The Beauty of Darkness - NINE
oooooooooo
Personally, he hoped it was the kid's older brother who followed the right trail and not one of the false ones they had laid.
Balance.
That's what it was all about.
J. Crockett Murdoch toed the dirt and spat. In the end, he'd stayed behind. It had been his intention from the start to go with Mudge and the thugs from the territorial prison to Genoa to watch the robbery go down.
Then, he changed his mind.
What better way to control Danny Kidd than to be the one who held the power of life and death over Joe Cartwright?
He glanced at the kid where he sat propped against the bole of a giant sycamore, and then at the men surrounding him. They were all his with the exception of one: Asa Teller. He and Travis had argued, but Mudge had seen his point of view in the end and agreed it was best to part Teller and Stevens. There was still some debate as to where the pair's loyalties lay – with them or with each other. Crock puffed out a breath as he started toward the tree. The men with him were a hard lot. Some were ex-cons, like Kidd. Others, men who'd been set free after serving time and had nowhere else to go. All were outlaws or desperados. They were good for what they were good for, which wasn't much other than looking after their own skins. A few of them were none too happy with him right now. He'd pretended to sleep the night before and listened to their rumblings. He was 'wasting a valuable asset', one man said. Another said that Joe Cartwright was 'a gold mine' and the money they'd make in ransom was worth more than any decades-old vendetta. The dark-haired man snorted. That last one had rumbled a little too loudly and he'd struck him down fast as lightning.
He knew how to keep discipline in the ranks.
What a stint in the military failed to teach him, a stretch in prison had. There'd been nothing to do but think in that eight by eight cell and, when he came out, he was older and far wiser. Life was unfair. Didn't matter how you looked at it or which way you turned it, it was. The rich got richer and the poor got nothing but abuse. His little brother knew that all too well. Crock sneered. He understood his men's desire for riches. It was his desire too. Money might not buy happiness, but it sure as hell could provide everything else. He'd just learned to go about it another way. Shoot a man, you go to prison. Kill him, you hang.
Cheat him out of all he's got and make sure he can't tell anyone. That's how you thrived.
The dark-haired man passed a hand over his eyes as he drew to a halt. Every once in a while, like now, he had a feeling. Maybe what he was doin' wasn't right. Maybe….
But then he remembered.
The world owed him.
God owed him.
Balance.
Someone cleared their throat. "You okay, Crock?"
He opened his eyes to find Billy Lawton watching him. Billy was a young'un. Not much older than the rich kid he was guarding. He was a big'un too, nearly twice Joe Cartwright's size.
Crock dismissed the question with a gesture of his hand as he nodded toward the wounded man. "Cartwright?"
"Behavin'," Billy replied.
Crock looked at his prisoner. The kid's right cheek was red, like he'd been struck not all that long ago. Cartwright's curly head was dangling at an uncomfortable angle and he was obviously unconscious.
"Try not to break his neck, okay?" he snarled. "We need him."
The big man shrugged. "He got smart with me."
The Cartwrights were an interesting bunch. It hadn't been hard to find out about them. Everyone in Virginia City was bustin' their buttons to give you their two cents worth. Some found them high-handed. 'Old Ben Cartwright, he thinks he's better than everyone else, and them boys of his ain't no better!' Others painted them as saints. 'They'd give you the shirts off their backs, and then take you to the mercantile to buy a pair of pants that matched!' He found some who were scared of them, citing times a few years back when 'old Ben' had chased men off his land with a rifle, threatening to kill them. The oldest was an arrogant son of a bitch. The middle son, not so bad – but look out or he'd break you in half! The youngest one…. Crock glanced at the crumpled form at his feet. Pampered. Mollycoddled. Soft.
He laughed out loud.
From what he'd seen of Joe Cartwright, they didn't come any tougher.
His laugh caused the young man to start, and then shift and moan. Instantly alert, Billy jammed the tip of his rifle into the kid's shoulder as a warning. It was only then that Crock noticed the kid's feet were untied and that he wasn't bound to the tree, just leaning up against it.
"Living dangerously?" he asked Billy, indicating Cartwright's ankles.
"Said he needed to take a leak. I untied him and held out a hand – that was when he told me where I could stick it and I let him have it." Lawton kicked the injured man's thigh. "He ain't goin' anywhere."
The color in Billy's cheeks implied the suggested location had not been a welcome one. "He been like this ever since?"
"Til now." The big man prodded Cartwright's shoulder, eliciting another groan. "Hey, pretty boy! Pee-yew! You pissed yourself. That's what you get for –"
Crock touched the man's shoulder. "Lawton?"
"Yeah?"
"Give us a minute."
Billy looked puzzled, but he did as he asked – after giving Joe's outstretched leg a second sharp kick for good measure.
The kid's eyes shot open in pain. The cowboy winced and then closed them and leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree. A moment later, his full lips curled with a smile.
"Something funny?" Crock asked.
The injured man opened one of his swollen eyes. "I hate to admit it, but Lawton's right. I do stink."
"Look, Cartwright," he said. "I owe you an apology."
The other eye opened. "For what? Killing me?"
"You're not dead yet."
"But I will be." Joe adjusted his battered body as best he could, drawing up to the full measure of the dignity he had left. "You and I both know it. You can't let me go." The kid sucked in a painful breath as his gaze went beyond, to the men surrounding them. "And even if you could, they won't let you."
"Maybe," he admitted. "But that's not what I mean."
"Then what do you mean?"
The question was pointed and it stirred something in him – that tiniest bit of doubt. "The way I see it, you're an innocent bystander in all of this," Crock said. "Danny Kidd saves your life and you're beholding. You pay him back by setting him free. Maybe even become friends. None of that's your fault. You had no way of knowing what kind of a man –"
"You're wrong." Joe Cartwright's jaw grew tight. "I do know, and he's a thousand times the man you are!"
Billy was right. He had a smart mouth.
"Look, kid…."
"I'm not a kid, but Danny was when he killed your brother. A kid of thirteen!" Joe shot back. "Do you know why? Do you know why Cassidy died?"
"Of course, I know!" he snapped. "Over a stinkin' piece of pie!"
"You have it wrong. It wasn't about pie, it was about ownership. That 'stinking piece of pie' belonged to Danny and Cassidy took it!" The kid sucked in air and calmed his tone. "Can you imagine? Can you even imagine what it's like to be so desperate to possess something – anything – that a piece of pie is worth fighting and maybe dying for?" Joe shook his head wearily. "No. You have to face it, Crock. Danny was the victim. Cassidy died because he was a thief."
He had the wounded man by the collar in a second. "My brother wasn't a thief! You take that back!"
"I can't." The kid let out a sigh. "As much as you don't want to face it, it's the truth."
He beat him. He beat Joe Cartwright so hard and so long that the cowboy was laying on the ground unmoving by the time he finished with blood pouring from his lips and nose. In fact, it took Billy pulling him off of the Cartwright's motionless form to get him to stop. The big man reminded him of what he'd said – they needed the kid alive – before he shoved him in the opposite direction and told him to walk it off.
Crock walked as the sun set behind the mountains.
He walked as the camp settled down for the night.
He walked until the moon had risen and the stars showed in the sky.
It wasn't enough.
There was no distance far enough to separate J. Crockett Murdoch from what he knew to be the truth.
oooooooooo
Joe Cartwright opened his one good eye. This time he stifled the groan. He was lying on the cold ground in a pool of his own blood.
If he'd stunk before, it was nothing compared to now!
He stifled a chuckle, and that flooded his eyes with tears. He was pretty sure he'd about hit his limit. There wasn't an inch of him that didn't hurt. Then again, it wasn't all that much worse than the time he'd taken a spectacular fall off of a bronco and gone through not one but two fences and landed with his backside up against the barn wall.
Come to think of it, his backside didn't hurt.
He should be thankful for small blessings.
Joe winced and shifted so he could look at the man guarding him. The outlaw's name – Billy – had absurdly put him in mind of the story his mama used to read to him when he was a little boy about the three billy goats gruff. The three goats wanted to cross a bridge, but there was this big troll underneath of it keeping guard. They kept trying and he kept stopping them. Finally, the biggest billy goat went for the troll and 'crushed him to bits; body and bones'.
He sympathized.
Outlaw Billy's chin was resting on his chest. Joe was pretty sure the big man was asleep. To test it, he called his name softly and waited. His personal 'troll' didn't stir. Relieved, the curly-haired man rolled over and looked up. Through the sprawling branches of the Sycamore tree, Joe noted the position of the moon and realized it was near midnight. Turning his head ever so slightly, he looked at the campfire and saw a lot of boots sticking out of blankets. It seemed everyone was asleep. He supposed neither Billy nor anyone else thought he was going anywhere, beat to a pulp as he was.
But then again neither Billy, nor any of the men with him, knew Joe Cartwright.
It served him well bein' the youngest and, what people took for, the most pampered Cartwright. It didn't hurt being smaller than his brothers either or – Joe sighed – the prettiest. It meant people who didn't know him underestimated him. The thing people didn't understand – unless they were the youngest and the prettiest as well – was how that sort of thing lit a fire in a man to prove that he wasn't either. He'd spent his entire life trying to outride, out rope, outshoot and outdo his older, taller, bigger and – Joe chuckled – uglier brothers, and he'd learned to use every weapon in his arsenal from pouting to poking, to praying and pretending to do it.
He was really good at the pretending part.
Like now.
God, he hurt! He hurt like hell. Maybe even worse than when he'd awakened after John C. Regan ambushed him. Truth was, he might even be dyin' considering the amount of red in the pee staining his tan pants. But if there was one thing he'd learned in the two decades he'd walked the Earth, it was to keep fighting and never give up.
No matter how much you wanted to.
Joe eased himself up and onto one elbow. He remained where he was for a few seconds, breathing hard, and then sat up and pressed his back against the Sycamore's trunk. A few seconds later – after the world stopped whirling – he looked around. Billy was still snoring. None of the men sleeping around the fire had moved.
So far, so good.
Weary to the bone, the wounded man leaned his head against the tree, closed his eyes, and took stock. Murdoch had to be gone, otherwise he would have been had. The man was just plain spooky. Travis Mudge was gone too, and Bob Stevens with him. That left Bob's partner, Asa Teller, but Teller didn't matter. Stevens was the one with the grudge against him. The disgruntled cowboy would have kept a close watch. Asa was snoring along with the others.
So he might just have a chance.
Joe opened his eyes and looked at his feet. They were free and he still had his boots on. Which was good. What was bad was that his hands had been retied behind his back. He knew from experience that having his hands tied would throw off what little balance he had left as he ran. Still, he had to try it. Anything – any chance of escape no matter how remote or seemingly hopeless – was preferable to remaining where he was. He meant what he said. If Crock didn't kill him, the men traveling with him would. He'd seen their faces. He knew who they were.
He could finger them to the law.
Joe closed his eyes again and breathed deep, gathering strength. As he did, his thoughts flew to his missing friend. He wondered where Danny was now, and if he'd been forced to commit the bank robbery. If he had, it would be almost impossible to convince the law that he'd been forced into it. Danny was an ex-convict. No matter that he'd kept clean for nearly a year now, most any judge would send him straight back to the penitentiary. The curly-haired man opened his eyes and leaned forward. Once he got away, he'd need to find a horse. Genoa wasn't that far away. He'd go there first and, if the robbery hadn't gone down, do what he could to stop it. Danny was like a brother to him. He wasn't about to let him down.
Even if it killed him.
oooooooooo
Danny Kidd let out a sigh of relief and then dropped onto the wet grass underneath a tall tree. The robbery had been postponed. It was supposed to have gone down the night before, but two of Mudge's men messed up. Instead of scouting things out like they were supposed to, they'd gone into Genoa, gotten drunk, and put the law on the alert. Not that the sheriff suspected a bank robbery, but because of the brawl that ensued, the lawman had called more of his men into town. Then, after puttin' everything to rights, the sheriff and his deputies settled in to whet their whistles and swap stories 'til the sun crested over the hills.
Which was about an hour ago.
He would have gone through with it if he had to. Crock's plan was for Mudge and the other men to take part in the robbery along with him. Once they had the money in hand they would head out, leaving him behind to close the door. Sometime during the heist he was to 'lose' his bandana mask, so that – when he turned back into the bank just before his exit – his face would be seen, marking him.
Yeah, that was Cass' brother's plan.
He had a different one.
He was gonna keep his mask firmly in place and – in the middle of the heist when everything was pure chaos – make good his escape and head back to the camp to save Joe. Danny grinned. His plan was the one that was gonna work, mostly because Travis Mudge and his prison guard cronies were, in a word, 'stupid'. Bob Stevens was the only one who was smart enough to stop him and Stevens was dead. The ranch hand's short fuse had caught up with him at last. Not too long after they hit the trail Stevens and one of Mudge's men fell out over something. Hot words were exchanged, and then shots. The ex-prison guard fell where he stood. Even though Stevens was nowhere to be found, the trail of blood he left behind told the story. He was wounded.
Wounded bad.
Danny glanced up at the mounting sun. Mudge had come by a short time before and informed him that the robbery was on for tonight. 'Tonight' was a full eight hours away and that gave him plenty of time to figure out a way to escape and beat it back to Joe. Hopefully, by now his friend's family had arrived and rescued him. He'd like nothing more than to ride into that camp and find J. Crockett Murdoch and his men trussed up and at the mercy of a trio of righteously enraged Cartwrights. Danny winced and then ran a hand along the backside of his neck. He hated to admit it, but he felt kind of sorry for Crock. Not because of what Cass' brother would face at the hands of Joe's brothers and father – that he deserved – but because he'd caused him a lot of pain. Then again, he had to remember he'd been a kid when Cass died. A kid who had been treated like an animal.
A kid who thought and reacted like an animal.
He'd make it up to him – somehow. Crock, that was. He'd find a way to convince him that he was sorry. It wouldn't take back what had happened, but maybe it would go some way toward making things right. And if Crock wouldn't accept his apology? Well then, he'd do whatever it took. If J. Crockett Murdoch insisted on what he saw as balance – a life for a life – then it would be his.
Not Joe's.
"Kidd? You deaf or somethin'?" Danny looked up, One of Mudge's men was standing over him; plate in his hand. "Travis said you should eat."
"I'm not hungry,"
The man sneered. "Travis don't care."
The ex-convict considered refusing, but then reached up and took the plate. "Thanks."
"Right," the ex-guard snarled before he walked away.
He wasn't tied up because Travis didn't think he was going anywhere. He'd let the ex-prison guard believe he had him cowed. Every time Mudge made some snide remark about his 'pretty boy boyfriend' and how he'd take care of him if he stepped out of line, he'd acted scared. Sadly, he knew the minute he went missing Travis would seek out Joe and make good his threat.
Danny took a bite of food, made a face, and forced it down.
He hoped Mudge tried it. He really did.
That way he'd be justified when he wringed the bastard's neck.
oooooooooo
Ben Cartwright lowered his binoculars. He'd located the camp of the men who had taken his son just as darkness claimed the land. After a restless night with little sleep, he'd risen early and taken up a position on a rocky shelf that overlooked the area. For more than an hour now he'd scrutinized every inch of the clearing, looking for a sign of his son.
He hadn't found any.
The older man drew a breath and let it out slowly in a sigh combined with a prayer of thanks. There was something else he'd feared he'd find, which he hadn't: a plot of turned up earth indicating a freshly dug grave. His hope was that his youngest and his friend were still alive. It might be that Joseph and Danny were there, but kept out of sight. There was a single tent pitched at the back of the camp, butted up against a thick line of trees. One or both of the young men could be in there. Or, if God was gracious, they weren't and the pair had gotten away. That possibility both excited and terrified him. If they had escaped, then it was a sure bet that Joseph and Danny were being hunted down like animals by unscrupulous men with years of experience in the chase.
The rancher raised his field glasses again and returned his attention to the main camp. Even at this distance he could sense a certain tension in the air. Men were on the move. A few, in a hurry. Voices drifted up to him. Some raised in anger. Others, their tones imperious. He counted ten horses and eight men. It was a guess as to whether there were other men nearby, hidden from sight, or if the extra animals were for carrying supplies. In either case, Ben knew he'd best complete his surveillance quickly and seek some kind of shelter, lest he be discovered.
It wouldn't do for Hoss and Adam to show up and find him a prisoner like their brother!
The rancher shifted the glasses to focus on the tent. Something about the small hide structure drew him like a magnet, though he had no idea why. He soon became convinced that he needed to know who – if anyone – was inside. After all, if Joe and Danny weren't there, then they weren't in the camp at all and he was wasting precious time.
As he made his way down the hill, Ben formulated his plan. He'd noticed a big old, fat-bellied Sycamore not too far distant from the tent. If he could follow the tree-line, he could come up behind it unseen and then move on. When he reached bottom, the rancher halted to check the shaft of his leather boot. He wanted to make sure the long knife he'd anchored there had made the descent with him. Ben smiled grimly as his fingers brushed the polished handle of the blade.
Reassured, the older man moved into the underbrush and headed for the outlaw's camp.
It didn't take long and he needn't have worried about being noticed. By the time Ben reached the camp, more than half of the outlaws had mounted up and ridden away. Of the four left, one was occupied in emptying a bottle while the other three moved about breaking camp,
On one hand, Ben felt blessed. On the other hand, he was depressed. It seemed less and less likely that he would find his son or his son's friend in that tent. Surely if Joe and Danny were in there, a guard would have been left stationed at the door. Still, he had to be sure and there was only one way to do that – go to the tent, cut a slit in the back wall, and peer in. Ben halted his progress to check on the men in the camp again. The drinking man had joined the others. Whatever else the brigands were, they were efficient. Nearly everything was stowed on the pack animals.
He'd better move fast.
The rancher held his breath as he drew alongside the Sycamore tree. He had just made his mind up to pass it by when he spotted something marring its side – a dark rust-red smear that he took at first for lichen or moss.
But soon realized was blood.
There was blood everywhere – on the tree's bark, covering the crushed grass; seeping into the ground. So much blood! It was not pooled but spattered – as if the drops had been cast off as someone was struck over and over, and over again.
Ben closed his eyes.
Joseph.
It had to be Little Joe's blood.
He knew his son. He knew what happened when the boy was afraid – how fear became a fire in Joe's belly that consumed all reason. When he could, the boy would strike out with his fists. When he couldn't, he used words. Biting words that struck with the same deadly force as a bullet.
The concerned father's gaze returned to the emerald grass turned crimson.
This time, silence said it all.
oooooooooo
Joe staggered and fell. He lay on the ground for several heartbeats – panting, praying; his heart pounding hard – before pushing himself up onto one knee and moving again. He could hear them. They were coming fast! Unfortunately, it hadn't taken Crock's men long to notice he was missing and they were in close pursuit, shouting to one another as they drove their horses through the tall grasses in search of him. He couldn't let them find him. If they did, he was dead. There'd been talk of ransom the night before. He'd heard it while he lay awake nursing his wounds. 'Old Ben Cartwright will pay plenty to get his pretty boy back,' someone said – and they were right. Still, if there was one thing that kind of man valued more than money, it was his hide. There would be other 'pretty boys' to ransom. He was too much trouble.
In choosing to escape, he'd sealed his fate.
"Over there!" one shouted. "By the river!"
He was 'by the river' that ran not too far away from the camp. He'd hoped to plunge into it and make his way upstream. There were river caves there where he could lay low. Hoss had taught him the trick when he was young. Not even the best tracker could follow you in water. The trouble was, he had to have enough of a head-start to make it work. Crock's men were too close. They were closing in on both sides. His only option was to plunge into the rushing waters. The current was strong and he was weak. He doubted he had enough strength to make it.
A weary smile split Joe's swollen lips as he staggered to the shore.
"Remember Joe. Where there's life, there's hope…."
The water was flowing fast as Cochise could fly. His breath caught as he watched it charge past, carrying with it the battered remnants of uprooted trees and bushes, along with other man-made debris. Joe stood there, breathing hard, with one hand pressed against his side to brace it. The pain was dizzying. All he wanted to do was drop to his knees and flop over on the riverbank like a fish out of water and wait for the crows to come along and pick his bones. The weary man's gaze returned to the field. The sound of men in pursuit was close. Too close.
In the river he had a chance.
A slight one, but a chance.
Joe's gaze went to the rushing water. There was a battered tree trunk just like the ones his father's workmen felled in the timber camps coming his way. He'd been at one of those camps recently with Adam. They'd placed a bet on how fast the logs traveled down the flume.
He was about to find out if he would have won.
oooooooooo
"I tell you, I saw him not fifteen minutes ago. He was headed this way," Jake Shelton insisted.
"Well, he ain't here now! We've been up and down this stretch of the bank a half-dozen times." There was a pause as Billy Lawton eyed the raging river. "You don't suppose Cartwright went in…."
"You lose something, Lawton?"
The pair whirled to face the man who had spoken. J. Crockett Murdoch shoved his hands into his pockets as he emerged from the trees.
"Crock. We…." Lawton sucked in what courage he had. "Cartwright got away."
The dark-haired man pursed his lips. "Let me see, you had what in camp? Eight able-bodied men with guns? And you're telling me you couldn't catch hold onto one 'pretty boy' who'd been beat until he was half-dead?"
"That's just it, Crock! Cartwright was half-dead. That's why I didn't tie his feet." Lawton's jaw grew tight as his gray eyes reflected fear. "I mean, who would've thought he could even live after that beating you…."
Crock's words were smooth as snakeskin. "That beating I gave him."
"You had every right, Crock," Jake said. "Nobody's sayin' you didn't. Cartwright deserved what he got."
Murdoch's eyes narrowed as he turned to the river. "You think he threw himself in?"
"Had to," Billy replied. "We had him pinned down. There's nowhere else he could've gone."
The brown-haired man looked over his shoulder. "You sure about that?"
Lawton shifted uneasily. He shrugged. "You want we should keep looking?"
Crock bent, picked up a twig, and tossed it in the water. The river whisked it away in seconds. "No point," he said. "If the kid went in, he's dead."
The two men exchanged glances. "So, what do you want us to do?"
"Find the others," he said, still staring at the water. "Send them on to Travis."
"What do you want we should tell them?" Jake asked.
Crock considered it. "Tell them I have Cartwright with me. Danny Kidd's not to know he's dead, you understand?" He pinned them with a stare. "If Kidd finds out, I'll know who told."
Lawton nodded - warily. "Sure thing, Boss. You coming with us?"
"Not yet. There's something I have to take care of. Tell Mudge I'll join you later. Oh, and Lawton?"
The big man had mounted. He pivoted in the saddle. "Yeah?"
"I expect Danny Kidd to be waiting for me when I get there. You think you can hold onto him, seein' as how the one that was half-dead got away?"
"He'll be there," the blond man promised before he and his companion rode away.
Crock stood beside the river with his head down for a full minute, almost like he was praying. When he stirred it wasn't to return to the camp or to head for Genoa. Instead, he walked in the opposite direction; upstream, toward the river caves.
That thing he had to attend to?
It was time to make things right.
oooooooooo
As J. Crockett Murdoch disappeared into the trees, another figure emerged from them and headed for the river. Ben Cartwright had heard the men beating the bush, looking for his son. He had heard as well the conversation of the villains who had just left.
The villains who had killed his son.
The rancher's usual bold stride faltered as he neared the rushing water and gazed upon the torrent it had become. The late rains, a rock fall – a dam pressed beyond endurance – who knew what had caused it to swell and rage so? Ben knelt, searching for a sign that his son had been there and found it in the imprint of the boy's boots on the shore. Had Little Joe been driven into the surging waves by the evil men who pursued him or, in a last desperate bid for freedom, thrown himself in?
Either way, it was murder.
Even as grief clutched at his heart, threatening to drive the rancher to his knees, a burning hot rage arose within him and drove it back. They wouldn't get away with it. Not one of them! He would hunt Murdoch and Mudge and the vile men who traveled with them down and make them pay! Ben staggered as his gaze returned to the water.
But first…
First he had to find his boy.
There was a sharp bend in the river not a mile back. He'd check there first for the…body.
If the boy…if Little Joe was there…he had one last promise to keep before turning his attentions to his son's murderers.
That was to see that Joseph Francis Cartwright lay safe for all eternity in his beloved mother's embrace.
oooooooooo
To be continued…..