The Beauty of Darkness - FIVE
oooooooooo
"Joe? Can you hear me? Joe?"
Like the tide on the shore, the blackness surrounding him receded – and then rushed back in a tsunami of pain.
"Joe?"
The voice came from far away – across the rushing river, maybe. It was full of air and something else.
Fear?
Someone was afraid.
He wasn't. He was just…tired.
He needed to sleep.
They needed to go away.
"Joe?! C'mon, friend! Give me a sign here!"
When a hand gripped each arm and rolled him over onto his back, the black wave rose again. It was all he could do not to go under. The pull was as powerful as a spring tide. Once, when he was a little boy, he'd gotten away from his mama and run into one of those tides. If it hadn't been for his father's strong arms, it would have taken him away. Mama held him and cried and cried. She was afraid he would die.
Was that what he was doing now?
Dying?
"C'mon, Joe. Don't do this to me. Don't let him win."
With the words came a feeling – tepid liquid on his lips. Some of it dribbled down his chin.
Even as memory dribbled into that darkness.
The night was cold and he was naked.
He awoke surrounded by men; vile, abusive men. They taunted him, pointing to his privates and calling him 'little' Joe, as they struck him and bound his hands and feet and lifted him into the air. Someone nearby shouted his name. He knew who it was, but it didn't matter. There was only one thing that mattered.
That was surviving so he could pay the men back in kind.
He was carried like a coffin between them, and then rocked like a baby in a cradle and let go. When the river took him, Joe thought he was finished. With his hands and feet bound, there was nothing he could do but sink like a lead weight to the bottom. He would have drowned if the vile men hadn't fished him out and tossed him, sputtering, on the shore.
'Get him up!" someone ordered.
He must have blacked out. The next time he became aware he was laying on the grass, clothed in his shirt and pants. His tan hat and beloved green coat were gone. Someone took hold of his collar and hauled him roughly to his feet. They shoved into a ring of light where he stood, swaying and blinking. He raised a hand. The light was blinding and he used it to shield his eyes.
That was when someone delivered the first punch.
'What's the matter, Little Joe?" the man jibed. "Not feelin' so good?'
The second blow was to his back, just above his kidneys. It made him stagger.
He almost fell down.
Almost.
'I heard me that Joe Cartwright was tough as nails. You don't look so tough now…pretty boy.'
A shiver ran through him, even as his anger ignited and warmed him. He shouted something. Whatever it was, the reply came in the form of a boot to his back. He was knocked to the ground. Someone wrapped filthy fingers in his curls and thrust his face into the dirt. Then another man….
Stepped on him like he was nothing.
"You hear me, Joe? Don't let Travis break you."
The wave was black.
Black was good.
Black meant no pain.
oooooooooo
Danny Kidd glanced up at the circle of men clustered around the campfire, and then back down at his friend. Joe lay on his side, curled into himself. The ex-convict had done everything he could to prevent what had happened, but knew from the beginning there was little hope. If there was one thing Travis Mudge excelled at it was torture. He'd known what was coming the moment the prison guard stripped Joe's slicker off and left him naked and exposed.
You broke a man in stages. First, by telling him he was less than a man, and then by beating him down until he believed it. Travis stood by while his men humiliated Joe, and then ordered the cowboy bound hand and foot and tossed in the river. Just before he would have drowned, a crew of Travis' men fished Joe out and dumped him, naked, on the shore. Mudge ordered the pair that had worked at the Ponderosa – Bob Stevens and Asa Teller – to get him dressed. The first groan that passed Joe's lips brought the pair down like vultures. They swooped in, dragged him to his feet, and hauled him into the middle of a circle of lantern light where the taunts and jabs began again. Danny couldn't help but smile at the memory. Most likely Travis thought he'd broken the rugged cowboy. His friend staggered a couple of steps forward and halted with his head down, breathing hard. He was probably the only one who noticed Joe's tight jaw and clenched fists. If one of the brutes hadn't struck Joe on the back of the head at that moment, they'd have found out soon enough just how unbreakable a Cartwright was.
Danny leaned in close to whisper. "You hear me, Joe? He didn't break you!"
Just to look at him, you'd never know how bad off Joe was. Travis knew how to hit a man where it hurt but didn't show, and how to make him suffer without killing him. A shuffling, seemingly lifeless prisoner who failed to obey orders and do his work got the hotbox.
A dead one brought an inquest.
The ex-con winced as he tugged up the front of his friend's shirt. Joe had a lot of bruises, all of which should heal given time. One or two troubled him, like the imprint of a boot heel on his friend's back just above his kidneys, and the impression of a rifle butt on Joe's right temple. After they'd finished with him, the guards dragged Joe's unconscious form over the rough ground and dropped him at his feet. A few minutes later the man he knew as 'Crock' made followed.
Crock nudged Joe's side with the toe of his boot. "Means somethin' to you, don't he," he said.
It wasn't a question.
Danny sighed. To admit the truth was to give Crock – and Travis Mudge – a weapon to use against him.
To deny it was impossible.
'What's it to you?' he growled in return.
J. Crockett Murdoch, the older brother of the boy he'd killed a decade before over a slice of pie, spat on the ground and sneered.
'Ammunition,' he said.
The ex-convict closed his eyes and leaned his head against the tree behind him. He regretted it now, causing Cassidy's death. Regretted it deeply. But when you were told you were an animal day after day, month after month – year after year – you learned to be an animal. At that moment, that piece of pie represented everything that had ever been taken away from him: his dreams, his hopes, his liberty. Freedom. Life. By the time he was thirteen everything had been stripped from him until there was nothing left but a crudely carved wooden soldier in his pocket and whatever scraps he could beg, borrow, or steal. Danny's chuckle had little mirth in it. There was the irony! He'd taken from others. Stolen from them. When he did it, he saw it as a vindication of everything that was wrong. It was a way to put things right – to upturn a world turned upside-down.
In other words, he deserved whatever he could get.
So when Cassidy took that slice of pie, he took him down, just like the lyin', thievin' animal he was.
Because he was a lyin', thievin' animal.
Danny opened his eyes and laid a hand on Joe Cartwright's shoulder. Yeah, that's what he was until he met this rich, privileged kid whose daddy owned half of the state of Nevada. He'd hated Joe Cartwright at first – blindly and without reason – just because of who and what he was. That's why he'd thrust his shackled wrists under Joe's upturned nose and dared the high and mighty princeling to do something about it.
"You showed me, Joe," he said softly. "You really showed me."
Miracle of miracles – he got a moan in reply.
"Joe. Can you hear me?"
"ggg…wyyy."
"Joe?"
Another groan…and then the words were repeated, more clearly this time.
"Go…away…."
Danny wasn't sure if he believed in God. He had a hard time reconciling all he'd been through with the idea of a heavenly Providence, but he thanked Him anyway.
"Friend," he said with a sigh, "you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice."
Joe curled into himself a bit more. "Not…yours," he grumped. "Let…me sleep."
Danny had seen – and been the recipient of – enough beatings to know better than to give in to that request. "C'mon, Joe. You need to sit up." He took hold of the other man and urged him to do just that. Like a baby, vaguely reaching for something, his friend attempted to bat his hand away. Danny thought a moment. He doubted he could make Joe do anything he didn't want to. What could he….?
Then he had it.
"That's okay, Joe. After all, you're nothing but the molly-coddled kid of a rich rancher. What else can I expect?"
Maybe two seconds passed before he got the reaction he was hoping for.
"Wh..at?"
"Pampered rich boy. Always got someone to look after him." Danny went in for the kill. "I bet you couldn't sit up if you tried."
Joe's eyes shot open and then, he began to stir. The injured man pressed one hand into the grass, sucked in a breath, and shoved. The action caused his friend to cry out, but Joe kept at it until he was upright – well, mostly upright.
"Thanks, Danny," he panted.
"Here, let me help," the ex-convict said as he wrapped an arm around his friend's middle.
"Well, ain't you two a picture?" a snide voice remarked. "This how you got through all them long lonely nights in the lock-up, Kidd?"
Danny looked up, expecting to find Travis or Crock. Instead, it was Bob Stevens; the cowboy he'd nearly drowned in the Cartwright's water trough.
"You know them pretty boys," Asa Teller said as he came alongside the other man. "They stick together."
Danny felt Joe's muscles go taut beneath his fingers. He wanted to tell his friend it was okay; that this wasn't the first time he'd been accused of such a thing. What he didn't want to tell Joe was that there was some truth to it. In the middle of winter, in an unheated stone cell strewn with straw, feces and urine, a man took what comfort he could find.
Under his breath, he whispered, "Don't give them an excuse, Joe."
"You speakin' soft nothings in Cartwright's ear, con?" Stevens jibed.
Joe's fingers were bruised and bloodied. He'd fought back hard. It cost his friend as he formed them into fists. The 'pampered princeling' jammed them into the earth and said nothing.
That cost him too.
Danny had learned early on that men of Stevens and Teller's ilk – brutes like Travis Mudge – were looking for something. They weren't mean just to be mean. They wanted a return for the effort they were putting into being bastards. That return was your anger and indignation – the assertion that you were somebody and they had no right to treat you as nobody. If you didn't give it to them – if you kept your head down and your mouth shut – they'd rough you up, but after that they'd grow bored and leave you alone in your misery.
He didn't know if Joe understood that.
In fact, he was pretty sure he didn't.
Danny's fingers tightened on his friend's shoulder. 'Trust me,' the familiar touch said.
Joe bit his lip until it bled, but he didn't move.
Stevens stared at them for several long heartbeats. He snorted, spat on the ground, and then walked away. Teller glared at Joe before turning to follow. Then, without warning, the bully pivoted on his heel and aimed a kick at the cowboy's mid-region. The blow bent his friend in half.
With a derisive snort, Teller left them alone.
Once he'd caught his breath, Joe breathed between clenched teeth, "I'm…gonna…kill…him!" Then, he was sick.
Danny held his friend as he retched; his gaze locked on Stevens and Teller's retreating backs.
Only if he didn't kill them first.
ooooooooo
Hoss kicked a loose stone and sent it flying as his narrowed gaze took in the remnants of what had once been a camp – along with the confusion of scuff marks on the ground.
"This where you left them?"
"Nah. That was about a mile from here." Thom nodded at the odd bits of clothing strewn about the area. "Looks like they used the falls to take a shower."
The big man knelt to examine the ground. He couldn't help but note the twisted and turned patterns of bare feet in the grass, as well as an ominous trail in the dirt where their owners had been dragged away by men in boots.
"Dagnabbit!" Hoss cursed quietly to himself. Looked like little brother was right after all.
He done found his rustlers.
"You gonna go back and tell your pa?" Thom asked, his voice a bit shaky.
The big man knew why it was shakin'. There wasn't much he and his little brother kept from one another. He knew all about Thom and his drinkin' problems and the time Joe caught the older man with a bottle on the trail. It wasn't much of a leap to figure out that the ornery little cuss had used that to keep Thom's mouth shut.
Hoss rose and looked at the sky. Night was falling and the moon – what there was of it – was on the rise. If there was a clear trail to find, it wasn't going to be tonight. He could camp here and wait it out, but that would mean all three Cartwright sons were 'absent without leave' and he wasn't sure his father could take that right now. With any luck Adam had returned home and the three of them could set out in the morning to look for the little scamp that tried – and held – their hearts.
"Think I'm gonna haf'to," he acknowledged with a sigh.
Thom's head was hangin' down. "I shouldn't have left them alone. No matter what Joe said."
"No, you shouldn't have, but you did and I know why. My little brother can be mighty persuasive when he wants to be. I bet he pinned you with them big puppy dog eyes of his and told you he and Danny would stay put, or ride home for help if they saw somethin'. Then he gave you a smile and a wink."
The older man snorted. "That's about the size of it."
Hoss loved his little brother – loved all one hundred and thirty-odd scrawny pounds of piss and vinegar that made him up – but there were times, and they were many, when he wished Little Joe had come out a little more like their pa than his ma. Pa admitted to a wild and misspent youth, and to a boilin' hot temper that could blast the lid off the pot. The thing was, when Pa decided to get into trouble, he knew he was doin' it. Just like older brother Adam, Pa thought things through before he acted on them. The big man chuckled. Could be that made it worse! Little Joe was like Marie – God rest her soul. Joe made his mind up lickety-split and was out the door and on his way before you had time to grab your hat. That got little brother into a whole world of trouble.
Like he feared he was in now.
The big man clapped a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Come on, Thom. Let's go home. Ain't nothin' we can do now but trust to Little Joe and Danny to take care of themselves until we find them."
And they would find them.
He just hoped it was whole.
Joe wiped a shaking hand across his bloody lips and nodded. "Good," he grunted.
Danny smiled. Travis had given then a plate of cold beans and bread to share, as well as a canteen with about four mouthfuls of water in it. He gave Joe three of them, the last of which his friend had just finished.
"Better?"
Joe nodded and then leaned his head back against the tree. His eyes closed for a moment and then opened slowly to fix on the circle of men lying just outside of the campfire's light. It was night and most of the ragtag band was snoring away.
"Travis?" Joe asked.
"Sleepin' the sleep of the unjust," Danny answered as he capped the canteen and sat it beside his friend.
Joe snorted and then winced as he gripped his side.
"Broken ribs?" the ex-convict asked.
"Think so. It's kind of…." He drew in a shaky breath. "Kind of hard to breathe."
Bad as that was, Joe's ribs would heal. He'd had to help his friend…well…relieve himself a short time before and Joe's pee had been red with blood. That could indicate something far worse.
"How's your head?"
Joe's smile was lop-sided. "Well, I…still have one." The other man moaned as he straightened against the tree. "You think they're going to kill us?"
Danny shook his head. "No. We'd be dead already if that was what they wanted." His gaze went to J, Crockett Murdoch, who crouched on the ground just within the ring of light. Crock's gaze was fixed on them. "They've got something else in mind."
"Like…what?"
He inclined his head toward the fire. "You see that man? The one watching us?"
"Yeah. So what?" Joe sighed. "Just…another…worthless piece of…."
"No, Joe. He's different. Mr. Murdoch there is a righteous man. He's come lookin' for recompense."
"Recompense?" His friend shifted again as if unable to remain in any one position for long. "What for?"
The ex-convict pursed his lips and looked away, seeing that day again – the day when a man lost his life because of him. "The murder of his little brother."
Joe looked at Murdoch and then back at him. It took a second, but the cowboy was smart. "Not the one with the pie…?"
Who would have thought that you could kill a man – or a boy – with a fork? He'd driven that fork between Cassidy's ribs with all the force of his anger at an unfair world that turned helpless, hopeless children into sadistic animals, and hit just the right spot.
Or just the wrong one.
Danny nodded. "A man's life for a slice of pie."
"You didn't mean…to do it."
"You're wrong, Joe! I did. I would have done the same to anyone who kept me from what I thought was mine. You have to understand." He turned to look at his friend. "I deserve whatever these men have in store for me. The problem is…you don't."
"So why beat me and…not you?"
Danny had thought about that long and hard and was afraid he knew the answer. He didn't have much in the world that belonged to him, but the one thing he did have was Joe Cartwright's friendship. In a way, Joe belonged to him and he belonged to Joe. They were…well…like brothers.
And J. Crockett Murdoch knew it.
Crock.
He could see him now: a long, lean, lanky teener with brown hair touching his shoulders, part of which was bound back in a leather tie. It was why he remembered him. That and the clothes he'd worn, which were store bought. One day the warden brought Crock by. There weren't any introductions. He learned the older boy's name and story later from one of the inmates who served the warden in more ways than one and was privy to private conversations. The Murdochs had been a family that mattered once upon a time – before their old man hit the bottle and then hit another man with deadly force. The elder Crockett swung five days later, leaving his family destitute. After their mother drank a bottle of lye in a failed attempt to kill herself and ended up in the madhouse, the Murdoch kids scattered to the wind. Crock went north leaving Cassidy in the care of an older sister, who also died. It wasn't too long before Cass turned to crime and ended up in the poorhouse, sharing a dirty cell with the kids he'd once looked down on. The funny thing was, Danny couldn't remember Crock visiting before Cass' death. He'd never forget watching with fear from behind the bars as the warden searched the sea of wan, wanting faces, looking for someone.
And pointed at him.
His eyes met Crock's. Even then there was something cold and unnatural about them. Danny swallowed hard. He knew in that instant that Cass' brother had marked him for death and that one day, he would seek him out and make him pay.
That day was now.
Yeah, Danny knew why Travis had beaten Little Joe and not him. Crock had put him up to it. The beating was a message. The ex-convict wasn't entirely sure what the content of that message was yet, but there was one thing he was sure of.
He was gonna find out.
oooooooooo
To be continued…..