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

I do need to add that I am quite aware that my last story (I experimented with both the plot and the OC) was not well-received by some and that's fine - I left negative reviews unless the reviewer denigrated me and my subject matter and said, well, "Trollish" things; those were deleted. But I recently received one - anonymously, of course so it was deleted since it seemed spiteful, that told me that someone said about me and my writing - I'm assuming it was on FB which I don't patronize - that my premises are faulty (not quite sure what was meant by that) and my characters aren't "quite right." (They may mean mentally - I don't really know! :-D ) Anyway, I don't mind criticism - just insults and directives to post elsewhere and not about the Cartwrights. But if you do choose to read this new offering, I hope you enjoy it. And let me know your mind! (Although that may be just asking for trouble.)

Chapter 1: The Good Samaritan

Up until I found the Indian, my trip was uneventful. I was heading home from Montana Territory after checking what was supposed to be prime stock. I say, 'supposed' to be because it wasn't. Enough said. I was passing through Utah – not in too much of a hurry since waiting for me on the Ponderosa was the acrid smell of singed hide and bawling calves awaiting castration.

The night and morning had been bitter cold – as had been all, both there and on the three days returning - but the day had warmed-up nicely and I was finding the ride home more pleasant than the trip up. And then I saw him, the Indian, dragging himself across the ground. I cursed under my breath.

There's a common belief that Indians have a sixth sense, that they know things before they're obvious, if game is near or an enemy is approaching. Well, it's bullshit. He didn't notice me until I was almost on top of him. At first, he was surprised, looking up from the dirt. Then his shoulders dropped and something akin to resignation came over his face; he dropped his head onto his arms. I guess he thought I was going to kill him.

I pulled up my horse off to the side and considered. Here was an Indian who was injured and from what I could determine, of the Shoshoni tribe since this was their territory. No horse was nearby or mine would have called to it. From all appearances, he was alone. I don't know why issues like this are difficult. I mean a man is injured and needs help and he was crawling, more than likely, toward his tribal village or hunting campsite. But I wanted to just go home and not have to tend to this Indian who, for all I knew, would die anyway. But a man is a man and if it was me in that position… It is a burden to own a conscience.

I dismounted and the Indian wearily raised his head again. Suddenly, as I approached him, my palms exposed to show I held no weapon, he made a small lurch forward – as if he could possible escape me. Then stopped and waited, I suppose for the bullet that would end his life.

"Speak English?" I asked. He stared at me. Now that I was closer, I could see that his right leg below the knee was at an odd angle, obviously badly broken although there was no blood. That meant the bone hadn't pushed through the skin. A good sign. "I'm going to try to help you." I stepped closer and then he flashed a knife he'd pulled out from under him. It must've been in a sheath at his waist – and it was a cruel-looking one. The handle was a scrimshaw whale tooth and the blade, of flashing steel.

Now that meant something. His tribe obviously had dealings with white men, probably trappers who exchanged coveted items for furs or women or anything else they wanted. Or this Indian had slit some unfortunate New England greenhorn's throat with the man's own knife - and kept it along with any stock and whatever else he wanted. And then there was the red, paisley bandana around his neck – that came from a white man too.

I backed up once he pulled that knife. The hell with him – all my charitable inclinations disappeared faster than the night's frost under the morning sun. I had done my Christian duty, stopped to assist a man in need but he didn't want my help. As my father once told me, "Never stay where you're not wanted."

"Okay, fine," I said, making the motion of wiping my hands together and then making a dismissive action toward him. I went to my horse and was about to mount-up when he called out something. Maybe he noticed the holster under the length of my field jacket. Maybe he noticed my rifle in its scabbard and realized I could easily kill him had I so wanted. Maybe he was in so much pain he was willing to take help from a white man. What I do know is that he showed me the knife and then tossed it a few feet from him. I paused, wishing he hadn't done it – now there was no reason, no self-justification for not helping him. Again, my father's voice in my head said, "Remember the Golden Rule, Adam, and you can't go wrong." I can now attest that yes, you can. Very wrong.

The Indian rolled on his back, grimacing, and I cautiously approached him. I kneeled at his feet and unlaced his legging and gently pulled it off. I say gently but the action must have been excruciating as he arched his back and clenched his jaw. The bone was grotesquely misaligned and I would have to snap it back into place. I'd done it for a valuable calf once but ended up having to shoot it anyway. As a boy, my father and I had to hold my younger brother, Hoss, down while old Doc Bentley snapped his broken arm back in place. Hoss screamed and nothing would calm him after except a dose of laudanum.

I motioned what I was going to do and after pointing to his leg, he nodded. I sat at his feet and grabbed his ankle with both hands. "I'm sorry that this is going to hurt so much but…" I took a few deep breaths and then, with one swift motion, I pulled. He tried to muffle his agony but the bone was straight again. I felt it with my hand, running it up and down the length of the bone.

Then I worked quickly, finding a few straight branches about a wrist's width. The Indian began uttering something – probably Shoshoni curses. Using my belt and one of the straps holding down my bedroll, I tied the branches to either side of his leg to keep it straight. Then I rested for what was ahead.

Yes, I had fixed his leg but now I had to take care of him and deliver him back to his tribe. Nothing good could possibly come from this – nothing. And I'd be late in returning home - if I even survived to do so. I just shook my head at my dilemma and couldn't help but laugh. Life is a joke in many ways – and the joke's always on us.

The Indian looked at me, made motion to his mouth, then moved his hand in a wavy motion. He was thirsty. I fetched my canteen and he pushed himself to a sitting position and with shaking hands, took it. He drank a good bit. Then handed it back. He smiled weakly and motioned to me.

"Hainji."

I had no idea what it meant but he smiled – at least it seemed a smile – his teeth showed. But maybe not. It was going to be a long evening and an even longer night.

I made camp and shared my food with him – beans and bread - and he seemed grateful although he ate little. But his presumed gratitude didn't persuade me to trust him and I kept his knife, tucking it into my saddlebags along with my shaving kit. I also tied-off my horse near my bedroll; I would hear if he tried to steal the animal in the night.

The Indian was wearing a buckskin shirt, breech cloth and leggings that reached to his moccasins, but it was going to be another cold night. And I could see he was becoming feverish. The sweat beads formed on his forehead and upper lip and he shivered; his eyes seemed to lose focus and he began to mumble. That was the last thing I needed.

I took one of my blankets and the canvas tarp and made a bed for him. I don't think he knew what the hell I was doing as he tried to struggle with me as I pulled him to it, but I managed to get him onto one side of the canvas, then tucked the blanket about him and pulled the tarp over folding it under him; he was swaddled like a newborn. He made for a comical "papoose".

By then I was sweating from all my exertions, but pulled my jacket collar up higher and my hat lower around my ears; it was becoming cold fast and by morning, there might very well be frost again, making the grass crisp under my horse's feet. I pulled my other bedroll blanket about me and sat down, leaning against a large spruce tree, cursing my bad luck.

In my life, on occasion, I've been shown the back of a man's hand but also kindness and generosity. I suppose it's when the cruelty outweighs the kindness that a man can ignore the suffering of others. And then, of course, there's my father. He always preached to my brothers and me that we should be "good Samaritans; when I was small, the only book my father carried other than the Farmer's Almanac, was the Bible. For bedtime stories, I was read parables and sections from the Old Testament that weren't too full of violence or sex – I read those myself once I learned how to read although it took me awhile to learn what "Begat" meant. When I became older and listened as he read Genesis aloud to Hoss, I asked him who Cain married when he was sent away to the Land of Nod on the east of Eden if they were the only people in the world. After pausing, my father cleared his throat and said that I should ask the reverend after service that Sunday. The reverend told me I thought too much.

And thinking too much was what I was doing as I sat under that Colorado Spruce, holding my rifle close like lover. I closed my eyes and tried to empty my mind. I must have been successful because I jerked awake just as the eastern horizon began to glow; my horse was huffing. But the Indian was still sleeping, even snoring. My toes were icy in my boots, my breath visible, and my back hurt – stiff from the cold. I was miserable and the Indian was snug.

Such is life.

TBC