PROLOGUE:

It rained the day Ben Cartwright received a bid for cattle from a town located at the most northwest corner of Idaho Territory. The strangeness of the request was only outweighed by the way it had come, and the oddness of how it had arrived was only superseded by the name of the place which had made the request. Apparently, a town called Malice wanted eighty head of Ponderosa's beef stock so badly that they had been compelled to request it via Western Union. If this was someone's strange version of a joke, then Ben was not laughing. He was far too confused.

Standing in the telegraph office, he huffed a breath and read the message again.

"Malice," Hoss whispered, reading the telegraph over Ben's shoulder. He blinked, bewildered, and then, visibly bothered, he took a step back. It was unclear whether the name of the town or the request troubled him the most. "I ain't never heard of that place," he said, his blue eyes uneasy. "I can't see why someone would want to name a town somethin' like that."

"Me either," Ben said.

He thought of his youngest son, whose impending arrival on the late morning stage had facilitated their trip and wondered if he should commit to sending his sons—or himself—on another.

"Eighty head," he mumbled beneath his breath. "To a town called Malice."

Casting his gaze upon the small room, he found his oldest son standing nearly in the center of it. Arms crossed, Adam stood tall and looked back at Ben almost absently. If he was bothered by the strange message from a town which bore even stranger name, he gave no indication.

"Adam, have you ever heard of Malice?" Ben asked.

Blinking, Adam tilted his head slightly, and took a moment to form his reply. "Of course," he said.

"Really?" Ben asked curiously. If neither he nor Hoss had heard of it, then how had Adam?

"Malice; the intent or desire to do harm," Adam said as though reciting the explanation from a dictionary.

At the time, Ben did not see the nonchalant, albeit inadvertently smart response from his usually observant son as a sign to ignore the message from the town, but later he would look back and wonder. He did, however, note Hoss's annoyance—which, he would also realize later, should have served as a sign within itself.

"Not the word," Hoss said to Adam, his terse tone reminiscent of Joe. He pointed at the paper in their father's hand. "The town."

"Oh," Adam said lightly. He neither seem to note nor did he comment on his younger brother's swift change in mood. "I haven't heard of it. What do they want?"

"Cattle," Ben said.

"Cattle," Adam repeated indifferently.

Pursing his lips, Hoss shoved his hands into his pants pockets, his shoulders rolling forward with palpable unease. "I don't like it, Pa," he said, his attention locked on the telegraph. "I think you oughta decline the order. Something about it just seems… wrong."

Ben was not sure he disagreed. He looked at Adam. "What do you think?"

Adam shrugged disinterestedly. "A job's a job, I guess."

Hoss shook his head. "Man, not to me."

"I'll go if you don't want to do it," Adam said.

"I don't," Hoss said.

"Fine," Adam said. "I'll take Joe with me."

That moment was the beginning of this whole tragic mess, and, weeks later, as he worriedly appraised his oldest son through the bars separating them, Ben wondered if this moment was leading up to the end.

The Malice jailhouse was ancient. The inside of the cell did not seem to have housed a prisoner in years. A thick layer of dust covered everything from the cot in the corner to the gaps between the rust covered bars. For whatever reason, Adam had chosen to sit on the floor instead of the cot. He had yet to answer the only question his father had summoned the wherewithal to ask.

Leaning against the wall furthest from Ben, Adam's legs were drawn up in front of his body. His elbows rested upon his kneecaps; his hands were clasped tightly together. The tightness of his grip emphasized the scrapes and bruises on his knuckles, the sporadic scratches lining the distance between the tips of his fingers and elbows before disappearing beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves. His clothes were torn in multiple places; his pants were covered in dirt and blood; his neck and face were as marred as his hands. There was no denying he had been in a vicious fight. The most pressing question now was with whom.

In a solemn rented room in the building next door, Little Joe lay unresponsive; the beating he had endured had rendered him damn near unrecognizable. Ben had been told Adam was the perpetrator of his brother's assault, a crime the town intended to hang him for. So far, Adam had not told him anything. He had not said a word. Strangely—maddeningly—since the moment Ben had entered the jailhouse, Adam had seemed determined not to look at or speak to him. Forcing a deep breath, Ben exhaled it and wondered which one of his son's silent objectives he had the power to change.

"Adam," Ben repeated. "What happened?"

The question remained unanswered. Ben could not glean why Adam was refusing to talk. What was stopping him from opening his mouth and advocating for his injured brother or himself? Was it guilt or fear that was silencing his son? Deep-rooted disgust, and self-reproach for failing to protect his baby brother from whatever violence had unfolded? Was it grief and dismay for having to tell his father that whatever he had done to defend Joe simply wasn't enough? Ben did not know, but he found he could not tolerate such a horrifying mystery. He had already been told to prepare to lose the life of one son; he had no intention of relinquishing two.

"Boy," he warned in a tone much firmer than he would have liked given the circumstances. The last thing he wanted was to instill guilt, but if the firmness of his voice helped Adam snap out of his listless state, then so be it. "Lord help you if you don't open your mouth and start…"

He trailed off, leaving the impending repercussion unspoken. It was not necessarily kindness which had necessitated his hesitation, rather genuine uncertainty. How could a father possibly threaten a son who had been sentenced to die? Why would he want to?

"Lord help me anyway."

Adam's voice was so quiet and controlled that Ben wondered if his desperation had forced him to imagine it. When Adam finally looked at him, he knew he had not imagined the response, but he had imagined countless other things. There was no disgust or grief lurking in his son's dull eyes. No hint of self-reproach or dismay. Adam appeared as calm and disinterested as he had been the day the fateful telegraph from Malice had arrived.

Deeply unsettled, Ben took an impulsive step backward. How was it that he could find his youngest son looking the way that he did, and his oldest one looking like this?

"What happened?" he whispered insistently. He was no longer certain he wanted to know.

Blinking, Adam shifted his hollow eyes away from his father and took a moment to form his reply. "I found malice, Pa," he simply said. "And if you don't get out of this town, you're gonna find it, too."