"Mark of the Devil"
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'For thou hast possessed my reins; thou hast covered me in my mother's womb. I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made… My substance was not hid from thee, when I was made in secret, and curiously wrought in the lowest parts of the earth.'
Psalm 139
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"It is not right!" Ms. Madine exclaimed in frustration. She was not an overly tall woman but her irritation seemed to make her grow, and she was an admittedly formidable woman anyway. "I know that you want what's best for Joseph, but I can assure you that this is certainly not in the boy's best interests!"
She was in her own turf, this little school house—otherwise Ben Cartwright suspected she never would have dared challenge him so bluntly. Seeking calm he breathed deeply through his nose before he responded. 'Ms. Madine, Joe being left-handed is of no concern of yours. It is mine; mine and my family's." He was thoroughly disgusted with this same debate; it had been going on for several weeks now, ever since the latest school teacher had arrived in Virginia City.
Judith Madine was a homely, thin woman who was close to thirty—far too old to be married by society's standards and it was clear she had no interest nor desire for potential courters if there had been any in the first place. She was a woman, too, used to speaking her mind: "That may be so, Mr. Cartwright, but you must realize that allowing your son to use his left hand could signify you have no respect for—"
"I trust you will not finish that sentence, ma'am," Ben warned her sharply, well and truly angry now. He stood at his full height with his fingers crushing the brim of his hat where he gripped it, and his dark eyes were bright.
The homely teacher had the good sense to listen, realizing too late just how far over the line she had been prepared to step. She had the decency to look ashamed. "I- I am sorry, Mr. Cartwright, I didn't mean to presume—"
"But you did. I will not be having this discussion with you again, Ms. Madine. Have a good day." Bowing slightly he placed his hat back on his head and closed the school house door shut crisply behind him. Immediately he noticed what was out of place. "Joseph?"
The shout brought about nothing; there was no sign of Ben's youngest son and the frustrated father drew in another deep breath in an attempt to calm himself.
"Blasted boy," he muttered furiously. Standing tied to the hitching post his mount Buck flicked his ears in Ben's direction, alerted to his master's voice; beside the buckskin, Joe's own roan pony Drifter waited patiently. Ben was grateful that at least his son hadn't gone somewhere too far off but Joe was in trouble with his father now. "Joe! Where are you, boy?"
Still no answer. If Ben had told him once, he'd told him a thousand times: don't wander off by yourself. He knew that his youngest son rankled something fierce with that particular order the older he grew. At ten years of age Little Joe very much considered himself old enough to go walking by himself, and lately he seemed determined to test his father's patience.
"Joseph!" Ben's agitation was becoming tinged with concern now the longer he went without a reply. Test of patience or no, he knew none of his sons would deliberately keep silent when he called.
He was just preparing to walk over to Sheriff Coffee's jail to ask his help with finding his son when he heard an odd scuffling sound far off to his right. By the small creek bed that ran parallel to the school yard. Frowning to himself, Ben made his way over, his fingers brushing the holster on his hip.
"Joe!"
His son was seated awkwardly along the side of the bank, one leg bent beneath him as if he'd fallen while trying to stand. His jacket was ripped in the sleeve and his clothes were covered in dirt and wet with water. He cradled his left hand close to his body, hunched into himself protectively. When he turned to look at his father, Ben looked into a face devoid of color. Wide, wet green eyes met his gaze.
"Pa," he choked out tearfully.
"Heavens above, boy, what happened to you?" All of his irritation vanishing in the face of his son's pain he hurried over and crouched beside the boy. When he attempted to draw Joe's arm away from his body, however, the boy rebelled.
"No!" The ferocity of the exclamation startled Joe just as much as it had Ben; his voice was considerably quieter when he explained shakily, "I th-think they're broke, Pa. My fingers…"
"Let me take a look at them, son. Please."
Joe was right. His arm was fine but his index and middle fingers were very obviously at least dislocated if not actually outright broken. They were already stiff and swollen to twice their size and he could already see a vivid purple bruise appearing. Ben sighed. "We're going to have to stop at Doctor Martin's now, Joseph. You need to get these splinted. What on earth were you doing to hurt yourself this way?"
Joe gulped down the tears of pain that were still trying to break loose. "Nothin'. Honest, Pa, I wasn't doin' nothin' but walking along here and I- I musta tripped on a root or somethin'. I tried to catch myself but I landed in the water."
Only his youngest son. Ben shook his head in fond exasperation and helped Joe to stand, brushing the boy's dusty clothes off. "I swear, Joseph," he told him tiredly, "you're the only boy I know who can hurt himself just by walking."
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"Pa, I can't do it! It's too hard!"
Joe's voice had recently started to change a bit—his tone shifted into an octave higher than usual as he glared up in frustration at his towering father.
Ben certainly did seem to tower over him as he stopped himself from pinching the bridge of his nose. "Joseph, I realize it's more difficult to complete your homework at the moment but it has to be done. Work with your right hand for now."
"I ain't gonna!"
'The correct phrasing is 'I will not' and you most certainly are going to do your homework, young man! You will not leave this table until it's completely done, and correctly, and that means you can't go riding with Hoss this evening until you do!"
Joe's mouth fell open at the news of this betrayal. "But Pa-!"
"No buts, Joseph! If you won't work you don't enjoy the free time afterwards. Now, get started." Without waiting for a reply he turned and left the dining room where Joe sat at the table and stepped outside onto the porch just as Adam rode up.
"Afternoon, Pa."
"Hello, son. Everything running well at the mill?"
Adam nodded with a pleased grin. He had been home from college for only a moment but he was satisfied with the fact that his father clearly still trusted him with the responsibility of the importance of the Ponderosa's latest mill. "Couldn't be better, Pa." His expression sobered when seeing his father's distracted nod. "Doesn't seem to be the same with you, though. What's wrong?"
Ben sighed. "Oh, your brother."
Adam frowned, glancing at the closed front door. "What's the kid done now?" His tone clearly conveyed his growing impatience with Little Joe's attitude. His youngest brother had certainly kept Ben on his toes as a six-year-old but there was a tiredness to Ben now that the ten-year-old Joe's growing rebellion was causing.
Ben finally gave in to temptation and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I went to speak to Ms. Madine about Little Joe's declining performance at school and it turned into the usual debate."
Adam rolled his eyes, well aware of that particular battle. "I'm sure it did as much good as the last two with her have."
"Probably so. While I was inside the school Joe wandered over to the creek and ended up falling and hurting his left hand. One broken finger, one badly dislocated. He's trying to use the excuse that he can't complete his homework since he can't use his left hand."
Adam's mouth thinned. "I'll go talk to him. Maybe I can show him it's still possible to write with your other hand." The door clicked softly shut behind him as he went inside leaving Ben to lean tiredly against the post beside him. Five minutes later he heard Little Joe's voice raised in a shout and then a door slammed shut. Alarmed he headed inside to find Adam fuming at the table with Joe's homework papers strewn half-hazardly around the floor.
"What on earth happened, Adam?"
Adam glared angrily up at him. "Little Joe being an immature child, as usual," he grated out. "I tried to show him how to use his right hand comfortably and he had the gall to tell me that that I was laughing at his situation. He told me he didn't need help and stormed up to his room."
Ben's temper rose. "That's it," he growled, stomping up the stairs. Little Joe had already disobeyed his instructions to remain at the table and now he was fighting with his older brother with no provocation. Hopefully a grounding and the treat of a tanning would set his youngest straight again.
Ten minutes later he was pouring himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen and wishing it was something stronger when he and Adam heard the sound of another rider in the yard. A horse nickered and the front door opened to reveal Ben's middle son Hoss.
"'Lo, Pa," he said cheerfully, taking off his large hat.
"Hello, Hoss." Ben managed a smile in his direction, trying to hide his irritation. Hoss, however, was curiously able to immediately sense the atmosphere in a room and his wide gap-toothed grin faltered slightly with confusion.
"Everythin' alright?"
"It's Little Joe." Adam took to explaining their pa's mood so that Ben wouldn't work himself up again. "He's hurt his left hand and now he's trying to get out of finishing his schoolwork by saying he can't use his right."
Hoss frowned. "Well, we outta believe him, shouldn't we?" he asked, half-jesting. "After all, we cin barely read what he's wrote even with his left hand."
Ben shook his head. "That doesn't matter. What matters is your brother is refusing to obey what I've told him. Your ride this afternoon is going to have to wait until next week, Hoss."
Hoss knew not to fight against his father's authority but it was clear he didn't side with Ben's decision. He held Little Joe in a very special place in his heart. He simply nodded. "I'll go and talk to him."
"Hoss—"
'Just for a mo', Pa. Ya know how he gits—let him rant some steam off. Otherwise he'll jus' bottle it all up down deep and explode when we least expects it." He was already heading up the steps and knocking on his brother's closed door. Adam shook his head in silent disagreement of Hoss's actions, but Ben was thoughtful as he pondered the truth of his middle son's statements of Little Joe's temper.
Thirty minutes passed before Hoss descended the stairs again. He said nothing at first to Ben or Adam but both of the latter could clearly see the troubled frown on his round face. He joined them at the table. "That boy's a right mess," he finally blurted out, fingering the tablecloth.
"We already know that, Hoss," Adam said shortly. "Little Joe's attitude has been getting worse for weeks—"
"Nah, I don' mean that, older brother."
Ben leaned forward. "What do you mean, son?" When Little Joe was angry or upset with Ben it was always Hoss he turned to, and his middle son had a knack for seeing the boy's so called 'dilemmas' differently but mostly correctly.
Hoss's frown deepened. "Well, Pa, it's got me wonderin'," he began thoughtfully, "if anyone's been talkin' to Little Joe face-to-face about his bein' left-handed. Y'know, tellin' him it's evil."
"What?"
"'Cause he asked me just now, Pa. He looked 'bout ready ta cry and I barely heard the words but he said 'em: 'Is bein' left-handed a mark of the Devil?'"
"What? No, of course not, you know we've always been careful to keep Joseph away from that sort of talk—"
"What about the kids at school?" Adam questioned softly. His own frustration at Little Joe's behavior was temporarily forgotten in the light of Hoss's news. He hated the bigotry of superstition badly. "You know how cruel they've been to him already about his size, maybe they've overheard their parents talking about it."
Ben's mouth thinned. "I suppose that's a possibility."
Hoss was looking at one of Joe's discarded papers from when the boy had been attempting to use his right hand. His head turned from left to right, then right to left. "Is that supposed to be his name?"
Ben sighed again. "Yes. He must have spent five minutes attempting to write it."
