TWO

Charles didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. By the light remaining, he thought it might have been ten minutes or so. As he gingerly climbed to his feet, the curly-haired man took a toll of his injuries. They included a bruised calf, a jammed elbow, and sore shoulder – all on the right side – and a head that felt like Isaiah's must have after he'd had one too many. Once he was upright, Charles remained where he was and listened. No one was callin' his name so he couldn't have been unconscious too long. If the wagon had rolled into town empty, surely someone would have seen it and come looking for him. He shook leaves and bracken out of his hair as he began to search for his hat. 'Course that was supposin' that the wagon and team had reached town. As he turned his head to look in that direction, pain stabbed him like a knife. Reaching up, he put a hand to the back of his head and felt the knot forming there.

That'd teach him to chance drivin' to town with a busted bearing!

One thing was for sure, Caroline was gonna skin him when she found out. She'd been tellin' him to get the wheel fixed for at least a week, but since no one had been in danger but him, he'd put it off in order to attend to more important chores. There was no two ways about it, he'd let his wife down. Not only was the wagon busted so they wouldn't be able to get to church in the morning, but he was on foot and would be late gettin' home, causin' her to worry. A slight smile curled his lips. Even so – even though Caroline would be madder than a wet hen – when she found out what had happened she'd fuss over him and scold him for not takin' time to stop by Doc Baker's to have his head checked. He'd considered it, but decided not too since that would make him even later.

Charles shook his head. What was it he'd been tellin' Laura just that morning about life bein' hard?

With a sigh, the curly-haired man caught his hat up from the ground and headed for the road. He was about half-way up the rise when he stopped. There were voices directly above him – raised voices. Men were shoutin', and from the sound of it fists were flyin' too. Careful to remain concealed, he worked his way to the top and peered out from behind a clump of thick bushes. He'd been right. There were four men standin' in the middle of the road. From what he could tell, it was three against one – and the one was a scrawny kid. He was a scrapper though and was holdin' his own. Charles held back. It wasn't his fight and as long as the boy was managing on his own, he would just stay out –

One of the men reached toward his belt and then there was a flash. Charles shook his head. So much for stayin' out of it.

The man had a knife.

Shifting forward, he continued to observe the men. It was hard to see their faces in the twilight, but he thought he recognized at least one of them. He didn't know the man well, but they'd had doings at Hansen's mill.

He could only hope that fact would shame the man some when he was forced to call him out.

Charles sucked in a steadying breath as he parted the branches in front of him and stepped out into the moonlight.

"Jim Rhodes, what do you think you're doin'?" he called out, using the tone he usually reserved for ten year old boys caught lighting firecrackers in the privy.

James Rhodes, a giant of a man who had at least five inches on him and out-weighed him by around twenty pounds, stared him down.

"You keep out of this, Ingalls," he growled.

Charles was a little surprised the man knew him so quickly. Then he saw his team and wagon parked not a quarter mile down the road.

"Keep out of what?" he asked as he moved closer. "You poundin' the life out of this youngster here?"

The three men were all of a good size. He knew Jim. One of the others he recognized from the town. His name was Luke Owens and he wasn't much older than the young man they were threatenin'. The other was a stranger to him.

"We're gonna take this Injun here to Sleepy Eye and turn him in. He ain't got no papers showin' he's got permission to be off the reservation."

"I do not live on the reservation!" the boy snarled, even as he wiped blood from his lower lip and spat out more. "I have never lived on the reservation!"

"Well, that's where a savage like you belongs, boy," the teenager with Rhodes declared. "You better come with us right nice and friendly or somethin' might just happen to you along the way to the jail."

Charles looked at the young man in question. 'Injun', Rhodes had said. It was possible, he supposed. Still, even though he could see the markers of someone with native blood – the strong-boned face, the curly blue-black hair and eyes, darker skin – there was nothing to prove or disprove the teenager's claims.

The boy could have been Cajun or had a Spanish-born parent.

"How do you know he's native?" Charles asked, keeping his tone even.

"Native, huh? Now, ain't we high and mighty?" Jim Rhodes spit. "I heard you were an Injun lover, Ingalls. I guess them that said it were right!"

Word had gotten around that spring, after they'd weathered a sudden late blizzard on their way back from Mankato, about how he had challenged a U.S. marshal's right to arrest and detain one of the Sioux chiefs who'd been pardoned by Abraham Lincoln for his part in the Dakota War of 1862. His name was Jack Lame Horse and, as far as he was concerned, he was one of the most honorable men he had ever met.

He and Jim had exchanged words once or twice regarding Indians.

"We've been over this before, Jim. They're men just like us," he countered. "God's creations."

"Satan's, you mean!" Jim snarled.

Charles was standing between them now – the boy who was a stranger and the men from his town.

"I won't let you hurt him," he said as he squared off and faced them.

A hand on his shoulder roughly thrust him aside.

"I do not need you, white man, to fight my battles!" the boy growled as he moved past him and went toe to toe with Rhodes. "These men will get out of my way or I will kill them!"

All right, then.

Charles moved between them again. This time he faced the young man and locked eyes with him. "Then I'm gonna have to take you out. You understand? There will be no killin' here." He looked over his shoulder at Jim Rhodes. "On either side!"

Rhodes snorted. "Who said anything about killin'? We're just gonna teach this here uppity Injun pup a lesson."

Charles turned to face him. "No," he said and meant it.

The giant that was Jim Rhodes rubbed his hands together and cracked his knuckles. His lips curled back in a sneer.

"Guess I made a mistake. Looks like we're gonna have to teach it to both of you."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Caroline Ingalls was dreaming.

She was back in that cabin, the one where they outlasted the unexpected spring blizzard, pacing in front of the fire Mary had kindled and waiting for Charles to return. They'd run out of food and he'd gone hunting. He'd intended to be back before nightfall.

It was nearly noon the next day.

The girls, thank goodness, were still sleeping. Near the fire the U.S. marshal, Jim Anders, slept too. The man had been practically frozen through when he'd knocked on the door the night before and she'd let him in. His ominous words regarding Charles haunted her still.

'He's out there in this? God help him.'

Caroline crossed to the window and looked out on the raging snowstorm. Her lips parted in a similar prayer.

"God keep him safe," she whispered. "Bring Charles back to me."

At that moment there was a knock at the door. She raced to it and threw it open knowing – just knowing it had to be Charles. As the wind and snow blew in, blasting her blonde hair back from her face, so did a tall silent Indian dressed in skins. He was an older man, maybe fifty. His long hair was steel gray. It was braided with thongs and framed a face graven with decades of care. The Indian looked at her and his lips parted.

'I was too late,' he mouthed.

Caroline gasped. She pushed past him and stepped onto the narrow stoop of the cabin. Outside there was a horse and there was something tied to it. Something...

Someone...

"Charles!"

Caroline awoke with a start, her heart pounding hard in her chest. Her hand flew to her throat as she realized the door to the house really was opening. There was no snow, of course – after all, it was late spring – just a gentle warm breeze and a few green leaves. Anticipating Charles, she took a step toward it.

She stopped as Doctor Baker appeared.

Noting her reaction, Hiram immediately raised a hand. He offered her a reassuring smile. "There's nothing too bad, Caroline, but I've got a couple of men here in need of your services."

Directly behind him stood Charles. When she caught her husband's eye, he favored her with a sheepish grin. It took a second, but then she saw why. He had a black eye...and a cut lip...as well as blood crusted under his nose. She was about to say something when Charles shifted forward and entered the room. It was then she noticed the young man hanging half-conscious on his arm.

"Charles...?"

He pursed his lips and raised his dark eyebrows. "I'm gonna put him in our bed for now. He just needs to sleep for a while."

Caroline caught a glimpse of the stranger as Charles moved past. He was young and had a head of long, curling, very dark hair. His skin was deeply tanned. His clothes were worn, but of a nice cut.

She wondered who he was.

"That husband of yours," Hiram said as he waited for Charles to return. "I never met a man so determined to find trouble."

She glanced toward their room. Charles had not emerged yet. "What trouble?"

He shook his head. "He ran afoul of Jim Rhodes and his cronies."

James Rhodes was a massive man, near a good head taller than Charles. He was a decent man – unless you crossed him.

"What was Jim upset about?"

Doctor Baker had been looking at her. He raised his eyes as Charles stepped into the room. Ignoring her question, the blond man asked, "How is our young friend doing?"

Charles walked over to the water bucket and took a drink. Then he took one of her towels and dipped it in the water and ran it over his mouth, wiping away the blood.

"He's out." Charles shook his head. "Probably a good thing, otherwise we'd have to tie him down."

Hiram angled his glasses down on his nose and looked over the top rim. He smiled. "I believe, Charles, that's what is known as the pot calling the kettle black. You should be in bed as well. You know those ribs of yours are only going to take so many blows before I can't repair them."

"Pa, are you okay?" a little voice drifted down from the loft.

She should have known. The noise had wakened their two older girls. Mary and Laura's faces had appeared at the top of the ladder leading up to the loft. Thank goodness, Carrie was still fast asleep.

"What happened, Pa?" Mary asked.

Charles remained partially hidden in the shadows. "I'm fine, darlin'. You two go back to bed. You need your sleep."

"But, Pa..."

"Half-pint, you listen to me. You go back to bed and take your sister with you. I'll see you in the mornin'."

A pitiful chorus of 'Yes, Pa,' followed Charles' orders and their capped heads disappeared.

Caroline stared after them a moment and then turned to Doctor Baker. "Is Charles all right?"

Hiram smiled. "Oh, he'll mend. Nothing broken this time, but Jim Rhodes certainly didn't hold back."

"He didn't win either," Charles mumbled.

"Oh, yes, that's right," the doctor scoffed. "The victor is the one left standing – even if he only barely can."

Charles moved to the table where he gingerly sat down. Pitching the bloody towel on its surface, he said, "I spent more time makin' sure that boy in there didn't kill anyone than I did fightin'," he remarked. "I don't think Jim knew what hit him."

"You said the other two ran?" Caroline asked.

Her husband nodded. "You should have seen him, Caroline. It was like somethin' just snapped." Charles glanced toward the bedroom. The look on his face was one she had seen before, when he was concerned the family was facing some kind of a threat. Turning back, he added, "I've never seen anyone so wild."

"Don't you mean savage?" Hiram asked softly.

Charles made a noise.

Caroline looked from one to the other. There was something they weren't telling her. She thought about the young man and his dark hair and skin and then drew in a quick breath.

"He's an Indian!"

Now she understood Jim Rhodes' anger. The big man hated Indians, plain and simple, and not only because of the Dakota War. Jim had lived out west as a young man. The Paiute had raided his spread, killing his wife, and burning their place to the ground. He truly believed the only good Indian was a dead one.

Charles leaned back in the chair with a sigh. "We have to decide what to do, Caroline. It won't be long before Rhodes or him and some other men come here lookin' to take this boy and cart him off the reservation."

"Much as it pains me to say it, Charles, that's where he belongs. It would be for his own good," the Doctor said. He paused and then completed his thought. "You do know its illegal to harbor an Indian on Minnesota soil."

Her husband was shaking his curly head. "Doc, the boy swears he's never lived on the reservation."

"And you believe him," Hiram said. "Why?"

"His age for one thing."

"His age?"

Charles nodded. "The Dakota War was sixteen years ago. He's that, maybe a year less or more. If the boy grew up on the reservation, he would have been there his whole life. Those clothes he's wearin' cost considerable money. They may be worn, but they're store bought. And he may look – and act – like a wild animal, but he speaks like a boy who has had an education, and not the kind they get in the Indian schools. That all points to the boy growin' up somewhere other than the useless parcel of land the government gave the Sioux."

The doctor was silent a moment. "You've got something there, Charles."

"And if the boy isn't from the reservation, we can't let Jim Rhodes take him there. He'll be just another Indian. No one will listen to his story." Charles ran a hand over his face. "There won't be any way he'll ever leave it."

Caroline frowned. "I wonder who he is?"

"I'm hopin' he'll tell us," her husband replied. "My main concern is for you and the girls." He looked at Hiram. "You think he's hurt bad?"

The doctor cocked his head and pushed his hat back. "Well, he definitely took the worst of it. I'd say he has a few broken ribs and he's probably a concussion. One pupil was larger than the other when I checked. But then again, he's young and the young heal faster. Especially Indian young."

"Oh? Why is that?" she asked, knowing the doctor was not showing any prejudice.

"They're considered men at thirteen or so, Caroline. By that age they go through a number of rituals to prove their strength and agility. Their young men are taught that an injury gained in battle is a mark of honor. A lot of healing is in the mind. They learn early to ignore the pain and press on."

"Wish I could do that," Charles groaned as he shifted and stood up. "Try as I might the older I get, it just sticks to me like axle grease."

"What are you going to do?" Caroline asked him.

He looked at their room and then back at her. "See if Sleepin' Beauty's awake and if he is, find out what he's doin' here. There has to be a reason of some sort and if we're gonna help him, we need to find out what it is."

"Charles," she said.

He nodded. "I know. I don't want to put you or the girls in danger. Once he's able to be on his feet, I'll move him out to the sod house."

"What if Jim Rhodes' comes?"

Charles walked over to the hearth and lifted his rifle from the wall.

"I'll be ready," he said.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Charles Ingalls leaned against the doorjamb and studied the young man in his bed. There was an oil lamp lit on the table beside it and the warm glow softened their visitor's features, masking the hard, determined jut to the jaw and the premature lines that creased the boy's forehead and surrounded his full lips. He didn't know what the young man been through in the short span of years he'd walked the Earth, but whoever he was – and whatever he had seen – he had obviously been deeply wounded. Anger permeated his being, evidenced by how his fingers curled into fists even in his sleep.

The boy was a powder keg waiting to go off.

With a sigh Charles moved his aching body over to the chair opposite the bed and dropped into it. The fact that the young man didn't react concerned him. He'd tried to intervene, to stop the stranger from rainin' blow after blow on Jim Rhode's supine form, and in doing so had accidentally created an opening for one of Jim's cronies to step in and bring the butt of his rifle down on the boy's head with vicious force. Charles winced as he shifted, seeking a more comfortable position. He'd incurred most of his own injuries from layin' spread-eagle over the young man, refusing to let Jim's friends take revenge. In the end the pair had grabbed Jim by the collar, hauled him to his feet, and slunk off into the night like the cowards they were.

Leaving him alone with the injured boy.

After checkin' the young man to make certain his injuries were not life-threatening, he'd gone to his team and unhitched the horses. Slinging the boy over the back of one, Charles had mounted the other and ridden straight to Doctor Baker's office. Fortunately, Hiram was there. The doctor had remained behind after hours to see to his books. The blond man opened his door, took the boy's condition in one glance, and immediately set to work bindin' up his broken ribs and seein' to his other less severe injuries. Then Hiram turned to him with a sigh and said he hoped he hadn't injured his ribs – again. The curly-haired man laughed. Somehow, in the Doc's estimation, he had a feeling he'd earned a reputation as a scrapper.

Or maybe Hiram just thought he was a klutz!

After he finished with the boy, the Doc had offered him a chair and seen to his own small wounds, and then returned to his desk to conclude his work. A few minutes later as he closed his books and put them away, the blond man said he wasn't too worried about the boy's more obvious injuries. It was the concussion that concerned him. Since the boy had yet to regain consciousness, it was a severe one. He would need complete bed rest for a day or two, and then need to be kept under observation for a few more. Concussions were sneaky things, Hiram explained. Sometimes it seemed a man had recovered, and then, slowly, new symptoms would appear – dizziness, disorientation, moderate to severe headaches, maybe even nausea. A blow to the head was nothing to fool with, he said. It could kill a man.

Bracing his elbows on the chair arms, Charles knit his fingers together before him, pressed his lips to two of them, and regarded the sleeping boy. As he'd told the others, there was a story here. There was a reason the boy was in town and they would have to find out what it was. It was probably not going to be easy. Getting the truth out of their injured 'guest' was most likely gonna be like pullin' hen's teeth. In other words, near impossible. Just as impossible he imagined as keeping the boy in bed without tying him down. He'd learned a lot about the natives of the land when they'd lived in Kansas and had their house near one of their footpaths. After the pair had shown up at the house and scared Caroline and the girls, he'd made it a point to know all he could. He respected them. This was their land and they were losin' it, and not in a fair way. The government was determined that the Indian would soon be nothing more than a memory. Not all of the settlers agreed. Him, among them. But then there were others – like Jim Rhodes and his cronies– who would be only too happy to get hold of this boy and take him out in the woods where no one could see what they were doing, and string him up. Charles sighed. It seemed at times that men like Jim, who attended church regularly, only heeded the Old Testament. 'An eye for an eye', they cried. 'A sword to smite mine enemy!" But, 'I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you', just wasn't in their vocabulary.

There was no forgiveness in their hearts.

As he sat there thinking, the boy began to shift as if rising up toward consciousness. Charles stood, found his balance, and crossed to the side of the bed. He reached over and turned the wick up, bringing more light to the room and then reached out and touched the boy's shoulder.

"Son. Son, can you hear me?"

The boy's eyes opened without focus and closed. Once. Twice. Three times.

Charles looked toward the kitchen. Caroline was there at the table with Doc Baker. Turned out Hiram hadn't had any supper and after they fed him, he'd fallen asleep in the rocking' chair in front of the fire. The blond man had awakened only a short time before and was havin' a cup of coffee before he hit the road.

It was nearly dawn.

"Son," he tried again.

The boy groaned and his eyes opened again. This time with some comprehension behind them. Charles studied him. He was gonna grow into a good-lookin' man. His face had strong features – those full lips, a straight knife-edge of a nose, and large dark piercing eyes wise as an owl's and wary as a mountain cat's. The stranger's hair was curly as his. He wore it kind of long, but not so long it would have been unacceptable on a white man. It was black in the lamplight and probably a dark brown by day.

Slipping onto the bed beside him, Charles reached out as he said, "I'm gonna check this bandage." There was one wrapped tightly around the boy's head. The blow from the rifle had cracked the skin open, but fortunately not his skull. "That all right?"

The boy hesitated. Then he nodded. Once.

Charles felt him tense as he touched the wrapping and looked beneath it. The blood was congealed and dried some, so it seemed the bleedin' had stopped.

"That's lookin' good," he said with a smile.

The boy didn't return it.

"Doctor Baker says you need to stay in bed for a day or two. You're welcome to do it here, only – "

A hand gripped his wrist – a strong one. "No!" the boy said and with that, began to get up.

Charles caught his shoulders to press him back down.

It was a mistake.

The flurry of fists and feet startled him. As the curly-haired man cried out, he heard a similar cry go up from his wife. Shadows shifted beyond the room. A chair was pushed back. Hiram shouted to Caroline to stay put. Charles heard his daughter's cryin' out, askin' what was going on. And then, without knowing how he got there, he was on the floor. So was the boy.

The stranger hadn't made it two feet before he passed out again.

A short bark of a laugh brought his head up. Hiram Baker was standing in the doorway shaking his head.

"What was it I just said about that kettle being black?"