THREE
It was after supper and Joe was still not back. Ben had talked to Anne and had a hard time calming her fears, but in the end had managed to convince her that it was not all that unusual for any of the men to be out late, or even all night. Things came up, he said, unexpected things that needed tending. If Joseph was not back by morning, he promised, he'd go looking himself.
In the end it had taken her mother's soft scolding to get her to bed.
As for him, old habits died hard. He'd rambled around the house for several hours, interrupting Hop Sing in the kitchen irritating his foreman when he came in to drop off supplies, and finally even irritating himself by how much difficulty he had thinking of Joseph as a grown man who could take care of himself. He and his youngest had been through a lot together, from the loss of his mother through killing fevers, blindness, and then, that terrible fire that had consumed not only Joe's house but his hopes for the future.
Feeling everyone of his sixty-odd years, Ben lowered himself into the blue velvet chair that had seen him through it all. He braced his elbows on the arms and leaned to the right, resting his chin on his fist. He'd sat here awaiting the birth of his last boy. It was here he had tested and teased all of them. And here, on that awful day in seventy-two, when he'd been informed Hoss had not made it. The thought of it brought tears to his eyes, so he closed them and leaned back.
It was then he heard a voice.
"Mister Cartwright?"
Ben blinked back the tears and looked. The great room was empty – or so it seemed.
"Who's there?" he asked, instantly alert.
"Friends," the man said as his shadow separated from the ones cast by the burning oil lamp on the side table, "whether you believe it or not."
It was a young blond man, about Joe's age. With him came another man, older, a little taller, with ice blue eyes and a genuine smile. Ben's own near-black eyes narrowed. The pair seemed impossibly familiar.
"Who are you? How did you get in?"
"As to how we came in, it was through the side door into the kitchen. We saw the light and figured either you or your son were still up. It was...imperative that we not be seen." The blond man paused. "As to 'who' we are – we've met before. Long ago."
Ben rose and walked to the oil lamp where he spun the thumb wheel, illuminating the pair. He cast his mind back, thinking over all the ranch hands he had employed in the last fifteen or so years. When the hook finally sunk into one, he had two reactions – anger, and then astonishment.
"Kirk..." He turned toward the older man. "And...Doctor McCoy." Ben shook his head. "It can't be. You haven't...aged a day. How can that be?"
McCoy shrugged. "Good breeding?"
Ben stumbled back to his chair and sat down. He closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. "I must be dreaming."
Several heartbeats later he felt a man's hand on his arm. He looked up to find Doctor McCoy standing by his chair. "We're real, Ben, just as real as the threat to your son."
"Joseph?" There was only one to worry about now. "What about...?" Ben halted. These men. They had been at the Ponderosa the day Joe and Adam disappeared.
How dare they?
The blond man he knew as Jim Kirk all those years ago followed his thoughts without him expressing them.
"As I said, Mister Cartwright, you have no reason to trust us. Our acquaintance twelve years back lasted a day or two and ended in mysterious circumstances. We...can't explain to you why or how we came, or why we left when we did. But then – as now – it has to do with the welfare of your remaining son."
"There are men who want to hurt him," the doctor said softly.
"Men?" he asked, looking from one to the other. "Other men than you?"
"We don't want to hurt Joe, Ben," Jim said, taking a seat on the edge of the low table that butted up against the settee. "A friend of ours," he glanced at the doctor, "a man we both respect and care for found out your son was in danger. He came here in order to help him. The trouble is, our friend ended getting lost. We've come back to find him."
"Why was Joe – is Joe in danger?"
McCoy answered. "We don't know. But there are men hunting him. Bad men, Ben.
"This time we have other friends with us. We think we can stop them, but we need your help – and trust – as well as that of your son," the blond man said. "If we could speak to him?"
"Joe isn't here."
The two men exchanged glances. It was Jim Kirk who was immediately on the alert. "If Joe's not here, where is he?"
Ben glanced at the stairs. "He...didn't come home tonight. I told Anne – his wife – that he probably ran into something that delayed him and made camp for the night." The older man paused. "I assured her he would be home in the morning."
"Good God!" McCoy breathed. "Jim, you don't think... Are we too late?"
Jim was on his feet in an instant. "What was your son's last position?"
Ben's fingers gripped the armrests, the knuckles gone white. "In the north pasture, mending fences."
The blond man was already on his way to the door.
"Jim," McCoy called gently. "We're supposed to rendezvous with the others, remember?"
"Damn!" Kirk spun to look at his friend. "All right. We'll keep that and then head out." He turned and looked at him. "Mister Cartwright, you have my word that – if it is within our power – we will find your son and bring him back to you." His eyes flicked to the doctor. "Come on, Bones."
Jim's hand was on the door before Ben could find his feet. "Jim!" he called.
The blond man spun back toward him.
"Who...who are you?"
McCoy was at his side. They both looked at him.
"Like we said," Kirk replied, "friends."
And then both of them were gone.
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As Ben Cartwright followed the two men out into the night, watching them mount two horses and ride until their forms became one with the descending shadows of the night, a slight female form stepped out of the others cloaking the head of the stair that led to the great room. Her eyes on the older man, she quickly descended without a sound and passed into the kitchen. Once there, Anne Cartwright gripped the edge of Hop Sing's preparation table, breathing deeply to steady her nerves. She didn't know who those men were, but she could hear the truth in their voices. They believed Joe was in deadly danger. Someone had taken him.
Someone who meant to harm or, maybe kill him.
Anne glanced at her attire. She was wearing her night dress. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but finding the father of her child and making certain he was safe and whole. Looking out of the kitchen window, she checked to see if Ben was still there. He was. His back was bent. He looked like he'd aged twenty years.
She watched Ben return to the house a few minutes later with his head down, as though he feared the worst had already happened, and head for his office.
Once her father-in-law was settled, Anne slipped out the side door and headed for the stable. There would be spare boots there – too big, but they'd do. Joe had ridden out on a sturdy work animal that morning, leaving his current Paint behind. He called this one Cochise too. The horse knew her. It would carry her without question.
After finding a spare pair of Joe's boots and stuffing the toes so they wouldn't fall off her smaller feet, Anne saddled Cochise and mounted. Pointing the horse's nose toward the open door, she moved him outside and then leaned down and breathed next to his ear.
"Cooch, Joe's in trouble. Find Joe."
The horse blew air out of his nostrils and nickered, and then he flew like the wind.
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Nyota Uhura was standing at the bar in the Bucket of Blood saloon watching the crowd. She glanced at the clock. Her shift ended in thirty minutes and she was supposed to meet with the Captain and the others in approximately two hours at a point halfway between the city and the Cartwright ranch. So far the only things she'd managed to collect were propositions, a couple of drunken proposals, and a coarse handprint on her rear. It had been interesting at the start of her day to watch the cowboys and miners file in one by one and take note of her presence. One, who sounded like he was from one of the southern states, had complained to the Bucket's owner, saying he had polluted the atmosphere of the establishment by employing a 'Darkie'. Nyota's lips curled. He had quickly been shouted down by a dozen others and then taken by the collar and thrown into the street amidst cheers and boos.
Apparently, she was considered rather exotic by the rough and tumble white men who frequented the bar and, when she began to sing, they'd hung on every word and every sashay of her ample hips. She'd gone from table to table, playing up to them, running fingers along their scruffy sun-burnt faces as she searched each one for a sign of anything out of the ordinary. For the greater part of the day she had found nothing.
That had changed five minutes ago.
The Bucket had the stereotypical swinging doors that ushered sober men in and drunks out. She'd heard them swing a hundred times since she'd started her day. Still, there was something different the last time it happened. Maybe it was the hush that fell on the room. Maybe it was the fact that all heads turned.
Maybe it was the man who made them turn.
She was waiting on a tray of drinks and doing her best not to stare. The man was dressed in black from his hat to his snakeskin boots, and had his gun tied down just like all of the illustrations she'd seen of gunslingers in the Wild West. Nyota's beautiful face formed a half-smile. So not all stereotypes were untrue. But unlike those illustrations, his skin was neither tough as leather nor burnt brown by constant exposure to the sun. It was white. Pure white. So was his hair. But his eyes, his eyes...
They were crimson.
She recognized him as an albino, a person effected by a genetic disorder that resulted in a lack of pigmentation of the skin. Other than a thin band of skin at his wrists, where his sleeves failed to meet with his gloves, and his face, he was entirely swathed in cloth, most likely to protect that sensitive skin. Just looking at him set off all the alarm bells her academy training had given her. She didn't know how she knew, but somehow she did. This man was not from this time anymore than she was.
She wondered if he could tell the same thing about her.
"Here, you are, Nyota," the barkeep said. "Take this to table three and then you can call it a night." He looked her up and down and shook his head, making a sort of 'yummy' sound. "Best thing I ever did, hiring you."
She leaned in and ran a finger under his chin. "Thanks, honey. Best for me too."
The big man gulped. She held the pose for a minute, tempted to pull her finger toward her to see if he drifted after it like that ancient cartoon character transported by the thought of a delicious treat. She let him loose and watched his jaw fall toward the counter. Picking up the tray, Uhura held it to one side and made her way through the crowd, flirting as she went. As it happened, table three was right next to where the black and white gunslinger had decided to take a seat.
Smiling at the men who had ordered the whiskeys she carried, she lifted them from the tray and placed them on the table. Then, without looking at the albino, she headed back to the bar. It wouldn't do to let him know she was interested, and he didn't look like the type that would play any sort of game. It was better to remain aloof and then let the captain know about him. If he posed any kind of threat – other than to the men in the Bucket – they'd soon find out.
Five minutes later the handsome Black woman left the back room of the bar and headed for the door. Night was falling and the fading sun painted the dusty path in front of the saloon orange-red. She'd just stepped off the boardwalk and into the street when she felt someone take hold of her arm.
"Mister, if you know what's good for you, I'd advise you let go," she said as she turned. Then, she fell silent.
It was the albino.
His crimson eyes were lit by a sort of immoral delight as if, like a child, he knew the secret to the game and she did not.
"I'll let go once I deliver my message," he said.
She held still. "Message?"
"Tell your captain, Curran Theron is here."
"Curran Theron. That's it?"
He nodded and did as he said. He let go.
"One more thing," Theron added as he backed into the shadows.
"What's that?" she challenged.
"He cannot win."
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"I keep tellin' ya, there ain't no one in Virginia City answerin' to that there description! Are you deef?"
Montgomery Scot folded his arms over his tartan sash. "Arrre ye surre, Mon?" he asked, laying it on thick.
"Son, I been from one end of this here town to the other today, and there ain't no tall skinny maybe-Asian, maybe-not man with pointy eyebrows who speaks like a perfessor and is dressed all in black, nowhere no how!"
Scotty buried the smile the sheriff's description brought to his lips. Was that what he had said? Appearing to consider what the lawman had told him, he lowered his eyebrows and his voice. "Noo, ye arrre not pullin' my leg, arrre ye?"
Roy Coffee's pale eyes went to what lay just below the hem of his kilt. "I wouldn't take hold of one of those pale hairy legs of your'n if'n you paid me!"
The Enterprise's engineer sputtered. "Pale! Skinny! Mon, I'll have ye know that those arrre the legs of a Scotsman and thereforrre, farrr betterrr than yours, ye wee sun-baked scantily bewhiskered mon!"
"Listen here," the sheriff countered. "I've half a mind to throw you into one of my cells for disturbin' my peace! I got a lot of things to do to catch up." The lawman leaned on his desk and glared at him. "Now you go on and get outta here!" With that Roy Coffee turned and headed for the safe at the back of the room. "God must hate me," he muttered as he went. "Why I ever let Ben Cartwright talk me into comin' back to this here one-horse town, I don't know. And what 'd I ever do to deserve this sort of thing at the end of the day?" He glanced back to see if the Scotsman had left.
He had not.
"Well, what're you waitin' for?"
Scotty remained as he was, arms crossed. "Just admirrrin' the law at worrrk."
"For the love of Pete! I'm gettin' my keys and I'm goin' home, and..." He was working at the combination.
It wasn't working.
"Dag-nab it!"
"Could you use a wee bit of help, Sheriff?" the engineer asked.
"I know enough to get my own safe open," he snapped, fiddling with the dial and listening to the tumblers. "Now what in Sam Hill's wrong with this thing?"
"I'm handy with locks, if I do say so myself. Arrre you surrre you don't want me to take a look?"
Roy let out a sigh as big as the Ponderosa.
"Good!" Scotty said, smacking his hands together. "Out of my way, lad."
Leaning down he listened. Compared to the Enterprise security systems, opening an old-fashioned tumbler lock was like taking candy from a baby. Scotty worked it one way and then the other and then stood back as it clicked and opened.
And cooed with admiration.
Reaching into the safe he pulled out a bottle that sat next to the sheriff's keys. It carried the Rosebank label and was dated eighteen-forty-five. His eyebrows peaked as he asked, "Arrre you a Scotch drinkin' mon, then?"
The sheriff actually smiled. "It ain't worth drinkin' if it don't put hair on your chest." Roy Coffee's blue eyes crinkled. "Or on your legs, in your case."
Scotty blinked – and then roared. Picking up the sheriff's keys in his free hand, he crossed to the older man. He held both hands out, offering the keys – and the whiskey.
"Well, sheriff, which will it be? Arrre you going home to an empty house and a cold supperrr, or would you like to bet who can drrrink who under that therrre desk of yourrrs?"
Roy Coffee stared at him. He took the keys in his hand and tossed them toward the door.
The lawman thought a moment.
"Pull up your skirts, stranger, and take a seat. I'll get the glasses."
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Kirk and McCoy rode hard and reached the rendezvous early. It was his hope that the others might do the same, but when they reached the halfway point between the Ponderosa and Virginia City there was no one there but Sulu.
"Any news of Mister Spock, Captain?" his helmsman asked.
Kirk answered even as he dismounted. "No. Nothing. You?"
"I was lucky. The Cartwright's cook was actually in town to visit his uncle. I was introduced as number thirty-one cousin," he laughed. "It's amazing how quickly I was accepted."
"Did you have any luck?" McCoy asked as he joined them.
He shook his head. "From what I can tell, Mister Spock never made contact with Hop Sing. The only strangers he remembered, and that was vaguely, were you two. Apparently you made him nervous all those years ago."
"That's it, then?"
"Well, there was one other thing. I don't know if it means anything."
"What's that?" Kirk asked.
"There was a ranch hand, came about that same time, in eighteen-sixty-four. He thought he was with you. Hop Sing said he looked like a devil.
"Why's that?" McCoy asked.
"From the description I would say he was an albino, Captain. It was the crimson eyes." Sulu grinned. "Hop Sing thought he was a human incarnation of a dragon."
"An albino?" the doctor asked. "In the West? Seems a strange place for a man with an aversion to light to settle." He paused. "Jim?"
Kirk nodded. "I remember him. His name was...Theron Vance. Remember, Bones, the man was with Joe Cartwright when the accident happened. The one that almost killed Joe."
Bones shrugged. "Vaguely," he said.
"We left before we found out what happened to him." Kirk's thoughts were whirling. He turned to Sulu. "Did Hop Sing say?"
Sulu shrugged. "Hop Sing said Vance turned into a dragon and flew away. I asked around. Apparently he worked for the Cartwrights for a short time and then disappeared."
"Jim," McCoy asked, "what are you doing?"
He was tapping his forehead, trying to force a memory to the fore. "Bones." Kirk looked up. "Bones. What was it you told me about that crewmember you passed in the hall before you found me in Spock's quarters?"
McCoy frowned. "You mean the one with anemia?"
Kirk nodded. "Could he have been an Albino?"
Bones considered it. "I didn't see him well. Just saw he was too pale." He shrugged. "Could have been. Is it important?"
He thought it might be.
"Do you think he's following us, Captain?" Sulu asked.
"Or preceding us," he said, his tone dark.
"I saw him too," a new voice added. "Just now, in the Bucket of Blood."
They turned to find Uhura had arrived. She moved forward with her usual determined stride, her silk skirts swishing. "Captain, a man fitting that description came into the Bucket just as my shift ended. He had a message for you."
Kirk's brows lifted. "For me?"
She nodded.
"What was it?"
"He said to tell you his name was 'Curran Vance' and..."
"Uhura?"
"That you cannot win."
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Anne Cartwright had dismounted. Leaving Cochise behind, she followed the strangers who had visited the ranch house through the trees to their rendezvous. There were four of them now. It was obvious from what they said that they had been spying on the house and all of them but, for some reason, she didn't fear them. It seemed they were here to help. To help her, to help Ben.
To help Joe.
Drawing closer, she continued to listen to their conversation.
"Has anyone seen Scotty?" the blond man asked. "Sulu? Uhura?"
Both of them shook their heads. The Chinese man said, "The last time I saw him, Captain, he was with Sheriff Coffee."
Captain?
The captain nodded. "Probably following a lead." He paused a moment and then went on. "We can't wait any longer. From what we understand, Joe Cartwright has disappeared. Maybe he's been taken. We have to get on the trail. Sulu?"
The Chinese man stepped forward. "Sir?"
"I want you and Uhura to go to the Ponderosa. Come up with a cover story. Sulu, you lean on being cousin number thirty-one and Uhura..."
The negro woman grinned. "And me? How do we explain me?"
Kirk eyed her. "In that get-up, I'm thinking maybe a traveling actress?" His gaze flicked to the Chinese man. "Sulu, you can be her servant."
The woman laughed. It was a magical sound. "That works."
"Keep a watch on the place. I understand Joe Cartwright has a wife. Whoever is behind this might try to take her, to make Joe do...whatever it is they want him to do."
Anne drew a breath. She hadn't thought of that – that her rash action might actually put Joe in greater danger.
As the strangers continued to speak, Anne began to back away, intent on returning to Cochise. She was confused. What should she do? Everything that was in her screamed she needed to go after her husband, but, maybe...
Maybe, she should just go home.
When she reached Joe's horse, she paused to pat his neck. "Sorry, boy, that I ran you so hard. I think I made a mistake. I think – "
"You didn't make a mistake, my dear."
Anne started. She glanced around but saw no one. "Who?"
Without warning a white hand clamped over her mouth and a sinister voice whispered in her ear.
"You are precisely where I want you."
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THREE A
Joe Cartwright groaned as he opened his eyes. At first he was confused because the ground seemed to be shaking beneath him. Then he realized he was in the bed of a wagon. It was painful to move, but he shifted anyhow, intent on sitting up. It was then he found he was trussed like a calf with both his arms and his legs bound. He couldn't see anything. There was a tarp thrown over him, probably to hide the fact that he was in the wagon. He closed his eyes against the pain and nausea consciousness had brought with it and tried to think. Where had he been? In the field, right? Working on the fence. Someone had been there other than him. Someone...
Deets.
And Carter and Brewer.
They'd beat the crap out of him.
Even as the memory of what happened flooded back, the wagon he was in jolted to a halt. He heard someone jump to the ground and then the tarp was thrown back flooding the wagon bed with light. Unaccustomed as his eyes were to the brightness, he winced and turned away even as a pair of powerful hands took hold of his shirt and dragged him up and out of the wagon.
A second later he was tossed to the ground.
Brewer had done it, but it was Carter who crouched beside him. The smaller man reached out with a gloved hand and took hold of his face and forced his head up.
"Are you ready to die, Cartwright?" he asked, a sneer curling his lips. "Because we're here."
Joe frowned. He couldn't see much past the small sneering man. Deets was there, watching with his dark brows drawn into a 'V' of disapproval.
"This is no way to treat a warrior," he said.
Carter pivoted. "I told you to holster your martial scruples, Deets. They make you and others like you weak."
The 'V' deepened and was accompanied by a growl. "How dare you!"
Carter rose to his feet. He went toe to toe and forehead to chest with the bigger man. "Because I am in charge and High Command will have your head – and other parts of your anatomy – slowly and painfully removed one at a time if you disobey me." Carter turned slightly. "Brewer come here." Pivoting back he added, "You two get him up!"
Joe'd seen a panther laying in wait, biding his time, knowing that time would come.
That was the look Brewer had.
"Sir!" he spat.
Brewer took hold of him on one side and Deets on the other, and they drew him to his feet. It was all he could do to stand. The ropes had cut off the circulation in his feet. Tears flooded his eyes as they were forced to bear his weight, but he refused to cry out.
Carter was pacing before him. After a minute, he stopped and met his gaze. "Do you know where you are, Joseph Francis Cartwright?"
He hadn't really paid attention. He'd assumed they were somewhere in the woods beyond the Ponderosa. Now, looking, he realized it was unknown territory. There were few if any trees. Mostly it was rock and...
And a sign that read 'Bodie'.
Carter chuckled. "Now, you get it. This is the end of the line for you, Cartwright."
Joe licked his lips. His voice cracked when he spoke. "Why?"
The look out of the man's eyes reminded him of a coiled snake about to strike. Carter drew closer and used that gloved hand to take hold of his chin and force him to meet his stare.
"You're going to die, Cartwright, and you're never going to know."
There was a moment of silence into which Deets spoke. "This is not the way of our people or the code of the warrior. Release him! Let him fight for his life." The imposing man paused. "He is a worthy opponent. Let him die with honor."
"A death with 'honor' is not in the contract, or have you forgotten that Deets? If we want use of the manipulators beyond this, then we do what my people ordered us to do, which is cooperate with Curran. And that is to leave Cartwright bound and gagged in the bottom of Bodie Mine with one of them on his wrist."
'You have to be careful, Joe,' the ghostly Adam had said. 'They're coming for you. Whatever you do, don't go to Bodie.'
Joe began to struggle. Death here, above ground, was preferable to one buried in complete darkness beneath the earth's surface, gasping for air. He fought hard, pulling against Brewer and Deet's strength in what he knew was a losing battle. If he could only make them mad enough – make them strike him so hard he'd never get up again. If only –
"Joe?"
The voice took him by surprise. He looked up and the world – stopped.
"Joe, I'm so sorry."
There was a man on a horse. Though it had been twelve years, he recognized him. It was the man who had come back from Virginia City with him close to twelve years before, the man who had stood by as a group of other men trailed him, bent on taking him for some unknown reason – the man who had calmly and quietly said –
You cannot escape.
Theron Vance was seated on Cochise, his crimson eyes laughing.
Anne was in his arms.
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As Adam Cartwright galloped alongside Spock, he tried not to think about what they might find when they arrived at Bodie. In spite of everything they had done, it seemed nothing had changed.
Joe was still going to end up at the bottom of that damn mine.
When he was at college he'd taken part in debates about the nature of time and joined in the speculation about whether or not, if one traveled into the past, he could change it. There were two schools of thought. The first said 'yes'. Man was not a creature out of control. He could choose his own destiny. But there was another school that said that time flowed just like a river and, inevitably, no matter how hard you fought against it, the rushing waters would pull you back to the same place.
He felt like he was drowning in time.
Spock had said little once they realized Joe was gone. The set of the Vulcan's jaw spoke the words that would not come. Spock was determined not to fail again like he had the first time. There had been that moment, the one he told him about, when Joe could have been saved. His little brother had embraced fear for just a second too long and that had been the end of him.
Could he – would he be able to redirect that river? If it was his hand reaching out, his voice calling, would Joe react fast enough? Could he snatch him from his fate?
From...death.
The sun had risen as they mounted their horses and began the thirty mile ride to Bodie. They had pushed the animals mercilessly until a sheen of foam coated their sides. Common sense dictated they stop to let them rest. If the horses keeled over and they had to continue on foot, it would do Joe no good. Still, like a racehorse at the gate, Adam champed at the bit, feeling each wasted second as the stab of a knife in his side. Was Joe in the mine yet? Was his brother still alive?
Or was he already buried under a ton of rock.
They were riding again now, moving forward. The sun was mounting the sky toward noon. They should be there soon and then he would know the truth. He'd know if time could be rewound.
But did he want to?
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Curran Theron gestured to Deets. When the Klingon came forward, he ordered him to lift the woman from the saddle and place her on the ground. As Deets complied, albeit grudgingly, Theron dismounted and crossed to stand before the bound. The look out of Joe Cartwright's eyes was delicious. In it was a mingling of indignation, rage, and out and out fear. Theron closed his eyes, drawing in the sensation, feeding on it.
Enjoying it.
"You will not shout or attempt to get away, do you understand? Do so, and the woman dies instantly."
Cartwright nodded. "Let her go," he pleaded. "I'll do whatever you want."
Theron scoffed. "You will do what I want whether I let her go or not."
"If you harm her, I'll – "
"What?" the man with the crimson eyes queried. "Burst forth miraculously from your bonds and kill me? I think not. I think you've used up your quota of miracles," he scoffed. "My friend Deets knows how to secure an enemy. He has been schooled in every aspect of the art of war since he was old enough to walk."
The human's eyes were on the woman. "Let her go. Please."
The white-skinned, white-haired man, who was no man but one of the Originators simply said, "No."
Theron knew what was coming and he welcomed it. He'd witnessed in his many trips through time and space what kind of a man Joseph Cartwright was. Fury kindled in the rancher a strength that surpassed anything human – perhaps, anything Klingon. Bound as he was, the human struck out, ramming his shoulder into Brewer and breaking free of Deets' grip. His feet were still bound as were his hands. He knew he couldn't do anything, but still, he was determined to try.
He failed, of course. Deets brought the handle of his nineteenth century weapon down on the back of Cartwright's head and dropped him at his feet.
As the woman softly sobbed, calling out for a man she would never touch again, Theron knelt at Joseph Cartwright's side. He took hold of that thick, curly silver and gray hair and lifted the human's head and looked into his dazed eyes.
"Your only child will be born on another world, in a place where the meaning of honor is not known. He will be reared among my people and given power over time and space. And he will use it. In time his descendants will learn to use it too and then, instead of bringing order to the galaxy, the last of your line will bring chaos, disorder, and destruction." Theron leaned in close. "Would you like to know his name, father of all that will come? Would you?"
Joe grunted, barely conscious.
"I will tell you what it is," he whispered.
"James...Tiberius...Kirk."
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James Tiberius Kirk sighed. He'd sailed the stars. In a way, he had conquered them. But now, when he needed to own them and to make them work in his favor, they'd turned against him.
His horse had thrown a shoe.
"Jim. Here," McCoy said, thrusting the reins of his own mount toward him. "Take mine. I'll follow as soon as I can."
"Bones, I don't want to leave you out here alone."
"What are you worryin' about? I'll be just fine," the Georgia doctor drawled. "I'm a tough old bird. There isn't an animal within a hundred miles would want to take a bite out of me."
Kirk scowled. "It's not the four-footed kind I'm worried about."
McCoy sobered. "Jim, we can't know for sure, but I just think there's no time to lose. And somehow, I think when you find Joe Cartwright that you'll find Spock too." His friend hesitated. "They need you. I can get by without you."
"Oh, you can, can you?"
McCoy shrugged. "I'll manage. Scotty's bound to be along soon."
Kirk frowned. In all the excitement he had forgotten about his engineer. "What do you suppose is keeping him?"
The doctor snorted. "I'm laying odds on the Bucket of Blood. That is, if they have Scotch behind that counter." McCoy approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Really, Jim. Go. That young man needs you."
Kirk nodded, giving in. "Head back to the Ponderosa. Find Sulu and Uhura and all of you stay put. Between Spock and Joe Cartwright, I've got enough to worry about."
"God speed, Jim."
As McCoy began to lead his lame horse back the way they had come, Kirk leapt into the saddle of the doctor's mount and settled in. He'd been surprised to find just how natural it felt, how at home he felt on a horse. He knew there were adventurers and trailblazers in his past, and knew as well that much of what he was had been written in his genetic code long before he was born. He wondered now if there was a cowboy or two, or maybe a land baron like Ben Cartwright in the mix.
Or someone like his son.
Gripping the reins tightly, the blond man signaled to the tired animal that he expected him to ride like the wind. The horse must have had some trailblazers in his past as well. It snorted and stamped the ground, and then sprinted forward in a nineteenth century equivalent of Warp Four.
Kirk snorted too and, leaning forward close over the saddle, relished the wind in his hair.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Joe struggled without success against the two men who dragged him ever close to the mine's entrance. He'd kept his gaze locked on his wife's as long as he could. He wanted to tell Anne so much – that he loved her, that he would do everything he could do to survive and return to her and their child.
That he would throttle the bastards who threatened them with his bare hands if given a chance.
She'd looked so small, so helpless, so – lost – standing there. He heard some of the words Theron spoke after Deets had bashed him in the head. What he heard hadn't really made sense. The trouble was, he didn't know if his head was so muddled from the blow that he misunderstood them, or if the Albino was mad and actually thought he could travel through time and space. It made him think of that book Adam had read to them one snowy winter called, 'The Last Man'. He'd had a hard time following it, and had slept through more of it than been awake, but he remembered it talked about a far flung future where men traveled in airships and had become so full of pride that they challenged God.
'Remember what the Good Book says, Joseph, Pride goes before destruction', he heard his Pa say in his head. A man who believes he knows more than God is doomed to failure.'
He had to hold onto that. Had to believe it was not happening again. He didn't care what happened to him, but he couldn't lose Anne and the baby, not the way he had Alice and his first child. God couldn't be so cruel, so...heartless. This time it had to be him. If someone died, it had to be him. He couldn't survive it again, just couldn't.
His Pa's voice returned. This time quoting Jeremiah.
'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'
Humbled, he prayed silently as the dark open maw of Bodie Mine claimed him, 'God, give Anne and the baby a hope and a future. If you have to take someone, take me. Please, God, please, let them live. But whatever God, whatever..." The tears were flowing down his cheeks freely now.
"Thy will be done."
Once inside Deets untied his feet and chafed them to return the circulation. It was pointless. He wasn't going to walk to his own death. So far he'd refused to aid them in any way. His defiance had brought about another beating – this time from Brewer – during which the two men holding him had had a heated exchange in a language he didn't know.
Deets forced him up, Brewer took his other arm and they began to drag him again. As he was hauled along what seemed at least a mile of rough tunnel floor, Joe closed his eyes and tried to gather his strength. If they eventually left him alone there might be a slim chance he could escape – maybe work his way deeper into the mine and find another exit. If he was going to try, he had to rest, had to save what little strength he...had...
When his body jolted against the floor, Joe moaned and opened his eyes. It shamed him to realize he'd fallen unconscious. His head was throbbing from the beating and the blow to the head he'd taken and the pain was casting tiny flecks of light on the mine walls. Joe closed his eyes and opened them again. It was then he realized the light wasn't in his head. It was real and was advancing toward them. His vision was blurry so he couldn't be sure, but he thought it was Carter, carrying a lantern. As the light grew brighter, Joe began to shiver, not with fear but from the cold. This far down into the mine the temperature had dropped. It felt like the inside of a spring-fed cooling room. Brewer snorted, deriding him as his teeth began to chatter.
When Carter halted before him, Joe saw he was wearing his green. That jacket was warm. Carter must have been cold. "Bring him!" Carter surprised him by ordering.
And then they continued on.
He didn't know how long they traveled this time. As they moved along the primitively hewn corridor Joe lost all awareness of it, of where he was and where he had been. Life became one long descent. Here and there sputtering torches, their flames starved for oxygen, lit the way. He'd been in mines before. He knew what that meant. They were taking him deep – very deep. So deep it was unlikely anyone would find him.
This mine was going to be his grave.
They'd traveled another five minutes or so when Carter called a halt. Joe had ceased struggling by that time, his head wound finally lulling him into a state of semi-consciousness where nothing existed but echoing footsteps, the scent of smoke, and the remembrance of light.
"Release him," Carter ordered.
Four hands obeyed. Twenty fingers opened. He fell to the cave floor again and lay there unmoving. Above him there was a burst of light. Into it came a pale sneering face.
"Does the condemned man have any last words?"
He was out of energy, but he found enough to do one last thing.
Spit in the man's face.
Joe tensed. He knew it was coming. Out of the dark came a hand with something hard clamped around the wrist. Whatever it was, it struck him in the side of the head.
In a blur of lightly tanned skin, red pain and green cloth, the lights went out.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
As he fought against Spock's Vulcan strength, Adam both hated and admired the man for his ability to control his emotions. It gave Spock an edge, but it also made him one of the coldest bastards he had ever known.
"That's my kid brother they're dragging down into that Hell hole! Let me go!"
"Adam," the Vulcan said as he easily restrained him, his tone even and unperturbed, "listen to me. This has happened before. The Originator, Curran Theron, is a man of compulsion, driven to assure that his plan for the future of this galaxy unfolds as he demands. He has a time in mind for your brother's destruction. It is not now. Nothing will happen until it is."
"How do you know things haven't changed? You yourself said I am the random element. I was not here before. Maybe my very presence has altered what happened." His jaw was clenched, his words were breathed more than spoken. "Did you consider that?"
The look Spock gave him was almost comical – would have been if things had not been so desperate. "I have considered all options and concluded there would be no rational reason for Theron to alter his plans. The odds are fifty-two-point three-five to forty-seven-point-seven-five that the Originatoris not aware of your presence."
Adam gripped the cloth covering Spock's chest and shook him. "I'm not betting my little brother's life on fifty-fifty odds!"
"Fifty-two-point- "
"Damn it, Spock!" he swore, pushing the Vulcan back. "Too much can go wrong! We have to get down there. We have to get close to Joe before..." Adam paused. His gaze went to the Albino. Theron stood beside a wagon. They'd just watched him force a bound and gagged woman into it a moment before. "We have to get to Joe before they blow that mine."
"Again you forget, Adam Cartwright, that I have been here before," the Vulcan said, shifting to stand beside him where he could watch Theron's movements. "The man named Carter will return in one-point-two minutes and together he and Theron will move off into the trees, leaving Deets as guard and Brewer to set the explosives. This will take approximately forty-two-point-three minutes including the trip for Brewer both down and back to the surface. There is a separate entry leading to the place where your brother is being held that can be navigated in twenty-point-two, leaving a window of opportunity of twenty-two-point-one minutes in which to rescue Joseph and return with him to the surface. If he had not fought me, I would have been able to free him the first time I was here and to escape with him before the charges went off." Spock paused. "This time, you are with me. He should have no objection to following you."
Adam drew in a breath. "There's only one problem with your theory."
The Vulcan's right eyebrow tipped up. "Indeed. And what is that?"
Joe's brother indicated the mine entrance with a nod.
"It's been three minutes and Carter's not back."
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Kirk had pushed his horse so hard the animal had finally given out and he'd been forced to abandon it by the side of the road. Now, he was running.
There was no time to lose.
Spock had often remarked on his 'hunches', almost but not quite dismissing their possibility. He'd lived with them his entire life and knew they had nothing to do with logic or anything else that made sense, but were intuitive leaps based on an inner 'gut' feeling. He didn't really understand where they came from either. He'd tried to convince himself they were based on cumulative experience. but that fell flat. He'd had them when he was a boy before he had any experience. One day he'd asked his mother about it and she'd told him that it was something passed down from generation to generation in her family. It was this genetically-driven keen insight that had made the men in their family what they were and caused them to succeed where others failed.
Whatever it was – hunch, insight, or intuition – it was screaming now that he had to reach that mine and reach it soon.
As he ran, sprinting forward like an Olympiad, a wry smile parted his lips. It hadn't been all that long since he'd fought like a Klingon targ against Bones' orders that he devote extra time to his physical training. His friend had lifted his eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest at the end of his last exam – where he'd been ten pounds overweight – and refused to listen to his excuses that he had no time, that there were other more important things he had to do, that – for God's sake! – all he did was sit in a chair all day and issue orders, and what the Hell did he need to be able to outrun a sehlat for?
Thanks to Bones, he was barely winded.
He'd passed a sign to the mine about a mile back. Now he was beginning to see signs of habitation; small huts, tents, and the like. They were empty. Autumn was here and winter was fast approaching and it seemed the mine, which at this time in its history was unproductive when compared to other richer strikes in the area, had shut down for the season. He was still puzzled by why Theron had brought Joe here. Why not just kill the youngest of Ben's sons outright if that was what he intended to do? No, there was more going on here than simple murder. There was a reason, at least in the Albino's mind, that Joe Cartwright had to die at the bottom of that mine.
A reason he wished to Hell he knew. Though maybe he was over-thinking it. Maybe Theron was simply insane and Joe's death in that mine - and the discovery of an alien artifact in the future - was just his sick way of saying to the galaxy, 'Theron was here.'
Kirk skidded to a halt when he saw a light appear in the distance. He stood, panting, catching his breath for a moment, and then advanced forward stealthily. There were two men standing outside the mine's entrance. One was Theron. He recognized him by his white hair and pale skin. He was dressed like a gunfighter. The other man wore a long black coat over his pants and shirt. There was a familiar look about him. He was a little dark and a lot wild-looking and would have been counted as a giant in this time. There was something about the way he held himself and the cast of his eyes he'd seen before.
Where...?
The blond man's sharp mind rolled back through all the faces he had seen since joining Starfleet. It finally stopped and recognition clicked into place. Deep Space Station K7. The one with the tribbles.
And a ship full of devious, lightly-tanned, round-eared Klingons.
Kirk moved closer so he could see better. Theron had moved away from the wagon. There was someone in its bed. He couldn't tell if it was Joe, but it made sense that it was. He'd just determined to slip into the trees on that side of the mine when he sensed as much as saw something move in the shadows to his right. The blond man stopped, his hand resting on the rough hide of a tree. It wasn't one but two men. They were heading away from the cave's entrance, going around...
Kirk stiffened.
One of them was Spock.
Almost as if sensing his scrutiny the Vulcan halted and turned his way. A second later, he was gone.
Kirk hesitated, unsure of his course. Should he follow his long absent and somewhat errant first officer and confront him, or rescue whoever was in the wagon? While the Vulcan's recent actions were a mystery to him, he knew in his heart that Spock would never betray him or the Enterprise and that, while he might not agree with his methods, his friend undoubtedly had a logical reason for everything he had done.
When it came down to it, he either trusted Spock or he didn't.
This time, he chose to trust.