Whispers in Silence -- 8
by BeckyS
10 Oct 2004

Joe Cartwright dropped his dusty gloves on the credenza by the front door, plopped his hat on its peg on the hat rack, and bent wearily to untie his holster thong from his thigh. The flames jumping in the big hearth had never looked so good. He was cold, stiff and hungry. The fire would take care of the first two; he hoped there was some dinner left to take care of the third.

"That you, Joe?" came a voice from the dining room.

"Yeah, Hoss," he said. He unbuckled his holster, rolled it into a ball, and set it on top of the credenza next to his gloves. He ran a hand through his sweat-matted curls and trudged over to the table. Hoss kicked his chair out for him, and he sank gratefully into it, planted his elbows on the tabletop and dropped his head into his hands.

"It's late," Hoss commented, "and you look about all in." He poured some coffee into a cup and pushed it across the table to him.

Joe lifted his head and surveyed his brother, noting the clean clothes and neat hair of a man who hadn't stepped foot outside all day. "Some of the men at the mine said they'd only take orders from Pa or Adam. They figured I didn't have what it took to boss a job like that." He rubbed his eyes. "I thought that bull-of-the-woods crap only applied to lumberjacks."

Hoss chuckled. "So you showed 'em what you know, an' I'll bet they backed down."

Joe picked up his coffee and took a long, luxurious swallow. "Yep. Didn't dare relax 'til Cochise had me around the other side of the mountain. Got to Willow Spring Creek and about laid down and died in it." He rolled one shoulder, then the other, easing the stiffness. "I don't know how they do it all day every day. Swinging a pick, shoveling, I was all right with that, but the single-jacking—" He shook his head at the memory. "Turning the chisel and hitting it with that darn four-pounder, turning and hitting, turning and hitting. Didn't feel all that heavy the first time I picked 'em up, but after the first hundred hits or so, it felt more like four hundred pounds. And that ringing is still bouncing between my ears."

"Just like you riding a horse, they can do it because they always do it."

"Yeah." He sat back in the chair and looked around the table at the remains of dinner. "Leave anything for the rest of us?"

"Pa's had his. You jest stay put – let's get your cup refilled – and I'll get a dandy meal put together for you in two shakes." Hoss went into the kitchen and Joe heard various banging and clanging noises as he savored the hot, bitter brew.

He knew he should wash up before eating, but he was just too darn tired. There was so much work to do up at the mine. He planned to eat, check in on Adam, and go straight to bed. He didn't think he could give his father a coherent report until he'd had some sleep. While he admired the miners' loyalty to his father and brother, he wished they'd get through their heads that they worked for all the Cartwrights.

He sighed. He'd run into this problem before and doubted today would be the last time. As long as they had the work divvied up the way they did – Hoss managing the cattle, Joe primarily with the horses, and Adam taking care of the timber and mining – they'd all run into it. They'd discussed changing the setup and they all helped each other, but this had still seemed the most efficient way to run the ranch. And they needed all the efficiency they could get with an operation this big.

Hoss appeared in the entry to the kitchen and lobbed a cloth at him. Joe grabbed it automatically to discover it was a hot, moist towel.

"Wash up," Hoss advised, then disappeared again.

Joe let out a soft moan of pleasure as he held it to his face. Memories of luxurious barbershop shaves relaxed him faster than even one of his father's backrubs would have. He scrubbed at this face, then ran the cloth around the back of his neck, wiped off his hands, and dropped it at the end of the table just as Hoss came in with a full plate in one hand and a basket of rolls in the other.

"Doin' kitchen duty tonight, brother?" Joe asked as he snagged a roll. He didn't bother to put jam or butter on it, just bit off half of the soft, yeasty bread.

"Pa an' Hop Sing are upstairs gettin' Adam set for the night. I figgered I'd just be in the way, and 'sides, Hop Sing made a couple of fresh-apple pies this afternoon. I was jest about to get myself a slice when I heard you ride up. One of the hands get your horse for you?"

Joe nodded. They both knew that their father preferred they take care of their own horses, a principle Joe agreed with, particularly when it came to his beloved Cochise, but the hands seemed to see it as a way to help out. Joe let them – it was little enough they could do for the family and, by extension, for Adam.

Hoss went back into the kitchen and came back with two plates, each containing at least a quarter of a pie. It looked like a lot for a lean man like Joe Cartwright, but as his family could swear, when the youngest Cartwright had had a day like this one, his appetite rivaled even Hoss's.

Joe swallowed his mouthful of roast beef and started buttering his next roll. "How'd it go today with Adam? Did you get anything out of him?"

Hoss cut off a good-sized bite of pie. "Not much. He seemed to be pretty tired, wanted to sleep a lot." He chewed thoughtfully. "S'pose it's only natural. I remember one time I banged my head good. It was a couple days before I stopped seein' two-three of everything. 'Bout wore me out, trying to figure out which was real. I remember Adam pourin' me a drink – sunlight hit the water when it came out of the pitcher and them lights dancin' around on it near had me headin' for the basin. Felt worse than havin' the influenza."

Joe set his dinner plate aside and dug into the pie. "So tell me."

"Well, this mornin' I told him I was gonna ask him about what hurt and if the cold packs helped. I held one on top of his hand, the one he busted up, and told him to nod at me if it felt better. Took him a minute to figure out what I was sayin', I guess, but then he nodded. I held it there for a little bit, an' then moved it to his forehead. Joe, he let out this big sigh and then smiled. Guess Doc was right about his head achin' fit to bust."

Joe felt his spirits rise at what seemed to be proof of what was wrong with their brother. "Hard to think when your head hurts like that."

"Yep. After he'd slept himself out for a while, Hop Sing an' me tried something else on him. Gave him a choice of soup. I propped him up on a bunch o' pillows so's he could see, an' Hop Sing held two bowls in front of him. One had that good beef an' vegetable soup, an' the other had some o' that thick white clam chowder."

"Where the heck did he get clams from?"

"Bribed Sam down at the general store, for all I know. I was as surprised as Adam. You shoulda seen his eyebrows go up when he got a look at it an' had a good whiff. I got it about the same time, and my stomach started in to rumble. Adam started wheezing a bit, and we got all worried till Hop Sing figured out he was laughin'. Called him a foolish boy in that way he has, an' Adam just smiled at him." He finished off his last bite of pie and sat back with satisfaction. "Then I told him if he wanted the beef soup, he should hold up one finger. If he wanted the second bowl, the chowder, he should hold up two. He squinted at me in that way he does when he's thinkin' hard, then after a while he held up two fingers. He ate every bit o' that chowder, and when we asked if he wanted more, he held up two fingers again. Got him a second bowl, but seems his eyes were bigger than his stomach, 'cause half-way through he waved the bowl away and closed his eyes."

"It's like reminding him of things he knows brings 'em back," Joe mused.

"Yep." Hoss's eyes were shining and he had a grin that looked like it might split his face. "He's comin' back, Joe. Our brother, he's comin' back."