Ben walked Malice's narrow thoroughfare, absently retracing the steps he was told Adam had been found taking first. He tried to imagine how terrible it must have been for Adam to be discovered in such a disheveled state, offensive wounds marring his arms, neck, and face, his hands dripping with his baby brother's blood. Ben did not care how awful coming upon such a scene had been for the strange men tasked with overseeing an even stranger town; he wondered how horrible it must have been for Adam. To have so valiantly fought whoever had attacked he and Joe. Then to have walk the cramped path, bloody and alone in search of help he would never find.

What had it been like when Adam was accused of harming his brother? Had he tried to fight again? Or had he given himself over easy, realizing it was a fight that could not be won by terse denial or action? Had he done then what he refused to do now, freely declared the truth of what had happened for anyone to hear? Or had he known right away that the deck had been stacked against him. That it would not matter how direct, honest, and firm of a tone he used, the things he said would never be believed. Not by the elders in the town. Not by the remaining members of his family who would arrive later. How could his father or middle brother begin to believe or understand the truth if Adam did not share it?

Spanning less than a quarter acre from beginning to end, the thoroughfare stopped abruptly, ceasing its travelers with a huge collection of boulders too steep to traverse. Ben stood tall, his feet rooted in place as he considered the mammoth rocks. Their existence declared the hellish path on the other side of town the only way one could enter or leave Malice. It was a steep, challenging, hairline trail which had been rendered even more impossible to travel by devastation and death, the bodies of the cattle Joe and Adam could neither successfully shepherd nor save. The task of droving cattle via that trail had been impossible to begin with. Anyone who was familiar with the path would have known that. Then why had Malice commissioned the beef stock? Why had they tasked his sons with the impossible? And why had Ben himself allowed them to take it on?

Turning, he looked upon the degenerate town, his feet set firmly upon a path that was barely wide enough to accommodate them. Why would anyone choose to come here? And why would they decide to remain?

He took a few forward steps, then stopped, his head tilting, his dark eyes locked on the empty street as he was taken by a sudden intrusive thought. Save for the trio of elders and the midwife, the only people whom he or Hoss had yet to see, maybe nobody chose to remain in this town. He did not want to be here. If he had any other choice, then he would have been long gone and he would have taken all three of his sons with him. He would have broken Adam from jail himself and together they would have left and returned to Virginia City, a place where the law was fierce but fair. But Ben did not have a choice, and that was why he remained in Malice. It was not the authority of the elders who held him or his sons here. It was Joe's injuries. It was the threat of the road which had trapped them all here.

Carved into the mountainside, it was a baneful, disagreeable trail that led to a town which had no comprehensible reason to exist. It simply should not have existed. Maybe, with its glaring lack of residents, it really didn't. And if that was the case, then what had been waiting for Adam and Joe when they finally arrived at this place? Where were the cattle that had survived the trip? Why had the animals been requested in the first place? How had Malice sent the telegram to solicit them—or the one which followed much later, alerting Ben and Hoss of what had happened and what was to be. These were questions Hoss had posed first, and still, Ben was no closer to answering them. There was an endless list of questions that could be asked, and the answer to each mattered little in comparison to what actually was. Time was running out. Tomorrow his eldest son was to be hung.

Ben's eyes narrowed as he was taken by a question that seemed so blatant and obvious, he had simply forgotten to consider it. His son was to be hung, but where? There was no gallows in this town. There existed no room in the narrow street to erect one; there were no surrounding trees with which to build it. If the men in this town intended to properly hang anyone then they should have requested Ponderosa timber, not cows.

"Falling captive to such thoughts will get you nowhere," a gentle voice said. "Answers are not gleaned from the asking of obvious questions. Not in this town."

Inhaling a startled breath, Ben turned and found the midwife standing behind him, her slender body mere inches from his own. He looked between her and the boulders lurking behind her. It was as though she had appeared out of nowhere. There was simply no place from which she could have emerged.

"Where did you come from?" he asked, visibly confused.

"Not where," she said simply, the calmness of her tone reminiscent of the elders. She appeared certain and passive; still, in her black eyes there lurked a glowing flint of something else. Sadness? Pity? Judgment? Ben could not discern which. "You have been told that answers are not gleaned from the asking of obvious questions," she continued. "That is an obvious question."

"What about it is obvious?" Ben was perplexed. "Are you referring to the question or the answer?"

"It does not matter."

"Yes, it does."

"It does not."

"Then what matters?"

"Not what," she said. "Don't you understand, this is a place where nothing matters."

"Why would that be?"

"Not why."

"How could it be?" Ben amended.

"Not how."

"I don't understand."

"Where, what, how, why, these are all the beginnings of obvious questions."

"Then tell me how to begin one that isn't," Ben demanded impatiently. "How can I glean the answers I seek if I'm not allowed to ask any questions?"

The midwife smiled, her lips curling over sharp teeth as Ben finally understood the unsettling glint glowing in her grotesquely dark eyes. It was not sadness, pity, or judgment. It was exhilaration and joy. He took an impulsive step backward, her expression seeming to shift as quickly as his understanding of her. This was not a woman to be trusted. This was a woman to be feared.

"Not where," she said. "Not what. Not how. Not why." She continued the repetition, her voice becoming louder and more melodic and singsong. "Not where. Not what. Not how. Not why."

Deeply unnerved, Ben walked backwards as she began to walk toward him. He had no desire to remain still beneath her gaze. He had no intention of speaking to her further or being forced to listen to any of the maddening things she had to say.

"Not where. Not what. Not how. Not why," she taunted, each word more forcefully and gleefully spoken than the one before it. "Not where. Not what. Not how. Not why. Not where. Not what. Not how. Not why."

She matched his backward steps with her own forward ones, her movements increasing pace with his. Ben had a fleeting thought that, although he had never run from a threat a day in his life, he was running from this one. He was suddenly so completely unsure of her, this woman whom he had been skeptical of since the moment they had met. He was uncertain about what she could do. What she would do, given the chance, because, dear god, there was something so unholy about the blackness of her eyes and the gleam which was brightening them. There was something innately wrong about her joyful carols which echoed off the surrounding mountains and filled the air.

"Not where. Not what. Not how. Not why. Not where. Not what. Not how. Not why. Not where. Not what. Not how. Not why."

All Ben wanted was to get away from her. All he could think about was finding somewhere to hide where she could not see him, where he would not have to listen to her. Something was terribly wrong with this town. Something was horribly wrong with her.

Turning, he found the jailhouse, the safety of its confines not more than a foot away. Sprinting toward the door, he grasped the knob, thrust it open, jolted his body through the threshold, and slammed the door closed behind him. Gasping, he leaned against the wood, turning wide eyes on Adam who was sat against the cell's far wall. Chin tucked, his attention was locked on the floor. If he was bothered by the woman's continuing declarations from behind the closed door, he gave no indication.

"Not where! Not what! Not how! Not why!" she was screaming in earnest now, the glee in her voice replaced by pure rage. "Not where! Not what! Not how! Not why! Not where! Not what! Not how! Not why! Not where! Not what! Not how! Not why! Not–!"

Her declarations ceased without warning. Abruptly, Adam looked up. Ben watched in horror as his son finally opened his mouth. For one terrible second, he was convinced Adam's eyes were as dark and unfamiliar as the midwife's had been. He was positive his oldest son was going to continue repeating her gleeful, spiky taunt, and then, remarkably, he did not.

"If," Adam provided quietly, his hazel eyes dull. It was the only word he dared before returning his attention to the floor.

Sinking into a seated position, Ben could only wish he understood what it meant.