Fever

by Sevenstars

Trapped in the ranchhouse by winter's first serious snowstorm, Slim, Jonesy, and Andy fight to keep Jess alive when he's stricken with a mysterious fever.

Fever

by Sevenstars

SUMMARY: It's Jess's first winter on Sherman Ranch, and when he falls ill at the beginning of a four-day blizzard, his adopted family struggles to save him with no prospect of outside aid. Thanks to Lisa for the beta.

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Jess Harper craned his neck, peering uneasily at the sky overhead. The morning had started out fair, and he had thought it wise to take a swing through the lower pastures and check on the cattle there; but now the sky was a flat sheet of glowing whiteness, and even though he was far from an expert on Wyoming winters yet, anyone familiar with the outdoors knew that meant a storm. He remembered Slim, last night, pointing out a large circle around the moon. "Sun dog," he'd called it. "After this fair spell, it means weather comin'."

Jess shook his head. What in the name of all common sense had ever possessed him to stay in this country? Then he smiled ruefully. Dadgum stupid question, he scolded himself. You know what it was. It was them, and this place. He reached into the bright box of memory and took a moment to relive the Christmas just past. Better than half a year he'd been at Sherman Ranch by that time, and yet it had taken that day to prove to him that this was home.

Home.

Such a little word, and yet so heavy with meaning, especially to a man who hadn't had one in more than a decade.

He still didn't dare speak it aloud. He'd think it, and he'd talk of "the house" or "the ranch," but he was shy of saying "home" where anyone—where anything—might hear it. It wasn't that he was superstitious, exactly; it was just hard for him to believe that it could all be real. That after all this time, he might finally have found a place that was his, where he fit in and was welcome and wanted for just who he was, and people he could count on. That was what "home" meant to him.

Oh, he still got a restless itch for the Big Open now and then, and he still had a way of riding off when an old debt came up or when he got to feeling he wasn't good for these people who'd made a place for him in their lives and their home. But because they didn't demand that he change, he was trying his best to do it, to break himself of some of his old rough ways and make an honest ranchhand of himself. It wasn't always easy, and there were times he came close to despair, but he had sworn to himself that he would try to be worthy of them, of all they had given him. And it was the promises you made to yourself that really mattered.

He looked over his shoulder, the way back to the ranchhouse. He'd wanted to make sure of the cattle, maybe count them, but he didn't think he'd have the time to finish the job. He remembered something Slim had told him: "If you're out by yourself and you've got any doubts about the weather—any doubts at all—don't stay out just for the sake of your pride. I'd rather risk the stock than you. I can get more stock, but there aren't that many Jess Harpers around."

He'd chuckled. "Bet that's somethin' you're plumb thankful for," he'd joked, and then, seeing the worried look on Slim's face, he'd promised to hold it in mind.

He must be getting used to this weather faster than he'd figured on, though, he mused with a private headshake. When the first snows had fallen on the flat, back in November—two full months after they'd started appearing on the mountaintops—he'd found that even the multiple layers of the winter kit Slim had helped him assemble hadn't been enough to always keep him from feeling anywhere from shivery to downright frost-nipped, and there'd been many an evening he'd had to sit before the fire and toast his toes for an hour or more before he felt as if they belonged to him. Today, January 18 by Jonesy's kitchen calendar, even though he wasn't wearing all of it, he felt... well, not warm exactly, but warmer.

He thought again of Slim's warning. It ain't that I got doubts, he told himself. Fact is, there ain't a doubt in my mind that we're in for somethin'.

He cocked his eye at the glowing sky. "All right, Coaly," he told the sturdy coaly-bay gelding he'd selected for that day, "how 'bout we head back?" He turned the horse and gave it its head.

Coaly was a winter horse, such as they breed on the northern ranges—a big, gentle, easy-moving animal who had little trouble plowing through deep drifts and was especially well suited to winter line riding. During the warm weather he rested and got fat; only when the snow came was he put to work. He shook himself, pricked up his ears, and started moving, feet lifting high as he wove his way through the accumulation of snow on the ground. He'd make Sherman Ranch in an hour or two at most.

As he set off, the snow began to fall, very lightly.

**SR**

An early dusk was beginning to gather, the flakes thickening, as Jess, having carefully crossed icebound Home Creek and ascended the slope behind the house, pulled into the ranch yard just in time to see the last afternoon stage hitting the road for Laramie, the driver whipping up his horses before he was even well past the building. Slim, bundled in his sheep-lined coat, his hands in his pockets, turned from regarding it, and even in that peculiar light Jess could see the relief wash across his face as he caught sight of the rider. He strode quickly to meet his friend. "Was startin' to worry about you a little," he admitted.

"Sorry I'm late," Jess apologized. "I meant to get here in time for the stage, but a bunch had taken off for the south boundary line and I had to go after 'em. Didn't know if maybe there'd be fence down for 'em to get out through."

"Remind me when we get in," said Slim, "to show you Pa's map of the place. He marked all the spots a man could shelter if he got caught out in bad weather." He squinted up at the sky, not that it was visible, and added quietly, "I think we're in for one, Jess. That coach may be the last we see for a few days."

"They stop runnin' often in the winter?" Jess asked, swinging down.

"Often enough. I'd say once or twice a month on average. We've been lucky so far—snow enough, cold enough, but no blizzards, and they've been able to keep the roads rolled. Come on, help me get these horses inside."

They stripped the team horses of their harness, shared the rubdown tasks, and then Jess left the graining to Slim while he went to take care of Coaly. Slim called questions over to him as he worked, about the cattle he'd seen, about the condition of the haystacks. At first Jess responded readily enough, but after a time his answers began to take longer in coming, and Slim could hear a subtle change in the timbre of his voice. Dumping the grain in the last feedbox, he stepped out into the centerway and headed for the stall near the front where Jess had put Coaly. As he did he felt a quick chill breath of air force its way in through the crack between the front doors, and shivered, not from real physical cold, but from something he couldn't define. Goose walkin' over my grave, he told himself, quoting a favorite saying of his mother's.

He could hear the contented crunching sound of Coaly eating his oats, and as he came even with the end of the stall saw Jess's hat above the horse's back as he curried the animal down. Slim paused and frowned faintly in concern as he watched the process. He'd seen the younger man do this a hundred times, and it seemed that Jess was moving slower than he usually did, hesitating now and then as if he wasn't sure what came next. And his face looked kind of drawn, too. "Jess? Are you okay?"

"Yeah... 'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" But there was an off-note in that familiar warm Texas drawl, and Slim's frown deepened. He stepped forward, and just then Jess looked around at him, eyes queerly bright, and lifted a tentative hand toward his forehead. "Slim?... I..." And then he shuffled forward a half-step, seemed to trip, turned partway and went down, all at once like a falling tree.

"Jess!" Slim was beside him like a shot, kneeling to turn him over. His eyes were closed, and now, right up in the lanternlight, Slim could see that his face looked flushed. He put out a cautious hand. Jess was warm, too warm. He loosened the younger man's muffler and the top button of his jacket, reaching in to feel of his throat, the way Ma had always done him when she thought he was coming down with something. The pulse in Jess's neck was faster than normal, and even the skin there, shielded though it was from the dehydrating wind, felt parched.

It wasn't easy getting him up—Jess only weighed around a hundred and sixty-eight, which on his frame was still somewhat less than the optimum (he'd been lighter when he first came to them, thanks to short rations), but he was tight-knit, and the fact that he was unsconcious made his limbs flop around in a very uncooperative way. Slim finally did it, though, as much out of plain determination as anything, and carried him toward the house. Holding the senseless man across his shoulder with one hand and steadying him with the other, he kicked at the kitchen door. "Jonesy, open up!"

It was Andy who opened it, while Jonesy glared from the stove, then looked puzzled, then concerned as he saw why Slim hadn't been able to do so. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Slim admitted as he shouldered his way inside. "We were out in the barn and he gave me this strange look and dropped like he'd been shot. He's warm, Jonesy, warmer than he should be."

"Get him in a bunk," Jonesy ordered, "and get his clothes off him—all they'll do is hold the heat in, and we can't tell is he hurt without we get a proper look at him."

Slim nodded. "Andy," he said, mindful of his brother's bond with the young Texan, "Jess wasn't able to finish seeing to his horse. Get your jacket and go do that, will you? I know he'd thank you if he could."

Andy made a rush for the main room and the coat rack. Slim strode after him and into the big bunkroom on the other side. Jess ordinarily slept in the top half of the double bunk—it had been the only space open when he came to them—but tending him there would be too hard. Instead Slim laid him on Andy's bed for a minute while he turned back the covers of his own, struggled briefly with Jess's boots, then hefted him over to the other and began undressing him. That too was less than an easy task, especially with all the layers he was wearing, but finally Slim got him down to his longjohns, scanning each item as he removed it for any hint of tears or blood. There were none. He checked Jess's head, his neck, his shoulders, for signs of a blow—the ice and snow at this season often brought down dead limbs and branches, some of which were heavy enough to kill or injure a man if they hit him. He straightened Jess out and began carefully feeling along his arms, his legs, his ribcage, searching for breaks. Nothing. But beneath his undershirt Jess's body skin was as flushed as his face, and equally as warm. The feel of hands on his body must have aroused him, because he groaned suddenly, head turning on the pillow. "Jess? Jess, can you hear me?"

Jess blinked, his eyes opening slowly, too bright, dazed, slightly unfocused. "S... Slim?" His voice was weak and husky.

"Yeah, Jess. I'm here. Take it easy, now. What happened, can you tell me?"

Jess frowned at him in a vague, puzzled way. "Ha... happ'n'd? Wha'... wha'cha mean?" he slurred, sounding very much as if he'd had too much to drink—not that Slim could recall ever seeing him drunk; he'd sort of figured it wasn't the kind of lapse a gunfighter could afford.

"You collapsed in the barn, Jess. It feels like you've got a fever. Are you hurt?"

Jess swallowed dryly. "Dunno... awful thirs'y..."

Slim tipped the washstand pitcher over the tumbler, carried the vessel over to the bed and knelt beside it, sliding an arm behind his friend's neck. Jess sucked eagerly at the water until it was gone, then lay back heavily. "Thanks," he whispered.

Jonesy came in, carrying the little satchel he'd been using ever since his days as a trail cook. "How is he?"

"Awake for now, and at least he knows me," Slim told him. "I can't find a mark on him anywhere."

Jonesy grunted and pulled up a chair. "All right, boy, let's see can we get a handle on this," he told Jess, and back over his shoulder to Slim: "Andy just come back in from the barn. I give him his supper, and yours is in the pot on the back of the stove, keepin' warm. You better go eat while you got the chance, we might be takin' turns sittin' up. I'll get mine later."

Slim hesitated, reluctant to go without knowing precisely what Jess's trouble was. Jonesy turned around and fixed him with a squinty glare. "Go on, git!" he ordered. "You're standin' in my light."

Slim had dealt with too many cooks—trail and military alike—not to have gotten a respect for their crotchets drilled into him. Unhappily, he went. Andy was sitting at the table, a transfer-printed soup-plate of Jonesy's onion-and-tomato-flavored beef stew before him; Jonesy was very partial to stews for supper, since he could start them right after breakfast and leave them to themselves to cook all day while he went about his other tasks. A platter of inch-thick slices of sourdough bread rested in the center of the table, with a dish of homemade butter and pots of tomato preserves, spiced beets, and sweet-melon pickles set out around it; Jonesy didn't can, but Slim regularly swapped young beef to the homesteaders in return for any surplus they (or more properly their womenfolk) might have. The boy looked around at the familiar rhythm of his brother's footsteps. "How's Jess?" he asked.

"Well, he woke up, anyway, that's got to be something," Slim replied. He could hear a murmur of voices through the open door, Jonesy's Midwestern twang broken by brief word-strings in a Texas accent. As long as Jess was conscious, surely there was reason to be hopeful. He went to the stove, got another soup-plate from the small stack in the warming cupboard, ladled stew onto it, poured himself a cup of coffee, carried them back to the table and toed a chair out.

"It's snowing harder," Andy said softly. "It's snowing real hard, Slim. There was another couple inches in the yard by the time I finished with Jess's horse."

Slim's heart sank. He knew what that meant as well as Andy did. A thick snow at night was the worst possible time to try to get into Laramie to fetch a doctor, and if it was coming down that hard now, by morning there'd be a couple more feet of it. The stages, as he'd predicted, probably wouldn't run, so there'd be no way to send in word even if Doc himself could get out here. "We'll be all right," he said. "There's plenty of food in the cellar, and feed in the barn, and those dead trees out behind it if I need to cut up more wood."

"You know that wasn't what I meant," Andy replied in a faintly accusing tone. "I meant Jess."

Slim sighed. "I know you did, Andy. But you know, Jonesy's not a bad doctor. I've seen him do some pretty amazing things on the Shawnee Trail. You remember yourself, he was all we had here for a long time, till Laramie really started growing after the war." Jonesy had set Andy's leg when he got thrown off his first pony, and his arm when he fell out of a tree at the age of six; had, chiefly with Ma's help, nursed the boy through measles, influenza, and only last year Rocky Mountain spotted fever. And that didn't count the times he'd doctored Slim, either; the man lifted a hand to the fine scar on his left cheek, the memorial, with his nickname, of his very first trip up the trail. The arrow wound had only been a shallow one, but if Jonesy hadn't been so deft with his needle, it might have left a lot worse mark: as it was, people could only see it when the light caught Slim in just the right way. That might also have been partly because the old man was surprisingly skilled in the application of Indian medicines; he'd treated the wound with a darkish paste made from the root of the purple cone-plant, and that had both reduced the pain and prevented infection, a primary cause of scarring.

"I know," Andy agreed, and then: "I want to help, Slim."

"And I'm glad that you do, Andy, but Jess is pretty feverish; if Jonesy can't bring it down, and he starts to get delirious, it'll take someone a lot stronger than you are to keep him from hurting himself. Best you can do is keep on with your chores and your lessons, and Jonesy will tell you if he needs you."

Andy nodded unhappily, realizing the truth of what Slim said, and returned to his meal. Outside, the wind began to rise, moaning around the eaves and corners of the low-built ranchhouse.

**SR**

"Well, I'm closer knowin' what's not wrong with him than what is," Jonesy admitted. "His lungs sound good and clear, so it's not pneumonia; fact is, he's breathin' pretty easy. It's not mountain fever, not at this season. It's not pox—he says he's got a little headache, but his vision's fine, if he was comin' down with pox it'd be blurrin'. It's not typhoid; he doesn't ache, he's not nauseated, his pulse is closer too fast than not, and he hasn't got a nosebleed. It's not consumption, 'cause he's not coughin'. He doesn't complain of chills, so it probably isn't influenza. His belly's not crampin' and he's not throwin' up, so it's not inflammation of the bowels. Now it might—it just might—be measles; there's no coughin', like I said, and it's too early for the spots, so I can't be plumb sure. Or it might be scarlet fever, which is way worse and starts out pretty much the same. Though where he'd have picked up either one," he added, "is more'n I can tell you—haven't heard of any outbreaks of 'em anywhere that he's been to lately. Or it might be a light case of diphtheria; it's not the full-blown kind, 'cause his throat isn't sore. Of course," he sighed, "knowin' what it's not won't help me know what to do about it, and if it's not any of the things I just said it might be, there's still plenty of times even a doctor can't tell you what causes a fever; all they'll say is 'unknown origin.'"

"Is he still conscious?" Slim asked.

"No, he slipped off a little while ago. What we got to do, till I can be more or less sure what he's got, is try to bring his temperature down, and that means spongin' him—but we got to be careful, too, 'cause if he catches a chill he could die."

Slim thought. "Maybe we could bring him out here," he offered. The bunkroom wasn't heated, of course; he'd chinked up the windows as tight as he could, but inevitably some drafts filtered in. "He could lie on the couch—we could shift it so he'd be parallel with the fire; the warmth of it might help him."

"Not a bad notion," Jonesy agreed. "Only he might be more comfortable if we leave him in your bed—that couch is fine for nappin' on, but it's got kind of a slick surface to it."

"Think we can get him out here in it?" Slim asked, remembering his old friend's sacroiliac.

"We can if Andy gives me a hand."

Slim nodded. "All right. Andy, move the chairs out of the way; after we see how the bed sets, we can put one back for whoever sits with him."

Andy hesitated. "Slim—"

The rancher looked at his brother, seeing the concern on the young face. "What, Andy?" he prompted gently.

"I just was thinking," Andy ventured, "you sleep in the bed farthest from the door... it's gonna be hard to get it shifted around in that tight space... how about if we brought mine out here instead, and then fetched Jess out and put him in it?"

"By grab," said Jonesy, "now that is smart thinkin'! It sure would be easier, Slim."

"You're right. Andy, thank you, that's a good idea and we'll do just that. You move those chairs, now."

Happy that he'd been able to do something on behalf of his friend, the boy scurried to obey.

**SR**

Slim parted the kitchen curtains and peered out at the thermometer mounted on the outer windowframe. The snow was so thick now that even with the lamplight falling over his shoulder it was difficult to make out the scale, but he thought it read about ten below zero (it would probably drop as much as another thirty degrees before morning), and the wind was howling steadily, filling the air with a thick fog of flakes that made it impossible to distinguish more than a vague darkness where the barn should be; estimating its velocity was even harder than seeing the mercury, but after all these years in Wyoming Slim had developed some ability to guess at it from the way it sounded, and he was willing to lay money it was thirty-five or better, which would make for a wind chill of close to seventy below. We're in for it, sure enough, he told himself. It was now a little past eight P.M. by the watch Jess had given him for Christmas, and the storm had reached blizzard intensity. The intermontane basins of Wyoming generally experienced winter storms less severe than did the Great Plains, where the winds, sweeping down from the North Pole with nothing to block their path, could hit over fifty miles per hour, and further west, in the High Sierras, winters could be both early and mammoth: the year the Donners went over, he recalled, had been one of that kind, with three feet of snow on the ground the first of November, five feet two days later, and an accumulation of eight to twelve before the season ended. The '66-7 season had been even worse, with a total of forty-four severe storms; one of them had dumped six feet of snow, another, which lasted thirteen days without letup, ten, and a total of forty had accumulated, with drifts approaching a hundred. Around Laramie the average high temperature in January ran to about thirty-seven, the low fourteen, where in the western mountains the mercury could plummet past sixty below. But when a bad one blew up—and this looked like being a bad one—you never knew what to expect. They could last for anywhere between a few hours and several days, commonly averaging around forty-eight hours, and pile up drifts of ten to fourteen feet, cutting off all travel and communication for ten days to two weeks even after the snow quit falling. It's all up to us, he thought, letting the curtain drop and edging his way cautiously out into the open middle of the floor, not wanting to bump Jonesy, who was standing at the stove stirring a pot and muttering to himself. "What's that?" Slim asked him.

"Two parts of boneset, two of yarrow, one of echinacea. For the fever. It's the best potion I know—I'd like to knock it out of him fast, if I can."

The rancher nodded. "I'm thinkin'," he said slowly, "with this weather, there'll be no way I can do anythin' but just barn work and maybe sawin' up some wood. So if I have to sit up all night, it won't matter much. But you've got the cookin' and the house chores, so it's best if you get a proper sleep. I'll stay with Jess tonight, and then you can take over after breakfast, and I'll turn in for a few hours."

"Well, I'm glad you said it and not me," Jonesy admitted. "Fever always goes up at night—if he's gonna start pitchin' around or gettin' delirious, that's when it's likeliest to happen, and you bein' so big and strong, you'd be the one best suited to hold him down, if it comes to that."

Slim tried to smile. "Don't sell yourself short, Jonesy. You're pretty tough. Pa always used to say you kind of reminded him of a banty rooster."

"Huh," the old man snorted, "he would." They were both silent a moment, thinking of Matt Sherman and feeling once again the void his death had left in their lives. Then Jonesy harrumphed and said, "All right, once I get this brewed up, I'm gonna leave it on the back of the stove to keep warm. I'll dose him one time before I go to bed, then it'll be up to you. Every couple of hours you pull it to the front, get it as hot as you think he'll take it, and give him half a cup."

"Half a cup every two hours," Slim repeated. "All right. I'd better bring in some more wood, since we'll have to keep the stove and the fireplace goin' all night."

"Go out this door, or the side," Jonesy ordered. "Best if we don't use that front at all. The draft could give him a chill, and that's the last thing we want."

Slim nodded and walked out to the main room, where Andy was sitting with Jess. The Texan's bed—or rather Andy's—had been placed parallel to the hearth and about four feet from it, giving just enough space to access it for further feeding. "How's he doing?" Slim asked quietly.

"'Bout like before," the boy reported. "He sort of half opens his eyes now'n'then, but I don't think he's really seein' anything. And he mumbles sometimes, but I can't make out what he's sayin'."

"Dreamin', maybe," Slim guessed. "Just make sure if he tosses the covers off you put 'em back right away. I'm goin' out and get more wood," he added, taking his hat and jacket down off the rack.

He slipped out through the side kitchen door, which faced south and was therefore the best sheltered in winter. That was why Pa had set the house the way he had, so it would shield the woodshed and chickenhouse. Even in the lee of the bigger building, the air was so thick with flakes it was like walking into a fog of feathers, and the downdrafts swirling off the roof sliced through his warm jacket. There was a barrow alongside the woodshed; he lifted it up onto its wheel and dumped the snow that had accumulated in it, then began loading it. He took it back three times, carrying the wood into the storeroom, where they also kept several full water barrels all winter long, just in case the pump froze. His Cheyenne friends, he remembered, would have been horrified at that idea: no Cheyenne woman, if she could avoid it, would use "dead water," water that had stood all night.

By the time he got the wood in, it was almost nine, and Jonesy had chased the reluctant Andy off to bed. "There's coffee on the stove," he said, "and you know where to find sandwich makin's and such, if you get hungry. If he's no better tomorrow I'll make up some broth or soup; we'll have to try to get some nourishment down him or he'll have no resources to fight the fever with. Remember to keep spongin' him, but don't let him catch a chill."

Slim nodded, his eyes on his fevered friend. Jess seemed peaceful enough right now, but that hectic flush was enough to show that he wasn't anywhere near sleeping normally. Jonesy headed off to his own bed, and Slim stoked the fire up a little, filled a bucket with cool water and set it as far back from the hearth as he could get it, and settled into the chair beside the bunk.

Jess roused as Slim began lifting him up so he could swallow the next draught of Jonesy's potion; his eyes were slightly unfocused and he seemed disoriented, bewildered. "Wha'...?"

"Easy, Jess, it's Slim. I've got something here you need to drink."

Jess wrinkled his nose as the cup was presented to him. "Don't wanta," he protested.

"Yeah, I know, it probably tastes awful, but it'll do you good. You know what they say, the worse it tastes the better it is for you."

For just a moment his friend seemed lucid, almost normal; a shadow of his usual bright lopsided grin passed across his face, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. "This here oughtta knock it plumb outta me, then," he said, his voice raspy, and he steeled himself visibly and gulped it down all at once. It made him cough. Slim patted his back until the spasm had passed, then eased him down onto the sweetgrass tick again.

"Wha's'at I'm hearin'?" Jess asked, rather sluggishly.

Slim had to think about the question; he'd gotten so used to the wind's moaning whine, these last few hours, that he scarcely heard it consciously any more. "The wind. It's blowin' so hard the snow isn't falling—it's comin' horizontally."

"Huh," said Jess. "Reckon you was right. Said we'd get some weather..."

"I did," Slim agreed. "And we did." Not wanting the younger man to worry, he added: "Warm enough?"

"Hot," Jess muttered.

"That's the fever, partly. But we've got to keep you covered up, you can't get a chill."

"Yeah," Jess sighed. "Know it... hosp'al..."

Hospital? Slim wondered. Is that what he's tryin' to say? He must have been in one during the war, there sure aren't that many of 'em west of the Mississippi. It was borne in on him, again, how little he really knew of this man who'd drifted into his life less than a year ago and become, so quickly, so vital a part of it. Jess didn't talk much about his experiences before he'd come to Wyoming; maybe he didn't like to think about them, or maybe he was afraid that if Slim knew the whole of his past he wouldn't want the younger man around. And maybe that would have been true, Slim admitted to himself, back before I got to know something of the kind of man he is. But it doesn't really matter, now, what he's done before, or what he came from; what matters is what it made of him. In some peculiar way, it was as if he'd been waiting all his life for Jess to show up. Oh, he had friends enough, some his own age, many older, pass-ons of a kind from when his father was alive—he'd always been kind of a serious youngster, and more comfortable around adults than younger folks, partly perhaps because he'd been effectively an only child for so long, and partly because of growing up on a farm, with neighbors (and their children) too far off to conveniently have much to do with; but none of them was quite the same kind of friend Jess had become—someone he could horse around with, let the still-youthful part of himself come out with, and say just about any jackass thing to that came into his head, knowing he didn't have to edit himself to fit some slightly unreal picture the younger man held of him. Like, somehow, they'd known each other all their lives. Not even during the war, when camaraderie was not only the rule but a necessity of survival, had he formed any bond as strong—outside his own blood family, and Jonesy, and maybe Joey Redhawk—as the one he had, now, with Jess. He remembered what his father had said to him at Joey's grave. Happens that way. Two men come together and there's something between 'em from the start. There's a word for a man like that on the range—'pard.'

Jess had drifted back into a restless doze. "You just hold on," Slim told him quietly, "and we'll get through this, you and me, together... pard."

The Texan's head rolled toward him on the pillow, and his eyes cracked open for just a second or two. Had he heard? Had he understood? Slim wasn't sure. But it didn't matter. What mattered was that he had committed himself to this struggle. There was no way he was going to lose this hard-riding, hot-tempered, quick-handed, blue-eyed Texas devil, not if he could help it. "Rest," he said, squeezing Jess's shoulder under the covers. "I'm here, I'm not goin' anywhere."

"Mmm..." It might have been assent, or not, but either way Jess settled and lay quiet again. Maybe, Slim thought hopefully, maybe it won't be too bad...

He'd never known a night to drag the way that one did, not even the night his mother had died. He tried to put himself into a rhythm: give Jess a good sponging halfway between each two doses of febrifuge, a lighter wipe-down halfway before and halfway after. To keep his mind occupied in between, he took down Griswold's anthology The Poetry and Poets of America; poetry didn't require the kind of continuous attention that prose did. At intervals he got up and tried to look out the window, but there was nothing much to see, just that same thick fog of white flakes. Jess remained quiet for the most part, just an occasional fit of tossing and mumbling. Slim tried not to think about the fact that it hadn't yet been twelve full hours since he collapsed; that he was still in the early stages, that it would most likely get a good deal worse before it got better.

It was still dark about five o'clock when he got up, stretched the kinks out of his back, and went into the kitchen to build the fire up; Jonesy would need the oven preheated for the breakfast hotbread. He looked automatically at the almanac, correcting by the tables at the back: sunrise at 7:20 (not that they'd see it, not today), sunset just about five. He ground some fresh coffee beans and refilled the pot; the caffeine habit was strong in him as it was in most range men, who drank it at all hours and yet never seemed to suffer sleeplessness from it. Jonesy came out, moving a bit stiffly as he usually did in the early morning. "How's he doin'?"

"Not much change either way," Slim reported. "Had a couple of lucid moments, but mostly he just slept. Quieter than he usually is, actually. Complained about your brew, but he took it. Not what I'd call a bad night, on balance."

The old man frowned. "Doesn't he mostly tend to do a lot of tossin' around and talkin'? I know you've got used to it, but a few times he's come up with such a start it wakes me as well, and I've heard him talk in his sleep up there, too, and seen his bed in the mornings—always looks like he's been fightin' with his sheets and covers all night long."

"Yeah," Slim admitted, "I think he does. Funny. He can sleep through 'most any kind of commotion outdoors—horses kickin' up a fuss, storms, stagecoaches—as long as he's doin' it here; out on the trail he'll wake up at a whisper, just about. And most nights he's asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. But give him an hour or two and he starts havin' dreams—vivid ones. When he first came here, I wondered if I'd ever get a decent night's sleep again, the way he'd wake me up with all his talkin'. Wake himself up, too, if I didn't, but he never seemed to recall what he'd been dreamin' about, even if he'd been yellin', or if he did he wouldn't talk about it; he'd apologize for disturbin' me, roll over, go back to sleep, and a couple of hours later it'd be the same thing over again. In the morning he'd have no memory of it at all. I guess he still does the same now, but after two or three months I got to where I could ignore it. You and Andy never seem to've been bothered; of course Andy sleeps deep, always has."

"Not a good sign," Jonesy declared. "If he's not sleepin' active, the way he us'ally does, could be the fever's suppressin' it for now, and that means it'll come out sooner or later—it'll have to. We might be lookin' at some rough times still to come. When'd you give him his last dose?"

"Four-thirty, about."

"Then he'll be all right till breakfast... wonder if he'd take some mush and milk or a couple soft-boiled eggs? Better both, he hasn't had a bite since noontime yesterday."

"I'll take care of it," Slim offered. "Just let me get my own, then I'll see what I can get down him before I head for my bunk."

He got his jacket and slipped out the side door, using the guide rope he'd strung up to make his way to the barn. The storm didn't seem to have gotten any worse, but it hadn't slackened either; there'd be no stages today, that was sure. The horses were a bit restless from the wind, so he spent a little extra time with each, talking to it, soothing it, visiting with Jess's Traveller to assure him his boss would be in to see him as soon as he could. He fed the stock, milked, covered the bucket and took it back to Jonesy in the kitchen, went out again to muck out, and stopped for more wood before going in. He found Andy up and dressed, looking uneasy, maybe from the wind, maybe because of Jess. Jonesy disappeared into the main room to give the Texan another dose of his brew, then served the others. He'd made his heartiest oat porridge, topped with chopped nuts, honey, cinnamon, and grated apples, plus golden meaty slices of salt pork with rich cream gravy, fried eggs with edges delicately curled and brown, hash brown potatoes, hot cornbread with quince marmalade, stewed dried peaches. It was a lot of food for a day when outdoor work wasn't possible, but even with both fires going, they'd need the fuel to keep warm, and Jonesy knew, too, that few things are more useful in raising depressed spirits than a good hot meal.

Jess was half-awake when Slim went in to check on him, head turned sideways on the pillow, watching the fire through sleepy, half-mast eyes. "Reckon I ain't... gonna be much good today, Slim," he said softly. "Sorry..."

"Not your fault," Slim assured him. "Won't be that much to do anyway."

"Storm...?"

"Bad as ever. Think maybe you could eat somethin'? You need to keep your strength up."

"Wha' happ'n'd to... to 'feed a cold'n'starve a fever'?" Jess asked.

"All I know is what Jonesy tells me," Slim retorted. "You told me yourself, never mess with the cook—right?"

"Right..." Half a sigh. "Don't feel too hungry... try though..."

He did manage to down three soft-boiled eggs and half a bowl of milky, sweetened mush, but toward the end he was only about a quarter conscious. "Wisht you... di'n't hafta see me... like this..."

"No worse than if you'd broken a bone, or gotten yourself shot," Slim told him. "And not your fault, I told you that. Sure you don't want any more?"

"No... awful tired..."

"All right, then. You sleep. I'm gonna see if I can catch up on mine, but if you need me, you tell Andy or Jonesy and they'll get me."

" 'Kay..." Jess was drifting off again, which was probably the best thing for him.

Slim headed for the bunkroom, stumbling a bit as his long sleepless night began to catch up with him. Stripping down to his longjohns and socks, he slipped into Andy's bed, pulled up the covers, and turned on his side to muffle the sound of the wind somewhat; what remained was almost lulling. He was asleep in less than ten minutes.

**SR**

Jonesy came in and woke him about three. He sat up, immediately alert. "Jess?"

"He's still with us. Movin' around more, mutterin', but it's too early yet for the fever to spike. I got him to swallow some beef broth a couple times, and a little water, though not near enough. Just thought you might like to get a little somethin' to eat, before it gets so late it'll spoil your appetite for supper."

"Yeah... okay. Be out in a minute."

He dressed quickly—the bunkroom was chilly, probably no warmer than fifty degrees—and went out, closing the door behind him to save the heat. Andy was sitting with Jess again; the Texan was more restless than he'd been earlier, more like the way he typically was at night. In the kitchen, Jonesy had water heated for Slim to wash up and shave, and a light snack of sourdough bread, tart buffalo-berry jelly, and piecrust cookies. He ate, knowing he'd get no peace till he did, and then joined Andy in the other room. "Do your lessons?" he asked quietly.

"Uh-huh." At just-turned-thirteen, even if there'd been a school in Laramie yet—which there wasn't, but some agitation was arising, and it might become a reality by next fall—there wasn't very much it could have taught the boy; he'd have been almost through McGuffey's Sixth by now. Each fall Slim, like their mother before him, would sketch out a course of independent study for him, mostly reading in certain basic subjects, history, geography, "good" literature, besides working out arithmetic problems from the ranch books, and then let him browse as he would among the family library and whatever reading matter he could borrow from friends and neighbors or buy with his own money—even if it was dime novels, the important thing as far as Slim was concerned was that Andy was reading, and for pleasure—and read aloud from any newspapers or magazines they got. He had enough of an education now to fit him for most available jobs, but since Jess had come to live with them, Slim had begun to see that Andy would probably never be a rancher; he just hadn't the heart for it. That meant he should probably go to an academy back East, maybe study for one of the professions. It would have pleased Ma, if he could do that. Mary Sherman had enjoyed a much more extensive schooling than her husband: Matt had been very shrewd, with a lot of practical native good sense, but he hadn't gotten past the third grade, having had to go to work at nine to help support his mother and siblings after his father died. He'd started out driving cattle for the Army, which had been the beginning of his fascination with the beef business, and that fascination had only been increased when, in the decade following, he went to Santa Fe as a trader and saw how the Mexicans did it; later on had come his experience with the Texan mutation. He'd married late—thirty-eight—and the wife he chose was a small-town girl, but a doctor's daughter who'd had "advantages;" in a day when it was unusual for a girl to even be taught to read and write well, when she was generally shielded from geography because it might disturb her faith in Genesis and from higher mathematics because it might overtax her "naturally weak brain," Mary Bryan, as she was then, had benefited from a Quaker mother (the Quakers espoused total equality of the sexes, believing in the presence of God within human beings regardless of whether male or female) and a liberal Unitarian father, and she'd spent five years, ages eleven to sixteen, at a private school where her studies had included Bible, history (Greek, Roman, English, American, and "universal"), literature (English and American), rhetoric and composition, Latin, French, botany, geology, astronomy, physics, and mathematics, with German, music, and drawing offered at extra cost. She'd even been named principal of a "Young Ladies' School" when she was only seventeen. She'd held the position—though she had no actual economic incentive to—until she married, which she hadn't really ever planned to do, and like her husband she had come to it comparitively late in life: Slim, her eldest, hadn't been born till she was twenty-seven and even her next-younger sister already had a sizeable brood under way. She'd been the one to foster an interest in books in him, and probably any inclination Andy had in that direction had come through her too, even though he'd been barely ten when she died.

"Chores?" Slim pursued.

"Uh-huh," the boy said again. His eyes hadn't left Jess yet.

Slim reached over and laid his hand on his brother's shoulder. "He's strong, Andy. Strong and tough—Texans have to be. And he's fightin' it—you can see that. What's most important, he's got us—you and me and Jonesy—to take care of him. Don't give up on him. He hasn't."

"I know." Andy's voice was subdued. "I just... I can't help thinkin' about Ma. She was strong too, and healthy, but it didn't make much difference in the end, did it?" He looked around then. "Slim?"

"What, Andy?"

"The Bible says a man's years are threescore and ten. How come folks die before that?"

Slim smothered a sigh, looking at Jess, who was barely more than a third that. "To be honest with you, Andy, I just don't know. A lot of people will tell you it's 'God's will,' but I'm not sure I believe that. Those same people will tell you that God loves us, but you know yourself, if you love someone you want them to be happy. If God loved us, why would He make us sad by takin' away the people we care about? All I can tell you is that there's a lot that goes on in the world that we just don't understand. For thousands of years folks have been tryin' to figure out the answers to questions like yours, and they don't seem any nearer to findin' 'em now than they were back in the days of Babylon."

The boy's eyes—big and round and black-brown, like their mother's; Pa had always said Andy was going to look just like her, and he did seem to be in a fair way to do it—stared into his, and Slim could see the fear barely held in check there. Somehow, to Andy too, Jess had become a... a brother, and after losing both his parents at a young age, the prospect of another such death was almost more than he could stand. "He can't die, Slim. He mustn't die."

"That may not be for us to say, Andy. But one thing I promise you: I mean to do everything in my power to see that he doesn't." He gripped the boy's thin shoulders with both hands. "Did I ever break a promise to you, Andy?"

"No." It was barely a whisper.

"And I won't break this one, either," Slim told him, his voice firm. "If I can keep Jess alive, if there's any way—I will. You have my word on that, Andy. Not even just my promise—my word. There's a difference; you know that."

Andy started to nod, then suddenly hurled himself into his brother's embrace, sniffling, fighting not to cry. Slim pulled him close, feeling the boy's body trembling violently against his own, and thought what a long time it had been since Andy had felt comfortable enough with him to do this, and how much he had missed it. Not the grief—he would never have wished his brother that—but the closeness and the trust. They'd lost it for a while, after Pa and especially Ma had died and Slim had felt himself obliged to take on the role of both parents. Till Jess had come, and had made him see that you could lead a boy much easier than you could drive him; that being a brother, a friend, a teacher, and a good example was just as important as being a father and a disciplinary figure. That was what Slim had become to him, and Slim wasn't so blind that he couldn't see how hard Jess was striving to make something different of himself in response to it, though the rancher was wise enough not to speak of it. He looked up, and past Andy's shuddering shoulder he saw Jonesy looking on from the kitchen archway, a towel in his hands. "We'll get him through this," he said, not sure if he was talking to the boy or the old man or himself or some combination of the three. "We'll get all of us through this. If there's any way under heaven—"

Jonesy shook his head warningly, and as clearly as if he'd spoken Slim could hear the words: Don't make promises you can't keep, boy.

But I will keep this one, he thought back. I'm not sure how yet, but I'll keep it. It's not his time yet. It can't be. I won't let it be.

Jonesy frowned, then shrugged helplessly—he knew Sherman stubbornness too well, after twenty years with Matt and Slim—and went back to his kitchen. Slim held his brother and watched his friend's restless dozing. It wasn't time yet, but when it was, he'd be ready. That promise he made to himself.

**SR**

That night was rougher than the first had been. Slim thought Jess's fever had increased; certainly he was more active and uneasy, twisting and mumbling, mostly unintelligibly, his breathing coming quicker and more erratically. Now and then Slim could make out a word, or more accurately a name: Dixie... Laurel... Francie... Will... Troy... Mac... Wade... Johnny... Ben... Jake... Hal... Doleman... Duncan... Billy... Newt... Christy... Kett... Once or twice he came out with a sentence or two in what sounded to Slim like Spanish; once or twice he spoke in a low guttural tongue that might have been some Indian language; a couple of times he clearly said "Ma." Sometimes, too, Slim heard his own name, or Andy's, or Jonesy's.

He couldn't get Jess to rouse when it was time for his brew. He tried, but nothing seemed to break through the superheated fog of fever that gripped the Texan's mind and body. Finally he stacked some pillows under Jess's head and shoulders to elevate them, whispered, "Sorry, Jess," pinned him with a knee against his chest, took a gentle but very firm grip on his nose, and forced the liquid down when Jess reflexively opened his mouth. It worked, but he hated the idea that he might be hurting his friend somehow.

He stepped up the frequency of his spongings, gently wiping Jess's face, his throat, his chest and down to his belly with the cool water from the bucket. That seemed to help the younger man somewhat; he'd cease his random movements and his breathing would ease a bit. But Slim didn't dare leave him uncovered long, for fear of a chill that could be his death.

He thought about the icehouse dug under the slope behind the corral. Packed full of ice they'd cut off the lake last month... and it might as well have been in Denver. If he could have reached it, he could have brought over a couple of buckets of ice, wrapped it in oilcloth, and packed it around Jess's body. But even with the guide rope from the barn, that wasn't possible. He couldn't follow the guide rope and wrangle the ice at the same time... and if he tried to make it without the guide, there'd be a very good chance he could go astray, even in just the little distance involved, and never make it back to the house. In a storm like this, a man couldn't see as much as a hundred yards, and some had died, had frozen to death, literally within hollering distance of their families. No, he didn't dare risk it. Not that he wouldn't have faced the danger for Jess, but what would Jonesy and Andy do without him?

Toward three A.M. Jess's temperature spiked, and he came close to throwing himself right off the bunk. Like many strong, healthy people, he gained more strength from his fever; it took all of Slim's to pin him, and the only way he could keep the Texan still was to literally kneel across his lower legs and hold one of his arms with each hand, leaning against them with his full weight. Jess fought him in that blind, terrible way people have in delirium; he yelled out, his voice hoarse and raw— "No! No! You can't—I won't—no!"

"Jess, Jess," Slim pleaded, "take it easy, pard... quiet, now, quiet... it's okay, you're safe, I swear..."

Slowly, it seemed, he got through: Jess's head turned, and Slim thought his eyelids parted just a little, though whether he could see anything but the fever's visions the rancher didn't know. "Be still, Jess," he said, as firmly as he could manage for the apprehension that shook him and clutched at his gut. "Quiet, now, quiet. You don't want to wake Andy, do you?"

"A... Andy?"

"He's sleepin', Jess, and so should you be. Easy, now. Easy..." He kept on in that vein, not really sure what he was saying, just feeling that somehow it was the tone and timbre of his voice that mattered—or maybe the familiarity of it. And gradually Jess's fighting lapsed, first into random spurts of motion, then into weak, agonized twisting, and at last, blessedly, into stillness, except for the way his head still rolled to and fro on the pillow at erratic intervals. Slim continued to hold him down for a few minutes, then slowly, cautiously, began releasing his grip, lifting his knee off Jess's legs. Jess's breathing hitched, he moaned softly, but he didn't start lashing out again. "That's it," Slim encouraged. "You keep still like that and I'll wipe you down again..."

Jess flinched at the first touch of the sponge, but that might have been only the shock of the cool water against his overheated skin; as Slim continued the process he slowly relaxed, and his breathing evened out in a long sigh. "That's it... that's the way... easy, now, steady, steady..." He scanned the flushed body that lay, now, almost ominously still compared to the frantic fighting of before. Jess had lost weight again, noticeably, even in less than thirty-six hours: the fever was melting the spare flesh off him, consuming it as a fire consumes wood. There was a nasty scar on his left hip; it looked as if a slug had punched through and taken a pretty fair-sized chunk of meat with it. Slim had seen enough of the damage that was done by Minié balls to take a shrewd guess that his friend had tangled with one. There were other scars too, bullet and knife and maybe arrowhead—neat round ones and puckery ones and jagged ones—and one that might have been a saber cut across the top of his left shoulder. "Been pretty well mapped and charted, haven't you?" he asked of the unconscious man, who shifted suddenly, groaned and settled again. And on the right side of his neck, was that an old healed rope burn? Fairly faint, almost invisible, in fact, except that he was so close to the light, and for a moment Slim felt uneasy—was it wise to keep a man in his home who'd been hanged at some time in the past? And how had he survived it?

It doesn't matter, he told himself firmly. I decided that last night, and I'm not goin' back on it. Whatever he was, it made him what he is... and that's what I value. Maybe, someday, he'll trust me enough to tell me something about how he racked up all these scores—but I can wait. Even if he never does, I can wait.

**SR**

He woke, with a start so violent that he almost overturned his chair, at a touch on his shoulder. It was Jonesy, fully dressed, peering searchingly at him. "Huh, wha'—?" Slim began.

"It's quarter to six," Jonesy told him. "Didn't hear you open the firebox, so I overslept myself. Reckon you fell asleep." He studied the younger man's face, his eyes. "Rough night, huh?"

"Yeah," Slim sighed, looking quickly, almost reflexively, toward the bunk. Jess was breathing, almost motionless except for an occasional short, sharp movement. "He had a... an incident, about three hours ago. Thrashin' around and hollerin'—surprises me he didn't wake you, or Andy."

Jonesy nodded, looking glum, but not as if the news surprised him. "Figured he'd move on to that stage pretty quick. Like to be even worse tonight."

Slim suddenly jerked upright. "The storm—?"

"Still no sign of a let-up. Don't forget, it hasn't been but a little more'n thirty-six hours, and these things don't usually blow out till forty-eight at least." He squinted at his old friend's son. "Don't see's it'd do us much good if it stopped these next five minutes. Roads'll be so drifted over nothin'll get through for days yet, unless we get another chinook."

Slim thought, fleetingly, of his stock out on the range, his cattle, his breeding mares. But he and Jess had moved them to the most sheltered parts of the ranch back before Christmas, and all of them had lived in Wyoming for years now—most, indeed, their entire lives; like him, they had experience with storms like this one, and knew what to do. Besides, there was nothing he could do for them now: for a human to be caught outside in a blow such as this was a sure death sentence. God gives animals instincts, he thought. They'll either be all right or they won't, and precious little I can do about it. Jess is what matters. Angrily: Of all the times for one of these big snows to hit, why did it have to be right when he got sick? And then: But a doctor probably couldn't do much more for him than we can. Wearily he climbed to his feet. "Sorry I didn't wake you, Jonesy."

"Not a problem. Not much to do but chores and play checkers or cribbage with Andy, if he's got the heart for it. I'll get breakfast goin'."

**SR**

That day was pretty much a repeat of the one before: Slim slept through most of it, leaving Jess in Andy's and Jonesy's care. He woke feeling only partly refreshed; he thought he'd been dreaming, but about what he couldn't recall. His back ached from the stress and tension he'd been living with ever since Jess collapsed in the barn. How much longer can he hold on? he wondered. Strong and stubborn as he is, he can't go on fightin' indefinitely on just water and broth. If he'd only sweat... he hasn't done it up to now, so that'd be a clear sign he was turnin' the corner. He remembered hearing, or reading, somewhere that sweat was the body's natural way of cooling itself, and if ever any body had needed cooling, it was Jess Harper's right now. For an instant something teased at the back of his memory, something about sweating... he reached for it, but it slid away before he could get a grip or a clear glimpse of it.

Jess had been too restless these last two mornings for Jonesy to dare try shaving him; the dark stubble on his lean, tapering jaw gave him a vaguely piratical look. He was still flushed, the skin drawn taut and dry over the bones. Slim half-cradled his friend's head and shoulders against his chest, supporting him, feeling the heat of the fever through his clothes, as Jonesy did his best to coax him to swallow some broth, and Jess tried, though not as if he was really aware of what he was being asked to do; but he only managed to get a little of it down his throat—most of it spilled down his chin and onto his neck and chest. Patiently, gently, they wiped him off. They had a bit more success with water, though not very much. Andy watched, not saying a word; he looked so white and scared that it hurt Slim to look at him. Jess might be the one who was sick, but they were all suffering right along with him.

Jonesy had made up another quart of his brew after breakfast was on the table, this time adding a pinch of cayenne to make it stronger, and some camomile for Jess's restlessness. "More he pitches around, the weaker he'll make himself and the less chance the fever'll have to go down," he told Slim. "Just keep on givin' him the same dose as you been."

Slim looked at him with haunted eyes, but nodded his promise to do so.

**SR**

As Jonesy had predicted, that was the worst night yet. Jess was in almost constant restless motion, muttering unintelligibly, his voice going on and on like water over stones. Even sponging didn't seem to soothe him as much as it had the previous night. Around ten o'clock he began calling out weakly for someone named Johnny, a name Slim recognized from his ramblings of last night. "Johnny," he moaned. "Where... where's Johnny? Wha'... what you done to him? Johnny!" All Slim could do was try to calm and reassure him, to repeat over and over that "Johnny's okay, Jess... he's all right." He didn't know if it was true—in fact he had a dreadful ominous feeling that it wasn't—but he couldn't bear the note of suffering and despair in his friend's voice.

Presently Jess ceased his calling and was still for a time. Then, after another hour or so, his eyes opened, but there was no awareness in them, only the glitter of the fever. He stared, not at Slim, but past or through him, tense and unblinking. "Pa," he said clearly, after a moment. Then: "No... no..." And at last a high, terrible scream: "NO!"

Slim almost jumped out of his skin. Jess was struggling with his covers, fighting them the way he often did in his sleep, except that this was somehow more purposeful, more focused. The rancher moved quickly to pin him, fearing not only the consequences of a chill but the possibility that, in the grip of whatever hallucination he was suffering, Jess would do himself some genuine harm. This only increased the younger man's agitation, and he tried to strike at the hands holding him down, kicking, writhing, crying out. "No, no, lemme go... Francie... I gotta... don't... no, no, NO!"

"Jess," Slim pleaded, "Jess, don't do this to yourself! You—you're dreaming. It isn't real, Jess!" But he knew, somehow, that it had been, once; that Jess was reliving some part of his shadowy past, something terrifying, traumatic. Francie—that had been his sister, the one who'd married Gil Brady. Clearly he thought she was there, trying to restrain him—but from what?

"Lemme go!" Jess begged. "Francie, no—I—we can't let 'em... Francie, please!"

"Jess, there's nothing you can do!" Slim insisted. "Listen to me, Jess—"

"Billy," Jess moaned, a sob catching in his throat. "Julie... Julie! Davy..." The wildness had drained out of his eyes, out of his voice; there was only a hollow despair now. And then he went limp, whether from physical exhaustion or because even his fevered mind couldn't bear the images any more Slim didn't know.

The exertion had left Slim sweating and Jess's temperature so elevated that he was literally radiating heat. Hastily Slim began sponging him, trying to cool him down. It helped a little, he thought, though Jess was now out for the count and didn't react to it as he had last night.

But if Slim had thought the worst was over, he soon found out how wrong he could be. Jess remained quiet, either asleep or unconscious, for another hour or so, then began stirring again. Slim came alert, wondering what would happen next.

Jess's eyes opened once more, glazed and glittering. He stared up at Slim and his throat began to work. A single word hissed from him: "Bannister!"

And then he lunged.

He hit Slim with all the force of his wiry body and all the frightening power of the fever, hit him hard and knocked the chair over with a crash. His hands reached for Slim's throat, and Slim tried to raise his own to ward him off, but Jess bunted them aside as if they'd been feathers. Slim was bigger, heavier, and he had a longer reach, but Jess was deep in his memories—if they were memories—and fuelled by the emotions they aroused in him and by the fever itself, while Slim was handicapped by a reluctance to do anything that might actually harm his friend. They tussled to and fro on the floor between the bunk and the hearth, thrashing and kicking; the back of Slim's shoulder struck the low stone shelf with a force that numbed his whole arm. Jess had him by the throat now, his grip increasing in intensity; there was a mist of red before the older man's eyes and he realized, almost dispassionately, that he was probably going to die. Oh, Jess... he thought.

Suddenly Jess stiffened, his eyes rolled up in his head, and he fell forward across Slim's body, his grip slacking and falling away. Slim rolled, reflexively, in an effort to keep Jess's forehead from making contact with the hearth-shelf, and the younger man slid sideways off him, limp, frighteningly still. Coughing and gasping, Slim flexed his legs, struggling to sit up. A hard hand caught his arm, drawing him up, and he looked dazedly into Jonesy's grim face. The old man's other hand held his long double shotgun, turned butt-forward. Slim looked from the weapon to Jess's motionless form and back to Jonesy again. "Wha'—wha'd you—do?" he gasped. "Jonesy—you—you didn't—"

"No, son, I didn't," Jonesy told him. He bent stiffly, reaching for the side of Jess's neck. "Pulse is still there. I hit him at the top of the spine—there's a big knot of nerves there, they call it a ganglion. You whack a man on that, you put him out good for an hour or so, and you don't risk concussin' him. He'll have a bruise, like as not, but nothin' worse, not even a headache. What happened?"

Slim shook his head, dry coughs rattling him. "Andy, water!" Jonesy snapped, and for the first time Slim realized that the racket had roused his brother too: the boy was standing by the door of the bunkroom, frozen, his eyes huge and black in his pinched, colorless face. The command jolted him out of his shock and he whirled and vanished briefly, reappearing with his washstand tumbler. He knelt to offer it to Slim, who took it willingly, drinking in slow gulps. The water was almost ice-cold, having come out of the unheated room, and it both revived him and soothed the pain.

"Got to... to get him... up off that... cold floor," Slim managed, and between them he and Jonesy did, depositing the unconscious man back in his bed and quickly covering him.

"You gonna tell me what happened?" Jonesy repeated.

"He was... was delirious," Slim explained, his throat still raw. "Think he... thought I was... somebody named Bannister. He tried... to strangle me. Would've, too, if... if you hadn't waked up when you did."

"Bannister," Jonesy muttered.

"What? You know the name?"

"Was a gang of outlaws went by it, down Texas, before the war," Jonesy told him. "Real bad lot. Almost as bad as Comanches. Maybe worse, in their way; Comanches don't know any better, and whites're supposed to. Didn't just rob things or run off stock, they raided homes and ranches, killed the folks livin' there. Had kind of a signature—they liked to burn houses."

Slim's eyes jumped to his senseless friend. "Oh, my Lord," he whispered. "He couldn't have been..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Jess..."

Jonesy reached over to lean the shotgun against the side of the fireplace. "He'll be comin' out of it directly. And if he's been that violent one time, we can't take the chance he won't be again." He looked up into Slim's eyes, his own serious. "We'll have to tie him down."

"No!" Slim blurted before he thought.

"Boy, you said yourself, he just near about killed you!" Jonesy retorted forcefully. "Now I know he didn't know what he was doin', but that wouldn't'a made you any the less dead! And apart from that, exertion like that just pushes his fever higher. Like it or not, for his good and ours, we've got no choice!"

Slim hesitated, and then his shoulders slumped. "All right," he said, his voice lifeless.

The old man took command. "Andy, get the ragbag and start tearin' sheets. We'll need at least four long strips, one for each wrist and ankle, and some smaller ones to wrap around underneath so he doesn't cut his flesh fightin' 'em—and he'll fight 'em, you mark me. Slim, you're shakin'—go in the kitchen and sit down, get some coffee, maybe, though I'd rather it was tea—just haven't got the time to fix it right now, we gotta get him restrained before he gets what's left of his wits back..."

In short order Jess was spread-eagled to the bunk, wrists and ankles bound to the frame. Jonesy tucked the covers as close in around him as possible. Throughout the process Jess remained unconscious, his head lolling frighteningly when they lifted him, limbs lax and undirected.

Andy looked up at his recovering brother, his eyes full of tears and bewilderment. "How could Jess do that? How could he, Slim? I thought—I thought he—he was your—your friend."

"He is, Andy." Slim's voice was back to normal now, for which he was particularly thankful. "And you're wrong, sort of. It wasn't Jess that attacked me. It was the fever. It makes people do things..." He trailed off. "He was... I think he was rememberin' somethin', somethin'... terrible... from before we knew him. He wasn't even seein' me—not the me who was in front of him. He was seein' someone else, someone, I think, who did him some dreadful wrong. Someone he wants to kill and, maybe, never had the chance to." He dropped into a heel-squat, his hands on the boy's shoulders. "You mustn't blame Jess, Andy. If he'd been in his right mind he never would have behaved that way.—Now, I think you'd better go back to bed."

But Andy shook his head. "No. I want to stay out here." He glanced back at the bunk, and though he didn't say the words, Slim understood what he was thinking.

The rancher sighed, regretting, not for the first time, how fast his little brother had been forced to grow up: not yet six when he lost their father, barely ten when their mother died, aware on some level—even if he didn't know all the details—of the financial stresses the ranch faced and the things said about Matt Sherman behind his family's backs and occasionally, until Slim's flying fists put a stop to it, to their faces. And now he might lose Jess... Much as Slim himself cared about this wild-hearted Texan, he knew that Andy's bond with him was in some ways tighter, stronger—hero-worship certainly, but also a sympathy of spirit, a genuine brotherhood. Funny... it's a long time since I've been jealous of what they've got—even though I probably have every right to be...

"All right," he said at last, sighing. "You can share my chair. But get a blanket off your bed first."

**SR**

All three of them kept vigil the rest of the night: Jonesy in the straight chair (which was easiest on his sacroiliac), placed alongside the fireplace, and Slim and Andy in the rocker, the boy bundled in the black-and-white-striped Indian blanket with the crimson corners off his bed, half sprawled across the man's lap, dozing and waking, head against Slim's chest.

There were no more episodes like that terrifying last one, but that was probably at least partly because of the tie-downs: when Jess roused, he alternated between stupor and panicked struggle, sometimes crying out, sometimes sobbing. Occasionally he called again on "Francie" or "Johnny" or his parents; other times he seemed to think he was fighting shackles or someone else's grip. Almost every minute Slim expected him to draw his last breath. But somehow, by some miracle of his own frightening vitality and—maybe—the watchful presence of his adopted family, he made it to morning. Slowly the delirium ebbed, and he slipped into something that approximated restful sleep.

Slim went out to do the barn chores, barely noticing that the storm was still raging. He came back to find Andy dressed and picking at his breakfast and Jonesy, for once, not getting on his back about wasting food or the need to feed his growing young body. The night's ordeal had taken a lot out of all of them. Slim shook his head when Jonesy offered him a plate. "Just coffee," he said. And glanced toward the main room, somehow knowing it: Tonight... if he doesn't come out of it before, tonight will be—it'll be—

Lord, Jess... how are we gonna make it without you?

He went to check on his friend and found him lying quietly, eyes open, not struggling against the ties. Their gazes met, and Slim saw something approaching awareness in Jess's—but they still burned too bright, and his skin was still flushed and dry. "Jess?" he said, tentatively.

"Hey, Slim." The Texan's voice was faint and raspy, probably as a result of all the screaming he'd done during the night. He tugged at the ties—not as if he were trying to escape them, more curiously than anything. "Wha'... what's all this... for?"

Slim took breath to reply, hesitated, and changed his mind—he couldn't lay a weight of guilt on a man who might be dying. "You—you were thrashin' around so much, we—Jonesy thought you might... hurt yourself. And you kept... throwin' the blankets off, we—we wanted to keep you from gettin' chilled..."

Jess seemed to accept that, nodding slowly against the pillow. His eyes were hollow, sunk back in his lean face. He licked his dry lips, then spoke again, quietly, even rationally. "I ain't... ain't gonna make it, am... am I, Slim?"

The rancher remembered that Jess had been "on the drift" at least since the end of the war, and he'd served in it too; like most people accustomed to living in a natural way, he could tell when he was sick just as wild animals can, probably had a fair insight to the seriousness of his own condition too. "Don't you say that!" he rebuked. "Don't give up on yourself, Jess."

"Ain't about... givin' up," Jess told him. "Just about... about admittin' to... to how things are. Slim... I ain't... ain't scared... not... not much, anyhow. I been... livin' on borrowed time a... a long spell... never reckoned I'd... have too long a life..." He had to stop, to regain his strength. "Leastways I... I ain't dyin' in some dusty street, or... or bleedin' out in some arroyo somewheres, with... with a bullet in my back and... nobody to care..." Another pause, a struggle for breath. "Just... just wanted you to know... these last months, they been... the best time in... in maybe forever... for me. Wanted to tell you... how grateful I was... that you gi'me a... a home... and your friendship..." His voice faded; his eyes slid shut again. His heart in his throat, Slim leaned over him, feeling for the pulse in his neck. It was still there, still too quick, too random.

"You live, Jess—you hear me?" he whispered, his tone fierce. "You keep hangin' on. What was it I heard Pa say once? 'You can't be sure you've killed a Texan till you've got him buried, and even then he's likely to climb up the handle of the shovel and clout you one.' That's you, Jess. You stay with us. We need you here, Jess, a lot more than God does." Yet even as he said the words, he was terribly afraid it was too late.

He walked back to the kitchen, his steps dragging. Jonesy was clearing the table off; Andy sat huddled miserably in his chair, pale and scared-looking. "He awake? Thought I heard his voice," the old man said.

"Just a... another lucid interval," Slim said heavily. He met his old friend's eyes, aware of the stinging in his own. "He... he said goodbye, Jonesy. He knows..."

Andy caught his breath, sobbed, and then broke for the bunkroom; the door slammed behind him. Slim watched him go, his heart aching. "There's got to be something we can do," he said, almost more to himself than anything.

"Well, I wish you'd tell me what!" snapped Jonesy. "I've tried everything I know, and none of it's workin'!" Then: "I'm sorry, Slim. I know you're scared for him. So am I."

"We're gonna lose him, aren't we?" said Slim, very quietly.

Jonesy turned away. "It's just takin' him by inches, Slim. If we can't find a way to break it, he's gonna keep on overheatin' till he bursts his own heart, like a horse run too far too fast."

No, Slim thought. No. I'm not losin' another pard. Joey was enough. "No," he said aloud, and his voice was like steel. "No. I won't have it. I won't let it happen. He's done so much for us, he's tried so hard to change from what he was..." He was silent a long moment, and in that interval of suspension, the thought from yesterday afternoon recurred, slipping back into his mind and holding still, this time, long enough for him to see it clearly. Slowly he said: "There might be one way..."

The older man looked up with a faint gleam of hope in his eye; he'd heard that tone before, it meant Slim was thinking with everything he had in him. "What?"

"A sweat lodge."

"Wha— You mean like the Indians do?"

"That's just what I do mean." There was a tight, resolute look on the young rancher's face that made Jonesy think of his late father; Matt Sherman used to get just that expression right before he took a wild chance.

"Now wait just a minute, son," Jonesy began cautiously. "I know the Indians swear by it, but I hear tell it's not much good against our white man's sicknesses; fact is, when it's used for 'em, it just makes 'em sicker."

"But we don't know what this is," Slim pointed out. "You said yourself it could be any number of things."

"I did," Jonesy admitted. "Remember one of the things I said it could be? Measles."

"But he hasn't got any spots," Slim objected.

"I know that. But the rash doesn't start to show till three to five days after the first symptoms, and it hasn't been even three full ones since he was took down. And even then, some folks, 'specially those that's grown up when they get it, they don't break out; they keep the sickness internally, and the fever keeps on mountin', alternatin' with delirium and coma—not too different from what we're seein'—so that if it doesn't break, they can die."

"If he's gonna die anyway," Slim retorted grimly, "we might just as well take the chance." For a moment his mask slipped, and Jonesy saw the grief naked in his eyes. "Jonesy, I'd rather have his death on my conscience, and know I at least tried to help him, than go on watchin' him suffer."

Jonesy stared at the floor. "I reckon he wouldn't want to die slow," he said quietly. "What do you need?" He didn't ask whether Slim knew what to do; he knew that Slim had gone through the lodge ritual at least twice, most recently when a Cheyenne friend invited him to "get ready for his war trail" just before he left to enlist in the Union Army.

Slim glanced toward the window. "I'd a lot rather we could build it outside, but that's just not possible, so we'll have to improvise in here. I'll use the fireplace as a base—you and Andy can stay in here where the stove will keep you warm. Help me move the table parallel to it, as close as we can get; then we'll drape and pin blankets around it to make a tent, that should trap the steam. And I'll need your big kettle; fill it up with as much water as it'll hold."

"Don't you need hot rocks?" Jonesy asked. "Where you gonna find rocks in all that smother out there?"

"Bricks would do. Remember the ones you used to carry in the chuck wagon, to set under pots and things? You brought them with you when we came out here, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I got 'em down cellar. Never know when a few bricks might come in handy."

"All right, let's get 'em up here," said Slim.

Once the table was placed, Slim got Andy to help him gather up blankets and drape them over it, weighting one edge to the mantelpiece, then laid more blankets on the floor underneath to keep Jess from picking up a chill. Jonesy came up from the cellar with his bricks; there were about a dozen of them. Slim borrowed the old man's biggest Dutch oven, set it on the fire, and quickly arranged the bricks on its warming bottom. He set the filled kettle as far from the flames as he could get it; the water had to be cold so the action of it against the heated bricks would create the desired steam. He sent Andy and Jonesy into the kitchen—"I'll call you if I need you," he promised—and stripped off his vest, shirt, and undershirt, shivering a bit; already the blankets were confining the fire's heat, and the temperature in the main part of the room was beginning to drop. Then he walked over to Jess's bed and pushed the covers back. Jess's struggles last night had drawn the knots of his ties as tight as drying rawhide; Slim had to use his pocketknife to cut them. He grasped Jess's wrist gently, drawing him up into a sitting position.

Jess stirred at his touch, moaning softly. "Easy, Jess, easy," Slim murmured, in the voice he used when he was gentling a horse. "Come on, we've got to get you out of bed..." Slowly he got his friend up, turning him so he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, then ducking down and pulling Jess's arm across his shoulder, drawing him to his feet, steadying him with a hand at his waist.

Jess's eyes opened and he looked up at the older man in a puzzled way. With his defenses stripped away by his battle with the fever, he looked very young, and very vulnerable. The blue eyes met Slim's wearily, and for almost the first time the rancher saw Jess's heart in them. "Wha'...?"

"Listen, Jess," Slim coaxed softly. "I've fixed up a kind of sweat lodge. We're gonna get in it, you and me, and I'm gonna make it hot. Maybe the steam'll bring on a sweat and break this fever."

Jess blinked, his fevered mind processing the words slowly. "You... you reckon?"

"I reckon it's about the best chance you've got, Jess." Slim's voice was quiet, sad, but firm.

Jess took a slow breath, as if gathering whatever strength he had left. "A'right..." And then, in a fading sigh, "...trust you...," just before the dark head drooped against Slim's shoulder.

The rancher's breath caught in his throat. He'd felt for some time, on the basis of Jess's actions, that Jess did indeed trust him—maybe not with his heart yet, but surely with his life and safety—but this was the first time the younger man had said the word. He understood that, in Jess's circles, trust was probably not a valued commodity, or even a valuable one; to a gunfighter, constant wariness and suspicion were much likelier to result in continued life. And for that very reason, he understood, too, the honor Jess had just bestowed on him. God, he thought, don't let me betray what he's given me, and, holding Jess's hot form against him, he moved back around the foot of the bed and toward the table.

Jess's feet tracked, reflexively, dragging a bit, but with Slim's support he stayed semi-erect. It wasn't easy getting both of them into the limited space within the blanket tent, but Slim managed. He settled himself facing the fire, folded his legs up Indian-style, and held Jess loosely, gently, before him, in something that was half support and half embrace. He laid his fingers against the younger man's neck; the pulse was quick and uneven. The stress of the fever was telling on Jess's heart, as Jonesy had warned. There was no time to be lost.

Jess was still now, not struggling or tossing; it was as if he had surrendered himself totally to Slim's care and protection. Or maybe, Slim thought, he's just so weak there's no fight left in him. He squeezed Jess's bare shoulder gently. "Hang on, Jess," he murmured. "Here we go." The bricks were glowing with heat. He reached for the kettle with the hand that wasn't supporting his unconscious friend, flipped the lid up, and dumped the entire contents into the pan, on top of the superheated bricks.

A great gout of steam suddenly filled the blanket tent, and there was a loud hiss like a dragon's. Jess flinched in Slim's loose hold, his head rolling sideways, then back. "Easy, easy," Slim soothed him, "don't fight it, you're okay, I've got you..."

Jess settled; his head rested against Slim's chest, tilted a little back, his lips slightly parted. Something flickered at the corner of Slim's field of vision; he glanced that way to see Jonesy's hand just withdrawing, leaving a second kettle where the first had stood a moment ago. Thank God for faithful friends, he thought. Remembering that there was always praying in a sweat lodge, he began whispering his petition under his breath: "Let him sweat, please, let him sweat... let the fever break, please, we can't lose him... let him live, please, not just for our sakes but for his own, for the home he knows he's found with us. Let him live so he can enjoy it, give us a chance to help him heal from the pain his life has dealt him, let him know we'll do everything we can... let him understand that we care, that he can trust us with anything, no matter what... let him live to know that, please let him..."

He lost track of time. He knew that Jonesy had taken back the first kettle, knew that it reappeared after a while and the second, which he'd since emptied onto the bricks, was taken away in its turn, refilled and brought back. His bare skin was wet with sweat, his hair soaked with it; his head was feeling so hot it was almost as if he had a fever too. Jess's weight was heavy in his arms, on his knees; the younger man wasn't stirring. This has to work, Slim thought desperately, please God, it has to...

And then he realized that the lean body in his arms felt slick and damp.

He looked down, almost afraid of what he'd see. Sweat beaded Jess's forehead, trickled down his temples and along the line of his jaw, matted his hair in dark ringlets. His back and chest were covered with it, his longjohn britches showed big damp patches, sticking to the wet skin underneath. The flush had faded from his skin; he was pale now, but he felt warm, healthily so, not hot. Slim felt for the pulse in his friend's neck; it was steady now, stronger, not racing. He caught his breath in a gasp of delight and relief just as Jess's eyelids flickered and the blue eyes stared up at him, their color muddy, but with a kind of bleary awareness. "Hey, Slim," came the warm, resonant, gravelly voice that had become so much a part of his world, "what's... goin' on? Where... are we?"

For a moment his throat was too choked with gratitude to permit anything to get out of it. He forced a cough, then a smile. "We're back from the brink, Jess, or rather you are. You're gonna make it."

"I am?" Jess sounded slightly bewildered. "Why... wouldn't I?"

And Slim filled his lungs with the steamy air and shouted. "Jonesy! Andy! Come get us out of here—he's okay!"

In moments the blankets were being torn away, and Jonesy was reaching down a sinewy arm to help them crawl out. Jess shivered a bit as the cooler air hit his sweat-soaked skin, and Jonesy snatched a blanket from Andy's hands and threw it around him. "Wrap yourself up, you blame young fool," he ordered, "and you too!" he added to Slim. "You think I want a couple cases of pneumonia on my hands on top of everything else? Andy, run get some hot water out of the stove reservoir. Come on, you two, I want to wipe you down some before you put your clothes on."

Jess moved tentatively; the sweat lodge had restored some of his energy, as Slim had known from his own experience that it would, but it was a false energy, or at best a transitory one—he was still weak from his tussle with the fever and from lack of sufficient rest and nourishment. Slim caught hold of his arm, offering his own strength in support. "Take it easy," he said. "You've been through a rough patch, Jess. We weren't sure you'd make it."

Jess rubbed his forehead in a puzzled way. "Wha' happ'ned?" he asked. "I remember... 'member ridin' out to look at the beef, and then... I don't know... everythin' gets kind of... of muddled..."

"You had a fever, Jess," Andy told him, bailing water out of the reservoir with a galvanized bucket. "You were awful sick—delirious and everything. We thought—" the boy's voice caught— "we thought you were gonna die."

"Yeah," Jonesy added, "and on top of that we got a regular ring-tailed roarer of a blizzard outside—couldn't get any help in, nor you out to it. Set," he commanded, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs. "Andy, get a dishpan out and fill it with some of that hot water so he can soak his feet; that always seems to keep off chills, I dunno why. Slim, where in perdition did you put your shirt? Andy, you get done with that, you go fetch Jess some fresh clothes out of the bunkroom, and mind you bring two pair of socks and those lined deerskin slippers you give him for Christmas."

The two men let it all swirl around them, Jess trying to adjust to what had apparently happened to him, Slim just luxuriating in the knowledge that his friend was, if not completely well, at least on the road to recovery. The rancher used a warm, damp cloth to wipe his own face and upper body before toweling himself thoroughly and getting back into his undershirt, shirt, and vest. Andy seemed to be everywhere at once—filling the dishpan, fetching and carrying for Jonesy, who in turn got Jess's feet settled in the pan, dried both men's soaked hair, and wiped and towelled Jess's sweaty torso. Then Andy dried Jess's feet and slipped his socks and slippers on them, and steadied him while the old man helped him dress. Jess seemed bemused by all this attention; Slim just felt glad he was there for it. Maybe you deserve some pampering, he thought. A man comes that close to the last long trail, he should know how much his... his family thinks of him.

He remembered what Jonesy had said. Guess it wasn't measles, he thought, part amused, part grateful, and part resentfully bewildered, wondering what it had been and knowing he'd probably never know the answer. Fever of unknown origin, he recalled Jonesy saying. And then: And I don't care. All I care about is he's gonna make it.

"Hey," said Jonesy, "you think you two could maybe eat somethin'? I put part of your breakfasts by in the warmin' oven, just in case..."

Slim stared at him a moment, then grinned; it felt strange to have his face stretch itself that way after this long painful siege of fear and misery. "You know, suddenly I'm starved."

"Me too!" Andy agreed.

" 'N' how 'bout me?" Jess asked. "My belly's thinkin' my throat's been cut." His drawl was slower than usual, more pronounced, but he was clearly rational.

"You," Jonesy told him, "you are gettin' soup, just as soon as I can throw some together. You haven't had more'n a bite in the best part of three days, and I don't aim to shock your system with a lot of heavy grub. You're not near as spry as you think you are, boy."

Jess blinked, then looked across the table at Slim and shrugged. "Never mess with the cook," he sighed resignedly.

And Slim laughed.

**SR**

The fever was gone, but Jess still had a time of convalescence ahead of him. He managed to stay awake long enough to eat some scrambled eggs and a couple of hot buttered biscuits, and to be helped out to the main room and installed in his favorite rocker, with his slippered feet stretched out to the fire and Andy's Indian blanket wrapped around him; but within ten minutes after that he was asleep and softly snoring. Slim and Jonesy conferred, then moved the leather couch to the back of the room and put the bunk where it had been, agreeing that the heated main room would be a better sleeping place for their recovering friend than the chilly bunkroom, at least for a few nights. Slim tacked a blanket up over the window to keep drafts off him, and they lifted him out of the chair and tucked him in, snug and warm. He slept most of that day, recharging his depleted system; woke long enough for the soup Jonesy had promised him—a thick one with ham and beans in it—along with fresh buttered bread and, under protest, a glass of milk into which an egg had been beaten; slept again, roused for a supper of more soup and bread-and-milk with beaten egg in it, and nearly dozed off over it. Slim helped him back to bed and watched as he dropped off a third time, into a quiet, restorative sleep.

Slim woke, not sure what was different. He turned over slowly, tension-tightened muscles protesting even after a full night's sleep. He was lying in the bottom bunk against the north wall of the big room—ordinarily Jonesy's bed; Jonesy had offered to take one of the two beds in the small room next door, which they kept primarily for layovers and as a sickroom—and when he pushed up on his elbow he could see a small form in his own regular bed, scrunched up in a knot under a heap of covers. It took him a minute or two to clear the cobwebs out of his head and remember what had become of Andy's. He'd been concerned that Jess's illness would cause the boy to have nightmares, but he could remember no hint of any.

Something's different, he thought again. He heard a clatter from somewhere beyond the door. Jonesy? Why didn't he wake me? And then it dawned on him: there was no moaning whine of wind.

He rolled out of bed and grabbed his boots, then his clothes off the chair. Moving as quickly as he silently could, he slipped out into the main room. Jess was still asleep in Andy's bunk, under the blanketed window; as Slim paused to watch him, he mumbled sleepily, sighed, squirmed over onto his side and settled again.

Jonesy's head appeared around the frame of the kitchen archway. "Hey, sleepyhead," he said cheerfully. " 'Bout time you roused yourself."

"What time is it?" Slim demanded.

"Past seven. And don't you say one word, boy. We all been through a rough patch, not just him, and it's gonna take us a spell to build back what we lost." Then: "Come here and take a look out the window."

Slim padded across. Over the ridge and the mountain to the east, a soft golden-gray glow showed. The yard, in the increasing light, was buried deep in snow. "The storm's quit," he said numbly, not quite believing it.

"Yep. Woke me up, about three. Took a look, checked on Jess, and figured we all deserved a sleep-in."

Slim took a breath, hesitated, and changed his mind. "Yeah," he said at last. "Yeah, Doctor Jones, I guess we did." He grinned, then sniffed. "Somethin' smells good."

"Chicken and waffles," Jonesy told him. "And fried potatoes, and fried cornmeal mush, and sausage and eggs, and hot muffins. And I'm just about to soft-boil some eggs for Jess, and I got some chicken boiled up special, and he can have some mush, if he puts plenty of milk on it. Have it ready in five minutes—you better go wake Andy."

"Is it Sunday, and I lost track?"

"No. It's a celebration, and that's another thing we deserved. Go on, get that boy up."

**SR**

Fortified with Jonesy's huge "celebration" breakfast, Slim and Andy got to work on the delayed chores and the task of shovelling out. It was good to be outdoors again, though the air was still so cold it nipped exposed flesh and stung the sinuses. Slim wasn't sure whether he was expecting the snowball that smacked against his back, but he couldn't be angry about it when he heard Andy's delighted giggle. He turned, scooped up a fistful of snow, formed it, and hurled it with all the power in his long arm, catching his brother full in the throat. The snow was too powdery to make really good ammunition, but for about five minutes there was a flurry of battle in the yard. Slim realized that a year ago, before Jess came, he'd have been ready to tan Andy's hide for doing this—not that he would have, but he certainly wouldn't have appreciated it. He's made such a huge difference in our lives, he thought, wiping the last of Andy's missiles off his face. I hope we were able to make him understand how much, at Christmas.

Andy's laughter suddenly ebbed, and Slim paused in his reach for more snow. The boy's face had sobered; he took off his hat, flipped the snow from it, replaced it and walked across to his brother. "Slim?"

"Yeah, Andy." The rancher dropped his half-formed handful, hearing the serious note in the word. "What is it?"

"All that stuff Jess did and said when he was sick... do you reckon he remembers any of it?" Andy asked.

"No, Andy, I don't think he does. Remember what he said after the sweat? He could recall goin' out to check the cattle, and after that everything was all sort of muddled up."

"That's what I thought," Andy agreed. "But it's not exactly what I was askin'. I meant, do you reckon he remembers it, now that he's not sick?"

Slim sighed. "Yes, Andy. He remembers. That's a lot of why he's the man he is, you see."

"Do you think... I mean, should we ever... should he know what he...?"

"No. It wouldn't be fair to him, to take that kind of advantage of what he let slip when he was too weak and ill to know what he was doin'."

Andy nodded. "I didn't think so either. D'you s'pose he'll want us to know about it, someday? I mean, will he want to tell us about it when he does know what he's doin'?"

Slim looked toward the blanketed front window. "I hope so, Andy. I hope one day he'll feel he can trust us that much."

"He must've had an awful hard time, comin' up," Andy mused. "Harder'n us."

Yes, Slim thought, half sad and half proud, he's growin' up. "A lot harder, I think," he agreed. "Maybe about as hard as a man can, and harder than most deserve. But, you know, there was one good thing about it, whateverit all was."

"Honest? What was that?"

"It brought him here," Slim explained. "Because, you see, everything a man does grows out of what he's seen and done before. And he's found somethin' here that I have a feeling he's been missin', and lookin' for, a long lot of years..." He remembered what Jonesy had said about 'the Bannister gang.' He wasn't going to tell Andy about that, not yet, not if he was growing up—no, nor his suspicions.

"I don't have to ask you what that is," Andy said. "A home. And a family."

"That's right. A big brother, a little brother, and an uncle. Maybe not all of what he lost, but it's a start."

"And we mustn't ask him anythin'. Not till he says somethin' about it himself. Right, Slim?"

"Right, Andy." He clapped his hand against the boy's shoulder. "Let's finish these chores and go inside where we can get warm. Maybe after that good long sleep, Jess will feel up to bein' read to for a while."

-30-