The Curse of Bodie

PROLOGUE - 1964

The lone figure of a man occupied the middle of a dusty thoroughfare. A tempest was upon him, both inward and outward. The wind howled, keening like a banshee as his mind whirled, calculating, dismissing, assessing, deciding. The strong breeze worked at displacing the hat firmly anchored on his head and lifted the edges of the long dark coat he wore, giving it life and flight, making it look more like the membrane-thin wings of a bat than any kind of cloth. As he stood there the appropriately named tumbleweeds tumbled by, making much better progress than the curious stranger did. He fought a sigh, for a sigh was a dangerous thing. It gave a man hope and snatched it away just as quickly. The man in black closed his eyes and fought to focus his thoughts, seeking to link ideas with a commonality.

Hope. It was a foreign thing to him, dismissed as easily as pain and love and...guilt.

Guilt.

No good could come of guilt. He'd told someone that not long ago. It stripped a man of action, of the ability to think clearly; of the capacity to think of anything other than an action or choice that had been made and could not be unmade.

His near-black eyes flew open.

Forgotten. What had he forgotten?

Jim.

Joe.

The stranger turned to face the row of empty buildings before him. The land they occupied was dry as the bones of the old ones and the storm that had come upon it so unexpectedly sucked out what little life it had left; chewing it up and spitting it out with no more regard than the tons of rock that had pounded down uncaring, sealing the fate of the man he sought to save. No, the man he had saved.

Had he saved him?

No.

Removing his hat, the lean man lifted his face to the sky and allowed the wind to play through his chin-length martial-straight raven-black hair briefly before replacing it, relishing the one hundred plus degrees of heat that beat down on his head, comforting him as surely as the fires of home. Looking at the sky, he thought of the ship that should be sailing there, and of the man who belonged in the captain's chair.

Was he the one he sought here in this time? Was it Jim?

Or was it Joe?

Either way, it was imperative he reach him.

"Mister?"

The voice startled him. He felt shame at that.

Then he felt shame at feeling.

"Yes?"

"Can I help you? You look kind of lost."

The man's near-black eyes narrowed as they locked on the newcomer. It took a moment but he recognized him as some sort of lawman and pronounced him harmless. "I am in need of some assistance," he admitted.

"Are you one of the reenactors here for the pageant?" the ranger asked. "If you are, that's a great costume."

The man looked at the black garb that covered him. "This is my current attire."

The lawman nodded...slowly. "Okay. Well maybe you're looking for the tourist office then? If you are," he said, pointing, 'it's over there." He looked at his wristwatch. "You've got about fifteen minutes before it closes."

While he was not prone to prevarication, it would be easier to accept the young man's scenario than to contest it.

"Thank you. I will endeavor to make it there before that happens."

"We've got a ghost walk later tonight, if you're interested. It goes down in the old Bodie mine. We'll meet at the saloon over there at midnight."

The Bodie Mine...Bodie. He had been there hadn't he?

Or was he yet to arrive?

"Perhaps another day," he said at last. "I have someone I have to...meet."

The man raised a hand to shield his eyes and looked at him askance. "You aren't thinking of taking off into the desert are you? The sun will be down in an hour. It's dangerous out there no matter what, but deadly at night." He glanced toward the sky. "Let alone with this storm blowing up."

More dangerous that you know, the man thought to himself. "It is not my intention to cross the desert," he replied, knowing full well he could have and would have had no difficulty surviving the journey. His training as a boy assured him of that.

"You looking for a hotel then? I imagine there's a room available at the Bodie Victorian. We're on our off-season now, since it's so hot." The young man grinned. "You look like a weather-beaten gunslinger, you should like it there."

The man told the truth. He most certainly did look like a desperado. He was attired from head to foot in black and wore a black hat pulled low over his ears and eyes. His coat was what was known as a duster, chosen to conceal some of the weapons he carried beneath it as well as to lend bulk to his bone-thin frame thereby rendering him slightly more intimidating. On his hip there was a sling that contained a Colt revolver he had no intention of using.

"Thank you. If you would..."

At first the lawman looked confused. Then, "Oh! Right, the hotel. It's down this street at the end. Can't miss it. 281 Main Street."

He inclined his head. "Thank you."

"You're welcome!" the man said with a smile.

The stranger blinked, confused. "One more thing, if I may?"

"Sure."

"Where am I?"

The other man eyed him. "You sure you haven't been in the sun too long?"

He nodded.

"I just told you. You're in Bodie."

"Ah, yes. I need to be in... I need to find the Ponderosa. Can you direct me there?"

The lawman grinned. "You an extra?"

"An 'extra' what?" he inquired, one black eyebrow cocked.

"On the show."

Again, it was easier to acquiesce. "Yes."

"The word's out their filming at Lake Tahoe day after tomorrow. That where you're headed?"

Once again he nodded.

"I'll tell you what, go to the station at the edge of town, the one on the southern side. The man behind the counter can direct you. He does some stunt work from time to time."

"How far is it?"

"It's about two and a half hours north of here," he laughed. "Maybe more if the wagons are running slow." The lawman was still watching him, as if attempting to discern whether or not he was in his right mind.

A discernment he would welcome knowledge of as well.

"You're gonna spend the night here. Right?"

Absentmindedly, he nodded.

The lawman opened his mouth to question him again, but a hail from across the street drew his attention. He returned it with a wave. "That's Bill. We're prepping for the ghost walk. I gotta go. You're sure you're okay?"

"I am...well."

Seemingly satisfied, the young man tipped his hat and jogged across the street to join his coworker, tossing a 'Take care of yourself. Hope to see you again!'off as he went.

It was doubtful.

Lieutenant Commander Spock, late of the Starship Enterprise, hesitated, waiting for his path to clear before moving on. The two men were standing, talking to another pale young man with pale blond or white hair. He appeared to be asking directions and the answers had him looking his way. Pulling his hat over his eyes, Spock melted into the shadows cast by one of the empty buildings. Leaning against it, he paused to gather his strength.

This was the last leg of a long journey that had taken him from the twenty-third century to the nineteenth and, now, to the twentieth. He had failed in every time and every level. But he would not fail here. He would rescue the young man upon whom the fate of worlds depended and return the time stream to its proper order. And in doing so, he would – he must – find his friend.

Even if it meant he would never return home again.

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PART ONE

1864

2269

ONE

Joe Cartwright shed his green jacket, flinging it over the back of one of the big red chairs, and hung his tan hat on the rack by the door. Removing his gun belt, he placed it along with his pearl-handled pistol on the sideboard and then crossed to the large bowl of fruit that served as both parlor decoration and snack and grabbed a big, red, juicy-looking apple. He took a bite, savored the sweet sensation, and then dropped onto the striped settee in the great room and anchored his boots on the table.

Life was good and he was tired.

It was October and the year was winding down. There was an awful lot to do to get ready to weather it. This year it seemed Pa had decided, since the Ponderosa was nearly as old as he was, it was time to shore up the house and outbuildings and make sure they were as air tight as they could be. Apparently while he was considered 'young' at twenty-two, the buildings at an age somewhere over that were as old and decrepit as a man over eighty. At least you would have thought so from all of the stripping, chinking, hammering, and painting going on. Adam had got a burr up his saddle to make a few changes since they were at it and Pa had agreed, all of which meant he had spent the day hauling and lifting boards, carting paint cans and buckets of nails, and wielding a paint brush like a big fat unwieldy épée. When he'd danced a little épée 'jig' to keep himself warm, big brother Adam had rolled his eyes, called him an 'idiot', and then joined in before going back to his plans.

Joe took another bite and chewed on it as he chewed on that image of Adam. There was something 'up' with big brother. He wasn't sure what it was. Adam was his usual cool, collected self, but he seemed, well, distracted. Of course, he'd be distracted too with all those facts and figures and measurements swimming around in his head. Big brother was always dreaming – dreaming of what he could tear down or build up, of where he could go and what he might see. Sometimes it bothered him because it seemed Adam wasn't happy. He wanted him to be happy.

But he sure didn't want big brother to leave.

Joe shifted so he was more comfortable and took another bite of the apple. He'd talked it over with Hoss on the way back to the ranch and middle brother had agreed that something was up. Adam was sneaky, he said. Sneaky like a fox. You never knew what he was thinking until he let you know. Joe turned and looked toward the door. Hoss had headed to the barn to check on one of the horses that had chewed its leg up on a barbed-wired fence the day before. He should be back any minute. Adam was due back too. In fact, so was Pa. It was almost suppertime and Hop Sing would be hopping mad if any or all of them failed to show. Joe drew in a breath of the aromas floating on the air from out of the kitchen. There was beef, and onions too, and maybe a hint of yams with sugar on them. Coffee was brewing and he thought – yes – there was apple pie. One thing about winter coming was they could always count on a good, hot, stick-to-your-ribs, fill-you-up-from-top-to-toe meal.

As if on cue, their Chinese cook appeared at the end of the dining table. Hop Sing was wearing a soiled apron and an exasperated expression.

"Where your family, Little Joe?"

Lifting his feet from the table, the man with the curly brown hair sat up. "Keepin' late hours it seems," he said with a half-grin.

"Why Mister Ben and Mister Adam want to tear up house and barns? House and barns fine as they are!"

"I'm with you, Hop Sing," Joe said as he rose and walked to the door. Opening it, he tossed the apple core outside. "If it ain't broke, don't –"

"Joseph!"

Joe looked out the door and then swallowed hard as Ben Cartwright, king of the Ponderosa, timber baron and owner of half the state of Nevada, stepped in the door wiping apple mush off his face.

He winced. "Sorry, Pa."

"Mister Ben no need eat raw apple," Hop Sing groused. "Have cooked pie in stove!"

Joe looked at his father. The older man was not amused.

Twisting his face and raising his eyebrows, Joe tried to change the subject. "Where's Adam? Ain't he with you?"

"No, he isn't." His father drew a deep breath and shook his head. "Sometimes Joseph I think you were raised in a barn!"

"That's probably why it needs so many repairs. The kid bucks at everything like a bronco that won't be tamed," his oldest brother said, startling them both as he stepped in the door and anchored his hat on the rack. "Sorry, Pa," Adam said with a grin. "Must be the black clothes. I was right behind you."

Joe didn't know whether to be insulted or not. He opened his mouth to make a comeback, but couldn't think of anything to say.

"You better shut that mouth of your'n, little brother," Hoss said as he too entered. "Next thing you know, you'll be catchin' flies."

"Only flies in ranch house on Hop Sing's pie!" the Chinese man shouted. "Cartwrights sit down and eat soon or Hop Sing give it all to bugs!"

"Hold on there, Hop Sing," Hoss countered, halting the cook in his tracks. "I done just got here. It was the smell of that apple pie that drew me in like a pig with a ring through its nose. I could smell it all the way out there in the barn."

His father had deposited his coat on the back of the settee and accepted a napkin from Hop Sing with which he wiped his face clean. Joe squirmed beneath his pa's firm stare and then watched as it slid from him to the hearth and the wood box beside it.

"Did you remember to bring in the wood, Joseph, before you sat down to partake of your apple?" he asked.

He thought about it, screwing up his face like his pa had just asked him to do a six figure sum.

"Joseph?" The older man waited five seconds. "I take that as a 'no'?"

He hung his head. "Sorry, Pa."

"You want us all to treat you like you are a responsible adult, don't you? Well, that would mean taking responsibility, now wouldn't it?"

Joe took a step back. The thunder was rumbling, just like his stomach. The storm was gonna break any minute. "Yes...sir."

His father's arm shot out like Zeus aiming a thunderbolt. "You march outside, young man, and you bring in that wood. Then, you can eat!"

Adam was standing with his arms crossed, a self-satisfied almost feline smile twisting his lips up at both ends.

Hoss was looking at his toes.

"Yes, sir." He said it, but didn't move.

"Now, Joseph!"

He almost saluted. "Yes, sir!" And with that, the brown-haired man caught his coat from the chair beside the settee, tossed it on, and headed out the door.

Once outside Joe let out a long sigh. No matter what he did, it was always wrong and it always marked him as a green-horn kid who still needed his father and brothers to wipe snot from his nose and keep his nether region clean. Gathering in air and letting it out in another mightysigh, he headed for the wood pile only to discover that there wasn't a wood pile.

He was going to have to chop it.

With one last longing sniff of the meal that was lost to him, Joe headed toward the barn and the pile of short logs laying beside it. He'd have to split them before he could take the wood inside. It was going to take a long time. He could only hope Hoss left something for him to eat.

Though he knew it was a vain hope at best.

With a sigh Joe bent to retrieve one of the logs but stopped when he heard a noise he couldn't quite identify. It was almost musical and came from within the barn. Leaving the wood behind, he moved to the door and opened it and peered inside. At first he couldn't see anything other than their mounts which had been housed for the night along with the wounded horse. Then he noticed a vague sort of light toward the back – almost like a star had come to visit and moved on leaving a trail of silver dust in its wake. He walked over to the area that contained a table and tall cupboard and reached out for the light just as it vanished – twinkling and then disappearing like that same starlight dragged down and sunk in a black sea of sky.

In its wake, it left a man.

Joe stumbled back, surprised, and – he hated to admit it – terrified.

"Who...who...are you?" he asked as the man turned to face him. He was of moderate height and age. One, maybe two inches taller than him. With a lean build and a head of grizzled hair. He was dressed in a black suit and stared at him with just about as much surprise as he'd shown a minute before.

"Who are you?" Joe demanded this time. "Where'd you come from?"

The man took a step toward him. "I'm sorry, son."

Joe blinked. "Sorry about what?"

The stranger stared at him a moment longer and then lifted his hand. Joe's went for his gun, only to remember it was laying on the sideboard in the house.

The man's cool blue eyes locked on his. "I don't mean you any harm. It's not a weapon." He paused and an amused light entered those eyes. "Well, not really."

Joe eyed the strange thing the man held in his hand. It was silver and long. In fact, it looked like the handle of a pistol with no barrel or chamber for bullets.

"What's that?" he breathed.

A second later there was a hissing sound and a cloud of vapor or smoke drifted his way. As Joe breathed it in, the world began to fade.

He felt an arm catch him around the shoulders. "Sorry, son. Though I imagine at your age a good long nap is something you'd rather have than not."

He opened his mouth to say he wasn't a baby and he didn't need a nap, but just then that fading world went black.

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Doctor Leonard McCoy shook the young man gently, making certain he was unconscious. Then, opening his recalibrated medical tricorder, he ran a quick sweep to ascertain that he had not been harmed by the tranquilizer he'd released into the air. After a moment, satisfied, he rose to his feet. The next thing the doctor did was to run his hands over his own lean frame and citified Western suit in order to establish that everything he owned had come through that damned transporter process with him. Satisfied at last that it had, he left the boy laying on the floor and returned to the area where he had materialized and waited.

And waited.

"Come on, Jim," he breathed. "Come on, you were right behind me."

When his friend continued in absentia, McCoy crossed to the partially opened barn door and looked outside. The house he had seen in the holos was there – a large one composed of hewn wood planks with white chinking between the boards such as his ancestors would have erected in Georgia – if on a less grand scale. The owner of the ranch house was Benjamin Cartwright. He had three sons. McCoy turned and looked at the handsome young fellow spread out on the barn floor. Undoubtedly, this was one of them. Probably the youngest. Name of...Joe? Yes, Joseph Francis Cartwright, approximate age twenty-two in late eighteen-hundred and sixty-four A.D. by the old calendar. There were two other sons – Adam and Eric – both older. The Enterprise's physician frowned. Time travel was always difficult because the briefing included knowledge not only the births but the deaths of those they might encounter. This one had experienced a fairly long life for the time, living well into his sixties. His brother Eric had died young, and Adam – well – Adam Cartwright had simply vanished without a trace.

"Bones in the desert," McCoy muttered, "or buried at sea, most likely."

He'd not had any sons. Unlike Benjamin Cartwright who had lost three wives to death, his had simply left him taking their daughter along. Sometimes he wondered why he married himself to Starfleet instead of to another woman who might have given him more children. He loved children, but then again, that's why he hadn't had any more. Creating them and then leaving them behind for five years at a time seemed cruel at best. The nineteenth century equivalent would have been to sail off to sea, which the elder Cartwright had done as a young man – but before he had his three boys. Ben Cartwright had exchanged the wide ocean for the vast forested reaches of Nevada and had, according to all accounts, died a happy man.

Except for that missing son.

The country doctor, known best as Bones to the man he was waiting on, turned back into the barn intending to search the whole thing just in case Jim had materialized somehow before him and was laying somewhere unconscious, when he heard a noise. Well, not a noise, a voice.

"Little Joe! Hey, Little Joe! What you doin' out there?"

Bones stepped back behind the door. He glanced at the young man on the floor. There was nothing to do but leave him there. His brother knew he was in the barn. If he moved him or tried to hide him, that would prove more suspicious than just leaving him where he was. Moving quickly, McCoy ducked into the small room off the stalls and began to look for another way out.

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"Dag-blame it, Little Joe! You get your skinny little hiney up to the house, you hear me? Pa's blowin' steam out his nostrils." Hoss Cartwright paused just outside the partially open barn door. " Joe! You hear me?"

He waited. When his only response was silence, the big man's irritation turned into concern. "Hey, Joe!" he said as he gripped the door and pulled it open. "You in here, little brother?"

He was there all right, laid out flat on the floor.

"Joe!"

The big man rushed to his brother's side and knelt beside him, anchoring his knees in the fetid straw and dirt Joe was eating. He hesitated a moment and then placed a hand on his brother's back, checking for a heartbeat.

It was strong.

Joe stirred slightly at his touch. He didn't say anything, but he moaned.

Sitting and slipping in beside him, Hoss cradled his brother's curly head in his lap and placed a hand on his forehead.

"Hey, boy. You hear me?" he asked softly.

Joe moaned again. His eyeballs rolled behind the lids and those eyelashes he had, so long and black a girl would 'a wished for them, fluttered.

"Hoss..."

"What happened to you, little brother?"

Joe licked his lips and struggled. It was like he was swimming up out of some dark sea. "Man," he said, "in...the barn."

Damn! He'd been so plumb worried about Joe he hadn't thought to check.

Hoss' eyes roamed the barn's interior. There wasn't nothin' to see but their horses – and that little pony he'd been workin' on. The pony was snortin' and stampin' his feet.

Kinda nervouslike.

Torn between what had happened to his brother and what might happen next, Hoss was never so happy to hear his father's irate bellow sound as he was at that moment.

"Joe! Hoss! What are you two doing in there? Playing checkers?"

"Pa!" he answered back, curbin' the worry in his tone. "Pa, it's Joe. He's been hurt!"

Their father barreled in the door a second later, his eyes wide and wild as he searched for them. There was nothing like their pa. He was like a mean old she-bear and a pappy bear all rolled into one when it came to his cubs.

"What happened?" the older man asked as he dropped to the barn floor beside him.

"I sure as shootin' don't know, Pa. I opened the door and found him here –" Hoss stopped. Joe was clawin' at their pa's arm.

He watched as his father caught his brother's hand and squeezed it. "What is it, Joe?" he asked.

"Man... Pa... There was...a man." Joe drew in air like someone just breaking the surface. "Looked like...a...city slicker."

Their father's eyes moved to him. "You see anything, Hoss?"

"No, sir." He nodded toward the wounded animal. "But the pony's skittish."

Rising to his feet, the older man drew his gun and turned in a slow circle before shouting, "All right. Whoever you are, wherever you're hiding, come out! Come out now!"

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Leonard McCoy swallowed over the lump in his throat and pulled at the black ribbon wound around his high-stand collar. He had a phaser on him, but was forbidden by regulations to draw it. It had been against Jim's orders to bring it along at all, but his motto had always been 'better safe than sorry'. The doctor was sure security wouldn't check his medical kit before the transporter room blasted his atoms into oblivion and reformed them in nineteenth century Nevada and he'd been right.

His hand reached for the weapon now. He knew what a bullet from a handgun could to do to a man. In a way, the damage was worse than what a phaser would do as the metal missile tore through flesh and bone, ripping and wrecking havoc along the way. Infection was the main concern in early American medicine, infection and controlling it. There were few treatments available. Most were native plants, some of which were efficacious and others, useless. Fortunately, he had brought along the hypo-spray and a plethora of medicines – once again, against regulations.

A slow smile curled Bone's lips as he watched the three Cartwright men through a crack in the barn wall. Maybe he did belong in the Wild West. It seemed he had a stubborn streak and a penchant for independence that bordered on the insubordinate.

"I'm a doctor, not a soldier," he growled.

"I said, come out now!" Ben Cartwright pronounced from the other side of the wall.

McCoy had explored the portion of the barn he was in, which seemed to be some sort of an office. There was a door to the back of it that emptied into another portion of the barn. The problem was, it was locked. He'd rummaged briefly for a key, but had failed to find one, and now it looked like – if he didn't go – he was sure to be caught and questioned. Weighing the trouble using the phaser might cause against what the discovery of a twenty-third century man in a nineteenth century barn might do to the timeline, he decided the phaser was the lesser of two evils. With his eye to the Cartwrights Bones slipped the weapon out of his pouch, set it on a tight beam, and sliced right through the padlock. Careful not to burn himself, he knocked the remnants off with his elbow and slipped into the darkened corridor beyond, quickly making his way to the door at the other end which, fortunately, was not locked. As he stepped out and under the star-flecked sky, Bones sighed, satisfied that he had managed to guard not only their mission but the integrity of the past.

That was until he heard the distinctive click of a gun's hammer being cocked.

Raising his hands into the air, McCoy turned toward the man who held it.

"Adam Cartwright, I presume?"