Gully Washer - Chapter Six
But, howsoever thou pursuest this act, taint not thy mind,
nor let thy soul contrive against thy mother aught.
Shakespeare, Hamlet
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Nabby Cossington cowered in the back corner of the brush and wood wickiup she had been placed within. The Indians had left the road shortly after taking her, though they remained close to it, and traveled several hours to their camp, which was far into the woods. Upon their arrival, she had been placed here under the watchful eye of a middle-aged woman who was busy using a stone mortar and pestle to turn grain into flour. Apparently they thought she was incapable of escaping as they had not bound her feet or wrists. They were probably right, of course, and even if they hadn't been, she knew enough about Indians to know that a white woman on foot would have no chance to outpace one of their warriors.
Her only hope was that Jude had found her missing and gone for help.
As she sat there, trembling, Nabby thought about the raid she had survived as a child. Her mother would have been only a little older than she was now when the natives had overrun their house, killing her husband and son and – as she no doubt believed – daughter. It had been terrifying enough to raise her head from her arms and see the native's painted faces glaring at her. She couldn't imagine having two children to protect and facing the very real possibility that both of them were about to die. A tremble ran the length of Nabby and a little moan issued from her lips as she thought about it. The Indian woman must have heard it. Her head came up and she laid down the stone pestle. Rising, she crossed to the other side of the wickiup and returned with a wool blanket in her hands, which she dropped around Nabby's shoulders.
What was this? A gesture of kindness?
Nabby burst into tears.
The native woman drew a long breath, looked toward the door, and then returned to her work.
"Please," Nabby pleaded between sniffs, "please make them let me go."
The woman kept working.
Nabby had no idea if the woman spoke English or had any understanding of what she was asking. Still, her tone had to say it all.
"Please..."
The woman looked at her and shook her head. As Nabby fell back against the wickiup's wall, the flap that closed it was raised and a warrior about the same age as the woman stepped in. He glanced at her and then went to talk with the woman. They exchanged a few words. Nabby saw the woman nod and strike away a tear of her own. The man touched her black hair and then leaned down and followed it with a kiss. Straightening up, he crossed the short space to Nabby's side. Once there, he stared down at her.
"You will live here now," he said, startling her.
"But I don't want to!"
His face was masked, but she could read pain in its lines. His lips turned down and his eyes were narrow slits.
"You live here. Help wife."
Her gaze went to the kind woman. "I would be happy to help, but I want to go back to my family."
"No go. You stay here. No one to help now but you."
Nabby frowned. She looked at the woman again. "Did you...lose someone?"
The native drew a breath and let it out slowly. "Many someones. Some dead. Others still dying."
They must have been injured during another raid on some other poor rancher's house. She knew of the Indians ways from her childhood. They didn't really kidnap people, they were making a trade. For every family member that was lost or killed, they would simply go out and take someone's else's mother or father, sister or brother, and count it even.
She looked at the woman again. Yes, she could see the grief in the way she held her body and the darkness cradling her eyes. She had lost someone recently.
"I'm sorry that you lost someone," Nabby said, "but I don't want to be here. I want to go home."
"Girl home now. Stay here. Help." The man stared at her. Hardness entered his voice. "Do not try to run."
She nodded, though it was more of an acknowledgment of the threat than a promise that she would stay put. She doubted she had the courage to seize it, but if an opportunity presented itself to escape – frightened as she was and hopeless as it was – she was bound to try.
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"Looks like Adam met up with someone else, Pa," Hoss Cartwright announced from his position on the ground. He was looking at two pair of boot tracks. One belonged to his brother, the other to a man who had chosen the wrong boots for the terrain.
"They haven't been gone more than a couple of hours," the silver-haired man answered, kicking at the ashes of the fire. "Who do you suppose it is?"
At first, of course, there had been the hope that their brother had found Joe. Now it was obvious it wasn't him. Hoss stood. "I don't know, Pa, but I'd say he's a city slicker. Them's some mighty expensive boots."
His father's dark brows peaked. "Expensive and useless, eh?"
Hoss nodded. "His feet is probably mighty sore by now."
"So what do we have?" Ben asked. "Adam parted company with Roy's posse about five miles back. By the pacing of his horse's hooves he was moving slow, looking for something. He left the road and made camp for the night. A little later this stranger arrived." The older man turned to look north. "Then they left the camp together."
"Maybe it was them other tracks, Pa. The Injun ones."
Ben nodded. "Maybe." They had found the natives tracks just within the cover of the trees. It seemed they had been staying close to the road for some reason, but wished to remain hidden. "At least we know the Indians didn't take them."
"But what about Joe?" His middle son came to stand by him. "Could they have taken Joe?"
"It's a possibility," he had to admit. "It would explain why we can't find your brother. But why? I know the Paiutes often abduct women and children, but a young man your brother's age? Joe would be considered a warrior to them and dangerous."
"Little brother's always dangerous, Pa," Hoss said affectionately.
His father laughed. "No, I don't think they would've taken Joe." He sobered quickly. "More likely they would have considered him a threat and ended his life."
That brought a frown to Hoss's beefy face. "Still, Pa, do we dare take a chance?"
The silver-haired man thought a moment. "I don't like it, but I think you and I are going to have to part."
"Go two ways, you mean?"
He nodded. "You need to see where Adam and the city slicker have gone. I think I need to find out where they came from."
"How come, Pa?"
"Consider this, Hoss. Maybe the man tracked your brother down to tell him Joe was being tended at some cabin or ranch, and then something happened that they had to head out in the opposite direction. It's a long shot, but – "
"All we got left is long shots, Pa. Don't do to leave any stone unturned."
"I agree. We'll meet back here at sunrise. Don't take any chances, you hear? If you discover Adam is in some danger, come back and get me. Don't tackle it yourself."
Hoss nodded.
"Son, I need your word."
The big man hesitated and then he said, "Okay, Pa. You got it."
"Good." His father clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Let's hope one direction or the other is the answer to our prayers."
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Little Joe opened his eyes a crack. A bright light lit the room, stabbing them and making him want to close them again. He lay still for a moment and then was wracked by a coughing fit that started and built and had no intention of ending. It lifted him from the ticking he laid on and sent pain reverberating through his battered frame. When he had worn himself out he fell back to the bed exhausted. He could hear something rattling in his chest. He'd had bronchial catarrh as a child and could still smell the noxious concoction Hop Sing cooked up to break up the congestion. Immediately his thoughts flew to lung fever. He'd watched a hand die of it. The man had fallen in the river and been soaked to the skin. The doctor told his pa he must have breathed in some contaminated water. The progress of the disease had been rapid. The hand died within the week.
How long had he been sick, he wondered? He could remember tracking Beauty and her stomping on him, and then something crashing down on them both. It seemed like there was a lot he had forgotten since the last time he had been awake, but then that wasn't unusual. One time when Adam had been sick he'd thought he was 13 years old again.
It was fun, for a moment, to be the older brother.
With his eyes closed, Joe lay there, thinking for another few minutes. His fever didn't seem so high now, which was probably why his thoughts made sense. He knew enough to know that, most likely, that wouldn't last. Fevers had a way of coming and going and climbing ever higher until the one who had them didn't know where or who he was. There had to be some way to get word to his pa and his brothers that he was alive. Opening his eyes, he braved the piercing light and looked around the room. It was coming from a simple oil lamp on the table. By the lamp was a pen and a few sheets of paper. A note! Maybe he could write a note and the person who was taking care of him would see it and send it to his pa.
Gingerly, he attempted to move his body and sit up. Every muscle protested. He was so weak it felt like he'd lain in bed for a month. Joe thought back to working on the range, digging post holes, and bucking broncos. Right now he didn't think he could take a seat at the table and tuck a napkin under his chin. A sudden fear ran through him. If he survived, would his muscles recover? Might he be invalided?
He'd rather die.
Joe concentrated for a moment and then drew a breath before making a second attempt. It was a mistake. Even the shallow amount of air he drew in set him coughing again, and the coughing made his head ache and his ribs scream and he nearly passed out.
This time it didn't go unnoticed.
Joe heard a woman exclaim and a moment later she was sitting at his side. Gently she lifted him up and cradled his shaking form until the fit had passed. "I am here mon enfant," she cooed. "Maman is here."
Joe couldn't help it. He fell back against her. There was something comforting in the feel of her arms about him. But he didn't understand. Enfant meant infant.
He was anything but.
"Ma'am," he said between coughs. "Who...are you?"
He felt her stiffen. Her hand went to his head. "The fever is very bad, my young one," she said quietly, "if you do not know your own mother."
The coughing had subsided for a moment. He caught his breath and turned to look at her. The woman was pretty and blond, just like he remembered. But his mother was dead – wasn't she?
Joe blinked back tears. "Marie?"
The lines of her face reset in a frown. "My son, you know that is not my name. Tell me what it is."
A shiver ran through him. He had only just realized the blankets were back. They weren't enough. He was freezing.
"Ma'am," he said, "I'm mighty...grateful for your help but...you can't be my mother. Her name...was Marie and she's...dead."
The effort nearly exhausted him.
"Joey, you know I brought you up never to tell a lie. If you continue on, I will have to punish you."
Joe blinked. There was something odd in her tone – almost...a threat?
"I'm sorry, Ma'am – "
"Maman."
He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. I don't...mean to offend, but...I'm not your son."
She stood so abruptly his head fell back and struck the frame of the bed, setting it reeling.
"You will not say such things!" the blonde woman shrieked, nearly hysterical. "I am your Maman and you are my Joey and I do not understand why you are being so wicked!" She spun away from the bed and returned holding a tray in her hands. As she spoke she threw it to the ground, shattering crockery and spilling the food. "I brought your supper but you will not eat! You will not eat again until you repent of your wicked ways and tell your Maman you are sorry for being wicked! Lay there and do not leave your bed. I will return in the morning!"
Before she left, the woman crossed to the table and extinguished the light, leaving him in darkness.
Joe was breathing hard. He wasn't sure if it was weakness or the disease, or just plain fear. Halfway through her speech something had struck a chord. He'd been here before. When he was little and he and Hoss had come to the widow Manning's place looking for water, she had trapped him in the house and tried to keep him from leaving, thinking he was her dead son. That had been some thirteen or fourteen years ago. Her 'Joey' would be just about his age now.
Joe shivered and then another fit of coughing took him. When it ended, he was nearly spent.
It didn't matter. Antoinette Manning was plain crazy.
He had to escape.
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"Jude, keep your head down!" Adam ordered in a terse whisper.
The city slicker ducked instantly – just before the native scout would have seen him. "Sorry. I'm not used to this kind of thing."
Adam rolled his eyes. No news flash there.
They had traveled for several hours and managed to locate the Paiute camp. There was no sign of Jude's sister, but Adam thought he knew where she was. He had seen an Indian woman coming in and out of one of the wickiups. There were no other women. If Nabby had been taken, not for a wife but as a replacement for, say, a daughter that had been killed, most likely she would be left in the care of a woman. There looked to be five men and the woman for a total of a half-dozen natives. Not bad odds. Still, he had to remember the man with him had no experience of the frontier. Jude had told him he was a doctor recently arrived from the East. That was why he had risked his neck to save the small black bag he carried.
If they ever found Joe, it would do him in good stead to make sure the doctor didn't lose it.
Adam still hadn't said much about his own quest. Part of it was a natural reticence one learned in the west where the code said a man took care of his own, but another part was the fact that – in spite of what Jude had told him – he still didn't know the man. Even the story about his sister could be just that, a story. Jude could be in league with the Indians, or someone looking to harm them.
Out here, a man had to prove his worth.
"Adam!" He felt a tug on his sleeve. "There. That's Nabby."
He looked and saw a pretty small-boned blonde girl in a tattered blue dress ducking through the door of one of the two wickiups. The Indian woman was with her and it looked like they might be heading out to gather firewood.
"Let's go get her!"
"Jude, wait." Adam stifled a sigh. "Watch."
Seconds later two of the warriors trailed after them.
"They know this is her best chance of escape. Nabby will be watched even more closely. It will be easier to move around the back after dark and remove some of the brush from the side of the wickiup and take her out that way."
"Dark? You mean, wait until nightfall?"
Adam's dark brows shot up. "You have a social to go to or something?"
"No. No." Jude's face grew long. "Due to what happened to Nabby I was forced to abandon a patient. It was that, or let her disappear. You see, it would be bad enough if Nabby hadn't been through all of this before."
"What do you mean?"
"Nabs is my adopted sister. Both our families lived here, in this area, when we were little. Do you remember the Shaw raid?"
Adam nodded He certainly did. Two families had been slaughtered by renegade Indians, mostly young men on a drunk. There had been three survivors – one boy and two young girls.
"You mean you sister is Abigail Shaw?"
It was Jude's turn to be a bit surprised. "You have a good memory."
Adam drew a breath. "So you're Jude Carrington?"
"Yes."
The black-haired man glanced at the forest into which the women had disappeared. "I don't think I ever met you. Your family always went into Virginia City for supplies. But Hank Shaw worked for my father. I remember his little girl. She was about my brother Joe's age." Adam smiled. "She was too young for me to take too much notice of."
"You're Ben Cartwright's son?" Jude asked, amazed.
"Sorry I didn't tell you before."
"No. No. I didn't tell you everything either."
There was something funny about the way the man said that.
Adam dismissed his suspicions in the face of what he knew. "I remember when you went off to study in England. I wasn't too long returned from college myself."
"I would have remained in England, but Nabby needed me – and the west needs doctors."
"We certainly do. I have a little brother who seems to need one about once a week," he muttered as he shifted and took another look at the camp. "I've been watching their patterns. There's something in that other wickiup that's got the men upset, especially that older one. My guess is someone is hurt or dying."
He saw the conflict in Jude's eyes. These men had abducted his sister. Now one of them needed his skills.
"No, Adam."
"They might trade your sister for your services."
The doctor looked stunned. "You think that might be a possibility?"
Adam raised his hands. "Jude, I'd put your bag down and put your hands up real slow if I were you, and then turn around."
The man from the city frowned. Then Adam saw the reality of their situation dawn in his pale blue eyes. Jude did as he was told, raising his hands and turning slowly.
Behind him were to the two Paiute warriors Adam had mistakenly believed were trailing the women.
"It looks like we are about to find out."
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Ben Cartwright stood scratching his head and looking at the remains of a fine buckboard wagon crashed at the bottom of a steep hill. By the light of the rising sun Ben could just make out the details of the wagon. It was new and was one that would have cost a good deal of money. It still contained most of the possessions of its owners – a woman's suitcase, a silk parasol, plenty of provisions, and a heap of pretty dresses among other things. It was the dresses that puzzled him. They were all out of the suitcase and spread wide in the wagon and on the ground. He supposed someone could have come by and opened the suitcase and riffled through them. Still, it appeared nothing was missing and he hadn't seen any tracks other than the owner's.
Ben glanced at the sky. It was time he moved on. He had stopped here and caught a few hours sleep, waiting for the sun to shine enough that he could see. It was dawn of the third day since they had lost Joe and something in him told him they were running out of time. If the boy had managed to survive and was on his own, he was about at the limit of what a man could take. Without food and rest, and maybe medicine, the smallest infection could take him. If Joe was alive, it was imperative they find him in the next twenty-four hours.
If Joe was alive...
The silver-haired man drew a deep breath and blew it out along with the temptation to despair. He'd given his son's fate to God and he'd let God keep it.
All he could do was keep searching and hoping.
Stepping over to the wagon, Ben watched as the rising light struck the bed and its spilled contents. He was thinking about how Joe's mother Marie would have despaired to find her fine dresses laying in the mud. Out of respect for Marie he bent and picked the garments up off the ground and placed them in the wagon's damaged bed. As he did, something struck him. He stopped and retrieved the last one, a bright orange dress with a yellow pattern, and looked at it.
The dress was covered in mud and blood.
Digging deeper, he saw they all were, as was the bottom of the wagon's bed. Whoever owned it had been transporting someone who was injured. Ben's heart leapt in his chest. He had no reason to believe it was Joe, but then again, he had no reason to believe it had not been his son. He cleared the bed, but unfortunately found nothing that would tell the tale one way or the other. Turning, Ben looked to the north. Adam was in the company of whoever had been driving. If he knew anything, it was sure to come out. As for him, he was on the road to the place where the wagon had come from.
He'd continue on and hope against hope that the object of his day's long search would be there, and that Joe would be safe and whole.
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Joe woke to the light coming in the window. He felt a little stronger for the sleep. Still, he knew he was weak as a day old kitten and just as vulnerable. He shifted and waited for the cough to explode. Nothing happened. Maybe if he just breathed shallow, he could control it. Pushing it further, Joe sat up. He had to wait until the room stopped spinning, but then he swung his feet over the side of the bed frame and sat on its edge. Blinking back dizziness, he searched the room with his eyes. There wasn't much. A lamp, a table with a book on it, a pile of rags, and a stack of towels. He decided he would need both of those if he was to make a break for it. The ones he was wearing were soaked through with blood.
Gathering his strength, he tried to rock forward and onto his feet. The first attempt failed, but he made it on the second. He stood there swaying for a moment and then half-stumbled over to the table and sat in the chair next to it. It was only then that it clicked that he was no longer near-naked. He was wearing a pair of different black trousers and a white linen shirt that only half-fit. Nettie Manning must have dressed him in some of her dead husband's clothes.
She probably didn't want her baby boy to get cold.
It took him several minutes and he was shaking like a leaf by the time be managed to button the shirt. Determined to escape, Joe forced himself to stand. He lost his balance almost immediately and his hands came down hard on the table, jarring the lamp and sending the towels scattering. The sick man blinked. Was he seeing what he thought he was seeing? He reached out. The cold metal fit into his hand perfectly.
He had a gun.
At that moment Joe heard someone stirring in the outer room. He tucked the gun behind the waistband of his pants and then stumbled more than walked across the floor and fell back into the bed. Once there, he pulled the covers up tightly about his chest, burying the weapon deep in the nest of cloth.
A second later the door opened and Antoinette Manning came into the room. Joe hated to take advantage of a distracted women, but it was the only way he could think of to achieve his goal.
It didn't take him much to effect a weak, sickly tone. "Maman," he called out, reaching with his free hand. "Is that you?"
She came right to his side and sat on the bed. "Oui, Joey. Are you better now?"
"I'm sorry, Maman. I...I didn't mean to...hurt you. It's just... I'm so sick."
She laid a hand on his forehead. "You have a fever. It is very high."
He really didn't need to hear that. "I'm cold. Could you...make it warmer in here?"
"But, of course. Do not move. I will return in a moment."
He watched her walk into the other room, his mind whirling. There was no way he could dart past her. He would have to send her out or manage to trap her in order to get away. "Maman?" he called.
She appeared in the doorway with several logs cradled in her arms.
"If you are not...too tired, could you...also get me something to eat?"
The older woman crossed to the hearth and placed the logs on the andirons. She used the flint and steel to strike a spark and worked until she had a small fire going. Then she crossed back over to him. "Now, mon enfant, I will get you something to eat so you may gain strength."
Joe waited until he heard pans clanking and then pushed himself up and out of the bed and took a position behind the door. He stood there panting for a moment and then gathered enough air to cry out, "Maman! I'm on fire. Maman! Help!"
He heard a pan hit the floor and the woman come running. Listening closely, Joe stepped out at just the right moment and tripped her by placing his good leg in her path. Before the madwoman hit the floor he was out the door and had slammed it and dropped the bar in place. Then he slid to the floor exhausted.
Within seconds Missus Manning was pounding on it and cursing in French. He didn't know what she was saying, but he didn't think he really needed to. He was sure it lay somewhere between 'I'm going to tan your hide' and 'You're dead!'
Fearing it was the latter, Joe forced himself to rise. He looked at his bare feet and then around the cabin. He didn't see any boots. Weak and hungry, he grabbed a piece of stale bread off the table as he passed. Munching on it in spite of the nausea the taste elicited, he headed for the door. There was a woman's coat by it and he caught it up from the hook and flung it about his shoulders as he stepped out.
Halting briefly on the stoop, Joe considered which direction he should go. The sun was rising, so he could tell east from west. At that thought, a longing stronger than any he had ever felt overcame him.
Joe swayed on his feet. West. His Pa always talked about the west.
West must be home.
Dropping barefoot into the wet grass Joe Cartwright limped away from the house and entered the trees, seeking the Ponderosa and his beloved pa.
The only problem was the Ponderosa lay to the east.