Blood Brothers

I

Let me say right from the start that I'm not trying to excuse myself; I'm just trying to explain why I did what I did. And everything I tell you will be the truth as I know it, mainly the truth about myself. And you can trust it's the truth because as my brother Hoss said once in my defense, "Joe ain't no liar." Well, that's not quite the truth but I wouldn't lie about this.

Oh, I used to be a liar. I mean when I was a kid I lied to get myself out of trouble like all kids do, but once I hit 14, well, I realized that I was always caught in my lies and then I just looked worse than if I had owned up to what I had done in the first place and even if I wasn't caught, I began to feel guilty and found myself coming clean and confessing. Surprised myself. Pa said I was growing up, maturing and becoming a man but actually, I was becoming a coward. I used to not care if I was caught because I figured I could always talk my way out of that as well, and sometimes I did. Well, for a while. So I think that part of honesty is just out and out fear but I also think, well, Adam told me this, "That a man has to live with himself."

Speaking of, this story is mainly about me and my oldest brother, Adam. He might have a different version of what happened—relating things from how he saw it but this is my story, this is through my eyes. And I hope you choose to believe me because it's my truth.

Hoss and I'd just gotten home from a cattle drive—one that I had begged my father to let me go on but I later wished he had said no. It was an awful experience—hot, dirty and dusty and stinking and even worse when it rained! Then it was wet, muddy and uncomfortable and stinking. Even my long johns would get wet in the rain, poncho or not, and the time it rained three days in a row, well, the whole camp stank of wet, dirty men and the beeves smelled even worse than when they were dry. Try sleeping in weather like that. But the worst part, other than having to sleep on the world's hardest stretch of ground or sit up half the night watching those stupid beeves, was being assigned to the wrangler.

At the end of every long, hot, miserable day, the remuda would be corralled with thick ropes the wrangler strung between trees or posts I had to pound into the earth. The first night I complained about it, about me having to pound the stakes in so deep only to struggle to pull them up in the morning, Stumpy called me every name but Cartwright. I thought he'd singe off my eyebrows. Then after the horses were safe, he'd go to checking each horse's hooves. I wanted to go eat while he did this—it made sense to me—I eat and when I come back he's through and goes eat while I do my jobs but he just looked at me when I made my suggestion, spat a wad of tobacco, and I took that for no. It took him about 40 minutes to do this, check each horse's hooves and run his hands up and down their legs feeling the joints, but Stumpy, the wrangler, wouldn't let me leave; I had to follow behind him like a puppy. Stumpy made me stay beside him and if he found anything wrong, I had to do what he did, run my hands up and down the horse's legs or whatever to see if I felt it too. I thought that was stupid and told him so. I wasn't going to be a wrangler—I was going to be a part-owner of the Ponderosa. But let me tell you, he's called Stumpy because he lost two of his fingers to Indians years ago but that didn't stop him from snatching me by my shirt-front and telling me that as long as I was working for him, I had better shut my mouth and open my ears.

I told Hoss about it, thinking he'd be mad that I'd be treated that way but he just laughed and said I was lucky Stumpy didn't kick my ass all the way to Abilene, and kept making up his bedroll for the night. Can you believe my own brother who was told to look after me would behave that way? And just between you and me, I was told that Stumpy was called that because he'd lost another important appendage—the Indians had chopped off his manhood as well. I asked Hoss about it once and he just brushed me off, saying that it was just a joke. But let me tell you, sometimes Stumpy made me so mad I was tempted to toss it in his face that he wasn't a full man anymore; maybe then he'd ease up on me if he thought I knew something secret. But I never did. There's that coward in me again raising his head to save his ass.

Like I was saying though, the worst part about working for Stumpy was that after checking the stock and making me tag along like a puppy, he'd leave to eat but I wasn't allowed to leave until I had fed and watered and rubbed down every single one of those hammer-headed, reeking, miserable excuses for horses. Then and only then could I go eat and all I'd get for dinner was a cold biscuit, the burned bottom scrapings of the stew pot and a weak cup of the second brewing of the coffee grounds—tan hot water—and we had only sorghum to sweeten it.

I never want to go on another cattle drive again in my life but when Hoss and me finally got home way before the hands who took their time, things got even worse for me.

Pa was glad to see us, you know, clapping us on the back, grinning and all, and we were glad to see him but that Esau, the hand he had hired before the drive, was in the house. And not just in the house, he was sitting in that blue chair we have by the fireplace, reading a book and sipping on a whiskey. I looked at Hoss and he looked at me and Pa could see we were both confused as to what the hell was going on. And that Esau, he rose too and stuck his hands in the back pockets of his dungarees. He kept looking at Pa and I wondered what he had on my father to be asked to move in. I mean, I knew my pa was lonely with both me and Hoss gone but why he would ask a total stranger to move in? See why I was suspicious?

"Sons," Pa said, "I suppose you're wondering why…." He motioned in Esau's direction. Then he took a deep sigh and smiled at us. "This is your older brother...Adam."

I giggled. I mean I thought he was kidding—he had to be kidding. So I looked to Hoss and he wasn't laughing. He looked serious. And as I watched, Hoss walked over to "Adam" and put out a hand. Adam took it and instead of shaking, they took each other's hands and then embraced one another. I didn't know what to make of that. And to make things worse, Hoss smiled and Adam laughed and they couldn't get enough of each other, Hoss talking about how he'd suspected and how happy he was to have someone around to help him. Well, what did Hoss think I was for?

It seemed like all of them were crazy and I just turned and walked out making sure the door slammed shut loudly. I couldn't believe it. Here I had been gone almost four months and when I finally get home, my whole world is turned upside down. A brother older than Hoss? Where the hell had this brother come from? My pa never mentioned an older brother to me. I mean I knew he had a wife before Hoss' mother but he never mentioned anything about a son. So what happened? Did that "Adam" just show up and one day say he was my pa's son? Was he a Cartwright bastard? Had my father been with another woman and left her with a child? I couldn't believe that of my pa but I'd rather Adam be a bastard than a rightful first born.

So I just started walking—my head so full of pressure it felt like it would explode. I just wanted to hit somebody—to hurt somebody as much as I hurt. I headed to the lake where my mother is buried. I go there when I'm upset and talk to her and I knew that on foot, it'd take me about an hour. But then, my pa had his two sons in the house with him; why would he even care about me anymore? I doubted he'd even miss me. Let the three of them hug on each other and all. I wanted nothing to do with them—not any of them. I felt betrayed.

I guess I'd been at the lake about an hour or longer when my pa rode up towing my horse Cochise behind him. I hadn't talked to my momma as I'd planned because, well, again I know it's silly. but I didn't think she'd approve of my behavior. I knew she had loved me and Hoss always said I was spoiled because of her, that she was always giving me whatever I wanted but isn't that what parents are supposed to do? And more than once, Hoss told me I was Pa's favorite. I'd say it wasn't true but I knew it was; he always gave in to me all the time. Like letting me go on the cattle drive when I keep asking only I don't know if that was such a great thing.

But take my horse, Cochise. Once my pa, Hoss and me were in town and I saw this showy paint pony in the corral of the blacksmith's, just as flashy as she could be. Burnam, he sold horses on the side because sometimes people left a hurt horse there and picked up a new one. Burnam took a $50.00 deposit if you left a horse but if you didn't return within a month and switch horses back, he kept the deposit and the horse to sell.

Anyway, I wanted that paint. I was 13 and needed a new horse to ride to and from school. Well, actually, I was cutting school more than going but I was tired of riding the old plug Pa made me take—Freckles. It was embarrassing to ride up to the school house on that horse and I told Pa over and over that the reason I missed school so much was because Freckles was so slow that by the time I got there, school had already started and if I came in late, Miss Jones would take a ruler to my palms. So I'd just head on over to the fishing lake by Conover's farm and swim or such. He didn't know I had a fishing pole hid out there and would use bits of my lunch for bait—but it wasn't necessary he know about that.

Anyway, I started in on my pa, telling him what a beautiful pony the paint was and if I had a horse like that, why, I bet I'd never be late for school again and then my grades would be better. Hoss looked at me funny because I knew he didn't believe me. But one thing I have to say about Hoss, he usually stayed out of things and he stayed out of this. Well, that whole trip in town, I worked on Pa every chance I could. And then, just as we were about to leave, after the buckboard had been loaded, Pa turned to me and asked, "Joe, if I buy you that pony, there'll be no birthday present come October and Christmas will be lean too. And if you miss another day of school, I'll take the pony away. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, sir," I answered trying to control myself. Hoss gave a snort but that was all he did. So we went over to the blacksmith while Hoss stayed with the buckboard and Pa bought me the paint that I named Cochise. But Pa was worried because Burnam said, "I gotta tell you, Ben, that paint's crazy—crazy as all hell. She's always nipping at other horses and I have to hobble her other three legs in order to shoe her. You sure you know what you're doing giving him to your boy?" Pa looked a little doubtful but I just looked at him, trying my best to look pathetic and I guess I succeeded because he paid $100.00 for Cochise which Pa said was too much and called Burnam a thief but I guess Burnam saw Pa coming because he just laughed and pocketed the money. Said he'd throw in a bridle and saddle as well and Pa said Burnam was too, too generous but that's not what he meant. And we headed back to the Ponderosa with Cochise tied to the back of the buckboard and me smiling the whole time.

Well, Pa rode up and dismounted and I wouldn't look at him.

"Joseph," Pa said. I still wouldn't look at him. "Joseph, let me explain. I know this is a lot for you to understand, but…"

I couldn't look at him, I was so mad—just stared out at the lake. My momma liked the lake and that's why Pa buried her there, so she could lie among beauty for eternity, he had said. My pa reached out for me, touched my shoulder but I jerked away. I hoped it would hurt him—I wanted him to know I was angry, I was mad, I was hurt. And I didn't know why I felt that way. I really didn't. I just wanted to hurt him and Hoss and most of all, that man back at the Ponderosa who Pa said was my oldest brother. It couldn't be true—it just couldn't!