The Best Proof of Love
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"If thy brother wrongs thee, remember not so much his wrong-doing, but more than ever that he is thy brother." – Epictetus
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Prologue – The Present
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Hoss Cartwright stood with his hand on the latch in the darkened hall outside his little brother's bedroom, debatin' whether or not to open the door. After all these years – nigh onto thirty of them since Joe'd been born – you'd think he'd be used to wakin' in the middle of the night to someone screamin' like the house was on fire or maybe they was bein' murdered in their bed. Pa'd cautioned him and Adam years ago not to get so used to it that they ignored what they heard. Dagburnit, though! It was a hard thing not to do. While Joe wasn't exactly cryin' wolf, it was kind of like that. Every time him and Adam climbed out of bed and padded over to Joe's room, they'd find him sound asleep in the middle of a whirlwind of covers, fightin' like he was afraid it was gonna carry him away. Wakin' that little scamp durin' a nightmare was takin' your life in your hands. More than once him and Adam – and even Pa – had come out of that room with black eyes or worse.
Thing was, for the last few years, nights on the Ponderosa had been perdy, well, peaceful. As Joe got older, it seemed he found a way to deal with his demons durin' the day so's he didn't have to fight them at night. Pa said it had to do with Adam leavin'. That once older brother was gone, Joe 'came into his own'. They sure did fight, them two. Seemed Adam could never get it through that thick head of his that Joe was all growed up, and Joseph, well, the boy knew he was growed up but felt like he wasn't when Adam was around. Hoss snorted. A second later his upper lip curled. If anyone would've asked him – and no one ever did – he'd have said the problem was his two brothers was too much alike.
Hoss heard a sound. He tilted his head and listened.
Joe was whimperin'. Cryin', maybe.
The big man ran a hand through his thinning hair. The way he saw it, it was a good thing little brother was so gosh darn stubborn. If Joe wasn't, well, most like he wouldn't be here now shoutin' to wake the dead.
He'd be dead.
Hoss pressed his forehead against the door and drew in a breath, seeking to stifle the impotent rage that unexpectedly roiled up within him. It weren't much more than a week ago he'd run into Tom Griswold's house and found that mangy dog, Jim Fenton, tryin' to smother his baby brother with a pillow. He wanted to kill him. He'd hoped he had when he took hold of that snake and shoved him through the window. Fact was, when he saw that good-for-nothin' sheriff cartin' both Jim Fenton and Ed Flanders away, he was sorely disappointed to see they was able to walk. Jail was too good for them! They deserved to suffer like Joe'd been made to suffer. Shootin' him in the back. Leavin' him to bleed out and die. And then tryin' to kill him while he was sleepin'!
The big man drew in a breath. He straightened up and looked down the hall toward his father's room. Pa was plumb wore out from all of it. He wasn't gettin' any younger and seein' Joe so bad off had taken a lot out of him. The trip back from the Griswolds had been as hard on Pa as it had been on his brother. Maybe harder. Joe was in pain most of the way, even though he said he wasn't. He'd driven the wagon as cautiously as he could, careful to avoid every rut and bump – just like he was carryin' nitro. Didn't make no difference. By the time they got close to home, Joe was fevered again and out of his head and Pa, well, Pa was sittin' between little brother and the saddle holdin' him up and lookin' scared to death.
Joe slept like the dead for near two days after that.
The third day, the nightmares began.
Hoss turned back toward his brother's room. Joe was yellin' again. It was the same thing every night. When he opened the door he'd find little brother on his bed, pressed up against the headboard like he was tryin' to get away, or on the floor starin' at the ceilin'. Either way, Joe'd have one hand out like he was reachin' toward somethin'. There'd be a flicker of a smile and then, fast as a preacher takin' up a collection, little brother's mouth would form an 'O', his eyes'd go wide, and he'd jerk just like he'd been shot.
Then he'd call his name.
The big man sucked in air and let it out slowly. Everythin' that was in him wanted to turn around and go back to bed. He'd been fightin' with himself since they got Joe home and he was fightin' still. He was pretty sure he knew what Joe was seein' and why. Pa didn't know nothin' about it. Joe knew, but he didn't remember.
He knew, and it shamed him.
A loud thump and a pitiful cry made his mind up for him. Joe's wounds weren't healed yet. Doc Martin had warned them that little brother needed to keep as still as possible so he didn't break them stitches open and bring on a new infection. Paul was shakin' his head as he walked away with Pa. It had been close. Real close.
Joe could still die.
Makin' his mind up, Hoss lifted the latch and stepped into the room. The moon was high and the light shinin' in the window showed him his brother's bed was empty. Joe was on the floor again, them big green eyes of his open, seein' somethin' on that ceilin' only he could see. His hands were reachin' for it.
The moonlight showed him somethin' else too – the tears on his brother's face.
Hoss halted near the end of the bed. He knew from experience not to try to touch him. "Joe," he called. "Joe, you gotta wake up. You hear me?"
His brother rolled onto his side and looked up. There was that smile again, like he was happy to see someone.
He advanced a step closer. "Little Joe! You hear me? You're dreamin'. You need to wake up."
Maybe that'd do it. Joe sure did hate being called 'little' anymore.
Like before, his brother's lips formed his name.
Hoss.
Then he started screamin'.
Dagnabit! He couldn't stand it. He'd just take that black eye!
As he knelt by Joe, the big man reached out and took him by the shoulders. "Joe, it's me. It's Hoss! Joe, you're home and you're safe. Come on now, you gotta wake up!"
Joe shuddered. He blinked and then looked right at him. In his eyes there was such stark terror that Hoss knew what he had to do.
It was time to confess.
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"Thanks...Hoss," Joe said as he released him and let him fall back against the pillows. Little brother was all out of breath, like he'd been runnin' a race.
"You want to tell me about it?" he asked as he pulled a chair up to the bed.
Joe scowled. "I'm not a kid anymore. I don't need someone to 'make it all right'."
Hoss pursed his lips. He felt lower than a snake's belly. "Maybe I should put that different, Joe. I need you to tell me about it."
Joe's jaw grew tight. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared like a bull gettin' ready to charge. It almost made him laugh. He'd seen that look since the boy was knee-high to a grasshopper and knew he used it to scare people away. Worked most of the time too.
'Course, not with him.
His brother continued to glare at him for several heartbeats and then, all of a sudden, went as limp as a neck-wrung rooster. Joe turned his head into the pillow and closed his eyes.
"I'm tired, Hoss," he mumbled. "Go away. Let me sleep."
The big man hung his hands between his knees. "Well now, Joe, if goin' away would let you sleep, I'd do that. But both you and I know it ain't. You got somethin' in your craw and you need to come out with it."
"No. I don't."
"You ain't gonna hurt me by sayin' it," he said softly.
Joe shook his head. "Hoss, don't. Just...don't."
"Look, Joe, things ain't been the same between us since before we come home. Both you and I know it. You ain't...comfortable around me."
"That's ridiculous," he said into the pillow.
"Ridiculous, is it? Then how come you ask for Hop Sing and Pa, but tell them you don't need nothin' when they tell you they'll send me?"
Joe glanced at him. "You must have forgot to wear your hat in the sun again. You're imagining things, older brother."
"Like you thinkin' I was gonna shoot you?"
Joe's body went rigid. A shiver ran the length of it, visible even under the covers. When he spoke, he barely could.
"Why...why would you...think that?"
"Well, let's see, we been home nine days and you've done had nightmares for six of them." Hoss leaned back in the chair. His smile was weary. "Anyone ever told you that you done got a powerful set of lungs on you?"
Joe's look was wary. "What'd I say?"
The big man pursed his lips. "Don't shoot', and then you called my name."
"So? You know what they say about dreams. You can't take them serious."
"That ain't what brother Adam used to say," Hoss countered. "He said they was the windows to the soul."
"It's too late and I'm too tired for poetry, Hoss."
"But it ain't too late to tell the truth, little brother, and then maybe both of us can get some sleep."
Joe shifted. It pained him, but he slowly pulled himself up into a seated position and looked straight at him. There was somethin' in his eyes, a hunger maybe – maybe a need.
"You really want to know?" he asked.
The big man nodded.
Joe swallowed hard. He blinked and ran a hand nervouslike through his hair before smilin' that smile he had – the one that lifted just one side of his face.
"It's silly."
"It ain't silly little brother, if it's painin' you."
"It's just I know you wouldn't...I mean, I know..." Joe paused. "You wouldn't hurt me."
"I ain't never meant to."
Joe heard the catch in his voice. "What?"
"You first. You tell me what that nightmare of yours is about."
His brother drew in a deep breath. Then he nodded. "I'm running through a field. Trying to get away from, well, now I know it was Fenton and Flanders. I've got a bullet in my leg and I know if they catch me there'll be more – probably one through my head."
It was hard to hear. Joe might be describin' a dream, but it was what had really happened.
"I fall. I'm layin' on the ground and then I hear a wagon. It's coming toward me. I see someone getting down, puttin' their boot on the hub." Joe's eyes, full of misery, flicked to his face. "It's you, Hoss. It's you."
He nodded. "And..."
"And...I think I'm rescued. I mean, there you are, comin' toward me. I reach out toward you. I'm smiling. Big brother has come to rescue me and then..."
Joe's voice trailed off.
Little brother was sweatin' somethin' fierce. His chest was risin' and fallin' fast as a stallion's hooves. He wet his lips as his white-knuckled fingers clutched the covers.
"Hoss, I think I'm gonna be sick..."
Luckily Hop Sing had left a basin by the bed. He held it while his brother threw up and then took it to the hall and left it outside the door. Then he did something he hadn't done since his brother was little. He came back into the room, went to the bed and sat on the side of it and placed a hand on Joe's leg.
"I'm real sorry, little brother," he said and meant it .
"Sorry for what? Makin' me puke?"
Joe was doin' that other thing he was good at – usin' humor to make you forget what he wanted you to forget.
"For shootin' you."
Joe snorted. "Ah, Hoss. I was out of my head. I might've thought Cochise was shootin' at me – or asking me to dance."
"Joe. Look at me." He waited until he had. "It ain't a fever dream. It's real. I did shoot you."
The smile died on his brother's lips when he realized he was serious.
"You weren't there, Hoss. Nobody was there but Flanders and Fenton."
"And I'm sorry for that too." The big man paused. He hadn't let himself think about it for years. Decades, really. He'd panicked and his little brother had almost paid for it with his life. "You was too little. You don't remember."
Joe straightened up in the bed. He was listenin' now. "How little?"
Hoss sighed. "I wasn't eleven. I think you just turned five."
"Mama was –"
"Yeah, she was gone." Hoss smiled sadly. "Good thing too. She would of kilt me if she'd found out."
"Found out what?"
Twenty-five years had passed since that day. There'd been times when he forgot, but what almost happened – what he had almost done – came back to haunt him in his nightmares, just like it did his little brother.
"Hoss?"
Joe was holdin' onto his arm, tryin' to comfort him. They locked eyes.
"Tell me," he said.
And he did.