FIELDS OF WHITE
by BeckyS
© September 2002 – December 2003, as allowable


PART 8

It was a race, now, and they all knew it.  Joe had a good head start, but he also knew it was likely that Blake and Jesse would catch up with him before he got to the cabin.  The snow was harder to get through than he'd thought, and he was essentially blazing a trail that would make it easier on his pursuers' horses.  The roan was laboring even now, and he was still two miles from the cabin.  He glanced over his shoulder at the flat terrain behind him and thought he saw two horses – a buckskin and a black – emerging from the last stand of trees.  It could have been his father and Hoss, but why would they be riding hell-for-leather after him?  And he couldn't believe that both of them would leave Adam . . . unless he was dead.

A sob tore at his throat.  No, he had to believe that the two men were Blake and Jesse, as much as he was afraid of how close they were.  The alternative was too terrible.

He broke through a last stand of trees onto the field in front of the cabin.  He planned his actions – he'd pull out the rifle, vault off onto the small porch, haul the cot open, grab the paper, and run back outside to his horse.  He should have just enough time to slip down the small bank to the arroyo and be out of sight before the two men chasing him came through the trees.

His plan fell apart when he was just fifty yards from the front stoop.

He pulled the rifle out of the scabbard, but then felt his horse slip and go down on an icy patch.  The rifle went flying in one direction as he tumbled in the other.  He lay for just a moment, buried in snow, as he caught his breath.  Then he scrabbled to his knees, looked around quickly for the rifle, but it, too, must have been buried in the snow.  He'd never find it in time.  He had his pistol, though.  The roan was lying on its side, still with exhaustion or dead.  He didn't have time to find out.  It was eerily quiet around him; no wind, no birds, nothing but the faint pounding of hooves.

No time, no time, no time . . . .

The litany repeated in his head with each pounding stride as he ran for the cabin. 

He slid to a halt, banging into the wall next to the door, got his feet back under him, and shot through the door.  He slipped on some of the straw that was still scattered on the floor, but regained his balance and nearly fell next to the bed.  He gasped in thanks that the rope was still attached to the frame.  With one quick pull, he had the box open.  There it is!  Such a small piece of paper for all this trouble and anguish.  The words on the front caught his eye:  "Deed," then underneath, "Santa Maria Mining Company."  A quick look inside showed him a transfer of ownership, from Isabella Rivera de Vega Morales to Adam Stoddard.  There was a smudge after "Stoddard," as if someone had intended to write more, but got interrupted.

Now he understood.  Men would do worse than these had to get their hands on a producing mine.  He stuffed the paper into the inside pocket of his jacket and turned to the door, releasing the thong that held his pistol in his holster.  He opened the door carefully. 

They were here.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

"Pull up a minute," Roy called. 

Ben reined his horse around, plumes of steaming breath pirouetting in the air from the animal's nostrils.  "What's wrong?"  Buck pawed at the snow with impatience that clearly reflected his rider's mood.

"Gotta give the horses a breather." 

"We don't have time for this," Ben growled as he turned his horse toward the road.

"You know where they're headed?  What we're gonna do when we get there?"

Ben paused, torn between Roy's good sense and the driving urgency that told him to hurry . . . hurry!

"Give me two minutes to figure out some kinda plan, an' the horses'll be good for another hour."

"There's only one place they could be headed – the McGregor Ridge line shack."

"Don't believe I've been out there – what's the layout?"

Buck calmed as Ben started to think through the problem.  "Trees until about 500 yards from the shack – flat, open country ending at the bottom of a cliff.  Adam tucked the building under the ridge, to protect it from some of the weather we get up here.  A bit of a downhill to a creek off to the right."

Roy ran a hand over his face.  "Not good.  Gonna be hard to find cover, if it gets into a shootin' match."

"You know it will."

"With those men, I 'spect you're right.  It'll be like stormin' a fort, comin' up on 'em."

Ben's eyes took on a hard glint.  "I'd storm hell for my boy."  He jerked his horse back onto the trail and, with a swift kick of his heels to the buckskin's sides, took off down the road.

Roy sighed and followed.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Adam was dreaming of snow again.  It fell from a sky strangely as blue as the great lake of his home; soft, fluffy flakes that drifted like cottonwood down on the breeze.  He stood at the edge of a forest of tall pine, their woody tang wafting through the fresh, crisp mountain air.  More flakes fell, quickly, softly, silently, until they obscured everything around him, cloaking him in pristine silence.

And then a speck of darkness appeared before him.  It grew, and he realized it was a woman, someone he knew, someone who wanted – needed – him to help. 

Adam.  It was a girl's voice.  Young, soft, yet full with the promise of womanhood.  Help me, Adam.  You are the only one I can trust now.

They were suddenly in a building, a cozy room with an old desk, comfortable overstuffed chairs, and a crackling fire that kept the icy cold at bay, and he was watching the snow outside from a window near the woman.  He heard the scratching of a pen on paper, turned from his vigil to ask, How?  What do you need?  You know I'll do whatever I can.

She stopped writing for a moment and looked up, and he could have drowned in her liquid brown eyes – eyes he'd loved for longer than he could remember.  She was someone else's, though.  Had been, really, even before he'd met her all those years ago.

They will not take this from you, she'd said as she tapped the parchment.  From a Mexican widow, yes, but not from a Cartwright.  I will go back to Mexico, back to my son—

Stay!  It had been an impulse, but a true one, from the heart.  Bring him here, too.

She was tempted, he could tell.  He had to convince her.  Remember your sixteenth birthday, when you told me you had to leave, to go back to Mexico to marry 'Berto?

The grassy fields had been gay with flowers that long-ago day, the breeze warm and teasing, but what passed between them was as old and strong as the tallest of the pine trees that surrounded them. 

You told me to listen for the beat of your heart.  In all these years, did you listen for mine?

As you asked of me, she answered, I listened with care 'en el silencio de la noche.'

Yes, how many times had he, too, listened and yearned in the silence of the night.  I still love you, always have—

He'd never know what she might have answered, for a bullet shattered more than a window in that brief moment.  She collapsed in his arms, and as they sank together to the floor, she gasped, Mi corazón – you who have always held my heart – take care of my son.  He is yours, now, as I could not be.

I will, he'd whispered to her closing eyes.  I promise.  

But although she hadn't heard him, his final words bound the two together in a vow as they'd never been allowed in life.

Then Blake had busted in, and with Isabella still in his arms he hadn't had a chance to get his gun.  The deed was lying in plain sight, and when Blake saw what it was, he'd been distracted just long enough.  They'd fought and he'd hit Blake hard enough to stun him for a moment.  Then he grabbed the paper and his coat, ran for his horse, and almost got away clean – until he felt the sudden burning fire in his back that matched the pain in his heart.

He moaned in anguish.

"Hush, now, big brother.  Jus' settle down an' it'll be all right."

Mi corazón.  No, it wouldn't.  Nothing would ever be right again.  

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

There was no escape from the cabin, no back door, and the window was too small and too high.  I'll have to have a word with Adam about his perfect cabin, Joe said to himself.  If we both survive, that is.

"Cartwright!"

He peeked out the door, but didn't answer.  Blake was hunkered down behind the dead roan.  He had a rifle resting on the saddle, barrel pointed at the cabin.  Jesse was nowhere to be seen, but his horse was trotting off to the east, rifle scabbard also empty, so he must have dismounted and run off somewhere.  It was a sure bet he'd turn up soon.

"Cartwright!  I'll give you to the count of ten!"

"That's what you said last time," yelled Joe.  "It didn't do you any good then, and it won't now either."  He wondered how long he could stall. Surely Pa would be following soon?  But he hadn't left any horses for him.  Blake and Jesse had retrieved two, but they wouldn't have stopped to grab one for his father.  Sport and Cochise were too tired, and Buck and Chubb must not have been available for some reason, otherwise Jesse would have had no hesitation in taking them.  Except that might be considered horse-stealing, almost a worse crime than killing a man – which he could be accused of, too, he realized.

His thoughts spun.  One moment he was sure Pa would ride up any minute, the next it occurred to him that if Adam hadn't made it, his father might not have been in any condition to ride.  His eyes stung at the thought.  No, he would just have to handle this on his own. 

He glanced around the room.  No guns, aside of the pistol he wore on his hip – and it didn't have all that many bullets.  The pile of bloody cloth was still in the corner of the room, dirty plates from his last meal still in the washbasin. 

He was tired, so tired.  Why else would he be worrying about the mess the cabin was in when there were two men out there determined to kill him.  For he had no illusions – if he didn't give them what they wanted, he was dead.  Of course, if he did hand it over, he was probably still dead.  They wouldn't want any witnesses, anyone who knew what was on that mysterious paper.  He would simply have to fight it out.

He was good with a gun, he knew that, but he hadn't killed before.  Not a man.  Adam had told him once that there wasn't a lot of difference between killing a man and killing an animal . . . until after you pulled the trigger.  Well, he'd have to hope his big brother was right, because he knew it was them or him. 

A bullet embedded itself in the door, and a second ricocheted off something outside. 

Blake's getting his range.  That was all right.  Now he knew he was safe behind the door.  Since it opened on the left, he'd have to stand behind it in order to shoot.  He wondered if Blake knew that he was left-handed.  He couldn't peer around the door without putting himself at risk.  Maybe there was a wide enough crack between the boards . . . no, Adam's work wasn't that slipshod.  He might be able to drill a hole, though.  There'd been an awl in that leather-wrapped set of tools.

He shivered when he unrolled the wrapping, gory memories trying to invade his thoughts.  He pushed them aside. No time right now.  The awl went through the soft pine with a few solid thwacks of a hammer, then he twisted it around.  He blew the wood chips away and peeked through the hole.  Too small.  He could only see the white snow.  He scraped at the sides of the hole, enlarging it as quickly as he could.  He blew again, peeked again, and this time saw Blake.

Good!  He unlatched the door with his right hand and, while looking through the hole, pulled it open just a few inches.  He snaked his gun through the opening and fired. 

Blake fell backwards at his second shot.

Got him! Joe almost crowed, but when he looked again, saw that Blake had risen and was propped on the horse again, though this time with his head tucked a little lower.

He tried to get a wider view, sure that Jesse was creeping up on the cabin, but there was no way to tell.  He latched the door again and ran to the other side of the cabin to peer through the small window.  Nothing.  Well, nothing he could see, anyway.

A fusillade of bullets pinged and thudded against the wall of the cabin.  Joe jumped and couldn't help cringing – even though he was sure they couldn't make it through the solid wood, his body tensed with every hit.  His head pounded from the noise, and he realized his mouth was dry.  When the shooting stopped, he looked in the bucket he'd left by the fireplace – just this morning? – and found what turned out to be barely a mouthful of snowmelt.  He was grateful for the cool wetness, even if there was only one swallow's worth.

He went to the door, spotted Blake still in position, though leaning heavily to one side, and opened the door again just a little.  Blake fired at the same time as Joe, and splinters of wood flew from the edge of the door.  He pulled back, but not before he felt a line of fire along his forearm.

Hissing with the pain, he leaned against the door, making sure to latch it securely.  At least he hadn't dropped his pistol, even though he only had two shots left.  He'd have to be careful with them, especially since it was his gun arm that had been hit. 

He shrugged out of his jacket and ripped the sleeve open with the awl.  A deep furrow welled with dark red blood, but it was, even so, a graze.  No real damage to the muscles, just hurt like hell.  Joe'd had broken bones and his share of scrapes and bumps and bruises, but he'd never been shot before.  He was surprised it didn't bother him more, not realizing how sheer terror could dampen pain.  He quickly grabbed one of the bandages he'd ripped up for his brother and wound it around his arm, tightening the knot with the help of his teeth.  It would have to do for now.  He pulled his jacket on again.  He had to pull hard to get the sleeve on over the bandage, but he persisted.  He knew he'd need the warmth if he could break free of the cabin.

He patted at his chest where he'd stashed the deed in his jacket, relieved to hear the soft crinkle of paper, but was distracted by a shadow passing over the window.  Jesse!  

He peeked out the small hole in the door again.  No one in view, not even Blake.  Taking a deep breath, he pulled the door open one more time, put his pistol through the opening, but this time he felt a tremendous jerk on the weapon.  He held on and was banged painfully against the door as it was shoved open.  Then Jesse was on top of him.  He fired the gun once, twice, but Jesse twisted away.

Jesse swung at him with his rifle, and Joe ducked barely in time to miss having his head bashed in.  He barreled into Jesse's stomach and knocked him against the wall.  The rifle flew into a corner, and now Joe hoped he'd have a prayer of surviving.  He threw a right at Jesse's chin, connecting solidly, but Jesse came back with short punch to Joe's gut.  His lungs nearly paralyzed, he had a brief memory of Adam yelling, Stand up! during one of their mock battles.

Though it cost him, he stood, gasping for breath, and saw Jesse's fists crashing down.  He stepped to the side and took the blow on his right shoulder, on the big muscle.  His right arm went numb, but he spun on one heel and put his full weight behind his left hook.  Jesse went down, and Joe dashed for the door.  He'd made it outside and to the edge of the porch when Jesse tackled him from behind, and they both went sprawling in the snow.  Joe got to his knees and grabbed at the scabbard that still hung around his neck.  The knife was still there.  He pulled it free just as Jesse jumped on him.  Jesse grabbed his wrist and twisted so the blade was pointed at Joe's gut, then leaned hard.

Joe clubbed at his head with his near-useless right arm while trying to shove the knife back and away from his stomach.  Jesse's grip was excruciating on his injured forearm, but Joe knew that if he gave in to the pain, he'd be dead.  He pulled his knees up to his stomach and kicked out, and Jesse went flying.  Still holding the knife, Joe tackled him, and they rolled over and over in the snow, leaving tracks of red behind from bleeding noses and scrapes and Joe's arm. 

Then they rolled together down the hill and hit the bottom of the dry arroyo hard, Joe's body almost buried by Jesse's.  Fluffy soft flakes of snow settled on them, the only movement, and the pristine white slowly turned red around them.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~
to be continued