The Beauty of Darkness - TEN

oooooooooo

"Gol-darnit, Adam! You done scared ten years of life out of me!"

Adam Cartwright shifted his black hat back on his black hair and gave his brother a weary smile. "We're even then," he replied as he checked his horse and dismounted. "What were you doing kneeling in the middle of the road?"

'Road' was a liberal word for what lay before him. In fact, it was anything but. He'd nearly run his younger brother down when emerging from the trees that lined the hidden path.

Hoss stood up and dusted off his knees. "I spotted some tracks. Thought maybe it was Pa."

"And was it?" he asked as he came to his brother's side.

They'd met at dark just as their father commanded, only Pa didn't show. When morning arrived and found him still absent, Adam expressed his fear that the older man, like him, had found a false lead and followed it. After all, only the strongest intuition that something was 'off' had kept him from going on alone in search of the owner of that small and precious piece of brown cloth. Ever the optimist, Hoss disagreed. 'I bet Pa's found Little Joe,' he said. 'Now we just gotta find them both.' Shortly after that the two of them split up and headed out to begin the day's search.

"It's Pa all right." Hoss lifted his hat and scratched his thinning hair. "Thing is, I can't figure how he came to be here. This ain't the direction he started off in. He must have found somethin' made him come this way."

"Some…thing," Adam mused as he stared at the ground and the familiar tracks. Both he and his brother knew the cut of Buck's hoof prints as well as they knew turn of the curls on their little brother's head. The man in black looked up and around. The place, as a whole, was unremarkable.

What had brought their father here?

Hoss indicated the tracks. "Looks like he was headed north."

"The river's that way. I wonder if –" Adam broke off abruptly. "Listen. Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

The sound came again. Louder this time.

A horse, whinnying.

They turned in tandem as Chubb whinnied a reply.

"That cain't be…?" Hoss grinned. "It is! Adam, it's –"

He finished the sentence. "Buck!"

From the strength of the call, Pa's horse was nearby. As he ran, visions of what he would find on the other side of the trees raced through Adam's mind – all the way from his little brother and father sitting contentedly beside a campfire and sharing a pot of coffee, to Buck shying and rearing back from a body lying on the ground.

Whether it would be his father or his baby brother's he had no idea.

Nor did it matter.

The man in black broke through the trees a few seconds before his larger, heavier, brother. What he found when he did, stopped him in his tracks.

Buck.

And only Buck.

"Where do you s'pose Pa is?" Hoss asked as he landed beside him.

Adam approached their father's edgy mount with caution. "Whoa, boy. Easy. Easy now. It's me." He made a kissing noise as he reached for the dangling reins. "You're safe now. Hey, it's me!"

The buckskin had shied back, wide eyed.

"Be careful, Adam. He's awful upset."

Adam nodded even as he reached out to pat the buckskin's neck. "Where's Pa, boy? Can you tell me?"

The voice that answered was so utterly weary and doleful that it took him a moment to recognize it.

"I'm here."

Though he was relieved to find his father alive, Adam was shocked at what he found. The older man appeared to have been to hell and back. Pa's face was unshaven. His thick white hair, wet and wild. He was missing his jacket and vest, and his blue work-shirt – what was left of it – was in tatters. The exposed skin beneath showed traces of blood. Worse, though, was the look on the older man's face.

He could only describe it as demoralized.

The man in black glanced at his brother, gave him a reassuring nod, and then headed for their father. As he drew near, he noted the numerous cuts and scratches on the older man's face and limbs. There was a story here.

One he wasn't certain he wanted to hear.

"Pa?"

His father's eyes were closed. The older man shuddered and then opened them and fixed him with a stare so full of despair that he knew his little brother was never coming home again.

Adam swallowed hard. "J…Joe?"

His father shook his head, and then – like a dead man walking – passed him without a word.

Like a dead man.

oooooooooo

That night, after choking down a bit of food and enduring a period of forced rest, Pa told his tale. The up-side of it was, there was nothing to prove Little Joe was dead.

The down-side, of course, was that there wasn't anything to prove that he wasn't.

Adam cast a worried glance at his younger brother. Hoss was pale as a winding sheet. The big man had taken the news of Joe's…loss…hard. And that was what their little brother was – lost.

Gone without a trace.

"I searched the river bank," Pa said, his voice a bare whisper of its normal strength. "All day and most of the night, I searched. I followed the river to the bend and beyond. I went into the water, I don't know how many times, and worked my way into jams of bracken and debris. I even…." The older man paused. "There was a body. A young man…washed along with the debris." He glanced up. "Not Joe. Thank God, it wasn't your brother, but…." Pa closed his eyes and seemed to shrink. "He was some man's son. I…made him a shallow grave beside the riverbank. I fashioned a cross. I…."

Adam couldn't imagine what his father had endured. "I wish I'd been there," he said softly.

"No. No, you don't." Pa put his cup down and rose to his feet. He took a few steps, but quickly halted – almost as if he had forgotten where he was going. "It was hard, son. So hard. If I could have traded places with that boy, I would have. He was so young. Laura. Your mother… Hoss'. All so young" The older man's shoulders sagged. "Young as your brother…."

Hoss spoke up. "We don't know Little Joe is dead."

"Here, I don't know it." Pa's hand touched his head, and then moved to his heart. "But here…."

"You cain't give up, Pa!" The big man's eyes filled with tears. "You just cain't!"

"I won't. I…haven't." The older man turned toward them. "I'm sorry, son...sons. I'm…tired. Tomorrow is a new day…. Tomorrow we'll begin again."

"We'll find him, Pa. We'll find little Joe. I know we will!" his brother declared.

Hoss saw the smile the older man gave him as a sign of encouragement. Adam knew it for what it was; one of resignation.

Pa had lost hope.

Maybe there was something he could do about that.

Adam cleared his throat. "I never told you…. I didn't want to…." He cleared it again. "I never told you…about Kane."

He'd seldom spoken of his time in the desert. He realized now that was a mistake.

"I had no fear he would take my life. That wasn't what Kane was about." As he continued, his voice regained some of its strength. "Peter Kane didn't want to kill me. He wanted to break me and to compel me to accept his twisted view of reality as my own. I…almost did. I almost forgot that there was…good…in the world. Good in me."

"You're a very good man," his father said as he returned to his seat by the fire.

Adam snorted. "I don't know about the 'very' part, but I can accept now that I am a good man – in spite of being the instrument of Kane's death."

"He would'a killed you if you hadn't!" Hoss protested.

"No. He wouldn't have done that – at least not intentionally. Kane was like an infectivity. If it kills its host, there's nothing left to feed off of." He thought a moment. "Peter Kane wanted me to live, but to live as a broken man. A man without hope." The man in black sought his father's gaze. "Do you remember what you taught us about hope, Pa?"

A tear slid down the older man's cheek.

"You taught us that we all have an unexpected reserve of strength – of hope – inside us. I found that reserve. It brought me out of the desert and back to my family." Adam rose and went to his father's side. He placed a hand on the older man's shoulder. "I remember, Marie had a saying for times like these: 'Hope is passion for what is possible'. You didn't find Joe when you were alone today, Pa. Maybe that was so we can find him together."

His father said nothing, but reached up and placed a hand over his.

Hoss sniffed. "That's right, Pa. We'll find little brother…."

Adam squeezed his father's hand even as he realized Hoss had left the sentence unfinished.

As their lives would be, should Little Joe have drowned.

ooooooooooo

Joe awoke to the sound of rushing water and was startled when he realized he wasn't in it. He was, instead, laying on a cold stone floor, shivering in spite of the fact that it felt like he'd been spitted and left to roast over an open fire in Hell. When he opened his eyes the room swam before him and, for just a moment, he thought he was wrong – the river wasn't running somewhere close by, he was in it!

He had been in the river.

Hadn't he?

The injured man closed his eyes and tried to recall what had happened. It was hard because his thoughts were as muddled as his skin and clothes were muddied. There had been men chasing him. He was sure of it. Men on horses. He remembered the sound of the animals breaking through the tall grasses beside him and their rider's shouts. They wanted to kill him.

He had to get away!

He took a step toward the river only to realize it was rushing too fast and he was too tired. The churning water was as much of a death sentence as being taken by the men who hunted him He'd hesitated on the bank, weighing the choice between drowning and a quick bullet to the brain, and then….

Then….

"Sorry about your head, Cartwright. You could of made it easier."

His head?

Joe reached up to find a thick linen strip circling his head and holding his rampant curls in place. When he touched it, pain shot through him; pain strong enough to take his breath away.

The sound of footsteps echoed off the cave walls and a man crouched before him. "People told me you Cartwrights had thick skulls. Guess they were right. Sorry I nearly cracked it."

It took a moment before the wavering form took shape.

"Bastard," he snarled.

J. Crockett Murdoch scoffed. "Is that any way to greet the man who saved your life?"

Joe winced. The pounding, pulsing pain made it hard to concentrate. "You…saved me?"

"Sure enough. I pulled you back from the river's edge." Crock shook his head. "Fool kid! You fought me like a tiger. I had to take you down. Hit you with the butt of my gun. If I'd hadn't, you would have jumped in and drowned."

"Why?" Joe asked.

"Why what?"

"Why…." Joe tried to sit up, but decided it wasn't a good idea. He held his breath as the world turned end for end and then righted itself again. When he spoke, his voice had lost much of its strength.

"Why save me? You made it pretty clear back in the camp that you were going to kill me."

Crock stood. 'I've asked myself that, kid, a dozen times or more. In the end, there's only one answer: balance."

"Balance? What do you mean 'balance'?"

"You got yourself a Chinaman for a cook in that big house of yours, don't you?"

Joe was completely thrown off by the change in subject. What did Hop Sing have to do with the man who had wanted him dead keeping him alive?

"I know you do," the dark-haired man went on when he failed to reply. "He must have talked to you about the philosophy of yin and yang."

His head hurt so badly it was hard to think about anything, let alone Chinese 'philosophy'. "Yeah. So….?"

"When the life-force is in balance, things are right. They flow smoothly. When it ain't, everything goes wrong." Crock's visage darkened. "I got a right to make Danny Kidd pay for what he did. Ain't no one can deny it."

He could – and would have if he could have found the strength.

"But you…." Crock sighed. "What I done to you ain't right."

Joe's brows reached for his curls. "No?"

"No, and I'm payin' for it. Things ain't going right. So, I gotta make 'em right."

Joe's thinking was slow, but there was one thing he was fast coming to understand – he was dealing with a madman. There was an upside to that. If you could get inside a lunatic's head – figure out what they wanted – you could turn that to your advantage. Of course, thinking that hard would take energy and he didn't have any energy.

In fact, he thought he might be dying.

"What do you…?" Joe paused and regrouped. "How do you plan on doing that? Make things right, I mean."

Crock smiled.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

"Already done it. Saved your life, didn't I?" The madman jammed a thumb into his chest. "You got me to thank. I'm the reason you're still breathing, Little Joe Cartwright!"

As well as the reason he probably wouldn't be tomorrow.

Joe wrapped his arm around his waist as a pain shot through his middle. He could tell something was wrong. One of the blows he had taken – something Crock had done to him the night before during that last beating – something was working on him, dragging him down and closer to death.

"You've killed me, you bastard!" he breathed through gritted teeth.

"Maybe. Maybe not." The dark-haired began to walk away. "Anyways, I got me things to do, Cartwright. See you later."

"You're…going to leave me here? Alone?"

He hated how pitiful he sounded.

Crock paused at the cave mouth. "You got that wrong too, Cartwright. You ain't alone."

Joe raised his head and looked around. There was nothing to see but shadows and the silhouette of his tormentor. "You're insane!" he spat. "There's no one here."

Murdoch chuckled. "And here I thought you Cartwrights were God-fearin' men. I'm leaving you with your Maker, kid. It's up to God now whether you live or die." The madman rubbed one palm against the other. "My hands are clean."

Then, he disappeared.

Joe closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and sat up. Well, half-sat up – at least far enough that he could see outside. What little light remained was blood-red, indicating the sun had set and the day would soon be over. He must have been unconscious for hours. Now that Crock was gone, all he had to think about was the pickle he found himself in. He had no idea where he was. Somewhere along the river since he could hear it, but where? There were dozens of caves along it. Just how far had Murdoch dragged him?

And even more important – was there anything he could do about it?

Joe's gaze went to his feet. They were free, as were his hands. If he could summon the energy, he could just get up and walk home. Then again, that was probably why Crock had left him unbound: he knew full well that he had no energy. Something inside of him was broken. His ribs, most likely, which was no big deal – unless one of the broken ends had punctured something. His temperature was rising, so infection was setting in. Joe swallowed hard. He was a son of the West and he knew what that meant – time was short. If he didn't do something soon, his fever would spike and he would become delirious. Probably pass out too. Wild-eyed, he looked around. The shadows were gaining on him. No one would find him hunched in the back of the cave.

He was gonna die here.

Unless he got outside.

That day the bronco threw him, his brothers had rushed to help. After making sure he wasn't hurt too badly, they'd lifted him to his feet and supported him until they reached the house. Pa started shouting the minute the door opened, sending Hop Sing running for hot water, herbs, and bandages, and Adam for the doctor. That left Hoss. He'd protested mightily when the big man insisted on carrying him up the stairs, but had secretly enjoyed it, relishing his brother's touch as well as the comfort and reassurance it offered. Joe looked at the hollow of hellish light before him. The cave-mouth was fifty, maybe sixty feet away.

He would have given anything for his brother to carry him now.

Slowly, painfully, the wounded man dropped to the cold stone floor. Joe stretched out his left hand and sought a finger-hold and used it to draw his body forward a couple of inches. Then he repeated the action with the right. Once. Twice. Three times.

Four.

Each time, the pain increased. Each time it grew more intense, until his heart hammered in his chest and knocked against his breastbone like death calling. Still, he wouldn't give up. He couldn't give up. Determined, Joe dragged his weary body forward – inch by inch, bit by bit – until the sun drew its last gasp and darkness fell.

No, it wasn't darkness.

This time, he welcomed the black wave like an old friend.

oooooooooo

Sometime later, Joe opened his eyes. At first he had no idea where he was – then the only 'idea' he had was surprise.

He was still alive!

A groan escaped his lips. Now, he remembered. He'd been crawling, trying to make his way out of the cave so someone could find him. Sadly, he'd fallen far short of his goal. There had to be twenty, maybe thirty feet yet to go. He had to move. Now. Lift your hand. Find a finger-hold. Use it….

Joe's head dropped back to the stone floor. 'Face it, Cartwright, you're done,' he thought. 'You're not going to make it.'

His lips ate dirt as he whispered, "Sorry, Pa. I can't…."

'Yes, you can, Joseph."

What was that?

Joe lay still a moment, and then lifted his head to look. What he saw made him question his sanity. He'd heard that when you were dying your life flashed before your eyes, but he'd never believed it.

"Mama?"

His mother was standing in the cave mouth, her arms outstretched toward him. Beside her was a man – a tall, commanding, and familiar man. His father stepped forward.

"That's it, son," he said, "You can do it."

"Non!" his mama exclaimed as she started forward. "Benjamin, no! He will fall!"

His father caught his mother's arm and held her back. "Leave the boy be."

She turned toward him. "But mon cher…. Mon petite Joseph needs me!"

His father's tone was kind – but firm. "A child's first steps must be taken alone. It is the only way he will figure out where he needs to go and who he needs to be." The younger version of the man he knew looked directly at him. "Son, you have it in you. You can do this. Don't let it concern you that you have failed. Character consists of what you do on the third and fourth tries."

Joe's head had slowly returned to the stone. Weary, he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, the vision was gone.

His father's words remained.

He lay there a moment and then raised up and eyed the cave mouth.

Third or fourth? Joe snorted. Try ninth or tenth.

The wounded man closed his eyes again, and then reopened them with determination. He planted his hands on the cave floor, drew a deep breath, and pushed himself up into a seated position. Once he'd gathered enough strength, he stood up.

Then, he grinned.

And then, with the same lack of grace he'd had when he took his first steps under the watchful eyes of his parents, Joe Cartwright staggered out of the cave and into the night.

oooooooooo

"Pa?"

Ben Cartwright started and turned to find his oldest son standing behind him. He'd left their makeshift camp about an hour before. Both Adam and Hoss had been asleep, or so he assumed. He'd tried to sleep, but thoughts of his youngest son crowded it out and so he rose, determined to find a secluded place where he could talk things over with God. That was what he did when he was troubled. Some people called it prayer and he supposed he should too, but 'prayer' seemed too calm – too inactive a word for what he ended up doing.

Ben chuckled.

"Something funny?" Adam asked.

"I was thinking about prayer."

His oldest was a believer, he was sure, though Adam kept just what he believed close to his chest. "Oh? Not praying? Just thinking about it?"

The older man turned back to the vista spread out before him. "In New England, where I grew up, we were taught reverential prayer. My family had a pew – all families did. Every Sunday morning and evening we were there with our hearts humbled, our heads bowed, and our lips tightly closed. God was to be feared."

"Not loved?"

Ben looked at his son. "Do you love me?"

"Of course."

"And do you fear me?"

Adam smiled. "Of course. Though not as much as I used to."

"The God of my childhood failed me when I came out West," he admitted, his tone soft and a little sad. "You witnessed it and I'm sorry that you did. I became a hard, embittered man. That God was meant for safer, saner places. Not for this wilderness."

Adam came to stand beside him. "But you found Him again."

"Not again. Anew."

"How 'anew'?"

"Listen." He indicated the wilderness around them. "What do you hear?"

"Other than Hoss snoring? Nothing…and everything."

Ben nodded. "Exactly. "'And he said, 'Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the Lord'. And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord. But the Lord was not in the wind. And after the wind an earthquake. But the Lord was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire…."

Adam completed it for him. "And after the fire a still small voice."

"And the Lord was in the still small voice." The rancher stood. He placed a hand over his son's heart. "This is where God resides. He is with us in everything. His desire is to know everything about us, including the things that are not pretty. God wants us to be honest with him. If we hurt, He wants to know. If we are angry or confused, or even doubting, He wants his children to tell him."

"Are you doubting, Pa?"

"No." A slow smile curled his lips. "But I did give Him a piece of my mind."

His eldest turned back to the view. "Little Joe is out there somewhere, Pa. I'm sure of it. If he was…." The boy winced. "I'd know somehow, that's all."

Ben moved his hand to his son's shoulder. "Yes. I agree. I'm…sorry for my behavior earlier."

"You were tired."

"I was…" He cleared his throat. "I have to admit, I'd lost my way," The rancher gestured toward the stars. "I found here out here, where I always do."

"It is beautiful."

Ben sensed something in his son's voice. "But you'd prefer to sit in one of those stuffy New England churches, wouldn't you?"

Adam shrugged. "Maybe someday. Right now, all I want to do is to find that little scamp and give him a piece of my mind."

The rancher tapped his son's shoulder and headed toward their camp.

It was his prayer as well.

oooooooooo

To be continued…..