A sheaf of papers fluttered to the ground, sending Silas Oates into a flustered flurry, snatching to retrieve them before passing boots and hooves trod them underfoot. With his recovered wad of notes clutched close to his chest, the prosecutor hurried on his way, shouldering into hapless pedestrians as he scurried down the sidewalk. He burst into the sheriff's office with such violence that five faces turned to him in stunned amazement. Silas held out an appeasing arm as he spied Little Joe Cartwright instantly draw his six-shooter halfway out of its holster. Shoving away from the wall, Hoss Cartwright's lowered brows cast his eyes into shadow and Silas had an instant impression of an angry she-bear moving forward to protect her cubs. Ben Cartwright twisted in his seat, black eyes blazing as his conversation with Doctor Martin was so rudely interrupted. The only man who did not move was Clem. He was clearly used to people bursting through his office door at all hours of the day and night.

"Gentlemen, please, I did not mean to make such an entrance."

"What do you want, Oates?" Ben thundered.

Silas flinched at the volume. He was used to dealing with crabby old judges from all territories, and having abuse flung at him by those he was prosecuting and their families, but even Silas Oates quailed at the forcefulness inherent in a furious Ben Cartwright.

"I've just this minute left the courthouse and was accosted by that drunkard Colly Ruthers who, after breathing his foul whisky breath all over me, said that Adam Cartwright had shot up the town and been locked up."

Observation was the key to Silas's success; being able to read the faces of witnesses and defendants. He had sent more than one miscreant to the gallows on the strength of a fleeting glance towards a spectator, or the look that said you can't touch me, but which only served to make Silas work harder to prove their guilt. The faces arrayed before him showed him everything he needed to know, and his heart sank. Hoss and Joe fired meaningful glances at each other and turned away. Ben's lips pursed as he rose to his feet and Clem was an open book as he scratched at his temple. Only Doc Martin's face remained inscrutable. He would make a great poker player, thought Silas.

"Adam did not shoot up the town, what nonsense." Ben bristled. "There was an incident—"

"Bill Hardy was shot."

Ben fixed a cool gaze on Silas. "It was an accident."

"Colly said he was seeing things, pointing his gun at nothing."

"Colly Ruthers is a drunk who spends too much time wearing his boots out on brass rails." Ben took a step towards the door. "Now, if you don't mind—"

"So, you're telling me Adam is not locked up in a cell back there?"

"I'm telling you it's none of your business," Ben gripped Silas's arm and steered him towards the door. "Now, if you would kindly leave—"

A laugh echoed through the office. Adam's laugh. Ben froze. Silas watched his shoulders lower, as though in defeat, and saw him catch the eye of Hoss and Joe.

"That's Adam," said Silas, pulling out of Ben's grasp and moving towards Clem. "So it is true. That's my chief witness you've got locked up back there. Without him the whole case will collapse."

Ben bore down on Silas in one long stride. He grabbed the little man by the collar, lifting him up onto the tips of his toes.

"Do you think I care about your court case? My son is…" Ben released him, allowing Silas to squirm out of his reach. "My son…" Ben's voice trembled as he collapsed back into a chair, his face a mask of anguish. "Please, just go," he said, shielding his eyes with a hand.

Silas's eyes narrowed. "I don't understand. Is Adam hurt?" He turned to the doc. "If he's hurt, why aren't you tending to him?" He saw the stricken faces. "What aren't you telling me?" He was met with silence. "If Adam is discredited in any way, then Jacob Barley will go free."

Joe took a slow step towards him, his hand dropping to his revolver. "You heard my father, go."

The implicit threat was not lost on the lawyer. He quickly gathered together his bundle of papers, collected his bag and with a last look at the huddle of men, backed out of the office.

xxXXxx

He had slept. But it was a sleep beset with horrors.

He was on a wagon journeying ever westward, his father smiling down at him by his side. A round-brimmed hat shaded his eyes from the sun. Looking out across the wide-open prairies, he had gazed with wonder at a landscape of never-ending verdant grass dotted lilac with Blazing Star. A smile of delight had transformed his solemn face, lighting up his eyes at the beauty of the world before him. He had turned back to share his pleasure with his father, but it was no longer his protector sitting beside him, but a figure in black, a creature with a human shape, distorted and jagged. With eyes that bulged with terror, he looked up at the figure's face, but what he saw filled him with such fear that he jumped from the moving wagon, jarring his outstretched hands as he hit the hard ground. He ran, ran as fast as his small legs could carry him. And when he turned, the wagon was gone and he was alone. In every direction there was nothing but barren desert, parched rocks as far as the eye could see. Where was his pa? "Pa?" His voice was weak, his words stuck in his throat. Swallowing back the saliva that soaked his tongue he cried out for his father. But his cries echoed back from the rocks and his pa didn't come. He turned round and round, not knowing where to go, what to do. And then he understood he was alone in the world, and sank to his knees and cried.

xxXXxx

Joe had no idea what time it was, just that it was early evening sometime; the lanterns had been lit an hour since as night drew in early this time of year. Adam was quiet. He had been since their pa and Doc Martin had laid him down, praying he would find relief in sleep from his torments. And he might be sleeping, but none of them wanted him to be alone. An hour earlier Joe had shooed his father out of the cell area, under duress, but he knew that Ben would be pacing the office outside, unable to sit, unable to settle, his mind trying to make sense of the affliction that had taken over his son. The doc had returned to his surgery; there was nothing more he could do at the sheriff's office for now. And not long after the lawyer had left, Hoss had left too. After a few quiet words with his pa, Hoss had run out, a determined look darkening his face.

Spinning the chair round that his pa had vacated, Joe straddled the seat, resting his arms on the chair back. He observed the back of his brother's shoulder rise and fall with every slow breath. When Adam was still, Joe would lower his head upon his arms. He dropped off on a few occasions; coming too with a start when his arms slipped off the chair back. Once he had awoken to find a blanket draped over him. He had smiled, knowing without being told that his father had been unable to stay away. But Joe was not kidding himself that his brother was in a dreamless sleep, for Adam would grow restless, muttering indecipherable words, his shoulder twitching as he dreamed. And that is when Joe would raise his head and lean forward over the chair and wonder what had caused his brother to lose his mind so abruptly.

Lose your mind. How could that be? Adam had the cleverest brain of the lot of them, what with all that studying and poetry. Heck, Pa must have been right: education did mess with your thinking. A grimace of a smile graced Joe's lips and he raised his eyes at that thought. This was no laughing matter. From what the doc said earlier, if Adam stayed in this state, he might end up in a lunatic asylum. Joe buried his face in his arms, tears dampening the sleeves of his shirt. A lunatic asylum! How could they have woken up that morning, and not known, just not known Adam was sick, that his mind was teetering on the edge of insanity? There must have been signs. How did they miss them? Adam had been working all hours. Joe had lost track of the number of times he had gone to bed and Adam and his pa had still been poring over a wordy contract or ploughing through figures. And when he had arrived at the breakfast table, Adam was already saddling up and ready to ride out, impatient to get going. He had been bad-tempered and grouchy. Was that a sign? Gee, if it was, then Adam had been about to blow since the day Joe was born.

Joe slipped off the chair and sat on the floor outside the cell. Adam's face was hidden, curled into the blanket and all Joe could see was his head of thick black hair. But Joe was closer to him, and that's all that mattered.

"Come on, Big Brother," he whispered, "this ain't you."

He reached a hand through the bars and tentatively touched Adam's head. There was no reaction to Joe's touch, but Adam was growing twitchier as dreams once more started to assail him.

And then Joe's heart broke, because Adam began to weep as he slept. "Oh, Adam," slipped from Joe's lips. He could count on one hand the number of times he had seen his brother cry. The last time had been after the incident in the desert when Adam had fallen into his father's arms, heaving great sobs. This was different. This was quiet; a low broken moan, muffled as Adam wept into his blanket, and with shoulders that shook gently. Joe stroked his brother's hair, hoping his touch would soothe him. But Adam continued to weep, unaware of the cell, or Joe, or the rough blanket beneath his cheek. He was lost in a dream world, and Joe could not even begin to guess what was making his brother cry with such raw intensity.

xxXXxx

He cried until there were no more tears left, and with shoulders slumped and his head curled into his chest, he whimpered and sniffed. He was alone. Abandoned.

Unwanted.

But then a shadow darkened the ground, and with a surge of joy he knew his pa had found him. His eyes lit up as he lifted his head. But the smile illuminating his face swiftly faded, his skin lost its colour and his chin began to tremble. For it wasn't his pa standing there, but the thing he had so desperately run from. He was frozen to the ground, the hair on his body spiking in fear.

The figure shimmered before him, a black streak with indefinable edges. Yet the more he stared, the clearer the figure became. When he saw its face, he found his voice and let out a cry, scrambling to his feet. He turned, but the figure was suddenly in front of him. He moved in another direction but it was there. Everywhere he went, the figure hovered before him.

"Go away," he cried. "Leave me alone."

But the figure only drifted closer.

"How can I go away," it said, "when I am inside you."

He was too small, too young to understand.

"I am you, I am inside you. Free me, and I will go."

He cried out, scared, wanting his pa.

But then he understood. To be free of it, he had to let the devil inside him out. He looked down at his thin arms and began to claw at his skin.

xxXXxx

"Pa! Pa!"

Joe's urgent cry brought Ben running.

"We gotta get in there, Pa, he's hurting himself."

Ben followed where Joe was pointing to see Adam sitting on the bunk, using the splintered end of the stool leg to cut into his arm. Blood dripped onto his leg and onto his blanket, but he paid it no mind, only kept digging into the fresh wound.

An anguished look to Clem and the deputy did not hesitate. He thrust the key into the lock, turned it with a sharp twist of his wrist, and then Ben was pushing past him, grabbing the makeshift tool from Adam's hand.

There was no reaction. Adam merely sat slumped on the bed, his palms turned up, and his head lowered. Fingers moved to pick at his wound, but Ben gently moved his hand away.

"What's wrong with him?" muttered Clem from his place in the doorway.

Joe ran a hand through his hair. "I dunno, one minute he was lying on the bed…" He paused and glanced quickly at Clem. The deputy had been with them since the beginning of Adam's ordeal, but he could not bring himself to reveal Adam's tears. "Next he just sat up and started on his arm with the stool leg." Joe lowered himself to the bunk next to Adam. "Pa, I think Adam's still asleep. I think he's dreamin'."

Ben dropped to his haunches and gently raised Adam's head so he could see his face. Adam's eyeballs were twitching behind closed lids.

"I think you're right, son."

Ben held Adam's face in his palm, keeping it upraised so he could gaze upon his boy's sleeping visage. With his other hand he pushed Adam's damp hair from his brow, observing the silent repose. It was not fair. Adam was suffering in his waking hours and even whilst he slept. Was there to be no escape from the tricks his mind was playing on him?

Adam looked as he always did; it was the same face Ben had gazed upon every day as the boy had grown into a man. It was a face he had grown to depend on. His right-hand man: steadfast, resilient, robust in body and in mind. In mind? Was that no longer true? Had Adam been harbouring a weakness quietly within; waiting for his defences to be at their lowest before breaking him? Or had he done this to him? Had he worked him too hard, depended on him too heavily? Ben shook his head. No, it was not that. Adam had been afforded plenty of opportunity to fly the nest. And he always came back because no matter how strenuous, how arduous the work could be, the Ponderosa, the land, it was in his blood. So, why? Why? The word repeated itself like a mantra in his mind as he looked upon Adam and ran his hand down the side of his boy's face.

He became aware of a voice saying his name. It was Joe.

"His arm, Pa, we can bandage his arm."

With a clean dressing on Adam's wound, he was laid back onto his side, and Ben prayed his dreams would be silent ones.