FIELDS OF WHITE
by BeckyS
© September 2002 – December 2003, as allowable
PART 2
Heavy snow-laden clouds were playing tag with the stars by the time Joe led his
tiny cavalcade up a small hill to the line shack. The building was easy to find, the dark
angular shape sitting as it was at the edge of a bright white moonlit
snowfield, casting a deep shadow on the rocks behind. A small lean-to for
animals had been built up against the building on the left, and a small arroyo
gathered water from the heights in a stream several yards downhill to the
right. Joe ignored the lean-to, though,
and headed straight for the door that was set into the right of the front wall.
Sport was stumbling with fatigue, but followed Joe willingly up the one step
onto the small porch and through the door.
Joe told himself that it would be easier to unload Adam straight onto
the cot that was set against the far wall. Once he was inside, though, he
realized a second benefit: even though they'd have to put up with the barn
smell and mess, the trade-off was the warmth the animal would generate.
Besides, the horse needed care as well, and it wasn't as if he and his brother
had never bedded down in a barn overnight.
Just enough light came through the single glass window from the winter night
sky that he could find the lantern hanging to the left of the doorway. He propped his rifle by the door and lit the
wick, placed the lantern on the counter next to the fireplace, then slid Adam
off the saddle onto the cot. He moved
the horse to the front left corner of the small room, then strung a rope from
the lantern hook by the front door to a nail in the middle of the left wall,
neatly sectioning off a make-shift stall.
There was kindling as well as a few logs to the right of the door, and
he started a fire, then took the lantern outside and hung it on a peg driven
into the side of the lean-to. A pair of
buckets were quickly filled with snow – one for the horse and one for his own
and Adam's needs – and taken into the cabin to sit next to the fire where
they'd melt. Another trip for two
armfuls of straw inside to spread under Sport, then one more to retrieve a
feedbag, which he filled with oats from the storage bin and slung over his
shoulder. He grabbed the lantern on his
way to the shack.
He moved one of the partially melted buckets of snow to where Sport could reach
it, then removed the horse's bridle to strap the
feedbag on. The saddlebags he tossed on
the floor near Adam's cot and winced at the noise they made, hoping it hadn't
disturbed his brother. 'On the other
hand,' he thought as he pulled the saddle from the horse's back, 'maybe
it's not such a good thing that it didn't bother him.'
He set the saddle near, but not too close, to the
fire – intending to use it later as a pillow – and took the blanket to
Adam. Between the fire and the horse,
the shack had warmed up a bit, so he opened his brother's coat to try to make
him more comfortable. He lifted him,
pulling him forward until his head rested limply on his shoulder. He slid the coat down and had just gotten one
of Adam's long arms free when he made two startling discoveries: his brother's
holster was gone, and he'd been shot.
Joe rubbed his blood-sticky fingers together, and his heart began to thud
heavily. "Adam?" he called softly, his voice wavering ever so slightly.
There was no response, just the slight tickle of his brother's breath on his
neck. Joe slid the coat off the rest of
the way, then eased Adam down onto the single
pillow. He rolled him slightly away,
onto his left side, and pulled the black shirt loose so that he could examine
the wound. The bullet had hit him in the
back, just above the waist. If the
shooter had been just a bit off, it would have missed him entirely. 'Or caught
him in the spine,' said a small voice in his mind. From the angry look of the wound, Joe guessed
the bullet was still in there.
He'd been acting on pure instinct so far, instinct trained into him by his
family through years of living in the midst of a wilderness. Accidentally fixing Adam's shoulder had been
more than he ever wanted to have to do. This was something different. Never before had he been responsible for someone
else's very life.
He tried to bring to mind what Pa had said last summer when one of the ranch
hands had caught a bullet in the leg. He
remembered one phrase vividly: 'have to cut it out.'
He dropped his head onto one hand.
He couldn't, he just couldn't.
"Joe?" The single word came on a breath of air, insubstantial, not at all his
brother's normal voice.
Joe eased him down onto his back. Adam
gazed at him blearily, through pain-shrouded eyes.
"I'm right here," Joe reassured him.
"Where are we?"
"McGregor Ridge line shack."
Adam closed his eyes. "Too far . . ."
Joe grabbed at his shoulders, fear churning inside. "Adam?
Adam, you stay with me! Don't you
leave me, you hear?"
Adam shook his head slightly. "Not if I
can help—" He
broke off with a low moan of pain.
Joe dipped his bandana in the melting snow in the bucket by the fire, and
dabbed at his brother's forehead. He
hadn't had a lot of experience with illness, but he could feel the heat of
fever rising from Adam's skin. "I'm gonna get you home, Adam; home to Pa. He'll take
good care of you, get you well again."
"Stoddard!" The
voice came suddenly from outside.
Joe's head whipped around to look at the door.
"Stoddard, we know you're in there! Come
on out, peaceful!"
Joe felt a hand suddenly grip his arm, hard.
"What—?"
Adam spoke quietly, with reed-thin strength.
"You don't know me, Joe. You
don't know anything about this. You just
found me on the road, haven't even had a chance to talk to me."
Joe shook his head. "No, Adam—"
His grip tightened. "Promise me,
Joe! I'm just a stranger you took in –
you never saw me before!"
"Adam, what's going on? Tell me—"
"Stoddard! You got to the count of ten!"
'Stoddard?
That's the name of Adam's grandfather!' But his thoughts were interrupted.
Straining, Adam raised himself on his elbow.
"Joe, please!"
"One!"
He slowly nodded. He had to. He didn't know what was going on, but Adam
apparently did so he'd best do what he wanted.
"All right.
But you'd better explain this real good when I get back, brother!"
"Four!"
"Be glad to," he gasped, "if we're both still here."
Joe grimaced and pressed him gently into the pillow. "I will be, and you'd better be, too," he
warned and rose.
Adam pulled again at his arm. "Remember
. . . stranger!"
"I got it," he said, irritated, but the look in his brother's eyes stopped
him. It was one he'd never seen before,
and he took a few precious seconds to sort out what it was. Then it hit him. Underneath the exhaustion and pain was . . .
trust. Absolute and complete trust that
Joe could help him, could get him out of whatever mess this was he'd found
himself in, that he was too hurt to deal with
himself. It was a look that Joe was sure
he'd worn himself many times when looking at his father, and yes, his oldest
brother, and it stunned him to see Adam turn it on him. He tucked Adam's coat around his body to help
keep him warm, and his voice softened. "You just rest and let me handle this."
Adam nodded and closed his eyes, but Joe noticed he didn't really relax.
"Seven!" they heard from outside.
He grabbed up the rifle – grateful his brothers had found one of the newer
repeating models to give him for his last birthday – and slowly, carefully
opened the door. It opened inward, and
as it moved under his hand he made sure he made no quick movements. He held the rifle to his side where it hid in
the shadows until the men outside realized he wasn't this Stoddard they were
looking for.
"Nine!" one of the men toward the front of the group yelled out.
Joe stepped forward onto the small porch and immediately moved one pace to the
side so he wouldn't be backlit from the lantern inside the cabin. "My name's not Stoddard," he called. Now that they'd gotten a good look at him, he
raised the rifle to waist height. The
barrel gleamed in the bright moonlight.
"And you're trespassing."
He saw them shifting in their saddles and made a quick count. Five, and three of
them looked like they were about done in.
The one who'd been yelling, a man who had a certain look of substance to
him, nudged his buckskin forward into the rectangle of light from the cabin
door, and Joe cocked the rifle. He
pulled up quickly. "Now, look here, boy;
we don't mean any trouble to you. We're
after an outlaw, and his tracks show he's in that cabin."
"Mister, I don't think you heard what I said."
Joe stood square in front of the building, the rifle now pointed at the
man's gut. "You're trespassing."
He raised his hands, reins still held in the right one. "Just let us collect that fella,
and we'll be on our way."
"You're not collecting anyone, not here."
"Stop yammerin', Blake; he's just a kid. Let's just get what we came for an' get outa here. It's gonna start snowin' again
soon."
Joe eyed the slim cowboy on what appeared to be a mouse-colored grulla. Could he . .
.? If it worked, it might turn the
tide. He judged the distance carefully,
remembering all the lessons his father had taught him, everything he'd learned
from the long hours of practice he'd put in learning all those fancy tricks to
impress his friends.
He waited for them to make the first move, for that would take just a moment of
their concentration . . . now! Not even raising the rifle, his finger
smoothly pulled the trigger and the weapon leapt in his hands. The dirt and snow in front of the grulla kicked up and the horse reared, nearly unseating his
rider. The other horses stepped and
crow-hopped nervously, and by the time the men all had their mounts under
control, Joe had cocked the rifle again and had it pointed at the leader.
He took a deep breath, trying to relax so that his voice would come out low and
calm. "No one's taking anyone from
here."
Someone to the rear called out, "You don't know what he done—!"
"Doesn't matter," Joe interrupted. "I
wouldn't turn a snake over to you. Which
one of you is the coward that shot an unarmed man in the back?"
"What're you talking about!" demanded someone else.
"Just what I said," he replied, his voice and rifle still steady. "He's not wearing a holster, there wasn't any
rifle in his scabbard, and he's got a bullet in his back. Anyone here want to explain that to me?"
The three towards the rear of the group shot uneasy glances at each other, but
the cowboy who'd called him a kid and the man who seemed to be in charge just
glared at him.
"We're still gonna take 'im
in," yelled the cowboy.
"No," and ever so slowly Joe raised his rifle and tucked the butt against his
shoulder, "you're not. He's in no shape
to go anywhere, and once I get him fixed up a bit, I'll be taking him with me.
You folks don't seem to understand what I mean by trespassing. You're on Ponderosa land."
The man in front seemed suddenly even more washed out in the gray light, and
two behind him shifted uncomfortably in their saddles.
"That's right," Joe continued. "Ben Cartwright's Ponderosa.
And I can tell you my father's not one to let an illegal posse take a
wounded man from his property.
Especially if he thinks that man might never make it back to a sheriff."
The leader shifted in his saddle, and Joe had a sense that something he'd said
changed the situation, gave him an edge.
He wished he knew what it was.
"All right, boy," said the leader, and there was a thread of reasonableness in
his tone. "How do I know Stoddard isn't
making you say all this? How do I know
he doesn't have a gun pointed at you, or is maybe holding someone hostage
inside?"
The temptation was strong to tell him that no one was making him do anything;
that there was only one man in the world he trusted more than his brothers, but
Adam's words rang strongly in his mind.
'You don't know me.'
"That's a reasonable question," he finally answered grudgingly. "I'll take one of you – just one – inside and
show you. Then you'll clear out of here. I'd suggest you head for town. There's gonna be a
storm coming through here in a few hours, and you aren't gonna
want to get caught outside in it."
The three men toward the back looked up at the sky, and one on a skittish dun
nodded. "He's right, Blake. We don't have a lot of time."
"All right.
Just let me make sure you're not under duress, and we'll go
peaceably. For now.
We'll be talkin' with the sheriff, though."
"Fair enough," Joe said, and he lowered the rifle slightly, but kept it aimed
in his direction.
The man on the grulla flipped the thong off his pistol. "This is all a load of—"
"Jesse!" Blake called out sharply. "Stay
put, keep your mouth shut, and leave that gun where it is. Think what would happen if you took out a
Cartwright!" He turned his horse
slightly so Joe could see every move he made, stepped slowly down from the
saddle and held his hands out to his sides, reins in one hand.
'So that's it! Blake's heard of Pa.
Guess I'm safe for now, but Adam isn't. Gotta be
careful . . . .' "Take your gun out
slowly, and drop it on the ground."
Blake pulled his gun from his holster, but looked a bit pained at dropping it
into the snow.
"Do it!" Joe commanded sharply.
He sighed, but did as he was told. Joe
took one step backwards into the cabin.
"Come on in. Slow."
Blake dropped the reins to ground-tie his horse, then walked toward Joe
carefully, every motion showing that he was well aware the young man in front
of him was only a hair trigger away from putting a bullet in him. He stepped into the room, and his eyes fell
on the man lying on the cot. With a
growl of anger, he rushed over to Adam, batted his coat to the floor, and
grabbed him by the front of his shirt, hauling him half off the thin
mattress. "Where is it!" he roared. "What did you do with it?"
Adam's eyes were open, but they were unfocused, glazed. He barely had a chance to say, "What—?" when
the man backhanded him across the face, and he went suddenly limp.
"Where is it?" he repeated, ready to hit him again, but suddenly found the
muzzle of Joe's rifle pushed into his cheek.
"You make one more move," Joe said, his voice deadly quiet, "and I will blow
your head all the way to San Francisco."
Blake froze.
"Now set him down, real easy."
He lowered Adam slowly to the bed. "He's
a killer, boy. You don't know what
you're protecting."
"He's worth a hell of a lot more than what I'm looking at right now," he said
with disgust as he pushed Blake toward the door, the rifle prodding him in the
spine. "You think you have a claim
against him, you go ahead and tell it to the sheriff. His name is Roy Coffee. You tell him your Mr. Stoddard is out at the
Ponderosa, under the protection of Ben Cartwright. And mister?"
Blake was in the doorway by now, and he turned to face Joe. "Yeah?" he asked,
his voice not quite as commanding as before.
"You make damn well sure you got your facts straight. Now, get out of here!" He never took his gaze from Blake's eyes, but
pushed him suddenly in the chest, and Blake went sprawling on the ground. Joe fired the rifle once into the air, then
started shooting towards the hooves of all the horses. Blake scrambled to his feet and ran for his
mount. Joe stopped firing long enough
for the man to get in his saddle, then let loose
again.
"You haven't seen the last of us!" Blake yelled, but Joe just shot the hat off
his head in answer. Blake wheeled his
horse around and pounded off after the rest of the men.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
to be continued