Chapter Four

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"Mistah Ben eat. Hop Sing no cook food to feed birds!"

Ben smiled. It was a toss-up as to which of them was the worst mother hen. He was glad he'd given in and let Hop Sing accompany him, but there was a price to be paid. In his opinion he'd already eaten enough to last him until they got home! He found, as he aged, that his appetite was smaller, probably due to the fact that he did more desk work than leg work now. Joe had taken over many of the tasks on the ranch. His son worked hard to keep their dream alive.

Was Joe alive, he wondered?

After grudgingly accepting another plate, heaped nearly as high as the first, Ben pushed the food around with his fork as his eyes strayed to the tree line. He hadn't been up this way since...well, since the spring after the accident that had claimed his middle son's life and nearly carried off his youngest as well. The purpose of his trip had been two-fold, to make certain the road was cleared and to check on Carrie Pickett. The older woman had been worried. She was devastated to hear what had happened. Before he left he'd gone to the closest settlement and hired a man to check on her twice a year to make certain she was well supplied.

He hadn't known at the time if Joe would ever want to come this way again.

Ben noticed Hop Sing watching and forced himself to lift the fork to his mouth. As he chewed, he thought about that youngest boy of his. It had taken Joseph nearly the whole winter to recover and, even then, that was only physically. No amount of talking could make the boy see that the accident – that his brother's death – had not been his fault. The older man shuddered as his fork fell to the plate. Joseph had been buried alive. Hoss had rushed into a raging torrent of mud, debris, and fast running water to save his brother. They had both made it out. Then Hoss went back in to save the woman.

And didn't come out again.

Ben started as he felt the plate being taken out of his fingers. Almost at the same moment a hand rested on his shoulder.

"Mistah Ben tired. He should sleep. Tomorrow not share. Keep its own company."

In other words, they had no idea what the next day would bring.

After a trip to the woods to relieve himself, Ben discovered Hop Sing had made him a bed fit for a king out of a light feather tick and downy comforter. The Chinese man had packed the wagon and had managed to squirrel both items away among the other supplies, which were enough to outfit Grant's army. Along with a half-dozen blankets, there were several pillows and two hampers of food. Ben grinned in spite of his apprehension. Somehow their food supply had outgrown a basket before it reached the yard. Hop Sing had also included his emergency chest; the one he brought with him when they went on a drive. In it were alcohol and bandages, as well as various herbs and potions that had proven effective with his boys in their younger years.

How he longed for those years gone by!

It took about a half hour for his friend to finish all his self- imposed chores. After Hop Sing lay down, the world grew hushed. With the exception of a few animals shifting and snuffling within the cover of the leaves, there was no sound save the beating of his heart. He often wondered why he was still alive. At sixty-three he had long outlived many of his friends. The West was a harsh mistress, seductive in her allure and often deadly. He had sacrificed two wives and one son to her and for what? A thousand acres of land that his oldest did not want and his youngest wanted only because it had been his dream.

No, that wasn't fair, to him or to Joe. Joe loved the Ponderosa. It was his life.

Closing his eyes, Ben whispered a prayer to his Maker, asking for protection for his child.

It was a long time before he fell asleep.

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There was a sound. Someone reading.

Joe laid with his eyes closed, listening. The words were from the Bible. He must be in his bedroom at home and Pa was sitting with him, reading.

He must be sick.

As he laid there, he took an inventory of what hurt – his arm, his head, his chest, and especially his left leg. Not sick then. Hurt. Injured.

Injured when his horse went over the edge of a cliff and fell down into a ravine.

The voice continued, speaking words he knew well.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Thou anointest my head with oil. My cup runneth over..."

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life," Joe finished, his voice a weak rasp that surprised him. "And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

Rick smiled as he lowered the leather tome to his lap. "Hey! You're awake!"

Joe hesitated, but then decided to be honest. "Unfortunately."

"Are you hurtin' bad? Do you want another powder?"

He shook his head. "Not now. Might...need it later." The minute he tried to shift on the pillow to sit up, Rick was right there lifting him. Joe waited a moment to catch his breath and then said, "Thanks. You sure are strong."

"Broad and strong, Ma says." Rick paused and the smile returned. "She'd say you're kind of puny."

Joe snorted. He wondered briefly if Rick's mother had looked like Bessie Sue Hightower. "I guess that's why my brothers, heck, everyone used to call me Little Joe. 'Course, next to middle brother anyone would have looked puny."

"Your brother was big?" the boy asked innocently, his eyes wide with wonder. "How?"

Joe leaned his head back against the pillow as the image of his big, strong brother plunging into the maelstrom of rocks, mud, and rushing water rose before them. "We had different mas," he said, his tone utterly weary. "Pa's a good size. Hoss' ma was kind of tall from what I understand. My mama was petite." He laughed. "She's the one named me petit Joseph."

"Was she French? I mean that's French for 'little', ain't it? Petit?"

He nodded. "Kind of. She was from New Orleans."

"Gosh. That's a long way from here," Rick said. "I ain't never been anywhere farther than the settlement."

He'd been looking for an opening. Even though Rick seemed pretty self-sufficient, the middle of nowhere was nowhere for a twelve or thirteen year old boy to live alone. "You could come with me, you know? Visit the Ponderosa. That's where I live."

The boy frowned.

"What is it?" Joe asked.

"I don't know," he said with a shrug. "Seems I heard that name before. Like maybe Ma mentioned it."

"Well, it's the biggest spread around here. Most people know about the Cartwrights and the Ponderosa."

"That your last name? Cartwright?"

He nodded. Then he realized he didn't know Rick's. "What's yours?"

"I got Ma's name. It's Ferrell. Broderick Ferrell." The boy paused and then said, softly, "I don't know what Ma would think about me goin' off with a stranger."

Joe turned his head so he was lookin' straight at Rick. "I don't think she'd mind." He paused and then added, as gently as he could, "She's dead, isn't she, Rick? I mean, you're all alone here."

Rick's jaw grew tight. For a minute it looked like he'd deny it. Then he sniffed and nodded.

Joe wanted to ask how she'd died, but it really was none of his business. The boy, however, had become very much his business now. Still, he knew what it was to be young and think you were years older than you were. So instead of insisting, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes and said, "Well, you think about it, okay? Pa would want to pay you back for what you've done for me. A visit would be a good way to do that."

"I don't need no pay for it. It was my Christian duty," Rick declared.

Joe opened his eyes and looked at the book in the boy's hands. "That your ma's?" he asked.

As Rick nodded, Joe noticed an envelope – no, two, tucked inside the back cover. He could tell that at least one of them was unopened. "Your ma leave those for you? The letters, I mean."

Unexpectedly, the boy paled. "I ain't sure. I can't read the words on the front."

"But you were reading from the Bible."

"I can read print. I can't read that fancy stuff. Ma never taught me."

"Script? You mean you can't read script?"

"Whatever you call it."

Joe hesitated. He didn't want to intrude. "You want me to take a look at them?"

Again, the boy got a funny look on his face. "Maybe later," he said as he rose and went to put the Bible on the table. Once he had, he looked back. "You hungry? You ain't eaten much."

He considered it. He did feel better, though the pain was pretty intense and masked his need for food. "I can try."

"I made some soup. I figured maybe eggs and bacon would be too hard."

"Thanks. I really appreciate everything you've done for me."

"I..." Rick paused. "It ain't nothin', and I'm glad for the company." With that he turned and walked toward the stove.

Joe leaned back again. He was exhausted, not only from pain but from talking – and even more from the memories the boy aroused. He was a lot like Hoss, or like his brother must have been as a kid. Soft-spoken and gentle with a hidden strength.

Unbidden tears coursed down his cheeks.

God, how he missed him.

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"This is where we part," Ben said.

"Mistah Cartwright sure that best thing?" Hop Sing asked, his tone unconvinced.

The rancher turned and looked again at the edge of the road. It was obvious something – or someone – had gone over it and not all that long before. The brittle brown grass was chewed up and a cascade of rocks and dirt had tumbled down into the ravine. He prayed it had nothing to do with Joe, but he couldn't ignore it.

"I need you to go on to Carrie's and see if Joe is there." He looked at the sky. The day was wearing on. "It will only take a few hours. If he's not there, you can come back. We need to know."

"You go down there?" Hop Sing asked, pointing over the edge.

"Yes. I noticed a moderate slope about a mile back. Buck can work his way down there."

"You think Little Joe fall?"

The rancher winced. "I certainly hope not, but this road is precarious at best and Joe wasn't riding Cochise."

Unfortunately.

"You take chest," Hop Sing said. "If Little Joe fall, he need medicine."

"I'll fill my saddlebag from it. That way we'll both have what we need – just in case."

Ben looked grim. If Joe had fallen into the ravine, it was a long way down. Without warning a vision of his youngest son lying at the bottom injured, alone – maybe dying – flashed before his eyes and he swayed.

A familiar hand steadied him. "Little Joe be okay. He smart boy. Take care of self."

Ben slowly nodded. He had taught all of his boys survival skills, but sometimes it wasn't enough.

It hadn't been enough last October.

"I go put supplies in saddlebags then. Medicine and food for you and Little Joe."

"Thank you, Hop Sing. I want to start out before the light is gone." He placed a hand on his friend's arm. "You need to do the same."

The man from China nodded his agreement and headed for the wagon.

Ben looked down into the ravine again and then raised his eyes to the road. They were a mile or so out from the scene of last year's accident, but he could see it in his mind's eye. God could not be so cruel as to take both of his boys in nearly the same way, at almost the same place.

Not the God he knew.

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Rick sat at the table with his ma's Bible in his hands. Joe was asleep again. His fever was back and it was climbing. He knew something was wrong. There had to be an infection somewhere, but he didn't know what to do about it. He'd tried to peek under the bandage on Joe's leg, but it had caused the wounded man so much pain he'd stopped.

He was scared.

Since Joe had finished the Twenty-third Psalm when he was reading it, he figured he was a Christian too. Of course, even if he wasn't, it wouldn't hurt to pray for him. He'd done that and then read a little more. He liked the Psalms the best. Ma said they were 'real'. She told him whenever he thought he couldn't question God or felt guilty 'cause he was angry with Him, he should go to the Psalms. 'Course she told him too that if he got too big for his britches, he needed to read the last two chapters of Job where God asked Job where he was when He hung the stars.

As he sat there thinkin' about his ma and Joe's brother who'd died and wondering why, Rick's eyes went to the unopened letters tucked in the back of the book. He knew what they were, even though he didn't let on to Joe. Ma told him. She'd told him she left them in case she never came back. Of course, Ma knew he couldn't read them himself, but she figured he could find someone who would.

Like Joe.

Still, if he let Joe read those letters, then he had to accept she wasn't never comin' back and he wasn't quite ready to do that. Even though he'd admitted to the older man that she was gone, well, readin' them letters would be like closin' the lid on her coffin.

He sure wished she'd had a coffin and he had a grave.

With a sigh Rick rose to his feet, leaving both the book and the mystery of the letters behind. He glanced at Joe, who was mutterin' and movin' around on the bed, and then picked up the bucket and headed outside. Night was comin' fast and the air was gettin' cold. The water would be the same. He needed it to cool Joe down.

He only hoped it would be enough.

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Ben headed down into the ravine as dusk overtook the October landscape. The setting sun swept it, enriching the orange, red, and yellow hues until it seemed the woods were on fire. As he and Buck reached the bottom, the rancher became all too aware of a familiar odor.

The odor of death.

As Ben moved along the bottom of the ridge, he disturbed a flock of crows from their feasting. In the encroaching darkness he hadn't seen them until they took flight like something out of an All Hallows Eve fright. With fear and trepidation he approached the partially desiccated corpse of a large dark horse. Terror made his heart pound so hard he feared it would leap out of his chest as he dismounted and rounded the dead animal to see if anything – or anyone – was trapped beneath.

God was merciful. There was nothing.

Nothing, that was, except his son's tan hat and Joe's tack still mounted on the unfamiliar horse; the saddlebags distinctively marked with the letters 'JFC'. As he circled out from the dead animal, looking for more evidence, he came across Joe's pistol. The chamber was empty and there were spent shell casings on the ground. In the dim light, Ben sensed more than saw the blood on the gun's pearl handle. Fortunately, he could also see the tracks of a horse and a travois.

Someone had come across his son. Thank God! Joe wasn't alone.

As Ben stood there, staring at the tracks, the rancher came to a decision. The autumn moon was large and low on the horizon. With any luck it would serve to light his way once it ascended. He knew the wise thing to do would be to camp for the night and follow the tracks in the morning, but wisdom had nothing to do with how he felt. His son was hurt. He had no idea how bad.

He needed to be with him.

Returning to Buck, Ben took his faithful friend's reins in hand. It would take longer to walk but, this way, he was certain not to miss the trail. In the end, luck and God were with him. He hadn't gone a quarter of a mile when he rounded a brace of trees and saw smoke rising into the air. With hope and thanksgiving swelling in his breast, the older man hastened his steps.

"I'm coming, Joe. Pa's coming," he breathed. "Hold on."

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Rick was dead tired, but there was no way he could sleep. Joe's fever was sky high and the cold blankets and cloths he'd wrapped him in weren't doin' much to keep it at bay. As he held the struggling man down, the boy glanced at Joe's left leg where it had pulled free of the cover. That leg had to be the source of the infection. He knew he should unwind the linen strips, remove the splints, and clean the wound out again. The trouble was, he didn't really have anything to use. What alcohol he'd had was long gone. There was dead tissue as well that needed to be cut away but that would take a doctor and, even if there had been a doctor closer than twenty miles away, he couldn't leave Joe.

He was gonna watch him die.

Tears broke free to course down his cheeks. He hadn't known Joe more than a few days, but already he felt the older man was like kin. He'd been alone for so long. Having someone to talk to – someone to care for – was somethin' he'd prayed for but never expected to have again. He'd figured he would live in this holler and die in this holler all alone.

When Joe grew quiet, Rick released him. Catching hold of the cloth that had fallen from the wounded man's forehead, he reached down to soak it in the water he'd gathered from the rain barrel. It was warm. The boy pivoted to look at the hearth. He'd stoked up the fire good because Joe was shiverin'. Glancing at the sick man again, he weighed the danger of leaving him alone against his need for cold water. He'd had a high fever once, when he had the measles. Ma told him he'd climbed right out of the bed and headed for the cabin door, thinkin' he was runnin' from a grizzly that had hold of him.

With Joe's injuries...

Exhausted with worry and too little sleep, Rick caught the handle of the bucket in his fingers and headed for the door. He picked up a lantern on the way and lit it, since it was dark outside. Once on the stoop, he stopped and turned back to look into the house, to make sure Joe was still sleeping. That's when he heard a noise. The jingling of a harness. A horse snorting.

A man calling out, 'Ho! You in the house!'

Rick froze. No one came to the holler. No one. Now two men had in less than two days. Fear gripped him. What if this man was responsible for Joe's accident somehow and had come lookin' for him? Joe hadn't said much except his horse took him over the edge of the ravine.

Backing up toward the house, Rick reached inside the door and grabbed the loaded rifle he kept there.

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Ben approached the cabin, excited and thrilled to see that the structure was in fairly good shape and the birds and beasts that bleated and squawked to warn of his coming were well fed and feisty. All of that meant this was an active homestead and not a ramshackle place where some vagabond or outlaw lived who might take advantage of his injured son. There was a figure on the porch. As he approached, the man stiffened in surprise and backed toward the door, stepping into the light.

The rancher halted and drew in a sudden, startled breath as he was propelled back in time.

It could have been Hoss.