ONE

Just...a...little...farther.

He'd seen smoke in the distance. That meant there was someone other than him on this Godforsaken hill. Someone who could help him.

Someone who could save his life.

But he had to get there first.

Face-down on the forest floor wasn't a good way to start.

Lift your arm. Use it to lift your body. Do it! Do it now before you freeze to death!

Snow. Who would have believed it? It was early autumn and there was an inch of snow on the ground. It covered the brown leaves and nettles that were his makeshift bed like a gossamer blanket.

Joe Cartwright blinked his eyes and tried to focus on the landscape around him. If he could figure out where he was, he might be able to figure out whose cabin was ahead of him. Trouble was, the blow to the head he had taken in the fall had just about blinded him. All he could make out were dim shapes and just about all of them were white.

Joe rested his head on his good arm and turned to look behind him. There was one spot that wasn't white. His horse's carcass lay back there at the base of the ravine, a black and red blot on the pristine fall of snow. Thank God he'd left Cochise at home! Though if he'd been riding Cochise, he probably wouldn't have gone over the edge and tumbled down the side of the ravine to land in the half-frozen river at the bottom. The horse had scrambled out of the water, giving no thought to the fact that his foot was still caught in the stirrup and he'd be dragged along. She fell about a dozen feet on the other side of the river, mortally wounded. The cold, icy water had ruined his rifle. He'd had the wherewithal to grab his pistol and hold it over his head as he hit the surface. It made it out with him, though his belt and extra bullets were lost to the fast-running current.

He had two bullets left after putting the skittish animal out of its misery.

Joe winced as he shifted and grunted out a laugh. He should have put the horse out of its misery the minute he laid eyes on it in the farmer's stable – and maybe the farmer along with it. The man had cheated him, plain and simple. His own horse had come up lame and he'd taken what he could get, so hell-bent was he on reaching Carrie Pickett's cabin in the Piney Woods. Carrie had a way of workin' him out of a funk and he'd been in one when he set out from the Ponderosa. He often headed her way when he needed to think.

Or to escape.

It was strange. Both he and Pa were hurtin'. You'd think they would have taken solace in each other's presence, but instead – when they were together – they were both all too aware of the one who was missing. Not brother Adam. He'd said his goodbye years before.

Hoss. It was Hoss who was missin'.

Hoss who had died a year ago to the day.

Joe sucked in air and readied himself to rise. It wasn't doin' him any good layin' here in the snow gettin' all maudlin. If he didn't get his ass up and out of the white stuff, Pa was gonna have another reason to regret this day.

Another reason.

Like the first wasn't enough.

Like he hadn't screwed up again.

The wind was up and it froze the tears on his cheeks as Joe lifted his head and blinked. Somewhere between those last two sentences he must have passed out. The sun was setting, casting long fingers of fiery pink and gold over a rolling land gone silver-blue. He'd come here to do a little work for Carrie and to find solace, not to die. If he didn't get to shelter before night fell, that was just what he was going to do.

Die.

Once again, Joe pressed his right hand against the frozen earth and attempted to rise. Pain shot through his left side and blasted out of his skull as he did. His leg was broken just below the knee and he was fairly certain the ribs on that side were too. At first he'd slid down the hillside, but then that damned horse had passed him by, crushing his left side and pulling on the leg still caught in the stirrup. That's when it snapped. He'd passed out and the first thing he'd known, he'd found himself lyin' on the far side of the river, gasping for air. It took just about everything that was in him to get his foot out of the tangle it was in. After that he'd dragged his body over to the horse, put a bullet in its brain, and then done his best to splint his leg with branches gathered from nearby and the remnants of the horse's reins. It wasn't much, but it had allowed him to stand and move under his own power for an hour or two.

Joe breathed in a noseful of cold air and lifted his tired body a few inches higher. The knock he'd taken to the head on the way down had muddled his thinking. The ravine was a few miles out from Carrie's cabin. He'd fallen a good fifty feet or so to its lowest point. Still, the old cabin in the Piney Woods should have been to his back, which meant he was movin' east. Or at least, he thought he was movin' east. Since it was dusk, he couldn't see the sun. There was nothing to guide him

Other than a plume of smoke.

Pulling his right leg up and under him was agony, but he did it. Using the hand on that side as a prop, Joe rose up and balanced on his good knee. It held him briefly and – even more briefly – he felt triumphant, but then pain shuddered through him and he lost his balance and fell, landing on his back with his face turned toward the sky.

He was gonna die here.

He was gonna die and Pa would never know what happened to him. Of all the crazy stunts he'd pulled, the fights he'd started, the men he'd made mad enough to come after him – none of them had killed him.

'Joseph Francis Cartwright', his tombstone would read, 'Best judge of horseflesh in all of Nevada lies here as a result of his own stupidity.'

Joe lay there in silence waiting – waiting for his pa to come, waiting for the sound of his brothers' laughter to wash over him and make him so mad he'd come up with fists flying – waiting for God to send a miracle.

But there was nothing. Nothing but the darkness and a deep silence and the constant fall of snow that was impossibly early and improbably heavy.

Joe drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching the vapor rise like his spirit toward the sky. A tear slid down his face, freezing instantly.

"I'm sorry, Pa," he whispered as he lifted his gun and used his last two bullets to signal he was in trouble.

Then Joseph Francis Cartwright fell silent as the night.

Ben Cartwright stood in his son's bedroom, gazing out the window at the impossible fall of snow. Autumn had barely begun and it was snowing! Something in him wanted to believe that the world was mourning too. The last year had seen so much loss – Joe's wife and unborn child.

Hoss.

A year ago today it had happened. His middle son had been ripped from them, leaving him and Joe to mourn. He'd sent letters out, hoping to catch Adam at one of the ports he visited, but in a year there had been no word. Joe needed his oldest brother. Though he had done everything in his power to convince his youngest son that there was no blame to be attached to his actions that day, Joe remained unconvinced. As the anniversary of Hoss' death approached, he'd watched his remaining son withdraw deeper and deeper into himself until speaking to him had become an exercise in futility. When Joe told him he was going up to the Piney Woods to check on Carrie Pickett, he'd let him go without an argument. Joe needed solitude just as much as he needed his son's company. In the end his love as a father had won out over his own needs and he'd watched his son ride away. At the end of the yard Joe had halted and waved before disappearing from sight. He'd been a bit concerned that Joe's companion of many years had pulled a tendon and was out of the running for a mount. The horse Joe picked to replace Cochise – a sleek, fast black – was as young and impulsive as his son had once been. Still, if anyone knew horseflesh it was Joe and he had to believe his son had made the right choice.

Turning from the window, the older man walked to the bed and sat down. From his position on it, he looked around the room. He knew his old friends thought him tetched in the head for leaving both of his older sons' rooms as they had always been – as if, somehow, he expected them to walk into the house and resume their lives on the Ponderosa as if they had never left. In truth both rooms were a shrine to a golden era that had come and gone. Ben sniffed back a tear and straightened up. Walking over to the dresser, he picked up the portrait of Marie that Joe kept in his room. Yes, he was in his youngest's room, not in Hoss'.

On this day he chose to embrace life and not to focus on death.

With trembling fingers, Ben reached out to touch the face of his long dead wife. "Somehow, my darling," he whispered, "I knew it would be our boy who would stay with me. Watch over Joe, wherever he is. Bring him home."

A beam of light fell through the window striking Marie's portrait and setting its silver frame ablaze. The rancher stood still, fearful he would miss her reply when it came, and come it did in the sound of footsteps in the hall.

"Mistah Cartwright no should be alone tonight," his old friend said. "Hop Sing fix roast pork in Mistah Hoss' honor. You come eat."

Ben put the frame down and turned toward his friend. "I'm not hungry, Hop Sing. Thank you."

"You eat for Mistah Hoss. He angry if you end up skin and bones!" The Chinese man advanced into the room. "Mistah Hoss want you to live. Want little brother to live." He paused. "Want both of you to move on."

At first he was angry, but then a sadness overtook him as he realized the truth his cook spoke. Hoss would be the first one to chide them for clinging to his death instead of celebrating his life.

"Roast pork, you say?" he asked, forcing his tone to be light. "With mashed potatoes?"

"And apple pie. You come. "

Ben hesitated. The idea of sitting at the dining room table – alone – was almost too much.

"I..."

"Hop Sing bring tray into great room. Eat in there." The little man paused. "Too cold in dining room."

Too cold? Yes.

Cold as the grave.

The sound of two shots echoed through the tangled woods where Joseph Cartwright lay. It bounded from one tree to the other until it reached the ears of a sturdy young man who was standing outside a ramshackle cabin approximately half-a-mile away, looking at the stars. He jumped at the sound because it meant he was not alone. Quicker than seemed possible for his massive frame, the youth bolted into the cabin and grabbed his mother's rifle and then returned to the dilapidated porch to listen for another shot.

Nothing came.

The youth rested the butt of the elegant weapon on one of the sturdier boards and waited. A few minutes later he heard a sound – not the bark of a rifle or gun, but the hungry cry of a wolf. It had been a lean year. Wolves, while they usually avoided men, could be driven to kill in hard times. If someone was out there – if that's what the shots meant – then they were in trouble. His ma had taught him to do the same thing, to fire off his rifle to signal he was in distress. She'd taught him other things as well, mostly that he had to be careful. That it was best not to let no anyone know they were there. Before he was born, she said, men came to this hill and they meant to do her harm 'cause she was different. If not for a stranger who'd been staying with her at the time, they would have. The man had driven them off before going his way. He'd helped her make the cabin strong and left some money with her; money that had helped to keep the two-footed wolves from her door.

It sure was a pretty rifle.

Taking a few steps, the youth moved into the yard. The snow was an inch deep and still falling. It wouldn't last long. Odds were the next day the sun would melt it fast. But tonight, it was deadly. He stood there, considering his choices, and then realized he really didn't have a choice. He couldn't bear for a creature to suffer, man or mouse. If someone was out there in need of help, then he had to do his best to give it.

His ma wouldn't have had it any other way.

Joe Cartwright woke in a panic. He was burning alive!

The wounded man blinked and looked down his lean frame toward his boots. A white hot fire surrounded the tan leather. It was creeping slowly up his body, igniting cloth and skin as it went. Terrified, he struggled to sit up. When he couldn't manage it, he lay on the ground, breathing hard. Lifting the only hand that would obey, Joe brought it to his face and pulled the black glove that sheathed it off with his teeth. He shook like a man with delirium tremens as he struggled to unbutton his jacket and shimmy out of it.

"You don't want to do that, mister," a voice said as a hand caught his and held it tightly. Another was placed on his shoulder and pinned him to the ground. "You ain't thinkin' right."

"No!" he shrieked. "No! You don't...understand. Hot...so hot! I'm burning!"

"You ain't burnin', Mister. You're freezin' cold."

Whoever it was, they were an idiot. Couldn't they see that white hot light? It was in his hair now, his eyes – it ran along his fingertips, seeking to consume him. With every bit of strength he had, Joe fought to free himself from the hands that held him, arching his back, striking out –

Screaming.

"Now you just stop that! You'll hurt yourself worse." One of the hands went to his forehead. It was followed by a low whistle. "You got a fever awful fierce. No wonder you think you're fryin'."

The voice sounded young...uncertain. Joe fought the fire in his brain, at last recognizing the symptoms of freezing to death. He drove the fear of that back until he could open his eyes. It was no use. His vision was as uncertain as his future. All he could tell was that someone was leaning over him; a tall, broad someone who sounded like a child but looked like a man.

Joe blinked. His hand reached out. "Hoss?" he whispered, his voice without strength. "Hoss?"

The boy-man shook his head. "Name's Rick. Short for Broderick. Ma says that's my pa's name, though how he came by one so sissified I don't know." Joe felt fingers grasp his frozen chin and turn his head. "That's some knock you took, Mister. You remember what happened?"

He did. He had.

Not any more.

Joe shook his head, setting off another explosion of incandescent pain.

"Lucky for you I heard those shots. You'd have had all your clothes off and froze to death come mornin'." The boy-man released him to rock back on his heels. "How bad are you hurt? Can you tell me? I gotta move you and I don't want to cause you any more pain than I have to."

Joe closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the vivid white light. It took a moment, but then he began to tick off the things that hurt. "Arm," he said through gritted teeth, "ribs, leg. Left side." The injured man sucked in air. "Head hurts."

"Maybe I should of asked what don't hurt," Rick sighed.

Joe managed a small smile. "Maybe."

Rick leaned forward. Gently, with the skill of a doctor, he ran his hands along Joe's injured limbs and then felt his ribs. As he finished, he sighed. "It's gonna hurt, Mister, no matter how I do it. If you ride, or if I get you on a travois, it's gonna hurt."

"Been...hurt before. Lots," Joe breathed.

"So you're a tough old coot, eh? You don't look so old," Rick paused, "or all that tough."

"Looks can be...deceiving."

Rick was silent for several slow, sluggish heartbeats. "Yeah, Ma said that too."

Joe feebly turned his head. "Is your...ma here?"

The boy-man shook his. "She went into the settlement for supplies. Guess, you're stuck with me."

He managed to lift his good hand and pat Rick's arm. "Glad to...know you."

Rick grinned. "Yeah, it's good to know you too. Now, why don't you just lie there while I figure out how to get you to the cabin."

Joe was drifting off. Rick's words revived him briefly. "You...got smoke in...your chimney?"

"On account of the snow, yeah. You seen it, didn't you? That's why you were comin' this way."

He was surprised to hear fear color Rick's words. "What's..wrong?" he asked.

Rick was silent for a moment. "Nothin'", he said as he got to his feet. "Now, don't you go runnin' off, Mister. I'll be back as soon as I can with a horse. Do you think you can ride?"

He paused, assessing his injuries, and then shook his head. "No."

"Okay, then I'll bring Dumpy. He's a big fellow. He can pull a travois."

It hurt to laugh, but he couldn't help it. "Dumpy? What kind of..a...name is that for a horse?"

"My pa rode him when he was here cause Pa was big too. Old Dumpy's got one of those shaggy manes and kind of looks like he's ready for the glue factory. But don't let that fool you. He's strong as an ox and smart too."

"I think I'd like...to...have met your pa," Joe said as consciousness faded. He was aware enough to hear Rick's answer, but not aware enough to realize what he said.

"Yeah," the boy-man sighed. "Me too."