Of all the forts in all of Utah Territory that William Half-Foot could be sent on courier duties, it seemed almost providential it should be this one. The man that Bill's army patrol had found a few weeks before, bound and bloodied, and abandoned to die in the scorching, dry hell of the desert, was here. Bill had got to know him—well, as much as the fella had been willing to share—and he had developed a cynical admiration for the man who now called himself Liwanu. Bill had seen a kindred spirit in the wounded soul he'd shared a wagon with. They were both men caught between the worlds of the white man and that of the Indian. Unlike Bill, however, Adam had chosen to discard his own people and be absorbed into the band of Ute he had found himself living amongst. Bill recognised the strong desire to survive—and to belong—that had led Adam to this life-altering act. And the fact Adam had stuck with it, proved he was as mule-headed as Bill was. He had been sorry to leave Adam in Darwin, locked up in a jail cell until someone could decide what to do with him. But it appeared things had looked up as Adam had been reunited with his family. Bill wondered how he had adapted to life back amongst his own kind.

And now it seemed that Adam needed his help again. Bill made his way over to the stockade. He paused for a moment with his hand on the door handle before swinging it wide open. Relief flooded through him when he saw who was on duty. This shouldn't be too difficult.

The boy jumped to his feet from where he had been slumped in a chair with his head back and mouth open in a state of semi-slumber. He fumbled for his carbine but then relaxed when he saw who had entered. He propped his gun back against the table where it had been resting.

"Bill. You scared me half to death. I thought it was Captain Ashwell."

"Sleepin' again on duty, Frosty? I got a good mind to get the commander, you guarding a dangerous prisoner an' all. And I find you snoring so loudly the fleas were jumping clear outta ya uniform."

"I wasn't sleeping, Bill. I just had my eyes closed for a minute."

Bill snorted. "Whatever you say, boy." He walked indifferently over to the door which housed the cells, fingering the odd item as he passed. "So, tell me about this fella you got locked up in there?"

Frosty sagged back in his chair. "Which one? We got two."

A casually placed fist around the door handle drove the young trooper to his feet. "You can't go in there."

Bill frowned. "Why not? It's usually an open door to the jail cells."

"Captain's orders. He only lets a few go in."

Bill kept his hand on the handle, lightly caressing the metal under his palm. "Ah shoot, I was hoping to see the fella who I heard had taken down a convoy single-handed."

The young trooper lounged back in his chair and started picking at his nose. "He weren't alone. He had help from a whole bunch of Indians. Missouri Pete said there were about fifteen of them. Our boys didn't stand a chance. And then when they got him back here, turns out he's white. They think they caught themselves a white renegade."

A pair of narrowed eyes angled towards Frosty. "Theys cain't tell the difference between a white man and an Injun?"

Frosty stopped rooting around in his nostril. "Not when he's all covered in streaks of paint and wearing buckskin, they can't."

This was not good. White renegades were regarded with fear and suspicion by the white society they had been born into. It was believed that turning their backs on their own kind and taking up with the savage was just an excuse to indulge in the very worst that the Indian represented. They were seen as murderers and degenerates, drunkards and debauchers; not fit to polish the shoes of the lowliest scum in the meanest hick town in the lawless West. And now the army had what they suspected was a renegade locked up in their cells. The punishment meted out to someone like him would be much worse than an Indian would get. No, things were not looking good for Adam.

"Ya said there was someone else in there with 'im?"

The boy rocked his chair back onto its back legs, balancing it precariously at an angle against the wall. "Yep, there's an Indian fella. He's been here weeks. He was right rowdy when they tried to put him in the wagon a few days back. Got himself shot. Up here." The boy vaguely indicated the top of his chest. "He was too hurt to move so they left him here."

Bill looked hard at the closed door that separated him from Adam. "You tellin' me there's a sick man in there with a bullet in his chest. Why in Ol' Harry's name isn't he in the infirmary?"

Frosty's chair legs hit the floor with a thump. "Because he's an Injun, that's why!" His mouth dropped open with the incredulity he felt at Bill's ridiculous question. "Besides, there was a native woman coming and going for a time. She pulled him through."

Bill's fist tightened around the cool metal of the door handle again before he released it and limped over to where Frosty was once more leaning his chair back against the wall. He rested one butt cheek on the desk next to the guardsman.

"A woman, huh?" Bill smirked. "Wha'd she look like? Is she purty? She got big—"

"I don't know!" Frosty had one arm against the wall and the other clinging on to the desk as he rocked back and forth in his unsteady position. "I guess so. I didn't rightly notice. Anyhow, I ain't seen her since they bought the other one in."

It had to be Adam's wife, surely. Hoss had been told she had stayed behind at the fort. It had to be her.

Bill shifted around to face the young man.

"Look Frosty, uh, Willard, I'd really like to see the man they bought in. Cain't you just turn a blind eye for a coupla minutes? No one need know."

The chair hit the floor again with a resounding thump. "You know I can't let you in there, Bill. They'd have me strung up faster than you can say Jack Robinson. Why are you so keen to see him anyhow?"

Bill sighed. "Let's just say I think I know him. And if I'm right and it's who I think it is, well, he owes me a little bit o' cash. I only wanna talk ta him, is all."

"No, Bill, I can't do it."

Bill edged his butt off the desk and sighed again. "Okay, whatever you say. You're the man in charge." He headed towards the door. "I'm just gonna go over and see Captain Ashwell. I think it's time I shared my views with him on the slovenly conduct of some of the men in his company."

Frosty shot to his feet. "You wouldn't? Bill, I thought we were buddies."

"We are, son, but the safety of the fort should be everyone's concern, doncha think? And if I see sloppy behaviour, well, I feel I have a duty to report it."

He opened the door. A whoosh of hot air made him pause in his tracks. He stared out at the haze that shimmered over the yard in the glare of the early afternoon sun.

"Ah, Bill?"

"Yes, son?"

There was a sigh behind him.

"I guess it won't hurt none if you see the prisoner. But you can't tell a soul I let you in. I mean, I'm not allowed in, so if they knew I'd let you in…"

Bill firmly shut the outer door and heaved his leg over to the entrance to the cells. "I'm your buddy, Frosty, I wouldn't even tell my own dear mama." He reached out to slap the boy's arm and then with a quick nod, he opened the door to the cells.

xxxxxxx

Bill closed the door behind him and stood for a moment whilst his eyes adjusted to the gloom. There were two cells opposite him and only one grubby window on his side of the bars to illuminate the room. He pulled his bandana from his neck and held it up to his nose. It was hot and airless and the smell of stale urine and faeces lingered in the still atmosphere.

There was a man in the cell opposite him. It was the Indian. He'd been lying on a thin blanket but at Bill's entrance had propped himself up against the wall, one hand pressed high on his chest over a grubby bandage. He winced from the action. The two men stared at each other for some moments before Bill directed his gaze towards the other cell. A figure lay curled up on the floor facing the outer wall. He was still. Too still, thought Bill. The man's brow rested against the cell floor; black hair falling over his face. He wore no shirt and, even in the subdued light, Bill could see a myriad of dark coloured bruises and dried blood on his back.

Bill dragged his leg over to the man's cell and let himself drop to the ground. He pulled his mangled foot out from under him, positioning his leg so it lay straight. If he reached through the bars, Bill could just about reach the curled-up figure. He noticed with disgust the man's shoes had been removed and that the souls of his feet were swollen and cut. He placed a gentle hand on the man's foot. The figure flinched, pulling his feet out of reach of the bars.

"Adam?"

The man froze.

"Adam?" There was still no movement from the figure, but Bill could sense his tension as the man held his breath. Bill tried another tack to reach him.

"Liwanu?"

From the corner of his eye he noticed the Indian in the next cell jolt with surprise and shuffle closer to the bars that separated the cells. The Indian spoke in English. "You know Liwanu?"

Bill looked from the Indian to Adam. "I knowse him." He leaned closer to the bars. "Adam, it's Bill Half-Foot. D'ya remember me, son?"

Bill heard a long breath being let out, and then the figure stirred. With great effort he unfurled his frame and managed to lift his head from the floor. The man's face was still hidden under straggly black hair but Bill could hear him gasp as he moved. One arm managed to strike out and get a shaky handhold on one of the wall's timbered planks; using his grip as leverage, he heaved himself into a sitting position. He leaned heavily into the wall, his forehead coming to rest against the wood. With eyes closed and his energy spent from that small effort alone, he didn't move for several long moments. But then a painful arm was lifted to push the hair from his face. Bill was astonished to see Adam smile.

Bill leaned forward and rested his brow on the bars. "Ah, son, what have they done to you?"

Adam's face, torso and arms were covered in all the motley shades that only a badly beaten body could have. Bill stared at the horrific streaks of sickly green and violent purple and mossy yellow that coloured his flesh. The sides of his torso and his back were particularly bad; Bill assumed he would curl up into a ball when he was being beaten and so these areas had taken the full force of fist and boot. It was clear that Adam had received more than one beating as not an inch of his exposed flesh had escaped the onslaught; they hadn't given his body a chance to heal between batterings. Adam held an arm close to his belly, applying a steady pressure to allay the pain caused by punches to his stomach. His jaw showed where fists had pummelled him but, surprisingly, only one of his eyes was black and inflamed, with a laceration sliced into the eyebrow above. His lips were swollen and cut; but, through all the pain, he still managed to smile at his visitor.

"Bill." His voice was breathy with effort. He reached a stiff arm out towards his friend and Bill caught his fingers within his own.

"It's okay, son, Bill's here now."

Adam let his arm drop, the effort of keeping it raised too much for him.

"They beat him every day." It was the Indian. He had pulled himself to his feet and moved to the front of the cell where he was nearer to Adam and his visitor. He gripped the bars for support as he lowered himself to the floor.

"Every day?"

"The men from the wagons, Liwanu says."

"They…" Adam coughed as he tried to speak. "They didn't take too kindly…to a white man… dressed like an Indian."

Bill shook his head. "Darn sons of... And I see they even took ya cots away. Making ya sleep on the ground like—"

"Like Indians?" Adam smiled through the pain again. But then the smile faded. He lurched closer to Bill along the wall, dragging his body towards his friend. He reached out, gripping the bar of the cell, his knuckles white with strain. "Wanekia…my wife."

"I know, son, she's been here, may even be here still. I'll find her."

A barrage of knocking on the dividing door made Bill jump. Frosty's agitated voice could be heard through the wood. "Bill, you've got to get outta there, I can see the captain and I think he's heading this way."

Bill grabbed the cell bars and hauled himself to his feet. He looked briefly down at Adam who had collapsed back against the ground, his arm still wrapped around his stomach. With a disgusted grunt, Bill lumbered as fast as his crippled foot would carry him back into the outer office where he promptly hoisted one butt cheek onto the desk. Willard Frost sat quickly back in his chair. To a casual observer, they appeared to be simply passing the time of day.

The outer entrance opened brusquely. The man in the doorway stood staring into the room as if he was hoping to have caught the two occupants guilty of conspiracy.

"Half-Foot! What are you doing in here? You told me you were going to the mess."

"Well, captain, when I found out my ol' pal Frosty was here, I decided to call on him and ask him to pass on my regards to his dear mama, who I once had the great pleasure to make the acquaintance of whilst passing through Colorado Territory. A right purdy lady she is with two beautiful… Like I said, right purdy."

Frosty's eyes widened but his perplexed and somewhat offended look was lost on the other two men.

"I saw you talking to that big Cartwright fellow outside."

"Jus' passing the time of day, cap. He was sayin' as how he was a bit vexed at not being able to see his brother who I do understand is locked up in one of them cells there."

"Who we've got incarcerated is of no concern of—"

"I sure would like to be a fly on the wall when his daddy gets here."

The captain took a step deeper into the room. "What are you talking about, Half-Foot?"

"Ben Cartwright. Big landowner over the line in Nevada. He's legendary in those parts: rich, influential. I do believe he almost stood for governor once."

"What's this got to do with the prisoner?"

Bill dragged his foot over towards the outer door, pausing in front of the captain.

"The prisoner is his son, Adam. You gone locked up Ben Cartwright's eldest boy." If Bill didn't know better he'd swear the captain's eyes bulged. "I wouldn't be surprised if Cartwright is on his way here at this very moment." He turned and winked at Frosty. "Well, I'll leave you gentleman be. Captain," Bill doffed his hat. "Frosty."

He stepped out into the stifling temperature and limped to where his horse stood waiting patiently with a drooping, heat-bowed head. He untied the animal from the hitching post.

"Let's get you inta some shade. I didn't mean ta leave you out in the sun for so long." He patted the animal's neck. "And then I'm gonna get some grub. Cain't be looking too eager to talk to that Hoss fella, can I? I swear I can feel the captain's eyes burning into the back of my neck."

He took the horse's reins and limped off towards the passageway which led to the corral. He only hoped he'd put enough fear into the captain to make him stop the beatings. It seemed whenever he met up with this young man, he was in some sort of trouble. He shook his head and whispered into his mount's ear. "William Half-Foot to the rescue again, huh, boy?"