10
Adam was on the ground and running through the trees before he gave conscious thought to what he was doing. With his family behind him, at the cabin, he had no clear idea who might be in trouble, or what that shooting even represented; Ellingsworth's men could be shooting at trees for all he knew. Even so, he felt driven by a sense of urgency. It wasn't until he began to hear shouting that his mind began to catch up with his instincts and he was able to rationalize his actions. What had happened to Joe…that was what was moving Adam now. He was afraid…no, terrified it might happen to someone else. And then, as the voices became clearer, he realized that someone else might well turn out to be Sheriff Roy Coffee.
"This is the law you're shootin' at!" Roy hollered, the strength in his voice filling Adam with relief. "You go hurtin' any one of us out here, judge won't take kindly to it!"
Whoever was in the house didn't seem to care. Adam heard more shots fired just before he caught a glimpse of the sheriff in the darkened shadows of the trees.
"Roy!" Adam yelled toward him. He was close enough now to see Hop Sing was there, too. That recognition both confused him and compelled him to move faster. But he didn't get the chance. A hand grabbed him from behind.
His balance lost, Adam fell to the ground, landing hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. By the time he could focus again, Ellingsworth's foreman had his gun drawn. The hammer was cocked, and the barrel pointed at Adam's head.
xxx
If Hop Sing had been angry before, he was enraged now. First he'd been told to leave his own home. Then, when he'd refused, two men had tried to drag him away. Now someone else was pointing a gun at Mistah Cartwright number one son.
The men at the house didn't even matter to him anymore. He didn't care about any stray bullets that might come his way. All he knew was he was fighting mad. He wished he had an iron skillet in his hand; he would start bashing at that man's head. But all he was armed with were words. And the only words he could use, as worked up as he was, were in a language no one else there could understand.
He used them anyway…and was surprised when they proved effective.
The stranger with the gun dropped his guard long enough to look Hop Sing's way. That moment of confusion was all the time Mistah Cartwright number one son needed.
Adam swung upward with both hands locked together, effectively clubbing the gun from the stranger's grip. The stranger fought back, landing a hard blow to Adam's jaw. But Adam had already gained momentum. He landed several hard blows of his own before the stranger was able to touch him again.
With Adam now surrounded by friends, it might have been expected that someone would move in to help, pulling the two men apart. But no one did. This was Adam's fight, and his alone—a fact that was made very clear by the rising moon. The light reflecting in Adam's eyes seemed to reveal an odd fierceness, a kind of ferocity typically borne by creatures of the night. With Adam's punches as fierce as his gaze, Hop Sing knew nothing good could be gained by intervening. It was also clear there was no need.
Confident Mistah Cartwright number one son would win, Hop Sing crossed his arms in front of his chest and nodded. It wouldn't be long now before Hop Sing was back in that house where he belonged…along with his adopted family, of course. Surely Mistah Cartwright, himself, and both number two son and number three son were somewhere close by.
But the more blows Hop Sing watched Adam dole out to the stranger, the more he began to wonder why. What was driving such a brutal attack? Had the moon ignited madness in Mistah Cartwright number one son?
Soon the stranger was unconscious and still Adam continued beating him. Mistah Cartwright number one son was normally a very rational man, often growing even more rational when other men grew less so. He was not easily provoked.
Something very terrible must have happened to make him so angry now.
Suddenly worried, Hop Sing slowly dropped his arms to his sides. He watched Sheriff Coffee and two of Mistah Cartwright's ranch hands grab Adam's arms, preventing his bloodied fists from getting any bloodier…and from leaving the stranger's face any less recognizable than it had already become.
"Adam?" the sheriff asked softly, his hand pressing lightly against Adam's chest while Mistah Cartwright number one son struggled to catch his breath. "Is Joe…?"
Hop Sing looked at Sheriff Roy Coffee, concerned by the question the sheriff had started to ask and waiting for the rest of the words; but it was as though the sheriff was afraid to say them. Seeing the sheriff's fear planted a seed of foreboding inside Hop Sing as well. It twisted his stomach as he came to imagine what those unspoken words might have been.
And then Mistah Cartwright number one son shook himself free of the arms constraining him. He met the sheriff's gaze. "Not yet," he said in a harsh, winded…wounded sort of voice.
Hop Sing looked at him for a long while before deciding the mark of the moon seemed to be fading. "What happen Little Joe?" he asked then.
Adam turned to him, saying nothing. A moment later, Mistah Cartwright number one son seemed to realize there were others in that small crowd who were as curious as Hop Sing to hear the answer. "Mr. Ellingsworth's gunmen shot him down," he said then, his tone biting, his voice strong.
"Little Joe…," Hop Sing started to ask, finding it almost as difficult as the sheriff's question must have been. "Hurt very bad?" he finally finished.
Adam locked eyes with his. "Twenty men, Hop Sing. Twenty men were shooting at that cabin. And Little Joe wasn't even armed."
It was all Mistah Cartwright number one son said, and all Hop Sing needed to hear. Little Joe was badly hurt. He might even be dying…because he had been 'gunned down,' as Adam, himself, had coldly stated. Gunned down by twenty men?
Now Hop Sing followed the gaze of Mistah Cartwright number one son as he looked toward the house. And Hop Sing's rage became hatred at the gentleman inside, the man who had refused to speak directly with Hop Sing…and, according to Adam, the man responsible for gunning down Little Joe.
xxx
"It's over, Ellingsworth!" Adam shouted toward the house, which was glowing now from the lamplight inside. "Tell your men to cease fire!"
He was not surprised when the answer came with more shots fired from the already broken front window.
"You're shooting at lawmen!" Adam went on when it became quiet again. The odds of any of those lawmen being hit were slim, given the dark night surrounding them; but that fact did not lessen the validity of Adam's argument. "And you're trespassing! As clean as you've tried to keep your hands through all of this, they're dirty now! No judge would believe you were not directly responsible!"
This time, when Adam stopped shouting, there was no responding gunfire.
"Are you ready to talk?" Adam called out after a moment.
The front door eased open, just a crack. "Hold your fire!" someone shouted from inside.
Adam looked at the men around him. "Do as he says," he told them. He waited for several responding nods, not all of which came readily, before returning his attention to the house. "Throw out your guns!" he shouted. "No one will shoot if you're unarmed!"
Surprisingly, two rifles and three handguns were tossed to the porch, with no further argument. "We're comin' out!"
The door was opened wider. One man stepped out cautiously, his hands raised at his sides. A moment later, a second man slipped out. The porch lights behind both of them as they moved forward cast their shadows like long, ghostly tendrils reaching for the trees. Adam did not notice the worried gaze Hop Sing gave to those shadows.
"What about you, Ellingsworth?" Adam hollered. "I can't talk with you if you don't come out!"
"I need your word of honor you'll protect me from my men!"
Confused, Adam looked to Roy. When he gave his attention back to the house, it looked to him as though Ellingsworth's men were confused as well.
"Your men?" Adam shouted back.
"Do I have your word?" Ellingsworth repeated instead of answering.
"Come outside, and we'll talk about honor!" Adam spat the word.
Finally, Mr. Ellingsworth pushed the door open. Adam saw him creeping forward, his shadow slithering before him like the snake he was. He kept his back to the building, casting suspicious glances at his men and acting as though they were a bigger threat than Roy and his deputies. "They have been holding me hostage in here!" he shouted. "They have conspired against me! I demand you arrest them at once, sheriff!"
Adam looked at Roy again, gritting his teeth and shaking his head. He was both surprised and disgusted by Ellingsworth's total lack of honor. Then, when he returned his attention to the front of his home, surprise became shock.
Both of Ellingsworth's men lunged for their weapons.
Neither reached them before a barrage of gunfire sounded from all around Adam.
In seconds, it was over. Adam hadn't even had a chance to call for it to stop. When the smoke cleared, Adam saw that all three men lay on the ground, unmoving. Stepping closer, it quickly became evident to him that Richard Jameson Ellingsworth, the third, was dead.
"Maybe, for a minute at least," a harsh, cold voice said behind Adam, "he got a sense of what it must've been like for Joe."
Chilled, Adam turned, meeting the gaze of Jake Sanders, a young man near Joe in age who had become a good friend of Adam's brother since he'd hired on a few months ago. His eyes were like ice. At that moment, Adam figured his heart must be as well. Then he realized his own was no different, because he was glad. He was glad Ellingsworth was dead. And he was numb. Because Little Joe might be dead, too.
xxx
Sitting in a chair beside Little Joe, Ben's thoughts began to drift. Even as Ellingsworth's men outside kept him rooted to the present with their contemptible laughter and cheerful spirits, Ben found himself reaching into the past, reliving moments of his life that had been bolstered by Little Joe's presence within it. Stirred first by memories of a different kind of laughter, one that mattered, that had value, an array of emotions began to flood through him. Little Joe's exuberance had always done that to Ben, filling him with happiness, anger, sorrow…exasperation, exhilaration…a rush of feelings that could overwhelm and even exhaust him. He cherished his young son's exuberance nonetheless.
Joe had always met life head on. He lived, Ben decided. Joe lived life as fully and completely as anyone could; and that liveliness, that energy, that enthusiasm had helped Ben to live more fully as well. In many ways, it told him Joe's mother, Marie, was still with him, and would always be with him; for she, too, had helped Ben to live. Joe had kept a special kind of passion for life alive within Ben even after Marie had died. But…how could he hope to keep that passion alive if Joe were to die, too?
As the laughter outside gained in volume, that sound was not alone in bringing Ben back to the moment. A movement, a change…something sent the memories splashing away, returning Ben to that lonely, crowded cabin and his vigil beside his youngest son. He took a deep breath to clear his head. Then he straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to feel stronger than he knew he was. And he looked at Little Joe.
And he saw…life.
At first, he thought it had been a trick of shadows or even, simply, wishful thinking. But the longer he looked, the more evident it was that Little Joe was beginning to rouse. Joe's brows drew down. His eyes moved back and forth beneath the lids.
"Joe?" Ben said softly as he rose to his feet, his hands automatically reaching out to touch Joe's arm and test the warmth at Joe's forehead.
Joe turned his head toward Ben, just the smallest bit, seemingly drawn by his father's touch.
"Joseph? You're going to be alright, son," Ben struggled to say despite a growing tightness in his throat. "Everything's just fine"
But everything wasn't fine, and Joe's next movements proved that to be true. As he came closer to waking, his brows twisted, his head rocked back and forth, and slowly, little by little, he began thrashing. He tried to draw his legs upward, the pull on his wounded foot causing him to freeze for a brief instant until his back began to arch—not much, but enough to push soft, pain-wracked moans through his barely parted lips.
"Easy, son." Ben tried to soothe him, pressing gently against his shoulders. "Easy." But it was a nonsense word, useless against the pain Joe was waking to.
"No more than a teaspoon!" Paul Martin's voice called from somewhere behind Ben.
A moment later, the young, blonde woman appeared across from him. Emily? Yes, Emily; that was her name. She grasped Joe's chin, her delicate fingers coaxing his tightening jaw to loosen; and then she poured a spoon filled with clear liquid into his mouth.
He swallowed it, his throat working to pull at the liquid. And finally, Joe pried his eyes open.
"Joe?" Ben said, trying to draw Joe's gaze. "Joseph?"
But Joe did not turn to Ben. Instead, he stared at Emily, his eyes widening. And then his thrashing intensified.
Ben pressed harder against Joe's shoulders. "Joseph!" he said sternly. "Joe! Settle down, son! Easy!"
"No," Joe tried to argue, his voice almost too soft to be heard as he began to weaken again. It wasn't until that moment that he looked at Ben. There was a look of desperation, even fear in his eyes, eyes that were bloodshot and not quite seeming to focus. "P…"
"I'm here, Joe. I'm here. You're going to be fine, son."
"No," Joe gasped. "P…poi…s…," he pleaded.
Ben couldn't help him; he had no idea what his son was trying to say. "It's alright, Little Joe."
Joe shook his head slowly, gently rocking it back and forth. Then he reached up, weakly grasping Ben's arm. "P…poison," he said in an anxious whisper.
What? Ben wondered, shaking his head in bewilderment. "No, son. You're in good hands here, very, very good hands."
And then, suddenly, mercifully, Paul was at Ben's shoulder. "Little Joe, I can assure you that most definitely was not poison." He placed a stethoscope at Joe's chest. "What that young lady just gave you will help you to relax, nothing more. Can you understand that, Joe? We need for you to relax. Can you do that for me, son? Just try to relax."
Ben could see his son was growing weaker, but he was also trying to fight the effect of the drug on his already spent stamina. Even as Joe's hand slipped from Ben's arm, he struggled to keep his eyes open.
"No." It was more a soft breath than a word as Joe's eyes eased closed one more time. They did not come open again.
"Will you do me a favor, Ben?" Paul Martin's hand gripped Ben's arm where Joe's had been only a moment before. "Step outside for a while. Get some fresh air."
The words seemed foreign, somehow. Unintelligible. Ben looked to his old friend, confused. There was something in the way Little Joe had drifted back to sleep that Ben found disturbing. Poison, Joe had said. Why? Why would he believe he'd been poisoned?
"I need for you to take care of yourself for now, Ben," Paul said gently. "And let me do what I have to, here. Why don't you go and see what Hoss is up to?"
"Why, Paul?" Ben asked then. "Why would he think he'd been poisoned?"
Paul's smile was sympathetic. "Delirium, Ben. Nothing more. It's amazing the tricks the mind can play when someone's in the kind of pain he must have been feeling."
"Yes," Ben said, numbly. "I suppose you're right."
"Of course, I'm right. Now give me room to work here, will you?"
Ben nodded, hesitantly moving away. As he turned, he noticed Hecate sitting on the floor near the door. That she had been watching him was obvious by the way her gaze shifted, abruptly flitting downward. It was the first time since they'd met hours earlier that she seemed even the slightest bit meek. Why, now, was she suddenly unwilling to meet his gaze?
But as Ben stepped out onto the porch, a more urgent puzzle drew his full attention. One of Ellingsworth's men was brandishing a torch as though it were a weapon, waving its flame back and forth in front of him against a very angry and very determined Hoss.