A Burning Truth
Ben Cartwright thrust the door to his son's room open, fearful of what he might find. To his relief Joe was laying on the bed where he'd left him, his arms still thrust into his green coat, a bloody bandage wrapped around his back and chest. For the fifteen or so minutes he had been forced to be away from him, a dozen possible scenarios had played out in his head. Joe would wake and find himself alone. He'd stumble, fevered, down the stairs right into the middle of a gun battle. Or, he'd think he needed to escape and would do it through the window and end up laying broken on the ground. Or even worse, he's manage to land safely and one of Forsythe's men would kill him.
Plain and simple. They'd kill him.
The silver-haired man caught the back of the chair in Joe's room with his fingers and pulled it up to the bed. Then he wearily dropped into it. He'd sent Molly and Johnny Simms to the bunkhouse to get them away from the carnage below. Three men – including General Diaz – were lying in the great room, dead or bleeding out. Ben rocked back. He placed his palms against his forehead and sighed.
Hop Sing was going to be awfully upset when he saw what they'd done to his carpet.
The thought made Ben snort and that brought a reaction from Joe.
Ben reached out and brushed the sweat-soaked curls off his son's forehead. Leave it to Little Joe, he'd had a two foot wide spatter of shot dug out of his back only the day before and he'd been so worried about him that the boy had fought Molly all the way out to the barn. When Joe interrupted him and Johnny, startling the hesitant gunman, he'd been afraid the boy would be gunned down. Ben lowered his hands and looked at his son. Joe's skin had been hot as hearthstones. He'd felt his heart beating rapidly in his chest. He'd been angry at the men who had invaded their home already, but that touch – that clarion bell of infection rising – had turned his anger to raw hate. At that moment he would have gladly killed all of them with his bare hands.
Fortunately, by the time he had Joe back in bed, life had taken precedence over revenge.
Leaning over, he planted a gentle kiss on the boy's forehead.
Joe shifted slightly. "Pa...?"
"I'm here, Joe. Don't talk. You need your rest."
"Gotta...gonna..."
"What son?"
"...hurt...someone...Adam!" Joe struggled, trying to rise. "Have to...save...Adam!"
Ben shifted onto the bed. Gingerly, he wrapped his arms around his son. Adam and Hoss were out on a cattle drive. Before everything unfolded with Forsythe and Diaz, Joe had expressed his concern about his brothers handling it without him. Now, in his fevered state, Joe thought something was wrong. As he listened to his son rant, Ben was reminded of similar time long ago.
Joe had the measles and his temperature had been dangerously high. For some reason he got it in his head that Adam was in danger. In truth, completely exhausted from a late night vigil, Adam had fallen asleep on the settee. Joe was only seven, but even then the determination that drove him had been remarkable. The boy punched and kicked until, at last, his shouting woke his brother and – looking like something the cat would hesitate to drag in – Adam appeared. He spoke to Joe, and when Joe realized he was safe, the boy had fallen asleep.
He 'd always wondered what his oldest boy had said.
Ben sighed as his youngest continued to struggle. It would certainly be a relief to turn and find Adam standing there now. Futilely, his eyes strayed to the door.
Only to find Adamthere, looking white as a sheet.
"I came back for supplies," he explained before he was asked. "Pa! What happened? I saw the blood..." Adam's voice trailed off as he noted his brother's condition. "What happened to Joe?"
"Forsythe shot him in the back," Ben growled. "Adam, you remember when Joe had the measles? Its the same. Joe thinks you're in danger. Nothing I've done has quieted him."
"Let me try, Pa."
It was all Ben could do to keep Joe from shooting off the bed as Adam slid in and took his place.
"Joe," his eldest said. "Joe!"
Little Joe's expressive brows knitted together. "Adam...?"
"Yes, Joe. It's me." Adam paused, and then said, inexplicably, "Pa didn't find out. I'm fine."
"Fine..."
"Yeah. Don't you remember?"
Joe shook his head from side to side.
"The day you got sick, you and I'd gone to town. I left you by yourself, told you to stay in the wagon." Adam glanced up at him as though embarrassed. "I was gone so long you thought something had happened. In the end you caught me kissing Sarah Armstrong in the alley. Don't you remember, Joe?"
Little Joe was smiling. "Pa's gonna...tan your...hide..."
Adam chortled. "Probably." A second later, he added, "Pa's here now, Joe. He'll sort it out. You just get some rest. Okay, buddy?"
As Joe lay back against the pillows, his son's fevered eyes sought his face. "You gonna...whup Adam, Pa?"
Ben said nothing. If he could step back fourteen years he most certainly would have!
Adam smiled. "Sure he's gonna whup me, Joe. Pa's gonna take me outside to the woodshed, so you can get some sleep."
Little Joe was still a moment and then he began to move again, attempting to throw his covers off and rise. Puzzled, Adam caught him by the shoulders. "Joe. Joe what is it?" he asked.
Joseph Francis Cartwright, wounded, fevered, and out of his head, sat straight up in the bed and declared –
"This I gotta see!"
Ben ran a hand over his face and sighed – as he often did when Joseph was involved.
Back to the drawing board.