Big thanks to Mel, my beta reader, for looking over my story when she's up to her eyes in her own life! And for pointing out that I've created two characters with cereal-related surnames. Heehee! You'll spot them - I didn't! ;-)

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.

xxXXxx

He would not—could not—open his eyes.

If he did, he would see the devil.

The figure lingered on the edge of his vision; a shadow that tore out of view if he moved his head and looked directly at it. It was close enough for his eyes to know it was there, but like a dog chasing its tail, he could have turned round and round on the spot and the figure would always be a jagged presence, a blur, never in focus, forever on the threshold.

The first time the figure had let him take a proper look he was so terrified at what he saw, he vowed never to open his eyes again. But he failed to keep his vow because the devil had tempted him and he had stolen a glimpse.

Now it was standing in the corner of his cell, unmoving, its body turned towards him. Burying his head in his arms, he cursed himself for being weak, feeling the fear crawl over his flesh and the hairs on his arms tingling as they stood erect.

No, he could not open his eyes, because if he did, he would see the devil.

Unfortunately for Adam, though, smothering his vision was not enough to end the torment.

For the devil had a voice.

xxXXxx

"Mr. Cartwright, please take a seat in the witness chair."

Adam Cartwright removed his hand from the Bible and moved to the chair the judge had indicated. He glanced around the courtroom, seeking out the familiar figures of his father and brothers seated a few rows back amongst the spectators. His father nodded, sending silent assurance across the room. Adam saw faith in his father's eyes; faith that gave him strength. He took a deep breath and squeezed his lips together as he waited for the court to settle.

Jacob Barley, the accused, was slouched next to his lawyer, one elbow resting on the bar separating the onlookers from the officials. He stared hard at Adam, who assumed Barley was trying to unnerve him. It did not work. Adam merely looked back at the businessman through impassive eyes, observing with disdain how the buttons of the man's flashy brocade vest were straining to confine the bulge of his belly.

Barley's expression was one of cool detachment. His top lip pulled up half his face into a permanent sneer; heavy eyelids hung low over sharp eyes that barely blinked as they bored into Adam. His lawyer leaned over and whispered a few words in his client's ear, and all the while Barley never drew his eyes from Adam. He barked a laugh which made the flesh beneath his chin wobble as he swivelled around to share the joke with the men seated behind the bar. His words were met with scorns of laughter from his assembled cohorts who threw snide looks at Adam. It was only the sound of the gavel hitting the striking board that drew Barley's attention back to proceedings and silenced the throng.

Judge Farrell, the circuit judge who considered himself most misfortunate to have been assigned to one of the circuits in the barbarous country west of the Mississippi, peered over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles at Barley's defence attorney. The implication was clear: control your client or there would be hell to pay. Having received the expected compliance, he nodded at Silas Oates, the prosecutor, to begin the questioning of Adam Cartwright.

Oates placed his hands in the small of his back and took a step towards his witness.

"Mr Cartwright, please be so kind as to tell us what you saw on the night of Theodore Barley's death."

The town's prosecuting attorney had a voice that, when he wanted, could match Ben Cartwright at full volume. It was a voice Silas Oates had assumed as a young man when it became apparent he had stopped growing at the diminutive height of five feet and four inches. And for a determined law student keen to make his way in the uncompromising world of the judicial law courts, a voice that could cut down a belligerent defendant, or could subdue an unruly crowd, was a distinct asset. Yet Silas was also skilled at the soft tone, the one he used on tearful ladies to empathise and commiserate; or, equally, to coax facts and details from witnesses desperate to keep the truth hidden, until Silas Oates wheedled it out of them. For Adam Cartwright, he chose another timbre, that of an equal, a business associate, a voice that demonstrated respect for his witness.

Adam sat up straight in his chair and took a deep breath. "Well, I was leaving town, riding along C Street sometime after eight o'clock, when I noticed Theodore Barley on the balcony of the International House where he has some rooms."

"What was he doing?"

"He was standing with his back to the railings, arguing with someone."

"Could you see who he was arguing with?"

Adam turned his head towards the defendant. "I could see very clearly. It was Theodore's son, Jacob Barley."

The court erupted into a riot of noise as Jacob's supporters jumped to their feet, punching the air with their fists, protesting Adam Cartwright's evident lies. Their shouts were answered by Jacob's detractors who had crowded into the courtroom, eager to see the man at last receive his comeuppance. The pounding of a furious gavel, echoing through the chamber, eventually restored order. Adam had not taken his eyes from Jacob during the uproar and a cold chill crept down his spine when a pair of cold-black eyes lifted to meet his.

"Tell us what you saw," prompted Oates.

Drawing his eyes away from Jacob, Adam took a long breath. "Well, there was a lot of shouting on both sides. Theodore kept pointing at Jacob as though accusing him—"

"Objection, Your Honour." Casper Buchanan, acting for the defendant, was on his feet in an instant. "Speculation. Mr. Cartwright can't possibly know what Theodore Barley's gesticulations meant."

"I agree. Mr. Cartwright, please just state the facts without your interpretation of events."

Oates bowed his head slightly towards the judge. "Apologies, your honour." He returned to Adam. "Please continue, Mr. Cartwright."

"Well, like I said there was lots of shouting and pointing by Theodore. There was a struggle and then…" Adam paused. He looked towards Jacob, who was slumped back in his chair, studying the backs of his hands.

"And then?"

"And then I saw Jacob Barley push his father off the balcony."

Once more the courtroom was filled with the cries of the spectators. There were jeers from Barley's supporters, and shouts of indignation and rage from those who believed him guilty. The gavel was again forced into action.

"Order! I will have order in my court." The shouts turned to mutterings and then whispered quiet. "Just as I expected in uncivilised country like this; a rabble unable to keep their sentiments under control." The judge glared at the assembled throng before turning his attention back to the prosecutor. "Please continue, Mr. Oates."

"Mr. Cartwright, would you tell us what happened next."

Adam's fingers tightened on the rim of the hat resting in his lap. "I jumped off my horse and ran over to Ted, uh, Theodore, but he was dead. When I looked up to where he had fallen from, Jacob was standing there looking down."

Murmurs fluttered through the courtroom but a single strike on the gavel hushed the onlookers.

"Thank you, Mr. Cartwright. No more questions, your honour."

"Your witness, Mr. Buchanan."

Casper Buchanan slithered out of his chair and sidled over to Adam. A tall, thin-limbed man, Buchanan had been unhappily blessed with a protruding midsection, which, together with a pair of heavily lidded eyes, lent him the appearance of a desert iguana.

"Mr. Cartwright, can you tell us what you were doing in Virginia City that day."

Adam frowned. What had this to do with the death of Theodore Barley?

"I, uh, came in to see Doc Martin."

Buchanan blinked slowly. Adam could have sworn both the man's upper and lower lids moved like a lizard's.

"Do you normally visit the doctor so late in the day?"

"I don't make a habit of it, no. The doctor's a family friend. I knew it wouldn't be a problem."

"Uh-huh." Buchanan turned his back on Adam, looked out over the spectators and addressed Adam over his shoulder. "And the reason for your visit to Doctor Martin?"

Adam turned to the judge.

"Is this really relevant, your honour? I don't see what this has to do with—"

"Your honour, my client is facing the gallows for allegedly murdering his father. I think as the only witness to the supposed offence, it's only fair to ascertain the reason for Mr. Cartwright's visit to the doctor." A smile edged around Buchanan's lips. "Maybe he's having problems with his eyes. He could be having trouble seeing in the dark, perhaps?"

There was a titter of laughter in the court which was silenced by a scowl from the judge.

"Please answer the question, Mr Cartwright."

Adam looked towards his father who was leaning forward, looking as puzzled by the line of questioning as he was. Adam sighed.

"It's a busy time on the ranch—"

"Not unusual for the time of year, surely," interrupted Buchanan.

"No. But round-up has been particularly strenuous this year. The drought meant our cattle strayed higher than usual looking for water, so I've been spending long hours in the saddle." Adam shrugged. "And then in the evenings I've been catching up on ranch business." He turned to the judge, embarrassed at having to share his affairs with a roomful of strangers. "There's been a lot to think about and, because of that I've been having a few headaches and some trouble sleeping. I was hoping Doc Martin could give me something to help me sleep."

A quick glance to his father showed Ben scrutinising the back of his hands, unable to look at his son. Adam recognised the stirrings of guilt in his father's manner.

"So, you're tired, not sleeping well. Is that right?" It was clear from Buchanan's tone that he felt no pity for Adam's quandary.

"Yes." The answer sounded like a question.

Buchanan turned to face the jury of twelve good men and true. Rising on his toes, he clasped his hands behind his back and took a moment to look over every one of the gentlemen seated before him.

"Let me tell you a story, Mr. Cartwright. I once worked seventy-two hours on a case in Carson City. That too involved a man accused of murder." Buchanan glanced over his shoulder casting a long look at Adam. "He was acquitted." He turned back to the jury. "But before I secured that man his freedom, I was working every hour God sent, foregoing all sleep, and I started seeing things. I was standing then, like I am now, addressing the jury, when I became certain my Great Aunt Millicent was sitting amongst the jurors. She was doing needlework." Buchanan smiled at the floor as the crowd laughed. "The brain can play tricks—"

"I know what I saw." Adam had not intended to speak as harshly as he did. He softened his tone and faced the jury. "I know what I saw. Jacob Barley pushed his own father to his death. I saw it with my own eyes."

"Of course. With your own eyes. That'll be all, your honour, no further questions."