NINE
Three days.
Three days.
They were three days out from La Crosse and there was absolutely nothing he could do to help his son. Ben's tired eyes strayed to Jamie. The boy was stretched out of the built-in bunk in their state room on the train sound asleep. Exhaustion had finally claimed him. He regretted bringing him now.
Now that he knew just who was behind Joseph's disappearance.
The man he had wired – Daniel Jacobs – was a long time friend and associate who had relocated in Minnesota when the lumber trade there began to grow. Dan was his connection for this meeting and the man who hoped to have him supplant some of the other less than honest contractors in the area, Will Poavey being the chief among them. It had been nearly twelve years since the trouble between Will and Joe over the contract for supplying fir trees to the Sun Mountain Company. Joe had won the bid away from Will and they'd always suspected Poavey had a hand in what happened to the flume Joe'd built, but it was almost beyond belief to think that Will would have approved of Dave Donavan's attempt to take his son's life. At the trial, Poavey hadn't spoken for or against Donavan. He'd just sworn that he was innocent. Yes, the contractor admitted, he played rough, but Will said he would never have sanctioned murder.
He'd believed him.
He was a fool.
As he and Jamie traveled the endless miles between Virginia City and La Crosse, he'd had time to think. Dave Donavan had been sent to prison, but he'd been released six or seven years back. They'd not heard of him working in Nevada again. When Joe went missing he began to consider the unthinkable. What if Dave was working for Poavey again? What if they knew from the roster that Joe was coming to the meeting?
What if Poavey was dirtier than they believed?
And so he had wired Daniel Jacobs and asked him to check into it. The answer had been that damned telegram.
YOU WERE RIGHT. STOP. DONAVAN. STOP. POAVEY. STOP. STOP CARTWRIGHT. STOP. WHATEVER NECESSARY.
Ben shuddered.
Whatever necessary.
The older man walked over to the train window and looked out at the scenery as it flew past. It was a miracle. The time it would have taken him to get to his son by horse or wagon had been cut by months. Still each hour, each minute they flew along at thirty miles an hour was agonizing. Joe had been missing for nearly a week. It broke his heart to wish it, but he did. He prayed Joseph had simply run away. That his youngest was somewhere safe, far away from the machinations of men whose only love was of money.
Whose only aim was revenge.
Sitting down in the seat opposite Jamie, Ben lowered his head. His hands went together and he began to whisper oft repeated words, seeking solace in them as he had so many times before.
"On the left hand, where He doth work, but I cannot behold Him. He hideth himself on the right hand, that I cannot see Him. But He knoweth the way that I take and when he hath tried me...
Ben drew in a deep breath and released it as a tear trailed down his cheek.
"I shall come forth as gold."
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"Where do you think we should look?" Lars Hanson asked. He was still shaking from what he 'd heard.
Hiram Baker shook his head. They were standing in the middle of the mercantile where they'd agreed to meet. He looked at the circle of good men surrounding him – Lars, the Reverend Alden, Isaiah Edwards, Hans Dorfler and more – and still felt despair. Charles had been snatched from his home before midnight. More than eight hours had passed.
He and the men who took him could be anywhere.
"Did this here Joe Cartwright know anythin'?" Isaiah asked, the tension in his voice apparent. Fortunately he'd been able to catch Isaiah before he headed out of town on his run.
"Joe was struck pretty hard on the head," he replied. "Added to his other injuries, he was confused. Couldn't remember much other than a blond man struck Charles and then he and another man took off with him." He paused. "Joe thinks they were looking for him and took Charles by mistake."
"Does he know why?"
Hiram shook his head. "When we get back to Charles' place we can ask him. Joe might remember something by now."
"Do we have any idea which way to go?" another man asked.
"There are tracks. I saw them." He eyed the sky. "If we get moving before the rain starts we can follow them." The sky had clouded up while he was on his way into town. It looked like a storm in the west. No telling how long it would be before it hit. "From the look of it, they had a wagon and were headed into the hills."
They were waiting on Nels Oleson to return from his storeroom. Nels was gathering up some last minute supplies. He'd come from the Ingalls without much in the way of painkillers. He had some in his bag but he wanted to be prepared for the worst. Nels was bringing whiskey.
Hiram Baker ran a hand over his eyes, remembering Caroline's face. That woman was strong, but there was only so much a person could take. What with minding her three girls in a time of crisis she'd have had little time to speculate, but that wouldn't stop her worrying. He'd asked Isaiah to bring Grace along so she could go out and be with Caroline. Grace was outside in the wagon. Their children were upstairs with Willie and Nellie. Alicia and Karl were going to stay at the Olesons.
The blond man felt a hand rest on his shoulder. He looked up to find the Reverend Alden. The older man eyed him and then said softly, "Be assured, Hiram. God is in control."
The doctor snorted. "You don't need to tell me, reverend. If I didn't believe that I'd hang up my shingle."
"Charles is a man after God's heart. We must pray He sees him through."
Prayer was like medicine in a way. He knew it could bring about the results he wanted, but every time he administered a dose, he feared it would do nothing until he saw that it did.
Hiram nodded.
The reverend turned then to the other men and said, "Gentlemen, before we begin, let us invite the Lord into our venture."
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Dave Donavan stared at the sky. There was a storm coming and it was about to break. He cursed, spat, and then turned to look at his prisoner. He should have been a happy man. He wasn't, and he didn't know why. Everything he had dreamed of for the five long years of his confinement was within his grasp, but still, it wasn't enough. He could snuff Cartwright's life right now with no more effort than pinching out a candle, but for some reason, all he thought would happen if he did was that he'd get burned. Those years he'd lost in prison were gone and killing the man would do nothing to bring them back. Oh, he'd get a good deal of pleasure out of it, but there had to be something more.
Dave turned and looked at the brown-haired man where he hung suspended from the ropes that bound him to a tree. He'd let him lay for an hour or so on the ground and then decided he was play-acting. The point of a knife jabbed in Cartwright's hand where it lay had brought him around quick. The blond man's lip curled with an unpleasant sneer. He'd made a right good amount of noise too; howling to wake the dead.
Taking Joe by the collar he'd lifted him from the ground, removed his gag, and struck him in the face. One thing he should have remembered was never to underestimate Joe Cartwright. The skinny little kid he'd almost bested had taken on weight and was well-muscled. Joe'd staggered to the left, like he couldn't get his footing, and then barreled into him, knocking him to the ground. Dave's sneer turned to a scowl. If it hadn't been for Clayton, Joe might have escaped. Clay'd come over and used the butt of his rifle to drive him to the ground. Then the two of them had lifted him up and placed him against the tree and trussed him like a rogue heifer.
Since then he'd been ruminating on what to do.
"Dave, don't you think we should get movin'?" Clayton was looking at the sky. "Someone's bound to come lookin' for him."
He eyed the younger man he traveled with, hearing the 'scare' in his voice.
"You turnin' yellow, Clay?" he jibed.
Clayton scowled. "Poavey said to send a message to his pa. You've sent it. Look at him! Now, let's go before the storm hits."
Clay was right in some ways. Joe had made an easy target, all tied up like that. Dave looked at his raw knuckles and smiled 'cause Cartwright's blood painted them.
"It'll take those towns folks at least four hours to get going, probably more," he replied, "and that's once they know. They couldn't have started out any sooner than eight or nine this morning." Dave looked up. Even with the sun hiding behind the advancing clouds, he could see where it was located. "Must be about noon. We got time."
"Are you going to take him with us?"
Poor stupid kid. He still didn't get it. "Sure. We'll take him and let him go somewhere south of here. That make you feel better?"
Clayton visibly relaxed. "It sure does, Dave. I thought..."
"What? That I was gonna kill him? Nah." He crossed over to the other man and put an arm around his shoulder. "'Course now, if I change my mind..." His grip tightened like a noose as his tone grew in menace. "Now, you ain't gonna try to stop me, are you?"
Clayton shook his head. "No."
Dave sneered. "Good kid," he said as he ruffled the boy's thick black hair. Then he turned and walked toward the man he hated more than life. He'd decided. They'd leave in an hour.
By then, Joe Cartwright would be dead.
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"He's gone, Ma," Laura said as she rushed into the house trailing milk behind her. "Joe's gone!"
Her mother took the bucket and put it down. Then she dropped to her knees beside her. "Calm down, Laura," she said as she took hold of the child's arms. "Tell me."
Laura felt just awful. She'd been sitting there with him, crying in the barn, when all of a sudden Joe stood up and went back to cinching the saddle on pa's horse.
"His leg was bleedin', Ma, and he didn't even care. He climbed up on that horse and used his good leg to get it going and rode ride out of the yard."
The older woman looked toward the door. Laura did too. Big clouds were rolling in and it looked like a storm was about to let loose.
"Which way did he go?"
"He was lookin' down, followin' some kind of tracks." She shook her head as tears entered her eyes. "I should've stopped him, Ma. Joe ain't well enough to go."
Her mother rose and walked outside. Laura followed her. Together they stood listening to the rising wind. It was only a moment later that Mary joined them.
"Where's your sister?" Ma asked.
"Sleeping." She hesitated. "She cried herself to sleep wantin' pa."
Laura watched her mother extend her arm and draw her older sister in. "The men of the town are out looking for your father. And now, so is Joe." She watched the older woman's jaw grow tight. When Ma did that, she was fighting tears. "There's nothing we can do but pray."
They stood there together, silent for some time, until Mary asked, all quiet-like. "How come the women always have to stay behind and wait, Ma? How come we can't be out there looking?"
Her mother struggled with the question. "We could," she said finally, "but as much as we want to, we wouldn't have the physical strength to keep up. In the end, we would only slow the men down."
"But aren't men and women equal?" her sister asked.
"Yes, Mary. Equal, but different. A woman's strength lies not in muscle, but in patience and perseverance, in faith and fortitude. She's strong in ways no man is strong." Her mother brushed Mary's hair with her fingers. "Together, men and women are a perfect complement."
Mary fell silent. After a minute she nodded and then, as the first of the rain fell, said softly, "I'd still like to be out there searching for pa."
A tear escaped her mother's eye.
"Me too, Mary. Me too."
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Joe couldn't help but think of his big good-hearted brother as he knelt on the ground searching for clues as to the direction Charles' kidnappers had taken. Hoss had been the best tracker in the family. They'd all known it and had deferred to him whenever the need arose. His middle brother had done his best to pass his skills on to him, but he had always been too impatient – too imprecise – to make a good tracker. He was trying to slow down now, to pay attention.
A good man's life hung in the balance.
As he crouched there Joe watched his blood mingle with the rain and run into the mud. His leg was bleeding again, but he ignored it. He'd had worse injuries before and kept going. He had a mild headache from the blow he'd taken to the head, but otherwise was okay. He needed to be 'okay'. He was going to have to take Dave Donavan by surprise if he had any hope of surviving. Donavan was bigger than him. He'd fought him before. It was sheer cussedness that had allowed him to win that time. Joe stood up and pressed his fist into his thigh, massaging the aching muscle above the wound. He scowled at the pain. He was older now and, though he was in good shape, it could have been better. He'd let himself go these last two years.
Sitting and thinking and drinking made a man soft in more ways than one.
Joe returned to his mount. Standing there, he placed his hand on the saddle that ringed Charles Ingalls' plow horse and raised his face into the rain. Thinking of his conversation the night before with Caroline Ingalls, he laughed. If Charles pretty wife had been a man, he would have decked her for what she said to him. But she wasn't a man. She was a woman. And a mother.
He'd never had a mother.
Oh, his had lived until he was five, but she was nothing more than a wish and a dream and someone else's memory. He recalled how both Hoss and Adam had said she'd handle them so different from Pa, making them think and come to it themselves instead of just telling them what to do. Charles Ingalls tough words were with him still. In a way, Ingalls reminded him of his pa. There was a strength there he could only hope to attain. A rock bottom surety.
A deep and unyielding faith that nothing could undermine.
Just like his pa's, Ingalls' faith was something he could never hope to live up to. It stood before him, a as a mountain he simply could not climb. As he fought verbally and physically with the older man, everything he should be and believe and didn't and wasn't had pressed down on him like a ten ton weight of stone.
Into that guilt and sense of failure had come a still, small, voice. A woman's voice. Something he had sorely lacked over the years.
Joe, God wept just as deeply when Alice and your child died. God loves you so deeply. He weeps for you.
Alice weeps for you too.
Joe chuckled at his own stupidity. He'd never thought of it that way. About how Alice was looking down from Heaven, shaking her head and grieving for him. His lips twitched as tears ran down his filthy cheeks. All of it – the fire, Alice's death...the baby...and even the torture he'd lived through at Bill Tanner's hands – all of it had been to make him stronger. To make him fit for Heaven.
To make him fit to take her hand.
Joe wiped his face with the back of his glove, though the gesture was futile, and looked up at his saddle. Mounting that horse again was gonna be like climbing yet another mountain. Still, he had to do it. He was gonna save Charles Ingalls today if it killed him.
It probably would kill him.
Joe looked up and smiled the first genuine smile he had in two long years.
"I'll see you soon, sweetheart," he whispered.
"And this time, it will be forever."
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Charles steeled himself. Dave Donavan was approaching with murder in his eyes and a knife in his hand. The brown-haired man swallowed over nausea to lift his head and face him. Over the last few hours Donavan had come upon him unawares and struck him numerous times until his head was ringing and he the world was spinning out of control. He could have, at any time, told the bully that he was mistaken; that he wasn't Joe Cartwright and the man was a fool to think he was. But something had told him to keep quiet – that still small voice inside that was the answer to prayer. He knew for a certainty that if Donavan discovered he was not Joe, he would kill him outright. The only thing keeping him alive was the evil man's desire to torture Joe and prolong his death.
Hanging there, dripping blood, Charles thought of his wife and children. They'd talked about it before and he'd told Caroline he wanted her to remarry if something should happen to him. The girls would need a good man to look after them and his beautiful wife would need one too. She'd told him 'no'. He'd insisted 'yes'.
In the end, she cried and nodded against his chest.
Life was a journey and what you believed made it what it was. If you thought there was no plan to it – that everything was random and had no purpose – well, then you died before the last breath left you. Charles raised his face into the cleansing rain. On the other hand, if you believed that God was sovereign and that your life was in His hands, well, that made you even more alive. Oh, it didn't stop a man worrying and wondering and asking why when the hard times came, but it let you know that the hard times had a reason and a purpose and God was gonna use them and you to work miracles.
Even it meant that miracle was your death.
Dave Donavan stopped before him. He was running his fingers up and down the bone handle of the hunting knife.
"You ready, Cartwright?"
Yes, he was ready. But if he was going to die, it would be under his own name.
"You got it wrong," he managed to say even though his lips were swollen from the beatings.
"What"? Dave sneered. "You ain't gonna die?" He pressed the edge of the blade into his throat. "This says otherwise."
"No. I know I'm gonna die," he said, his voice eerily calm. "You got it wrong. I ain't Joe Cartwright."
Donavan's eyes narrowed. "What?"
Charles licked his bloody lips, frowning at the taste of iron. "I ain't Joe Cartwright. You've got yourself the wrong man."
The blond man caught his hair in his fingers and drove his head back against the tree. "You're lyin'! I'd know Joe Cartwright anywhere."
"Just so happens we look alike. Don't know why."
The blade cut in more. "It ain't possible."
"Look at me! Look at the lines in my face. I'm almost forty. Joe ain't more than thirty-one."
Donavan was shaking his head. "No. It's not possible."
Charles smiled in spite of the pain it brought him. "You've been blind, Donavan. You missed him. He was there that night. Your boy there," he indicated Clayton who was holding the horses' reins and watching from a distance, "he knocked Joe out and you left him there, laying on the ground outside my barn. That was him with the silver hair."
The man's face was drawn. He could see the truth dawning in those soulless eyes.
"No. No!" Dave shouted. "You would have said somethin'. Somethin' to save your life! You're just tryin' to mess with my head. Make me think you're someone else so I won't kill you!"
"If I'd of said somethin', I'd be dead," Charles countered quietly.
"You're still dead!" Donavan cried as he put strength behind the knife.
Suddenly, a voice came out of nowhere.
"Dave. It's me you want, not him. Let the man go."
Charles looked up. A bedraggled figure was limping out of the trees. He had a rifle in his hands and it was pointed at Clayton, who had dropped what he was doing and had his hands in the air.
It was Joe.
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Hiram Baker shook his head and sighed. The best tracker among them, and that wasn't saying much, was Isaiah Edwards. The former mountain man was crouching on the ground, looking for signs as the pounding rain carried any and all of them away. They'd followed both the outlaws and the tracks of Charles' plow horse south for about an hour before the rain had started falling in earnest.
Now, they didn't know which way to go.
"I say we continue east," Isaiah said as he rose. "There's nothing to indicate they turned any other direction."
"And nothing to indicate they didn't," Hans Dorfler sighed.
"I've been thinkin', I mean..." Isaiah paused. "If they just meant to kill Charles, then just about anywhere off the track would do. Wouldn't be no reason to go toward a town. Least ways not while he was still alive." He stopped and looked sick.
"Is still alive."
They all felt it. A sense of urgency, as if time was running out.
"Do you think those two have discovered Charles isn't Joe?" Nels asked as he came alongside Isaiah.
It weighed on them all. The possibility that this Dave Donavan would find he'd made a mistake There would be no reason to keep Charles alive if he did.
"Let's hope not," Hiram breathed.
Lars had been standing, looking south. He turned to look at them. "It is doing us no good standing here. I say ve move on."
Isaiah nodded. "I agree. The sooner we find what we're gonna find, the sooner we know what we got to deal with."
The former mountain man and Charles were close. The pain in Isaiah's eyes was almost unbearable to see. Hiram reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Wise words, my friend. Let's go."
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Joe limped out of the trees, Charles' rifle in his hand. "Let him alone, Dave. It's me you want."
He'd been shocked when he'd first saw Charles. The older man was tied to a tree. His face was a mass of bruises and blood. Still, in spite of the obvious abuse he had endured, he was defiant. Charles was looking Dave right in the eye.
While Dave held a knife to his throat.
"Why should I?" the blond man yelled. "Why shouldn't I kill him right now? He made a fool out of me!"
Joe limped in closer. His leg wound was pounding and he could feel fever licking at the edge of his senses. "You don't need anybody to do that for you, Dave. You've always been good at doin' that yourself."
The blond man pressed the knife into Charles' flesh, forcing him to lift his head. Blood dripped from the blade. "I can finish him quick," he sneered. "Then it's your turn, Joe."
"I thought you were brave, but I guess you're a coward. Threatening a man who's trussed up is the act of a coward. You're a coward and a failure, Dave. You can't stand looking at me and bein' reminded that you wasted every single chance you ever had to make a decent living and be a decent man." Joe moved past Clayton, ignoring the boy who took one look at him and turned and ran. He was deliberately goading the other man, trying to draw him away from Charles. "I gave you a chance, Dave. Ended up I was wrong. You weren't even worth the tryin'."
"Joe..." Charles warned.
He shot him a look and shook his head. This is my fight, not yours.
Charles jaw tightened. His eyes said it all.
Then he nodded.
Joe raised the rifle. "Get away from him, Dave."
The blond chortled. "Like hell, I will. You'll just shoot me."
"Yeah, you're right. I will just shoot you."
The words were bitter even to his own ears.
"Looks like you and me got us an impasse. I got him," Dave's blue eyes narrowed. "I want you."
He was right. Dave was too close to Charles. He could slit his throat before he could pull the trigger. There was only one way to end this.
Joe put the rifle down.
Scorn lifted Dave's lips and curled them in a vicious smile. "Now, you're bein' right smart, Joe. No need for this fine man to die 'cause you're too much of a coward to fight me man to man." His old friend stepped away from Charles and faced him. "I'll let you come at me," he said, bending and anchoring the knife in the ground beside him. Nodding toward his pants' leg, which was wet with blood, he added, "Seein' as how you have a handicap."
'Alice', Joe thought, 'be ready. Here I come.'
And then he charged.
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The rain was pounding in front of their home, driving into the earth and creating tiny channels as it ran along the ground. The scent of rain was something Caroline welcomed, knowing it meant life and new growth. There was nothing she loved more than laying in Charles' arms, listening to it pound on their roof. The sound was calming and invigorating at the same time. But not today. Not this afternoon.
Today it was terrifying.
Laura and Mary were inside, supposedly working on their lessons. She didn't know what else to do. If she stopped their normal routine, all any of them would have to do would be worry. And yet, at the same time, pretending everything was normal was almost more than she could manage. The man she loved – the man who was her world – was out there, in the hands of a lunatic.
He could be...dead.
Caroline remembered the words she had spoken so recently to Joe. They had been so high-minded, so noble.
Alice weeps for you too. She's waiting for you, Joe, just as Charles will be for me if God decides this is his time.
The blonde woman sucked in air as if she was drowning. She closed her eyes and fell to her knees there on the stoop with the wind whipping her hair and the rain striking her face. First she asked for forgiveness. The words had come so easily the night before. She prayed they were of God and something Joe needed to hear. She had no idea what pain Joe Cartwright felt. Just the idea that Charles might be...gone...was enough to drive her to distraction. What if her husband had died in a fire as Alice Cartwright had – been murdered – and one of her babies along with him? She'd never touched liquor in her life and she was sure she'd never seek solace there, but she thought she understood why Joe did. The grief would be unbearable.
Would she be able to stop grieving if everything she had ever loved and hoped for was gone?
Caroline sobbed and lowered her head and for a moment simply 'was'. She spread her hands before her, entreating God for her husband's life and for the life of their new friend, for strength for her children, hope for herself, and simply for the will to go on.
In the silence, in the stillness, she was surprised by the touch of a hand on her shoulder. She was flooded with warmth, in spite of the chilling rain. The touch moved to her cheek, and then it rode the wind away leaving her with three words.
He'll come home.
Caroline stood and looked around. It had been a woman's voice, soft and sweet. "Alice?" she asked, but there was no answer. "Who'll come home?"
Charles, or Joe?
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Joe was staggering. But so was Donavan. The rain was pounding them both, driving their hair into their eyes and turning the ground beneath their boots to mud. For the first few minutes Charles had shouted, warning him of what Dave was doing and giving him an upper hand. That had lasted until the blond man had swung around with his pistol in his hand and aimed for the other man. He'd jumped him but the shot had gone off. Charles slumped, motionless. He had no idea if the farmer was alive or dead, only that the bullet must have hit him somewhere since he hadn't said another word.
Blood was streaming from his leg wound, weakening him. Anger alone kept him on his feet – anger at this man who in his selfishness was willing to destroy a good man like Charles Ingalls who had done him no wrong. It wasn't for himself anymore. He knew what kind of a man he was and what kind Dave was. He even pitied his old friend in a way. Dave was so caught up in being the man on top, the one who dominated everyone and everything around him, that he couldn't see straight. It was why Dave wanted to take him down. It wasn't about Poavey or the contract, him firing him, or even those five years he'd spent in prison. It was about that fight.
The one Dave lost.
Skinny Little Joe Cartwright, Ben's darling boy, the pampered son of a rich man, had taken him down and he couldn't live with it.
Dave was aiming the pistol at him now.
"Why don't you go ahead and shoot me," Joe goaded him. "You know you can't win without cheating."
The other man's jaw was tight. His eyes were slits. "You shut up! Just shut up, Joe!"
"Why? 'Cause I'm telling the truth? Because you're nothing but a little man who hides behind a gun?"
His only hope of living was to fight Dave man to man. One shot from that pistol and he was done.
"Why, Cartwright? Why?"
"Why what?" he frowned.
"Why do some men have everythin' and some men have nothin'? It ain't fair."
Joe's gaze went to Charles. "Money ain't everythin', Dave. That man you have tied to that tree, he doesn't have money, but he has everything."
Dave snorted. "He ain't got anythin' now. You know, you killed him Cartwright. It's your fault."
Joe had been stalling for time, gathering strength. Dave wasn't about to lower the gun and he couldn't just stand there in the rain waiting for Donavan to make his mind up while Charles Ingalls bled to death. He'd watched the blond man closely for the last few minutes, looking for an opportunity to take him, but there just wasn't anything he could think of to do.
Finally, desperate, chewing on the words and spitting them out like they were wormwood, Joe asked for help.
"God, please. Save this man."
Almost as if in answer there was a crack of thunder. Dave started and looked up.
The gun went off as Joe slammed into him.
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"Did you hear that?"
Isaiah Edwards' looked at Lars Hanson. "Sure did. It came from over there." He pointed toward a clump of trees to the left. "There's a clearing a little ways in there, near a stream and at the bottom of some hills."
"I remember it," Hans said. "There's an abandoned shack nearby."
"Makes sense," Lars nodded, pulling at his beard. "Those bad men probably used it as a hiding place."
"Well, what are we waiting for?" Nels asked.
Isaiah pursed his lips. They all knew what they were waiting for – they were farmers and trappers and store-keeps and blacksmiths. Men bred to peace and not to violence. Men who built and did not tear down.
None of them had ever killed a man.
It was Isaiah who spoke first. He spit out a chaw of tobacco and then tightened his jaw. "Charles needs us," was all he said.
It was enough.
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Joe lay on top of Dave. The gun was still smoking in Donavan's hand. At the last minute he'd managed to catch him by the collar and swing the blond man around so that the bullet went wild. Then, with a strength he had not known he possessed, he'd had struck the other man so hard he lost consciousness.
Which was what he was about to do.
Pressing off the ground with his hands, Joe rose shakily to his feet. He stumbled over to where Charles hung suspended from the tree and pressed his hand to his chest. The other man moaned.
Thank God! He was alive.
Faltering, barely on his feet, Joe hung on to consciousness while he searched Charles' form to find where the bullet had taken him. On the right side of his shirt, his hand came away covered in blood. He hoped it was a flesh wound. They could bleed a lot.
Charles groaned.
"Don't try to talk," Joe said "Save your strength."
The older man didn't listen. He moaned again and struggled to speak. "Joe...behind you. ...Donavan."
Joe swung around. Dave Donavan was on his feet and lifting the rifle he'd abandoned. With an instinct long forgotten Joe dove, rolled, came up with the knife in his hand and threw it all in one motion. It flew straight as an arrow through the air not through any skill of his own.
It went on a wing and a prayer.
Dave cried out as the blade imbedded itself in his heart. He looked down, surprised, and then pitched forward and lay silent.
Joe glanced at Charles, who was motionless again.
And did the same.