THREE

The stagecoach arrived in Eagle Station early that morning. There was only one passenger on it. More had been scheduled to take it, but they had quickly exchanged their tickets for the next coach, which was due to leave Placerville the following afternoon. The two maiden ladies who had been due to ride reported that one of them felt ill. They decided to stay over for the night to see if the sickness passed. The logger who was heading back to his trees developed a sudden aversion to coaches and chose to rent a horse instead. There were two salesmen who decided Placerville looked mighty good, while the banker and his wife who had arrived late and left the soonest simply and rudely stated that if the stage line was going to allow 'those' kind of people on it, they would have none of their custom in the future.

No one, it seemed, wanted to ride with a darky.

The passenger in the coach smiled. There were two ways to look at it. He could be hurt by the rejection or take pride in the power of his color.

He chose to do the later.

The irony was, due to his white father and half-white mother, it took two looks to determine that he was anything other than white himself. The ends of the stranger's full lips quirked with wry amusement. Why was it, when a man was two-thirds white, that he was still considered black? He dropped his eyes to the hands poking out from underneath the elegant white lace cuffs of his Marcus Regency shirt.

At most you might have called him coffee with cream.

As he sat there musing, he heard a sound. The driver had jumped to the ground and was reaching for the door. Outside the coach the usual gawkers had arrived. The stage line was still a new enough phenomena in the area that its arrival always drew large crowds. They were not there to gawk at him – at least not yet – but to see who had found some reason to visit their backwater village. He'd come from such a place once upon a time where it was everyone's business to make sure that they knew everyone's business.

They were in for, well, a bit of a shock.

"Eagle Station, Mister Randolph," the driver announced as the coach door opened. "Your bag's already down."

In spite of the confidence he had gained over the years while living in England, Jude Randolph drew in a deep breath and held it as he stepped out of the coach. He noted the usual reactions as he did – fear, anger, disbelief, curiosity and, yes, hatred.

Hatred of what he was.

Hatred of how what he was made them feel.

Jude nodded as he stepped down. He opened his silk purse and removed a coin and put it in the driver's hand.

"Thank you, my good man."

The driver's eyes lit at the gold coin. He tipped his hat. "Thank you, Mister Randolph!" With a nod to the left, the driver finished, "The International House is over there."

There was some grumbling at the suggestion. It didn't surprise him. It only confirmed that Eagle Station was no more or less civilized than the rest of the towns he had stopped in during his progress from California to Nevada.

A man – burly, bristle-cheeked, and more than a bit of a buffoon from what he could tell – pushed through the crowd. His bushy mustache twitched as he announced, "You just get back on that stage, Mister. We don't want your kind here!"

Jude pretended ignorance. It was something he was well-practiced in. "And what 'kind' would that be? Tall? Well-dressed?" He grinned. "Handsome? Or perhaps, you mean English?"

"You know what kind," another man, a possessor of a shock of straw-yellow hair and a cadaverous face, growled.

"My dear sir," he replied, "you seem to grant me powers of perception that are far beyond those with which the good Lord has imbued me." Jude raised his black brows. "If you would care to clarify your position?"

"How come a darky like you talks so fancy?"

Jude pivoted to look at the skeletal man beside him. "Perhaps, because a 'darky' like me had the good fortune to attend Oxford University instead of failing to be present at school past the age of accountability as it seems you did."

It took a moment. Well, actually, more than a moment. The one man had to point out to the other that what he'd said had been an insult.

"You gonna let that darky get by with saying you're stupid, Jake?"

Jude held up a finger. "I beg to differ. I never said..." He looked at the jowly man. "Jake?"

Jake nodded.

"I didn't mean to imply that Jake was dim-witted," he said, turning back. "Merely inexpert."

Bristle-cheek frowned. "Ain't that the same thing?"

Jude looked the man up and down, noting his dungarees and checked shirt as well as the well-worn leather boots with spurs.

"If the cowboy hat fits..." he said.

"Are you making fun of my friend, Hal?" Jake demanded.

"There's no need. He does entirely too good a job of it on his own."

The rest of the crowd had been standing by listening to their repartee. Now they began to back off. It took Jude a moment to understand why.

Then he saw the gun.

"My good man..." he began, his eyes on the pistol.

"I ain't your 'man'," Hal snarled. "Boy."

"Yeah, boy," Jake added, darting forward and knocking off his hat. "I think we ought to teach you a lesson."

Jude glanced at his beaver hat, eating dust.

He shouldn't have said it.

But...

"The only thing you or your brainless cohort could teach me would be how to become a bigoted, oafish boor." Jude sneered. "Not exactly the skill-set someone of my position needs."

"Why you!" Hal snarled as he raised the pistol.

"Pardon me, pardon me," a light sing-song voice interjected. "So sorry, but need to pass by on boardwalk. Ranch hands in Hop Sing's way. Mistah Ben not happy with hands. Send them far away with no pay if he no get supper in time tonight!"

Jude watched with amusement as the men's faces went from angry to angrier, and then progressed rapidly toward worry and finally, fear.

"You shut your mouth, China man," Hal muttered, the wind driven from his sails.

"No, you keep quiet! Mister Ben busy man, hungry man! Want food on table when get home!" The man from China eyed the pair with obvious disdain. He punctuated his words with the jab of a finger. "You come Ponderosa, I send you to see boss. You tell him why supper late!"

Jake caught Hal by the elbow. "We don't want to make the boss angry. Them jobs mean too much to us." He paused to lick his lips. "You know that."

Something passed between the two men. Jude wasn't sure what. But in the end they slunk off toward the local sampling room with the tails of their beastly plaid shirts tucked between their legs.

The man from China watched them go with a scowl. "Person stupid, don't have medicine to heal," he said with a shake of his head.

Jude laughed as he turned toward him. "Though I believe I could have extricated myself from the situation without substantial damage, I thank you, friend." He held out his hand. "Ngóh giujouh, Jude Randolph."

The Chinese man beamed as he took his hand. "Hop Sing. Hóu hòisàm yihngsīk néih."

Jude bowed as he took the man's hand and shook it. He'd lived abroad for a time and had picked up a smattering of Cantonese. "I am pleased to meet you as well." Turning back, the elegant mulatto's gaze swept the street which was, not surprisingly, for the most part empty. "So, my friend, how do you find Eagle's Station?"

"Bad people here," Hop Sing answered, his brows drawn down in a frown. But then they popped up and his tone brightened. "Even more good people! You stay, you meet them. Many good people like Mister Cartwright."

Jude stiffened. "Cartwright, you say?"

Hop Sing nodded – vehemently. "Mister Cartwright boss of Hop Sing. He not good man, he best man!"

The Englishman drew a hand across his chin. Curling his index finger under his lip, he asked, "What is Mister Cartwright's Christian name, if you don't mind my asking?"

The man from China frowned – just a bit.

"It's is quite all right if you don't want to tell me." Jude drew in a breath. It seemed he had no other recourse than to be completely honest. "Actually, I have come to Nevada seeking a man named 'Cartwright'. Benjamin Cartwright."

The frown deepened. "What man from city want with Mistah Cartwright?"

Jude catalogued the interesting reaction. "You might say I am an old friend." He paused, remembering. "A very old friend."

"Man from city not that old," Hop Sing stated plainly.

"Man from city has a name," Jude countered. "Please, call me Jude. There is no need to stand on any formality."

"How Jude know Mister Benjamin Cartwright?" the man from China demanded.

He thought a moment. "Was the man you work for a sailor some twenty-odd years back? Did he serve as first mate to Captain Stoddard among others?"

"What it mean to you if he did?"

Hop Sing reminded him of a fierce little dog protecting its beloved master.

Jude attempted to ease the man's fears with a smile. "I was a cabin boy on the vessel Independence. It wasn't one of Captain Stoddard's ships, but one on which First Mate Benjamin Cartwright served for a short time. She sailed the English seas as the decade of the twenties ended." The Englishman's voice drifted off as the memory of that time took his attention. He could see Benjamin Cartwright standing on the deck of the Independence during a fierce gale, facing down a man whose only intent was his death – and all because he had chosen to protect a young black boy who had no help and no hope. "He was...kind to me. I would like to see him so I could give him my thanks."

The man from China did not look entirely convinced. "What name of Captain Stoddard's daughter?"

"Elizabeth," he replied without hesitation.

Hop Sing's black eyes narrowed as he weighed every word. "Mister Cartwright have enemies. How I know you not one of them? How Hop Sing know you not come here to hurt him...or his family?"

Jude thought a moment. Then he spread his hands wide. "Look at me, Hop Sing. I'm not white. How many men would have helped a mulatto? How many have helped you other than Benjamin Cartwright?"

It seemed at last that the man from China believed him. He nodded and then his eyes went to a building across the street that sported a doctor's shingle. "Hop Sing take you to Mistah Ben after he gets supplies. Mistah Ben's son hurt. Needs medicine."

It was his turn to frown. "Hurt? How? When did this happen?"

"Happen last night. Bad man come to Ponderosa. Shoot Mistah Adam, Mistah Ben's number one son." The Chinese man's face grew ineffably sad. "Take Mistah Ben's young son. No one know where."

The Englishman's jaw tightened. "Took him? How old is the boy who has disappeared?"

Real tears entered the Chinese man's eyes. "Little Joe twelve."

For a second, Jude reeled. Enough so, that he had to reach out and grasp a rail to steady himself.

As he stood there, drawing a deep breath, the man with a queue asked, "Mister Jude, what wrong?"

What was wrong?

Everything was wrong.

"Good Lord," Jude breathed. "I've come too late."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ben Cartwright stood outside his stable watching his middle son, Hoss, walk with his head down and his eyes to the ground, searching for signs of his missing brother and the man who took him. Hoss and Roy Coffee had surprised him when they'd arrived alone that morning about eight o'clock. Roy explained how Hoss felt they'd misread the kidnapper's tracks and how the boy had insisted on returning to the ranch house to start again. His friend explained that the other men who had been with them had continued on, intent on following the tracks that had led them away from the Ponderosa in the first place.

Just in case.

Ben looked at his son. If it hadn't been for the fact that Hoss wouldn't have listened to him, he would have told the boy to go inside and get some sleep and let the law do what they could. The strain on his young son was plain in the slump of the big teenager's shoulders and the way he muttered to himself as he walked a few feet, knelt, and then rose and walked again, ever hopeful that he would spy something that would lead them to Little Joe. Hoss had taken on quite a lot of responsibility. If the boy misread the tracks and Joseph...well...didn't make it...

Ben shook himself.

No.

Damn it! No.

Roy was watching him closely. He gave his friend a weak smile.

"Now you listen to me, Ben. You're doin' all you can. You know that." Roy indicated the house with a nod. "You got you other concerns."

The gray-haired man nodded. It pained him more deeply than he could express that he couldn't join in the hunt for Joseph, but he couldn't abandon Adam. He would consider leaving once Hop Sing returned from town but, even then, he wasn't certain it would be wise to go. Ben knew his eldest son. Keeping Adam in bed might be more than Hop Sing could manage without his authority to back him up.

Adam would kill himself to save his youngest brother.

"Ben."

The rancher glanced at Roy who was indicating the empty yard in front of the stable. He frowned when he realized they were alone.

"Where's Hoss?" he asked.

"Gone 'round the back," Roy replied. "I think maybe you and me oughta just follow him."

Ben nodded. He glanced at the house before moving, half expecting to see Adam's long lanky figure stumbling out of the door in spite of his direct order to the boy to remain in bed. When he didn't see him, the rancher sighed. Not with relief, but in expectation.

He'd probably find him there when he got back.

"Ben!"

There was excitement in Roy's voice. Moving quickly, Ben rounded the stable and almost stumbled over Hoss who was once again kneeling on the ground.

"Did you find something, son?" he asked.

Hoss turned a weary face toward him. While there was a tiny glint of hope in his eyes, his lips were turned down in a frown. His son pointed to the ground before him.

"I ain't sure how we did, but we missed these Pa," he said softly.

Two set of boot prints. One small and slender. Joe's.

The other... Ben sucked in air.

The other pair looked like they belonged to a giant.

"They wasn't on that horse, Pa. I'm thinkin' that man what took Little Joe must of put a sack of grain on the saddle and sent it runnin'." Hoss rose to his feet. "I bet if we check the feed in the stable, there's one missin' at least. Maybe two."

Ben planted a hand on his son's shoulder. "Good work, son!"

Hoss' frown had deepened. "I understand why that man done what he did. It sure put us off the scent. But Pa, he ain't gonna get anywhere fast if he's on foot and he's got Little Joe to contend with."

The older man smiled, though the smile faded quickly from his lips. He knew his youngest son, just as Hoss knew his little brother. Joseph would not go meekly. He would try to escape, try to make it home – he would use everything that was in him to come back to them. If the boy tried and failed it might very well put his life in danger.

"I imagine anyone takin' a child for ransom or such would have other horses hidden somewhere along the trail, son," Roy interjected. "I doubt they was on foot for long."

Ben was looking at his youngest son's boot prints. "Let's follow these and see where they lead," he suggested.

"You gonna leave Adam, Pa?" Hoss asked, surprised.

He shook his head. "No, son. I'll walk with you a ways and then you two can go on. If I can, I'll follow as soon as Hop Sing returns." Ben eyed the pair. They both looked done in. "But first, you two need to come inside for some coffee and food." As his son started to protest, he held a hand up. "It will do your brother no good if you faint from hunger. Besides, I need to check on Adam before we head out."

Hoss's nose wrinkled. "I feel kind of...selfish, you know, Pa? Restin' and eatin' food when Little Joe's..."

The sentence trailed off as the boy ducked his head. Ben stepped over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Son, look at me."

"Yes, sir," the teenager said as he looked up and met his stare.

Hoss had the bluest eyes – clear as a mountain stream, crisp as ice on a winter morning. They were so transparent the boy wasn't able to hide anything he was feeling. His middle son was scared.

Just as he was scared.

"Son, Little Joe knows we're coming. Joseph knows we will never give up until we find him – that we haven't forgotten him " The gray-haired man paused. "And I hope he knows another thing," he added quietly.

Those blue eyes were wide as a small child's and just as trusting. "What's that Pa?"

"That his God knows what is happening and this terrible event in within His providence." Ben's jaw tightened with emotion. "That the God who made him is sovereign and in control and hasn't forgotten him either."

Hoss stared at him for a moment before speaking. "I ain't sure I got the...rock solid faith you do, Pa."

Rock solid.

The thought of his youngest son in the hands of a kidnapper – and a giant of a man at that, when Joseph was so small – was chipping away at that rock. He could feel it cracking and was fighting hard to keep it from crumbling.

"This is what builds such faith, son," he replied. "It says in Isaiah, 'Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver; I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction.' It is in that moment, when we are in the fire, that we find out what we're made of."

Hoss puzzled a moment and then nodded.

"Ben!"

He and Hoss both turned toward Roy Coffee. The deputy was standing at the corner of the stable looking back toward the house.

Ben wasn't clairvoyant, but he knew what the deputy was looking at. "Adam?"

Roy nodded. "Yep, walking toward the stable bold as brass and slow as molasses."

It took three, maybe, four seconds for Ben to round the wooden structure. Just like Roy said Adam, pale as a winding sheet, was walking across the yard. His son was dressed haphazardly. The tail of his wine-colored shirt was flying in the wind and his black suede vest was inside-out.

He was wearing his gun.

"And just where do you think you are going, young man?" Ben boomed as he stepped into his son's path.

Adam didn't look the least bit penitent. "I'm going after Little Joe," he stated firmly – as firmly as he could between chattering teeth.

Ben's heart melted at this physical manifestation of his oldest son's love for his youngest brother. Still, he couldn't let that melt his resolve as well.

"You will turn around and march back into that house," he said firmly.

Adam favored him with a weak imitation of his usual grin. "Pa, I'm twenty-four. You can't tell me what to do."

It was true. But he could suggest it – strongly.

"Son, I know you're worried about your brother, but you know what Paul said." His eyes went to his son's side. Adam was holding it with his left hand. "You'll break that wound open. It hasn't had time to heal."

There were unspent tears in Adam's eyes. "Pa! I can't just lay there! This is my fault! Don't you understand?"

"No, it ain't, Adam," Hoss said as he came between them. "It ain't the fault of anyone but that bad man who took Little Joe." His middle son glanced at him and then took a step toward his injured brother. "Adam, I got me a heart full of guilt too. Little Joe, well, he's my responsibility. I should of checked on him to make sure he was okay."

Adam was shaking his head. "Hoss, no, you – "

"You cain't tell me what I'm feelin' anymore than I can tell you, older brother!" the giant teen snapped. Then his tone softened, "I know you want to look for Little Joe, Adam, but Joe'd be the first one to tell you to take care of yourself. 'Sides..." His big son frowned. "If Roy and me don't find Little Joe soon, we're gonna need you to go look later when we're all tuckered out."

"I'll have to be gettin' back to town, son," Roy Coffee added as he joined them. "I got me one, maybe two days to give to the search, then I gotta get me back to the office. You can take over then."

Ben glanced at Roy. He couldn't tell if he was being truthful – or helpful.

Adam was wavering, both mentally and physically.

"I don't know..." he said.

"Well, I do," Hoss replied as he moved forward to take his brother by the arm. "You look like somethin' a herd trod on, older brother. Come on now, let's get you back in your bed."

Ben silently acknowledged his middle son's wisdom. Where Adam would have fought him tooth and claw, his brother's gentle words had driven home the truth that he was in no condition to sit a horse or ride. Still, the boy tried one more time.

"But Little Joe..."

"Don't you worry yourself none, Adam," Hoss said, his tone uncompromising. "I'll ain't comin' home without punkin', you can bet money on that."

The use of Hoss' pet name for Little Joe stabbed Ben. It brought to mind the boisterous unstoppable whirlwind that was his youngest son. His youngest son who was missing.

His youngest son who had been ripped from the bosom of his family and was God only knew where.

Ben walked over to the pair and placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

"Come on, boys, let's go inside. Hop Sing left food to warm up." At their looks, he added, "I don't feel like eating either, but we have to keep up our strength if we're to find your brother."

There was a moment of hesitation. Then both nodded.

Ben allowed himself a little smile.

He'd won the skirmish.

But the greatest battle was yet to come.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Adam Cartwright shifted and straightened up, easing the pain in his side. He was propped in the blue velvet chair near the fire and had spent the last hour or so watching his father pace the floor. The older man had wanted him to go up to his room after they finished eating to rest. Once again, Hoss had run interference for him. His younger brother had convinced their father that it was probably best to leave him where he was until Doctor Martin's promised visit later that evening.

After all, a second climbup the stairs might just break that wound that had remained closed so far wide open again...

The black-haired man glanced at the tall case clock. It was just about noon. Roy Coffee and his brother had headed out around 10:30, after they had eaten and refreshed their supplies. As he left, Hoss had once again made the promise he had no way of knowing if he could keep – the promise that he wouldn't return home without Little Joe.

Adam closed his eyes as he leaned his head back against the soft supple fabric of his favorite chair. His brother Joseph could be, well, a royal pain at times. So far as he was concerned Joe was undisciplined and more than a little spoiled. It wasn't that he was bad. Joe was a good kid. A hard worker when he wanted to be, smart, and, in some ways, more mature than other boys his age. But there was a part of Joe that was, and probably always would be an eternal child. He put it down to his mother, Marie, dying when Little Joe was just a tyke. Joe was nearly thirteen now. While other boys his age were happily cutting the apron strings and flying free, Joe had no desire to be loosed. The invisible ties that bound him to Marie and to the place where she had lived, if ever so briefly, had only grown stronger. Joe was frightened to be alone. Frightened that, while he was, someone was going to die, or that they would abandon him and never return.

The black-haired man sighed. He wondered if the thought had ever crossed his brother's mind that it might be him who would leave them first.

Adam sucked in air as tears formed in his eyes.

It was his fault. No one could tell him otherwise.

The morning had been a typical one. He'd yelled at Little Joe more than once. In fact, the reason Joe was in the stable was most likely due to the fact that he'd told him he'd neglected his work there. The kid shouldn't have been left alone. Joe should have been in the house where he would have been safe.

Safe from the animal who took him.

With his eyes still closed, Adam considered what he could recall of the man's appearance. It had been dim in the stable and it seemed pain had blanked out at few minutes before and after the shooting. Still, he remembered the sheer size of the man, and his eyes – cold, wicked eyes that gleamed with an unholy joy. Little Joe was the one who'd been taken, but Joe wasn't the one who was Bosh's target.

That was their father.

For the thousandth time, he wondered why.

He kept thinking over the words the man had said to him.

'Ain't that a shame. You tell your Pa when you see him that's a shame. Ain't nothin' quite like someone taking a boy from you.'

'You tell him I'm takin' my due'.

Adam's eyes opened and sought his father's figure. The older man had opened the door and was staring out it, as if by sheer will he could draw his youngest son back to the fold. He knew his father, knew the man he was and the man he had been. He could have done nothing wrong. If, as it seemed, the older man had taken someone away from that villain, then it was to save them.

Was Bosh's 'due' a replacement for whoever that had been? Was that why the man had kidnapped the youngest and most vulnerable of Ben Cartwright's sons?

Adam paid attention as his father's lean frame tensed. He saw the older man frown before he stepped out the door. There was an exchange of words that included more than a smattering of quickly spoken Cantonese, so he knew Hop Sing was one of those who had arrived. The black-haired man's eyes went to the clock. It was too soon for Roy and Hoss to have returned, unless they'd realized the trail they were following was a false one. Planting his hands on the arms of the chair, Adam levered himself out of it. As he took a step toward the front door, his father returned. Pa gave him a disapproving glance, but held his comments to himself as Hop Sing and a stranger walked in.

And what a stranger!

The man appeared to be between thirty-five and forty. His black-brown hair was curly as Little Joe's, though the curls were tighter on the ends. They spiraled down to cover his ears and abruptly ended just below them. He wore his hair parted on the side and a similar cascade of curls fell in a wave over the left side of his face. He was obviously of mixed parentage. There was a negro in there somewhere and perhaps Indian, most likely a few generations back. He was handsome as handsome went, with even features that tended a bit to the feminine. He had a broad straight nose over full lips and enormous eyes. Adam couldn't discern their color from a distance, but they were light and might have tended toward hazel. The brows that topped them were black and thick.

"What Mistah Adam do out of bed!" Hop Sing chided as he hurried over to him. "Doctor say you stay tin bed another day or two! You tear wound in side again, Hop Sing no have thread to sew you back together!"

The elegantly attired mulatto's smile was affectionate. "Hop Sing has been quite concerned about you," he said, his accent thick.

So, he was English as well.

Adam glanced at his father who shrugged. Apparently, Pa had no idea who this man was either.

As he eased himself back into the chair at their cook's insistence, the black-haired man said, "It's all right, Hop Sing. I came down to check on how things were going and Pa decided it was best for me to remain downstairs until Doctor Martin comes."

Suspicious as always – and usually with good reason – the man from China turned to his father who nodded.

A second later the older man said, "Hop Sing, aren't you going to introduce your friend?"

That surprised him – his Pa letting a stranger into the house before he knew who he was and what his business was with them.

The man from China bowed deeply. "Hop Sing excited. Forget to tell." He turned toward the Englishman and said, "Mistah Ben, Mistah Adam, this Mister Jude Randolph. Man come from all way from England to see honored father."

His father frowned. 'Jude Randolph?' he mouthed. "Jude..."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ben Cartwright paled.

Jude Randolph.

The name sounded a bell.

Its sonorous tone resonated over an ocean of water and more than two decades of his life, bringing with it a second peal that called another name to mind. The name of a man whom he had shamed. A man he had, in fact, destroyed.

Wade Bosh.

"Good Lord," Ben whispered.

He only hoped that name was not a death knell for his youngest son as well.