't want to think of his son, injured and alone with one of his tormentors. He would have to find a way back quickly for Joe's sake.  Perhaps, once beyond the camp . . .

Ben let the thought trail away.  The others were mounting now, and he was directed towards the horse belonging to the man Joe had killed.  Belatedly, he wondered what had happened to the horses from the stage.  No doubt Arlen's band had turned them loose, intending them to run wild.  Stepping up into the saddle, Ben cast one last glance across the camp, his eyes settling on the thin form cradled beneath an outcropping of rock.  Joe seemed so frail--his body pale and still; clothing torn and caked with blood.

He swallowed hard and grasped the reins.  Somehow, he would find a way back.  Somehow, he would get his son to a doctor.

Joe was much too young to die so senselessly, his only aide, that of an aloof observer.
 

Ben mopped one hand across his brow, effectively concealing the tremor in his fingers. The morning sun was at his back, spreading heated thorns over his neck--conjuring spikes of light-headedness from a low-grade fever.  It had been over twenty-four hours since he'd eaten anything, that lack of sustenance no doubt at fault for the bouts of dizziness that threatened to tumble him from the saddle. Around him, the narrow mountain passages snaked between  monolithic pillars of rock, disappearing into shadowed canyons and still ravines.  Ben wondered how much longer it would be before Arlen's men grew impatient with his seemingly aimless path.  Already it neared noon and he gave no indication of ending the trek.

"That's enough, Cartwright."  Drawing abreast, Lowry reached across his saddle and snagged Ben's reins, wrenching the older man to a halt.  "You're leading us to the next waystation."

"I'm leading you to Ringgold.  It happens to be on the way to Flatrock."  Though Ben's voice was clipped, his gaze direct, inwardly he cursed.  He had hoped by taking a path through lesser trails, Arlen's group would fail to realize they were headed to a source of possible rescue. With any luck, there would be medical supplies at the waystation and a wagon to fetch Joe. Half turning in the saddle, he glanced back at Arlen.  "We need to go about another five miles, then drop down out of the passes to the flats.  After that, we look for a crossroads and a scrub of pines--" He was making it up as he went, sketching a path from memory.  He'd made the journey to Rimsmoke enough times to become familiar with the land. Though the map of Ringgold remained tucked within his boot, he knew none of the markings coincided with the surrounding terrain.  Briefly, he considered admitting that--simply handing over the map and taking his chances.  But as quickly as the thought surfaced, it was quelled beneath reason.  To surrender the map would ensure his death and the death of his son.  He arched a brow at the albino.  "Well?  What's it going to be?"

Urging his horse forward, Arlen drew rein beside Ben.  A wide-brimmed hat was tucked low over his hair, sheltering pale skin and sensitive eyes from the hot summer sun.  "We'll continue, Mr. Cartwright, but I'd remind you what's at stake here.  That boy at camp isn't going anywhere, if you fail me.  Rest assured, I can make his last remaining minutes on this earth, extremely unpleasant."

Ben's mouth thinned in a white line.  His hands tightened over the reins, knuckles bleaching white beneath the pressure.  He saw the albino grin, apparently satisfied for having struck the proper nerve.  Ben gave an agitated dip of his head, acknowledging the other's authority.  He knew the albino had no intention of releasing him or his son.  If he really did know the way to Ringgold and led them to the hidden city, he'd be dead the moment he crossed the threshold.  No--he'd have to bide his time and plot the best moment to make a break.  On the other side of the flats he could lead the group to a trap. There was that tricky stretch of land where the ground seemed to fold in on itself--the ragged stretch of trees, so thick and intertwined day faded to night within its boundaries.  He'd always been careful to avoid it, due to the ease with which a man could become lost.  Now, it beckoned like a haven. If Arlen let him continue at his current pace, they'd reach it shortly after twilight.

The albino inclined his head.  "It's your lead, Mr. Cartwright.  Don't disappoint me."

Ben spurred his horse forward.  "This way."  Behind him, the others fell in--Arlen unhurried and elegant, Lowry scowling heavily; Plath trotting like a puppy on his master's heels.

With a glance at the sky, Ben said a silent prayer for his son's safety.
 

The crippling patchwork of needles in his shoulder, dragged Joe back to consciousness.  Thick lashes drew back to reveal pearlescent leaf-green eyes.  Blinking, he tried to summon the scattered threads of his memory.  A moan slipped from his lips as the pain spiked down his arm, embedding in his fingertips.  "Pa--?"

The name brought a chuckle--an insidious mixture of arrogance and amusement.  "Your Pa ain't here, kid.  Arlen dragged him off to find Ringgold.  It's just you and me, and it's getting mighty boring."  A shadow moved across Joe's face.  Glancing up, he saw Durrell's tall form backlit by a coil of champagne-gold light.  The man's features were obscured by a puddle of blue shade, his silhouette creating a paper-doll cutout against the sun.

"Ringgold?"  Joe tried to make sense of the word--tried to remember why it was of importance;  why his father had left him.  Thoughts moved through his mind like paste, each one slower than the next.  Frowning, he watched Durrell raise a canteen to his mouth, indulging in a long swallow of water.

Joe wet his lips.  " . . . thirsty . . ."

"Too bad."  Durrell spilled water into his hand and splashed it over his neck.  When he was done, he drove the stopper home and cast the canteen a few feet away.  "You thirsty, you crawl.  Get your own water, boy.  I ain't no nursemaid."

Turning on his heel, he strode to the center of camp, where he bent over his bedroll, lazily spreading the blanket across the ground.  Craning his head, Joe tried to gauge the distance to the canteen.  It was only a few feet away.  His mouth was dry and his throat ached--each swallow a cruel thorn that sent slivers of pain splintering down his neck.  His head throbbed, driving hot nails behind his eyes.  The thought of water soothing all that torment was too much to endure.

Wedging his left arm beneath him, Joe tried to push off on his elbow.  Immediately, a blinding wave of dizziness drove darkness against his eyes.  He felt himself growing light-headed and struggled to fend off the vertigo.  Eventually it receded, replaced by a renewed hammering in his temples.  He couldn't feel his right arm, limp and useless at his side, but his shoulder was a knot of searing fire, trickling whip-like lashes across his back.  Biting down on his lip to stifle a cry, Joe used his feet to push himself forward. Slowly he moved closer to the canteen, each grueling inch an exercise in sheer agony.

When he was still a few feet away, Joe collapsed against the soil, his breath coming in ragged gasps.  He could feel fresh blood trickling across his chest; the pull of dried bandages against lacerated flesh.  The reek of blood, sweat and vomit clung to his clothes--the very scent making him choke down bile.  Twisting, he stretched out his arm and tried to reach the canteen.  Nearly whimpering with effort, he strained until his hand brushed the edge--the contact sheer bliss against his heated fingertips.

"Oh, no you don't."  Durrell appeared from nowhere, quickly snatching the canteen away.  Dazed, to have his hard-won prize ripped so suddenly from his grasp, Joe stared up at his grinning adversary.  Very deliberately, Durrell uncorked the flask and took a savoring gulp.  "Ah!" Smacking his lips together, he replaced the stopper and looped the canteen through his belt, clearly enjoying the game.  "Don't look so devastated, kid.  You ain't gonna die from lack of water for a couple more days."

Joe tried to make his tongue move.  "I need . . ."

"Yeah, I know what you need."  Squatting at his side, Durrell let the canteen dangle within reach of Joe's left hand. Laughing, he pawed aside the younger man's feeble attempt to grasp the item.  "You really want this, don'tcha?"  Raising the object, he rocked it in his hand, coaxing a loud gurgle from the  flask.  "What about my buddy, Farrow, huh?  He didn't have no water when your bullet took him.  Fact is, he didn't have much of a chance at all."

Joe tried to sit forward.  Still chuckling, Durrell jabbed him in the wounded shoulder, viciously shoving him back to the ground.  A horrid cry wrenched from Joe's lips, what little color he had, draining from his face.

Durrell smirked, enjoying his torment.  "You're really hurtin', ain't you, boy?  Why, if I was of a mind, I bet I could have you beggin' for mercy, jest by rippin' that ratty 'ole bandage off your shoulder.  That would hurt like the devil, for sure."

The very thought of what the man proposed to do to him, made Joe go weak in the knees.  His stomach constricted, sending a prickly wave of nausea sweeping through him from head to toe.  He doubted he could survive further abuse to his shoulder, and knew he needed to think quick if he wanted to live.  "At least . . . I won't die a fool," he gasped.

"Fool?"  Durrell's nickel-gray eyes narrowed in sudden irritation.  "You've got a parcel of daring for calling me a fool, kid.  Ain't you got any sense in that girl-pretty head of yours?"

"Sense enough . . .to know . . . Arlen's cut you out--"

"Cut me out!" Truly incensed, Durrell snatched the front of Joe's jacket and yanked him upright. Crying aloud, Joe sagged in his grip, his body consumed by molten knives of pain.  "Cut me out how?"  A hand cracked across Joe's face.  "I ain't foolin', boy.  You talk to me and talk fast."

Joe's shoulder was on fire, his head reeling beneath the punishing conflagration of agony. Gasping, he tried to focus.  Durrell's face was inches from his own--rounded features pinched in concentration, his skin mottled with the dangerous flush of rage.  "Do you really think, Arlen has any intention of coming back?"  Joe managed the sentence with effort. "Once he finds Ringgold . . . he'll cut you loose . . . without hesitation.  Face it, Durrell.  He's left you holding the bag."

It took a moment for the realization to strike.  Joe watched as it filtered into Durrell's dull eyes, the stygian debts firing with sudden ardor.  "You're lying!" he spat.  Shoving Joe aside, he rose to his feet, his movements jerky and uncertain.  Rage boiled over his face.  Balling his hands into fists, he stood looking down on the injured man, murderous light in his eyes.  "You're lying!"  he screamed.  Drawing his leg back he drove his boot into Joe's side.  The other folded in half, corkscrewing beneath the sudden explosion of pain.  A tortured moan slipped from his lips, despite his best efforts to halt the cry.  Durrell seemed oblivious to his pain.  Grumbling beneath his breath, he stalked away.

Unaware that he'd gained a reprieve, Joe huddled in on himself.  He tensed, waiting for further punishment, but none was forthcoming.  Half senseless, he funneled in and out of consciousness, each brief waking moment laden with agony.  After a time, a gruff hand hooked beneath his left arm and partially wrenched him to his feet.  Torn from the murky cocoon of darkness, Joe awoke with a scream.

"Come on, Cartwright."  Durrell practically dragged him, pulling him from the outcropping of rock to the base to a slender tree.  Released, Joe crumbled at the trunk, eyes rolling back into his head.  Leaving him to lay on his side, Durrell grabbed his arms and pulled them around the tree, binding his wrists on the opposite side.  The abusive handling of his right arm, brought Joe violently awake.  He sucked down a ragged breath.

"Ohgod--" Striving to ease the torturous pressure on his right side, Joe got his left arm underneath him and scrunched up on his elbow.  The painful stretch of his right arm was exacting a toll, sending a barrage of convulsive shudders through his body.  His chest rose and fell with the heightened rush of pain-quickened breath.  Digging his boots into the soil, he used his legs for leverage and pushed back against the tree.  Finally his cheek scraped against coarse bark, the abrasive touch as blissful as smooth silk.  With his left shoulder propped against the trunk, his right arm now lax at his side, Joe hung his head.  Sweat dripped into his eyes.

Durrell chuckled.  "You know boy, I think I'd like to prolong your agony after all."  With a dismissive toss, he threw the canteen next to Joe's legs.  "Go 'head--drink up.  Tied to that tree, you ain't going anywhere.  If the wolves and coyotes don't get you, that hole through your back will do it soon enough."  A malignant smile stretched Durrell's pulpy lips.  "Time'll come, you'll be wishin' I'd killed you."

Lost in a web of pain, Joe barely heard the words.  He felt Durrell retreat.  Moments later, he roused at the clipped echo of hooves, heralding his tormentor's departure. His strength spent, Joe closed his eyes, welcoming the cold, gray shroud of unconsciousness.
 

He didn't know how many times he awoke; remembered brief flashes of pain and light.  Once he'd roused long enough to drag the canteen to his lips and swallow a few greedy mouthfuls of water. His left side was stiff; the muscles constricted into protesting knots.  Still, the only way to ease the pain on his right shoulder was to keep his left pressed to the slender trunk. The resulting position introduced new needles of torture to his lower back and legs.  Joe awoke with a groan, the sky overhead silvered with the settling dust of twilight.  A cool breeze blew across his battered face, drying the sweat on his brow.

Drawing an uneven breath, Joe hung his head.  Vainly, he strove to silence the putrid churning of his stomach.  He didn't think he had anything left inside, but within moments the water he'd consumed earlier, came rushing back through his throat.  Trembling with the force of his retching, Joe crumbled against the tree, his whole body convulsing with the effort to empty his stomach.

The abuse was more than he could bear.  Pain spiked through his shoulder, digging ruby-red claws into his back. With a startled cry, Joe tumbled into unconsciousness.  Awaking, hours later, he found the sky a jet canvas--the vast expanse studded with the onion-pale light of countless stars.

Shivering in the grip of sudden cold, Joe roused and blinked at his surroundings.  "Pa, where are you . . ?"  The words trembled from his lips, faint as the first snowflakes of winter.  With sudden dread, Joe realized his father had departed with Arlen and the others, possibly never to return.  The albino had no use for Ben Cartwright once he located the fabled city of Ringgold.

Choking back a cry, Joe made himself sit straighter.  "Got . . . to . . . help you . . ." Grimacing against the pain, Joe dragged his bound wrists against the tree.  The cherry-red surge of fire in his shoulder threatened to render him unconscious, but he bowed his head against the trunk, drawing deep, steadying breaths until the dizziness passed.  Slowly, he worked the coarse rope against gnarled bark.

Three swipes of his wrists and he had to stop for breath.  Grinding his teeth together, he began the slow, monotonous task over again.  This time he managed five passes, but crumbled weakly when the final effort produced no magical loosening of his restraints.  Sweat trickled from his hair, slanting spider-thin trails across his cheek and jaw.  He could feel a similar wetness on his back, but had no idea if it was blood or sweat.

With grim determination, Joe knew the only way to free himself would be to force greater resistance to the rope.  "Pa . . . please be all right . . ."  Wedging his hip against the tree, Joe angled his body, applying pressure to his right arm.  Immediately, the rope snapped taut, wrenching an agonized cry from his lips.   Panting, he scraped the rope over the bark. Once again he crumbled, unable to withstand the battering assault.

" . . . 'kay . . . come on . . ."  He was talking to himself now, mumbling with near incoherency, as his senses reeled from mind-shredding pain.  Angling his body a second time, Joe stretched the rope against the bark. Gasping, he dragged the hemp binding against the tree--digging his boot heel into the earth, so that he was locked in that position of torture.

Joe screamed.  Words tumbled from his lips--pleas for mercy; assurances that he could survive; curses for perceived weakness. Over and over he cried aloud, refusing to succumb to the pain.  Patches of blackness danced before his eyes; blood ribboned from his shoulder and still he persisted.  At last the rope snapped--casting him backwards against the earth with unexpected violence.

Joe grunted at the impact.  Dazed, he allowed the darkness to swallow him in a tomb-like embrace.
 

"I don't like it," Lowry said.

Arlen was silent a moment, studying the twisted mesh of intertwining branches.  Shifting, he glanced aside at Ben.  "There's no city in that wretched tangle of trees."

"True," Ben said carefully.  Before them lay the darkened copse he'd always been careful to avoid on his journeys to Rimsmoke.  A ragged patch of wilderness, jutting like a cankerous forest on the edge of the flatlands, the area presented the perfect opportunity to elude his captors.  He tried not to appear too eager. "Ringgold lies on the other side."

"Then we go around it," Plath said from behind.  In the pewter web of twilight, his eyes appeared as empty sockets in the doughy mask of his face.  Dragging ragged nails over his beard, he glanced hopefully at the albino.  "Ain't that right, Arlen--we go around?"

Leisurely the albino removed his hat, dusting an elegant hand through his milky hair.  Beneath the pale glow of emerging moonlight, his skin was transparent--fine blue veins visible beneath the alabaster flesh.  His eyes slid to the side, white lashes dipping in cool appraisal.  "How long to go around?" he asked Ben.

Once again, Ben tried to keep his reply neutral.  "Two days, maybe longer.  To go around would bring us within minutes of the waystation."

"And you don't want to go there?"  Arlen's voice lilted up, indicating he found the avoidance suspicious.  His gaze remained on Ben, measuring his reaction.  When the other kept his face impassive, his glance direct, Arlen settled on a thin smile.  "You are a trying man, Mr. Cartwright. If I find you're leading me on a goosechase, I'll feed your innards to the buzzards."  The colorless lips curled, settling into a skeletal grin.  "But that doesn't worry you does it . . . Pa?" He chuckled, the sound as cold as the silver light in the sky.  "Now, the fate of young Joseph, that's another matter entirely.  Such a handsome lad.  I've carved men up before, but never one quite so pretty."

"Arlen--" Ben said tightly.

The laughter continued, snide this time.  "We understand one another, don't we, Mr. Cartwright?"

"Better than you think."

"I still don't like it," Lowry snapped.  "It's dark as the crypt in there.  Ain't no way to find a path through that mess."

Arlen sighed, burdened unjustly with fools.  "We wait until daybreak.  This is as good a place as any to make camp.  You and Plath take care of things, but be certain to secure our guest first." The albino's eyes settled lightly on Ben, the touch almost tangible for its malicious intent.  "I wouldn't want him vanishing during the night, when we're so close to the prize."

"All right," Lowry grumbled.  Dismounting, he motioned for Ben to do the same.

Much later, his back supported by a tree, his arms bound behind the trunk, Ben watched his captors move idly about their camp.  Tomorrow he would lead the trio into the dense thicket, setting his plan into motion.  Plath would be easy to lose among the tangle of trees and brush, but Lowry and Arlen would require precise handling. The albino in particular made Ben nervous.  While Lowry might prove a formidable opponent, he was of familiar stock.  Ben had faced similar men before--skilled, but predictable.  Arlen, on the other hand was an unknown factor--the myriad layers of his personality making him a deadly opponent.

"Here--" The albino appeared suddenly at his side, a plate of beans and bread in his bone-white hands.  "I need you healthy tomorrow," he said tonelessly, squatting down beside Ben.  "Time to eat."

"Untie me," Ben insisted.

Arlen's gaze grew mocking.  "You must think I'm a fool, Mr. Cartwright.  Either that, or a very trusting man."  He scraped beans onto a spoon and offered it to Ben.  "Rest assured, I'm neither."

Because he was hungry and because he needed his strength if he was to help Joe, Ben accepted the offering.  He allowed Arlen to feed him, refusing to yield beneath the arrogant gaze of the albino.  The administrations continued in silence for some time.

"Your son's very important to you, isn't he?"

Arlen's casual question caught Ben off guard.  He'd just swallowed the last piece of bread, glad to have the humiliating meal finished.   Startled, he gazed up as the albino set the empty plate aside. Reaching for a cup of coffee, Arlen tipped the tin mug to Ben's lips.  The older man swallowed briefly, then drew back.  "What do you think, Arlen?" he said at last.

Despite the pale hue of his near-colorless eyes, Arlen's glance was dark.  "I think you'd do just about anything to save him.  Including lie."

Ben ignored the pointed threat.  "He's my son."

"Yes, he is.  And I want you to think very hard about how much he means to you, because finding Ringgold means the same to me."  Unwinding like a cat, the albino rose gracefully to his feet.  He stood staring down at Ben, his face a carefully controlled mask.  Behind the impassiveness, Ben could see a hint of vulgar savagery--a cold, genteel evil, more deadly for it's cloak of elegance.

His pale eyes as empty as the sky, the albino turned and left Ben to the unsettled string of his thoughts.
 

Hoss yawned, tiredly rubbing his red-rimmed eyes.  He and Adam had traveled late last night, continuing even after darkness descended.  They'd arrived at the Flatrock Waystation shortly after twilight, but had elected to continue on, after securing fresh horses.  The smooth terrain of the flatlands made riding easy, affording the chance to continue by moonlight.  Rising early, after only a brief sleep, and opting for a less-than-safe shortcut across a swollen river, had saved considerable time.  At their present rate, they would reach the edge of the mountainous country by late afternoon.

"We'll be coming up on that thicket," Adam said over his shoulder, addressing his sleepily nodding brother.  Hoss grunted and stirred, bringing himself wide awake.

"You mean Witch Wood?"

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Adam allowed himself a small grin.  In all the years the Cartwrights had been making the journey to Rimsmoke, both Hoss and Joe had kept a wide berth around the festering tangle of trees, they'd unofficially dubbed "Witch Wood."  "That's the one," Adam said, momentarily enjoying the flicker of anxiety on his brother's face.  As big as he was, Hoss still quaked at anything he considered unnatural.

"Hey, Adam--you don't think Pa and Joe would hide out in those woods if they were being chased, do you?"

"They might."  The more he considered the possibility, the more Adam saw it as solid reasoning.  "There's no tracks to indicate much of anything yet, but we might find something closer to the mountain side of the flats."

Hoss's head bobbed in agreement.  "Sure wish I'd knew if the sheriff from Rimsmoke caught up with them."  Scowling, Hoss chewed on the inside of his lower lip.  Arriving at the Flatrock Waystation had left both he and Adam in an anxious frame of mind.  They'd hoped to find the stage safely  there ahead of them, but upon arrival, found it overdue.  No word or wire had been forthcoming, making Adam and Hoss think the coach was lost somewhere among the high mountain passes bordering Rimsmoke.

"How much further to the thicket?"  Hoss asked.

Adam glanced at the sky, gauging the path of the steadily climbing sun.  "Three hours should do it.  It'll be good to have the sun overhead in case we need to search.  I seem to recall it being pretty dark, even during the day."

"Yeah."  Hoss swallowed uneasily.  Once on a dare, Joe had coerced him into venturing among the trees, where he'd become lost for hours.  When he'd finally blundered free, he had to cool his ire, and wait in line while his father reprimanded his younger brother.  Hoss's lips curled at the memory.  Joe had been just sixteen then, and he hadn't sat comfortably for two days. Sighing, Hoss shook his head.  What he wouldn't give to have his silver-tongued brother coercing him now!

Kicking his heels to his horse's sides, Hoss urged the steed forward.  "Hey, Adam, let's speed it up, huh?  If we're gonna go trapesin''' through the Witch Wood, I'd as soon get it over with."

Increasing his speed, Adam fell in behind Hoss.  He seriously doubted his brother's sudden haste had anything to do with the dark thicket of trees--leaning lower of the back of his sorrel, Adam felt the lash of the horse's mane against his face--it had everything to do with family.
 

Ben felt the moist coolness of the wood close around him the moment he ventured within the murky depths.  Here, shadows slid between the closely intertwined trees, puddles of velvety umbrage strewn like fog across the leaf-blanketed ground. The air was ripe with the pungent scent of dark earth; the sweet, heady musk of decay.  Each ripple of wind brought a shiver of breath not unlike a softly uttered sigh.

Immediately upon entering, Ben sensed Lowry's nervousness, underscored by Plath's near-tangible fright.  Only Arlen remained unmoved, his pale face set in a composed, aloof mask. "How much further?"  the albino asked after they'd been traveling for almost two hours.

With a glance over his shoulder, Ben calculated the distance between himself and the other three. "Another hour, at least."  He ducked his head to avoid a low hanging branch.  The trees pressed together, draped by distorting shadows, bloated to night-like density.  As soon as he was clear of the obstruction, Ben gave a loud haw! spurring his horse to frantic movement.  Already jittery from the confining obstruction of the wood, the animal lurched forward, bolting into the blanketing darkness.

"Cartwright!"  Lowry spat the name.  Furious, he jabbed his spurs into the soft flesh of his mount. Shrieking, the frightened animal reared backwards, colliding with Plath.  Clinging to the reins, Lowry spewed a stream of curses.  As the horse's hooves descended, one shoe clipped the bough of a fallen tree.  Thrown off balance, the steed's leg buckled, spilling rider and mount to the ground.

Lowry screamed when the weight of the animal rolled over his leg, pinning him beneath the massive girth.  "Get it off me!"  he shrieked.  Ineffectively, the injured horse tried to rise.  "My leg's crushed.  Oh, hell, get it off me!"

Hastily, Plath dismounted, futilely attempting to free his companion.  His ineffectual tugging at Lowry's shoulders only produced louder screams.  "No, you fool, the horse. Get the mule-hipped, crockhead off me."

As Plath struggled and Lowry screamed, Arlen considered the pair dispassionately.  After a moment of watching the horse writhe, he withdrew his pistol and put a bullet through the animal's head.  The blast of the gun startled Plath's steed into motion.  Frightened by the sudden shot, it bolted between the trees.  Still pinned by the dead horse, Lowry lifted a stunned gaze to the albino. Behind him, Plath did the same.

Arlen holstered his pistol, his gaze oddly laconic.  "I can't stand to see an animal suffer."

"An animal?"  Lowry's voice was thread-thin.  "Have you lost all sanity?  My leg's crushed."

Arlen collected his reins.  "Pity."

"Wait a minute."  Alarmed, Plath stepped forward.  "You can't just leave us here."

The narrow shoulders moved in an elegant shrug.  "You, at least, can walk.  I suggest you go back the way you came.  As for you--" the pale eyes settled on Lowry.  "If you ever get out from under that steed, I suggest you find Durrell and kill the boy he's guarding.  It's Cartwright who did this to you, not me."

"I'll gut you," Lowry spat.

Arlen's smile was goatish.  "I seriously doubt that."

With apparent disinterest for the stream of curses behind him, the albino collected his reins and moved ahead at a leisurely pace.
 

When he had ridden only a short distance, Ben reeled his horse around and cut back through the trees at a forty-five degree angle.  He could hear shouting fading behind him, followed by a single gunshot.

There was no question Arlen would pursue him.  The albino wanted Ringgold, and Ben was the only link to that possible treasure.  Keeping low to avoid obstructing branches, he picked his way through the shadow-draped woods, thankful for the camouflaging effect.  He could no longer hear Lowry screaming, and wondered if the single shot hadn't silenced the lanky gunslinger.

Anxious over Joe, his mind muddled by the last traces of fever, Ben urged his jittery mount to greater speed.  The pace he set was dangerous within the confined area, but Ben needed both haste and cunning if he was to stay alive and help his injured son.

Losing track of time, he fretted over the passing minutes--each stretching into the next with agonizing slowness.  Eventually the trees thinned, permitting daylight within the smokey copse. His strength renewed by the promise of escape, Ben broke from the trees into late morning sunlight. Blinking against the haze, he didn't see the riders at first.  It took a moment for his vision to adjust--a minute in which his stomach knotted, and he thought it was Lowry and Plath hastily approaching.

Ben's mouth tightened.

"Pa!"

The cry broke over the flatlands, bringing a surge of relief to Ben's constricting muscles.  As the riders drew nearer, familiar faces solidified, breaking into eager grins.

Ben exhaled loudly.  Standing in his stirrups, he waved one hand over his head.  "Adam!  Hoss!" A renewed sense of purpose settled on his shoulders.  Surely with his two other sons for aide, he would find Joe, safe and well.

The enemy now, was time.
 

Joe stirred but failed to move from his position, curled at the base of the tree.  His legs were tucked close to his chest, his head pillowed on his left arm.  He could feel blood puddling from his broken flesh--his jacket weighted with hot liquid, soaking torn corduroy. He'd lost track of time--knew only that he'd awakened and fallen unconscious on numerous occasions. He remembered sunlight and darkness, but couldn't be certain in the pain-laced nightmare that kept him mostly incoherent.  Twice he'd tried to rise, and twice the pain had driven him screaming to the ground.

"Oh, God, Pa, I'm sorry . . ." Joe twisted, unable to stop the tears that his failure released. Reaching with his left hand, he dug his nails in the grass and dragged himself forward.  Pain splintered down his right side, embedding in his hip.  Stretching his arm to maximum length, Joe pulled himself a second time.  Fire flared in his shoulder, spreading needle-like roots to his neck. Vertigo tugged at him, wrenching his stomach inside out.  Weakened by lost of blood and lack of nourishment, Joe choked back a sob.  The pressure built in his chest, until he bowed his head against his sleeve, expending his tears in a tormented cry.

The thunder of rapidly approaching hooves washed over him, making him think Arlen and the others returned.  Once again he tried to rise, but his unresponsive body only crumbled limply, causing him to draw in on himself.  Futilely, he tried to blink away the tears, unwilling to give his captors the satisfaction of seeing him weep.

"Joseph!"  Suddenly Ben was at his side.  He felt himself gathered into his father's arms, warm flesh pressing against his.  Certain he was dreaming, Joe raised wet lashes to his father's face.

"Pa?"

Gentle fingers touched his cheek, his hair.  He felt lips brush his brow; strong arms engulf him, holding him close, despite the soiled state of his clothing.  "I'm sorry, Joe.  I couldn't get away sooner."  Ben's voice was ragged with emotion, catching in his throat.

Joe crumbled against him.  Turning his head to his father's shoulder, he wept softly.  "I tried to--"

"Ssh," Ben soothed, hearing the raw tangle of remorse in his son's voice.  His fingers curled around Joe's hand, brushing against the frayed rope that still dangled from his wrist.  "You're safe now, Little Joe.  We met the sheriff's men on the way here.  Two rode back to the waystation for a wagon and supplies.  The others continued after Arlen and his gang.  We'll have you patched up in no time.  They're wiring for a doctor to meet us when we return."

In the muddled stream of his thoughts, Joe didn't understand half of what his father had said. All that mattered at the moment was the security he felt in his father's arms, and the fact that Ben was not injured.  Resting his head against his father's chest, he let his eyes drift shut, his tears spent as quickly as they'd come.  He felt someone else crouch beside him; another form hovering just behind.  Someone touched him lightly on the arm.

"Damn, he's banged up really bad."  The words were muttered, spoken aside.  Joe nuzzled closer to his father, burying his face in the warm crook of his neck.  The rushing sound was back in his ears, making everything else seem like images from a dream.  He felt oddly detached, floating above what transpired.

Crouching to the side, watching father and brother, Hoss noted the strain on Ben's face.  Despite his need to comfort his son, Hoss knew his father was hurting as well.

"Here, Pa--let me."  Reaching for Joe, Hoss gently moved the limp form against him.  A soft whimper of protest slipped from Joe's cracked lips, but Hoss quickly soothed him, whispering reassurances.  "It's all right, little brother.  It's Hoss.  You know I'd tear anything in half that tried to hurt you."

Reluctant to surrender his son, Ben leaned against the tree.  Raising his hand, he worked his fingers in a circular caress against the back of Joe's neck.  "Adam, get some water. We need to get him cleaned up and get some liquid into him."

Adam nodded.  He felt sick inside.  "Pa, he's lost so much blood." Though he kept his voice low, his eyes betrayed mounting fear.

Ben pressed his lips together, unwilling to concede to doubt.  His eyes dropped to Joe's face, noting the strain that gouged hollows across his cheeks, and left bruising rings of shadow beneath his eyes.  "He's young and he's strong."

"We've got to get some food into him," Hoss said aside.

Ben shook his head.  "I don't think he could keep it down.  The important thing is to clean that wound and stop the bleeding."  Spurred into motion, Ben rose stiffly to his feet.  "Adam, start a fire and heat some water.  I gathered some herbs earlier that might help combat the infection."  He swallowed hard, catching a gangrenous reek from the wound.  Ben's eyes dropped to the frail form cradled in his brother's strong arms.  "Hoss, stay with him."

Hoss bowed his head.  "It'd take more than a bear to rip me away," he said fiercely.  Angered by the sight of the rope encircling his brother's wrists, Hoss tugged it free as Ben and Adam moved towards the horses.  His lips dipped against Joe's ear.  "Come on, little brother.  When it comes to gumption, you're stronger than the three of us combined.  You're too damn ornery to give up, Joseph.  You hear me?  You fight this thing now.  You stay with me."

Joe stirred, moaning softly.  The voice penetrated the cloudy haze of his thoughts.  He blinked, the soft flutter of his lashes like the brush of a feather against Hoss's chest.  "Next time . . . you go with Pa . . ."

Hoss grinned, relieved to hear his brother's voice.  Though strain was evident in the words, an underlying tone of banter was present as well.  "I'm too big for you to hold," Hoss countered.

Joe gave a strangled snort of laughter.  He grimaced almost immediately.  "Hoss . . .  I-I can't feel much of anything on my right side."  Glancing down, Hoss saw his brother's fingers twitch.  The blood from his shoulder had tracked down his arm, turning his hand rusty and dark.  "I-I'm scared, Hoss.  What if I . . . lose my arm?"

"Is that what's got you all twisted up?"  Hoss tried to shoo away his brother's fear, though inwardly he quaked over the very real possibility.  Lodging his hand on Joe's left arm, he stroked the tense flesh.  Beneath his touch, he felt Joe quiver.  "Don't you go fretting over nonsense, short shanks. Ain't nothin' gonna happen to you."

Joe hitched in his breath.  "Promise?"  he whispered.  "Promise you won't let anyone take my arm."

Hoss hesitated.  He could smell the ulcerous odor of diseased flesh--cloying and bitter at the same time.  "Joe, let's not talk about that."

"Promise," Joe persisted, his voice strident now.  He shifted, gasping aloud, as the movement inflicted a new barrage of pain.

Hoss held him close.  "Please, Joe--"

"Promise." Joe's agitation grew.  He writhed within Hoss's embrace, futilely trying to break free.

"I promise," Hoss said quickly, wanting only to still him.  He could feel fresh blood seeping from Joe's back, saturating his own shirt.

Weakly, Joe collapsed against his brother.  "I'm holding you to it," he muttered.  His eyes drifted shut, long lashes dipping against pale flesh.  The breath rattled through his lungs--a thin wheeze growing shallower with each labored intake.

Hoss bowed his head, pressing his forehead to his brother's unruly hair.  "Promise me you'll fight," he whispered, but Joe never replied.
 

Ben paced like a caged animal.  Adam watched his father's stride grow more agitated with each crisp pass.  Black circles had gouged themselves beneath Ben's eyes.  His clothes--still stained with Joe's blood--hung ragged and torn on his powerful frame.  Despite that facade of strength, Adam knew his father was pushing the limits of his endurance.

It had been almost dark by the time the wagon arrived from the waystation.  Joe had slipped into delirium by then, mumbling incoherently.  Ben cradled him throughout the jarring ride back to the waystation, supporting his son in the rear of the buckboard.  Hoss and Adam, accompanied by the sheriff's men, had ridden in front and behind, hefting torches against the quickly congealing night. Despite the blaze of fiery radiance, the trek was slow and grueling.  The sky was gray with the charcoal haze of dawn, by the time the group arrived at the waystation.  Three hours later the doctor arrived from Rimsmoke, but Joe had slipped into unconsciousness so deep, Adam feared he'd never wake again.

He could still recall the hollow husk that was his brother, lying broken and still in his father's arms.  Joe's face had grayed with a mask like death, the animation that was so much a part of his fiery constitution, lost somewhere in the blood that seeped from his body.

Adam leaned forward in his chair, propping his elbows on his knees, letting his hands dangle free. "Pa, you should eat something."

"I'm not hungry," Ben mumbled.  The bristling strike of his heels continued against the plank boards.  Scowling, Adam glanced aside at Hoss, who stood near the window, his eyes vacant as he contemplated the wind-pitted glass.

The three were alone in the central room of the waystation.  The sheriff's men had departed shortly after arrival, intending to join the posse that pursued Arlen's gang.  Both the station attendant and his helper, were out at the barn feeding stock, though Adam secretly believed they just wanted to give the Cartwrights some time alone.  Behind the closed door in the rear of the small dwelling, the doctor from Rimsmoke tended to Joe.

"What's taking so blasted long?"  Ben muttered angrily.  He glared at the door, as though it might magically open beneath the imposing force of his will.

Adam sighed.  "Pa, the doctor's doing everything he can.  It isn't going to help Joe if you crumble from exhaustion."

Ben's nostrils flared.  "Don't attempt to lecture me, boy."  The whip-like snap of his words made Adam and Hoss exchange a glance.  The latter expelled a heavy breath.

"Pa, we're all worried about Joe.  You ain't the only one twisted up inside."

For a moment Ben looked as though he would bite off a vicious retort.  Then as quickly as the rage entered his eyes, it shriveled beneath the hand of reason.  Bowing his head, he pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose.  "I'm sorry, boys.  I've got no right to take my frustrations out on you.  It's just--" The words caught in his throat.  "The days are catching up with me . . . knowing the hell that Joe went through."

"We understand, Pa," Adam said softly.  He was about to suggest that Ben try to rest, when the door to the sleeping area creaked open.  Instantly, all three Cartwrights were on their feet, anxiously gathering about the doctor.

A short, dumpy man with soft eyes and thinning hair, Doc Krenshaw exuded compassion and professionalism.  Setting his medical bag aside, he motioned the others away from the door, so their voices wouldn't disturb his patient.  "I gave him a sedative," he announced in carefully modulated tones.  "He's sleeping pretty soundly, but I'm afraid the infected area was deep.  I had to drain the wound, but it will be hours before I can gauge the effect of the contamination."

Hoss wet his lips, recalling his promise to Joe.  "Doc, he ain't gonna have to lose his arm, is he?"

"I don't think it will come to that, though at this point I can't say for certain."  His eyes shifted to Ben.  "Your son's young and he's strong, Mr. Cartwright.  I've seen lesser men pull through worse.  The important thing will be to keep him comfortable and keep his fever down.  I've bandaged his right arm to his chest to prevent movement.  Someone needs to be there when he wakes up.  He's liable to be disoriented and the restriction may panic him.  He needs to stay quiet."

"I'll sit with him," Ben said quickly.

Adam laid a hand on his father's shoulder.  "We'll all take turns watching over him, Doctor.  Will you be remaining?"

A slight smile touched the corners of the physician's mouth.  He'd ridden most of the night to reach the waystation, and the expenditure showed in his eyes.  Still he nodded.  "I wouldn't leave my patient."

"Thank you," Ben said, gripping his hand. Without hesitation he moved towards the door, anxious to be by his youngest son.

With an appreciative nod for the doctor's concern, Adam followed.  Hoss hesitated, indecision clear on his face.

"Is something wrong?"  Krenshaw asked.

Hoss stuffed his hands in his pockets, vainly struggling for words.  "It's just that . . ."  His eyes flickered away before darting back to the doctor's face. Misery contorted his features. "Joe made me promise . . . about his arm.  Doc, I don't want to lose my brother, but you just gotta do everything you can to keep him whole."

Understanding, Krenshaw smiled.  Reaching up, he laid a compassionate hand on the other's massive shoulder.  "Don't worry, Hoss.  I'll take care of him."

Ducking his head, Hoss felt heat flame across his cheeks.  "He's . . .special . . . you know?"

"Of course he is."  Krenshaw took his arm.  "Let's go check on him."

Together the two men moved towards the room.  The scent of sickness hit Hoss the minute he stepped across the threshold.  While he momentarily felt relief at the doctor's assurance, his doubts returned when he saw the slight form on the bed.

Joe was laying on his back, his face turned to the side, his chest rising and falling with the shallow wisp of his breath.  Russet brown curls splayed over a faded pillow, making his flesh that much paler by contrast.  Though he'd always been lean, he seemed barely substantial--his slender frame something that might easily break with strong handling.

Hoss swallowed and glanced at his father.  Ben's face betrayed his uncertainty.  Forcing his own fears silent, Hoss stepped into the chamber, dismissing the stale reek of disease.

"He's gonna be fine, Pa," he said, with what he hoped passed for conviction.

Ben raised his eyes, giving a tight, acknowledging smile. Together, family and physician, began a long, arduous vigil.
 

Joe's fever continued to rise over the next few days.  His sleep grew restless despite the administration of sleeping powders and he struggled against the hands that would have stilled him. Heat flamed from the infected area on his shoulder--skin torrid to the touch.  Twice more, the doctor drained the wound, tossing aside soiled dressings and applying clean bandages.  The family took turns bathing Joe's sweat-slick body with cooling rags, all the while murmuring comforting reassurances.  Water was spooned through his lips; wet sheets draped over his body.

When the bed linens required changing, Hoss lifted him and gently passed him to Ben.  Seated in a armless chair, Ben cradled him close, supporting his limp form, until fresh bedding was applied.  The same procedure continued for the course of three days.  When it began to look like the fever would never break, Joe fell abruptly into an exhausted sleep.

Encouraged, the doctor examined the wound.  "His fever's down," he informed the others when he'd completed the procedure.  All three Cartwrights were gathered at the foot of Joe's bed, hovering anxiously.  Straightening, Doctor Krenshaw offered an encouraging smile.  "There's no excessive fluid in the wound.  From all appearances, I think we've beat the infection."

"Thank God!"  Ben breathed.  Adam and Hoss exchanged a glance, worried expressions giving way to wide smiles.

"I'd let him sleep," Krenshaw continued.  "But you might want to try to get some broth into him when he wakes.  He's going to be awfully weak."

That, in fact, was an understatement.  Joe barely had the strength to lift his head, when his eyes fluttered open twelve hours later.  He was greeted by the sight of his father, slumped in a chair by the bedside.  The room was otherwise empty, dusted by the muted glow of afternoon light streaming through a dusty windowpane.  Ben's face was drawn; lines etched in the weather-browned skin of his face.

"Pa?"  Joe ventured weakly.  Though the word had no strength, Ben heard the soft inquiry nonetheless.  He came instantly awake, a wide smile curling his lips when he saw his son's green eyes turned in his direction.

"Joseph--" Ben sat forward, fingers instinctively coiling over Joe's bandaged arm.  "Thank heavens, boy--I thought you'd never open your eyes."

Raising his left hand, Joe placed it over his father's wrist.  His own flesh was papery and dry.  "Where are we?" he asked.

"The waystation outside Rimsmoke."

Joe licked his lips, trying to remember.  "Hoss.  I-I remember Hoss and Adam . . . and a wagon."

"Yes."  Ben's head dipped.  "Your brothers are in the other room."

Joe hesitated, clearly uncomfortable.  His eyes widened, the pupils bloated to black pools despite the intrusive spray of onion-pale light.  "Wh-what about Arlen?"

Ben's smile faded.  He didn't want to talk about the albino--didn't want Joe to recall what he'd endured. His fingers skimmed up Joe's arm, threading into the tangled curls of his thick hair.  "You're safe here, Little Joe."

Ben's evasiveness was not lost on the younger man.  He shifted, growing agitated.  "What about Arlen?"  he persisted.

Ben sighed.  His son's stubborn streak was showing.  There would be no rest until Joe had his answer.  Unwilling to lie, Ben conceded the truth.  "The posse rounded up Durrell, Plath and Lowry, but they had no luck with Arlen.  At the moment, he's still free."

Joe leaned back into the pillows, his arm falling to his side.   Though he kept his expression carefully neutral, Ben could see the thread of apprehension in his expressive eyes.  "What about the map?" he asked.

Ben sat back, both hands retreating to his lap as he studied his son.  "I turned it over to the sheriff.  He's going to see it gets back to its proper owner."

"Willie Daven?"  Joe ventured.

Ben shook his head.  "A man named Seth Chatwin.  He's a collector of rare artifacts, residing in St. Louis.  Apparently Daven and Arlen planned the robbery together, stealing the map when Mr. Chatwin was in transit to San Francisco.  Arlen planned the heist, and Daven carried it through.  After securing the map, Daven decided to keep it for himself.  That's when Arlen hooked up with  Lowry and the others--he needed men who knew the area, to track Daven down."

Joe shook his head.  "All for a place that doesn't exist."

"That's true," Ben agreed, "But Daven knew the real value of the map.  Unlike Arlen, it wasn't Ringgold he was after.  The value lies in the map itself."

A bewildered crease etched Joe's smooth brow.  "I don't understand."

Claiming his arm once again, Ben smiled.  He was thankful the danger was behind them.  Joe's growing inquisitiveness was testament to his recovery.  Though pale and wan, Ben no longer held any doubt his son would rally.

His thumb began the familiar, leisurely track across the delicate bones of Joe's wrist. "The map's very old," he informed his son.  "I only took a glance at it, but it was crudely sketched. Apparently, the value lies in date of origin.  It supposedly predates Lewis and Clark's expedition."

"That's impossible," Joe said.

"Yes, I know.  But the myth of Ringgold is ancient.  Who knows how it originated."

Joe slouched lower against the pillows, his eyes growing heavy.  " . . . tired," he mumbled.  "I'm just glad it's over."

"Me too." Both men avoided uttering the fear that weighed heavily on their minds: the unknown whereabouts of a tall albino named William Arlen.

"Go to sleep, Little Joe." Ben pushed the nagging doubt aside. "I'll stay here with you."

"Promise?" Joe whispered.

"Promise," Ben returned.  He knew the plea was not made from any fear on Joe's part.  It was mostly reflex, born from afflictions they'd weathered in the past.  Joe didn't need to have his father watching over him, but both men knew Ben coveted that role, thus Joe willingly provided the opportunity.

With a hint of a smile, Ben leaned back in his chair.  Someday, he promised silently, he would relinquish the role of guardian--someday, when Joe had children of his own.  The smile spread, inching into an indulgent grin. Then again, maybe not.