THREE

About twenty miles away from the Ponderosa, in Virginia City, a stunningly beautiful and young saloon girl wrapped in shimmering copper cloth sashayed across the floor carrying a tray with two drinks while humming a soft tune in her soft, husky voice. She was barely tall enough to call 'short', coming in at five feet one inch. Her curves were sharper than the hotel banister's; her corseted waist barely the span of a man's open hands, while both her bust and hips were ample. She moved with a surety that turned every head in the Bucket of Blood. Of course, that might also have been due to her picture perfect face, deep green eyes, and the mass of blue-black hair that fell to her shoulders in a wave of unruly curls. There was just something about her. It made the hard-bitten miners and the saddle-weary ranch hands rise from their seats when she passed through, scrambling for their hats to see who would be the first to tip one. When she was gone a stupefied smile lingered on their lips as if they had just been handed – free – a bottle of the Bucket's finest aged Kentucky whiskey or, maybe, won an immense pot in a poker game. Her name was Medora MacNamar and even though she'd been at the Bucket for less than a week, she was pulling in tips one hundred times higher than the regulars.

Which made the other girls a mite sore.

When she reached a table situated in the far corner of the establishment, Medora deposited the tray she was carrying on its rough surface and then lifted two drinks from the battered surface. After sliding them toward the two men who occupied the table's chairs, she planted her ample rear on the arm of one and proceeded to run her hand's through that man's thick chestnut hair.

Leaning down, Medora nipped his ear, kissed it, and then said, "Abdon, is that something in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?"

Abdon Walls, a tall man with pale blond hair and odd glass-green eyes, did not glance up. He lifted the whiskey and sipped it. "Primitive, but acceptable for a stimulant," he said, his tone absently clinical.

"Ease up, Doc," Medora said, the words dripping from her plump lips like honey.

"You will cease to address me by that wretched appellation," he growled.

She shrugged. "When in Orion's belt, Doc..."

The man in the other chair stirred. "Medora's right, Abdon. Repulsive as these clothes and the altered skin we wear are, we are in need of them to accomplish the mission."

A superior sniff was his only reply.

Medora shifted then and moved to Orlo Bond's chair, casually and deliberately releasing a strong burst of pheromones as she went. Of course Orlo was no more his real name than hers was Medora, or the Doc's, Abdon. They had used the onboard computer on their Orion star freighter to generate three Wild West names. She was particularly smitten with her own and thought she might keep it once they returned to their ship.

It could only make her more mysterious.

Grinning, Medora took two fingers and reached inside and drew from her tightly corseted copper bodice, with its dripping black lace and jet beads, several folded bills amounting to nearly two hundred dollars.

"Today's take?" Orlo asked as he fingered the printed paper.

"This morning's," she snorted, and not daintily. Human males were a weak and gullible lot! "It's more than enough to buy the last of the supplies."

Orlo, a rail thin man with slicked-back gray hair, dressed as a wealthy and landed Westerner in a black frock coat, gold canvas trousers with black braces, a black hat and ivory shirt, permitted a smirk to lift the corner of one of his genetically altered lips. "Then we can make our move tonight."

"What about the anomaly?" Abdon groused. "Someone else is here."

Medora watched Orlo's pale blue eyes drop to the gun-metal gray device peeking out from under the sleeve of his frock coat. They each wore one.

"Undefined and troubling, but not enough to stop the mission."

Abdon's lips quirked with an unpleasant sneer. "Captain's orders?"

Orlo pushed his chair back and started to rise. "You might say so."

His rising dislodged Medora from her perch. "My shift ends at nine," she said.

The gray-haired man nodded. "It's best we operate under cover of darkness. The target must be taken and soon, and with no intervention from the other biological units in the household. Once we have eliminated him in fulfillment of the contract, we can set about mining the silver."

"What difference does it make if he's alone?" Abdon shifted his long charcoal gray rifle frock coat back as he too rose to his full height, which was one foot taller than Medora. "Why not take them all out?"

"For one thing, it's in the contract," Orlo replied. "Curb your thirst for blood, doctor. You know better. A delicate incision effects the desired result."

Abdon Wells' face lit with a wicked smile.

"Just be sure I'm the one to make it."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Adam Cartwright had returned early from town. He'd gone to talk to Paul Martin who told him that, while he had not heard of Leonard McCoy, the name and signature on the letter were as authentic as the Georgia asylum the stranger said he came from. At that point, there was little they could do but go by that letter and the man himself. He seemed honest enough and had taken care of Joe.

After reporting what he had found to his father, he'd set about doing his little brother's chores including chopping the wood in the woodpile Joe had abandoned the night before when he went into the barn and, well, whatever happened, happened. Joe was fully capable of doing it – and he'd said so in a very loud, very clear voice that morning at the table – but Pa as usual was being overprotective of Marie's boy and forbid it, telling him he needed to stay close to the house and rest. Joe had argued and cajoled and worked his way with Pa as he usually did, and wrung from him a slow leave to travel into town instead to fetch some supplies they needed in order to begin mending the north fences the next morning. Even so, Pa had insisted he take a wagon and one of their hands with him, a new man by the name of Theron Vance who had signed on just the week before. They'd left about a half hour ago. Vance, who was about Joe's age, was an albino. He had white hair and pallid near-white skin. Theron seemed a nice enough man – and Pa was fine with him – but there was something about the newcomer that raised the hackles on the back of Adam's neck. He told himself the man's condition had nothing to do it. At least, he hoped it didn't. Vance was way too quiet for one, and had a way of looking at you with his crimson eyes that reminded Adam of a banker watching someone else count out his money. He wasn't sure he would have sent Little Joe out alone with Vance this soon, but then – as the sages put it – father knows best.

Adam had just paused to wipe the sweat out of his eyes and then raised the axe again, aiming to split the next piece of firewood, when someone cleared their throat, attracting his attention. He turned to find a hardy-looking blond man of medium stature dressed in brown striped trousers and a blue work shirt watching him. He glanced behind the man and saw no horse.

His suspicions instantly raised, the black-haired man dropped the axe to his side but didn't let it go, and turned to greet him. "Can I help you, stranger?"

The man smiled – a sincere, winning smile that lit his hazel eyes. "I was about to ask you the same thing," he said.

Adam ran his sleeve over his brow as he eyed the wood pile. "You're offering to chop wood? I take it that means you've been out in the sun too long."

The stranger laughed. "Could be, or could be I'm looking for work."

The eldest of Ben Cartwright's boys weighed his initial reaction against his growing acceptance of the man. "Well," he said, anchoring the axe in the stump he used as a chopping bench, "we have more than enough of that to go around here."

The smile grew broader. "Great. I heard Ben Cartwright could always use hands and that he's a fair man."

Adam nodded. "That he is." He held out his hand. "Adam Cartwright. And you might be?"

The man took it. His handshake was as firm as the confidence that exuded from him. "Jim. Jim Kirk."

"Where do you hail from, Jim?"

"Riverside, Iowa."

He whistled. Nearly two thousand miles away. "You're a long way from home, Jim. What brings you west?"

Jim was sharp. He knew he was fishing. "Nothing in particular. I guess I wanted to see the wider world." He turned in a half-circle, indicating the tall Ponderosa pines surrounding them. "There's nothing like this in Iowa."

"Nothing to hold you either? No family?"

Jim shook his head. "I had a brother, but he's gone. My father too, and my mother has her own life."

Adam's eyes strayed to the house. He couldn't imagine burying either Joe or Hoss, though he had been forced to face the possibility before. "I'm sorry. About your father and brother."

It was Jim's turn to poke. "You're a close family, aren't you? That's what everyone says."

"Everyone?"

"The people in town – and the young man and his unusual companion I crossed paths with a mile or so back who were headed into the town." Jim Kirk smiled. "I take it the one with the curly brown hair was your brother?"

"How could you tell? Did Joe tell you so?"

He shook his head. "Family resemblance."

Adam's black brows peaked toward his hair. "That's something I don't hear too often."

"It's there," Kirk said, growing serious. "Around the eyes and in the set of your jaw. You're both determined men."

"If there's one thing we Cartwrights are, its determined – to take care of our own," Adam answered, half in truth and more in threat. The black-haired man wiped the sweat and dirt from his hands on his trouser legs and then indicated the house. "Let's go in and talk to Pa."

As they approached the house, the door opened and Doctor McCoy stepped out. For just a moment the doctor's step faltered and his eyes narrowed as if the presence of Jim Kirk had surprised him. Then he was on his way again.

Adam looked from one stranger to the other. There it was again, that 'pinch' of suspicion.

"I was just coming to find you, Adam," the Georgia doctor drawled.

"Well, here I am. What can I do for you?" he replied as both he and Kirk halted about ten feet from the door.

The doctor hesitated.

"Oh, this is Jim Kirk," Adam said, correcting his omission. "He's here looking for work."

McCoy inclined his head. "Mister Kirk."

Jim actually laughed. "That was my father's name. Just Jim."

The doctor returned his smile. "Jim, then." He held out his hand. "I'm Leonard." The older man's light blue eyes left the newcomer and fixed on him. "Seems your house has become a bit of a way station, doesn't it?"

Adam's answer was tight. "It's not unusual. There's nothing else around for miles."

At that moment the door to the house opened again and his father stepped out, a questioning look in his eyes. "Adam, I saw you had someone with you. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?"

Before Adam could say anything, Jim Kirk stepped between him and the older man and offered his hand. "James T. Kirk, Mister Cartwright, and though neither your son or you are my friends – yet – those who know me call me 'Jim'." As his father shook the stranger's hand, Kirk added, "I came here looking for work."

The older man's eyes went to the yard. "Where's your horse? You didn't walk, did you?"

"Yes, sir, I did. As to where my horse is," Jim patted his belly, "a man's got to eat."

His pa's white eyebrows shot up. "You ate your horse?"

Kirk laughed. "No, I sold him to buy food."

His father laughed as well. "Oh, oh...well, that's better." Adam watched as the white-haired man clapped the stranger on the shoulder and directed him toward the open door. Once they'd reached it, he turned back. Concern lit his father's dark brown eyes as he asked, "Did Joe and Vance get off all right?"

Adam nodded. "Yes, sir. Jim ran into them on his way in."

"I see." The older man turned to the stranger. "Did the boy look, well, all right?"

Jim Kirk nodded. "Seemed healthy, and happy to be heading into town. Why? Was there some trouble?"

It was Doctor McCoy who answered. "The young man suffered a fall last night and was unconscious for some time."

"This is Doctor McCoy," his father said. "Have you been introduced?"

"Unofficially," the blond man replied. "I didn't know he was a doctor."

"Thank you again, Doctor, for what you did for Joe last night," his father said. "I understand you intend to leave us tomorrow?"

McCoy nodded. "Most likely."

"Please be sure to see me before you leave." Turning back to Kirk, the older man said, "Now, young man, if you will come with me." And with that they disappeared into the house.

Young man. Kirk looked like he was in his mid-thirties. At least Pa didn't call him 'boy'.

Doctor McCoy noted the smile on his lips. "Something funny?"

Adam shook his head. "Just Pa. I don't think he will ever believe any of us are old enough to pull up our own boots, let alone make all of our own decisions."

The stranger hesitated. "You sound a little...frustrated."

"Oh, don't get me wrong," Adam said as he returned to the axe and the woodpile. "I couldn't have a better father. It's just...well..." He looked up at the broad expanse of sky above him. "There's more. Somehow, I know there's more."

"You're discontent."

Was he? "I suppose so, though I have everything I could hope to have and more – a loving father, two brothers whom I couldn't be closer to, and an inheritance to rival any prince in Europe."

"But it's not enough."

Adam looked at the older man and grinned. "Are you a philosopher as well, Doctor McCoy?"

"Leonard, please. And yes, it is my belief that all who practice medicine are that."

"A doctor for the soul as well as the body."

He nodded.

Adam stood with his hand on the axe handle. "Look, Doctor...Leonard, I'm sorry I doubted you last night – "

"Don't be. There need be no apology for vigilance." The older man's eyes went to those same trees, but wore a wary look. "There are very big, very bad things out there, Adam, that seem to be drawn to good men like you and your father and brothers, as if the darkness needs to blot out the light in order to make itself complete."

His words sent a chill up Adam's spine. "You sound like you have experience."

The doctor's pale eyes reflected other places and times. "I do, Adam. I do. Too much of it. More than enough to last several lifetimes." When he saw his look, he added, "It's what happens when you sail off to see what 'more' there is."

"You're a navy man?"

Again, the stranger's face had an odd look. Finally he nodded. "I've spent my adult life sailing the seas."

"You'll have to let Pa know. He was first mate on a ship when I was born."

"Yes, I know," the doctor said softly.

The black-haired man frowned, his trust shaken. "How would you know?"

Leonard McCoy smiled. "Once a sailor, always a sailor. I can see it in the way he holds himself, in his easy sense of command – and a little bit in the way he walks."

It made sense, so why wouldn't that hint of suspicion go away?

The older man nodded toward the wood pile. "Doing your brother's chores?"

"Yes," he said, forcing himself to shake off the sense of unease. "Joe went into town for supplies. Pa thought that would be easier on his rock-hard head than jarring it by taking blows with an axe."

"He's a pistol, that young one. Isn't he?"

Adam took a swing and split the first piece of firewood. "That's Joe. Bullheaded, obstinate, and brave at times to the point of stupidity." He tossed the wood onto the pile and then added with a grin, "You know Pa's hair wasn't always white."

Leonard ran a hand through his own grizzled hair. "I know the feeling, only with me it's a couple of friends."

"The one you said was missing?"

The doctor let out a long, breathy sigh. "Talk about bull-headed and obstinate, on that point Spock would give your brother a run for his money."

Adam had put another piece of wood on the stump. "Spock?"

"He's...part Russian. His father was Tartar and his mother, Mongolian." McCoy grinned. "Makes for an unusual mix."

Adam brought the axe down again. "What happened to him?"

The doctor hesitated just a moment, as if recalling the right words – or making them up on the spot. "He was injured. They gave him morphine. I'm afraid he may have become...addicted."

He'd seen morphine addiction. It wasn't pretty. "I'm sorry."

Leonard's lips curled in a sad smile. "So am I. Spock's absolutely brilliant. I'd hate to think of anything happening to that mind of his." He seemed to drift away and then come back. "Now, don't you go tellin' him I said that," he drawled even as he sought his gaze.

"Sounds like me and my little brother. Joe's bright, even though he doesn't think so. It has nothing to do with book learning, it's all instinct. I admit I push him as hard as I can to get him to think, to slow down and make choices before he leaps into trouble."

McCoy laughed. He slapped the leather pouch he wore. "You know who I carry this for?"

Adam couldn't help but smile. "Spock?"

"Yep."

The black-haired man glanced over his shoulder in the direction Joe had gone.

"Let's just hope, in that respect, Joe and Spock are not alike."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Joe Cartwright reined in the horses pulling the wagon filled with timber for mending fences and glanced at his companion who had chosen to sit in the back with the wood. Theron Vance was dangling his feet over the cart's tail-gate, staring back toward Virginia City. Their new hand wore a light-colored shirt and matching trousers, which covered almost all of his skin, and a large wide-brimmed hat to shade his face. He'd explained that his skin condition made him more susceptible to the sun than others and that his eyes were weak and the bright light made them even weaker. When he'd asked Theron why he didn't stay back East, the newcomer said he came from Vermont and that there were too many people there. Too many people to stare and laugh and call him names. He'd hoped by coming to the West to escape that, but had found out all too quickly that men were the same everywhere. Vance was small like him in build and just about the same height. Joe knew what that had meant for him – constant fights to prove himself. Theron was a scrapper. He'd seen that in town today when some of the local thugs had tried to take both of them on. Joe shifted his bruised jaw from side to side. Pa wouldn't be happy that he'd gotten into a fight, especially after taking that blow to the head the night before when he fell, but like Vance he was stronger than he looked and they'd both come out fine.

Joe looked up. It was late afternoon and the light was fleeing. They were heading into autumn and the sun settled in about seven o'clock. They would have been home sooner, but the tussle in town slowed them down. Pa'd be pacing that path in the worn grass out front of the house, making it even deeper. Joe shook his head. He had a hard time getting his father to remember that he was nearly twenty-three and was a full-fledged man now.

Of course, Pa still treated Adam like he was eighteen, so what hope did he have?

When he laughed, Vance swiveled toward him. Joe nodded in return and patted the wooden seat beside him.

"Why don't you come up here, Theron?" he asked. "Ain't you tired of watching the world go by backwards?"

The Albino gave him an odd look. "I'm keeping watch," he said.

The curly-headed man frowned. "Whatever for?"

His pale-skinned friend turned and raised a hand and pointed toward a cloud of dust that was fast approaching.

"That."

One word. It was one word and it sent the chill of winter through him. Joe was instantly on the alert. He met Theron's crimson eyes and realized for the first time that Vance was neither a ranch hand or a friend.

He wasthe enemy.

"What have you done?" he asked, his voice robbed of strength by a growing fear.

Vance jumped from the wagon and amazingly kept his feet. Standing in the middle of the road, he replied, "What had to be done."

Joe eyed the dust cloud. It was large so it had to hold several men, and was maybe two minutes shy of reaching them. He looked at Vance and then at the reins in his hands. Before the other man could react, Joe slapped the lengths of leather against both horses' rumps and shouted, 'Hee-ya!" sending them forward in a frenzied burst of speed.

"Joe," he heard Vance call from behind him, his voice cold as a machine. "You cannot escape."

Damned if he couldn't!

Careening wildly, the supply wagon bumped and jolted over every rock and stone in its path, depositing lumber beside the road as it went. Joe bumped and jolted with it, reawakening the pain in his head. He ignored it. Locking his fingers tightly around the reins, he held his seat, shifting only to take a look behind.

To find the cloud was following him.

Home, Joe thought. Home was not that far away. He could make it. He'd raced wagons before, using more speed than was safe or sensible. With every shed piece of timber, the one he was driving grew lighter and went faster. With any luck, he could outpace whoever it was Theron Vance was in cahoots with. He'd get his brothers and then they'd all come back and –

Joe blinked. The light was dying and he wasn't sure. No...

Yes.

There was someone standing in the middle of the road.

Shouting for all he was worth, Joe called out, "Get out of the way! Mister! I can't stop! Get out of the way!"

The man didn't move. Joe had a split-second choice to make – kill a perfect stranger or himself.

With great regret he chose the path his father had taught him to take and turned the wagon.

A split second later Ben Cartwright's youngest son felt the right-hand wheels leave the road. Joe heard the horses' shriek. He felt himself catapulted out of the seat and into the trees where he struck one hard, slid down it, and fell into darkness.

Consciousness faded in and out with pain. Joe blinked and moaned, coming awake for the third time. Something wasn't right. Something... He just didn't know what. Whatever it was made him gasp and fade out for a few seconds whenever he tried to move. As he lay there, breathing hard, fighting to stay conscious, he heard a noise. Sucking in air, he held it as his mind fought to identify the sound. Footsteps.

Someone was coming.

Someone out of a cloud, wasn't that it? Someone who had descended from the sky to hunt him. He'd run, hadn't he? But he hadn't gotten away. They were going to take him, just as easily as he would round up a young green calf. Tears entered his eyes unbidden, partly from pain but more from shame. They were gonna use him somehow, maybe to demand money from his pa, or to make Pa sign over his land, or...

Joe let that breath of air out and tightened his jaw.

No...they...weren't!

Even as his pa's voice inside his head scolded him for not staying put and waiting for the doctor, Joe raised himself up on one elbow. After the forest stopped whirling, he tried to use the other one to steady himself. It was then he discovered what was wrong. That arm was broken just as sure as the trees branches that lay snapped beneath him. Sucking in the pain, he leaned back on the other arm and used it to push himself into a seated position. Then he tried to stand.

Tried.

The world rocked like the deck of that ship his Pa had taken him on once. It had been anchored in the harbor, but the sails had been unfurled and there had been a strong wind that day. It had shifted from side to side like a bucking bronco. At the time he'd wondered, because of the motion, how his pa had been able to walk the deck without being sick.

It was sure making him sick.

Rolling over, Joe dropped his head and lost the lunch he'd eaten in town with Vance a few hours before. Once everything was wretched out of him, he began to shake like autumn leaves. Still determined, he fought to regain his feet but was stopped and held down by a pair of strong, unforgiving arms.

They'd caught him! Whoever it was, they had him and they would use him against Pa! And –

"You will do yourself further damage if you attempt to rise," a soft voice, sounding nothing like he expected said. "Logic dictates you remain quiescent until the bones you have broken are set."

Joe blinked away tears and looked. His vision was blurry so it was hard to make out the features of the man who held him. He thought there was something unusual about them, but then he decided it didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

Nothing but warning his pa and his brothers.

"Men..." he managed to mutter. "Men...after...me. Don't..." Joe drew a deep breath as his hand shot out to take hold of the man's coat, "don't let them...take me. Pa..."

The stranger gently pried his fingers free and stood. For a moment, everything went silent. Then he crouched at his side again. "A party of four men is headed this way. I trust these are the ones of whom you speak?"

Joe blinked. The stranger sure talked funny. Fearful that admitting he didn't know might cause him to lose the only help he had, he nodded. "Yes. I think...they want to...use me or...maybe...kill me..." he said between breaths.

"Therefore, in either case, the logical conclusion is that it would be expeditious to remove you from their path."

The word was so big it made his brain hurt when he tried to wrap it around it. "Expe...what?"

There was a small sigh. "Wise."

Joe nodded, regretted it, and then began to push himself up again.

The hands returned. "You cannot walk. Your leg is injured as well."

Dang it! That's why he fell. "I sure as Hell can try!" he growled, fighting the man's hold.

The stranger paused. "I fail to see what the ancient Earth myth of an abode of eternal punishment has to do with whether or not you are able to rise."

"What?" Joe blinked again, trying to clear his eyes. Even as the stranger began to come into focus, he felt the man's hands move, one sliding under his knees and the other supporting his shoulders. A second later he picked him up. "Hey! What are you doing? You can't carry me!"

The man's eyes were almond-shaped and black as his pa's, but the look out of them reminded him of Adam – even to the way one eyebrow arched and his lips twitched at the ends.

"Your statement is illogical as that is precisely the task I have accomplished. I would advise you save your energy for what is to come. We shall be forced to move with great rapidity and you are likely to suffer."

And Joe thought Doc Hickman had a bad bedside manner!

"Who are you?" he asked at last.

An odd light entered the stranger's eyes. He hesitated, almost as if unsure of what to say. "They are almost upon us. Do you prefer I answer your inquiry or begin to run?"

Joe heard them. Crashing through the trees not all that far away.

"Hell if I care," Joe braced himself for action. "Run!"