Hoss and Adam took the route to the Rancho Verde in Arizona that Joe and the two hands who went with him had taken—the route ran parallel to a river that later broke up into smaller creeks which all finally emptied into the Rio Grande. It had been a bad winter with weeks of heavy snow and now that the snow was melting, the rivers were running, drowning some stock that waded in and found their legs knocked out from under them. It wasn't unusual to see a bloated steer floating along. The river even overflowed the banks in some areas, they were so overwhelmed with the melting snows. The route Joe had followed provided adequate waterholes, more hospitable terrain and quite a few small towns in which to buy any needed supplies, but Hoss and Adam were both aware that it was a vast area and also that Joe may have decided to travel home the same way. The brothers watched the sky for circling buzzards and were grateful when so far it had only been a downed antelope or another unfortunate creature on which the buzzards gorged.

Stopping in every town through which they passed, Adam asked questions of first the sheriff, if the town was large enough to have one, and then workers in restaurants and saloons while Hoss stood beside him, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt. Had a young man in his early 20's passed through heading north the last few days? Wild brown hair and green eyes—about 5'10''? Wearing a short, green jacket? One saloon girl said that she remembered him along with two other men but that was about three, four weeks ago and they were heading south; she had served them drinks while they listened to the piano and talked and laughed. "The pretty one" had tossed her a silver dollar before they left and winked-said that he would make a point of looking her up on his return trip. But, she had added, he hadn't been by—not that she really expected him to, she added—men tended to be all talk. She may not be all that old, she added and Adam gauged her to be around 23, but she'd been working since she was 14 and men, well, they say what they think a woman wants to hear but what she really likes to hear, she said, was the sound of money.

Adam also insisted though that they stop at the graveyards outside every town.

"Ain't that kinda ghoulish?" Hoss asked. "I mean lookin' to see iffen Joe's dead and buried outside one of these little towns."

"I want to look everywhere and I'm not reading crosses and tombstones hoping to see his name but hoping not to." Yet, Adam told Hoss, if Joe was dead, he might not be buried with his name so Adam looked for any and all freshly-dug graves. So far, no graves with the name of Joseph Cartwright, Joe, or "Unknown" had been lately dug.

Since it was March, the days weren't yet searing but were in the 70's—comfortable for traveling- with the nights cold, the temperature dropping down to the 30's, so the first thing they did when they stopped each night was to collect tinder for a cook fire. While Hoss built up the fire, Adam unpacked their dinner—canned beans and salt pork.

"We're going to have to buy some more food at the next town," Adam said. "All this stopping and asking questions in the towns is taking too long and with your appetite, we're almost out of beans."

"Out of beans? Don't 'spect me to cry 'bout that."

"Trust me, the less beans you eat, the happier my nose is."

"Oh, you're the funny one. If you'd brought along a pack mule like I wanted, we'd have more food with us and better."

"I told you—we need to travel fast and light."

"Your idea of travelin' light is for me to lose ten pounds on the way."

Adam smiled. "I'm thinking of your horse, that's all. You know," Adam said with a sigh, "maybe we should split up and instead of covering the swath together, you take the west strip and me, the east." Adam opened the can with his knife and emptied it into a frying pan with strips of dried salt pork.

"I don't think so," Hoss said. " 'Sides, if we come up against someone who knows 'bout Joe but ain't too forthcomin', well, you think you got the muscle to get what you want outta him?"

Adam grinned. "Maybe—just maybe." Adam stood up and stretched his back. "Damn, I don't look forward to another night out here. Next town we come to, I'm getting a room-as long as it's got clean sheets on the bed."

"Yeah," Hoss said as he wiped his fork on his shirt, cleaning it before he used it. "Would be nice if the bed also came with a full-breasted woman already tucked in it."

Adam chuckled as he squatted back down before the fire, stirring the food in the pan while he held the handle around which he had wrapped his bandana. "You know what?" Adam said. "Someone needs to make fry pans with wooden handles—they wouldn't get so damn hot."

"You do that, brother. Make yourself a coupla thousand dollars that you can hide with all the other money you make."

"I just might-and my money's not hidden—it's invested and making a profit." And they settled down to share their dinner.

"We'll be at Rancho Verde in two days," Hoss said as he ate. "What if we ain't found Joe by then?"

Adam thought before responding. "We take the next possible route Joe might have used—swing west and go through Tempe."

"Tempe?"

"Yeah, maybe he headed home that way. Remember when you and I went there two year's last winter and Joe pissed and moaned and pouted for a month because he couldn't come along?"

Hoss chuckled. "Yeah, I 'member. And Joe asked if we'd brought 'im back anything and when you said no, he said he'd bring somethin' back if he'd gone along and you said, 'Yeah, a case of clap.' "

Adam grinned. "Pa didn't think that was funny, probably because there was more truth there than he'd like to admit. Anyway, Joe might have decided to visit Tempe by himself. We'll go that way back if we don't find him on the way down. And we'll send a wire telling Pa and ask if Joe's home yet."

Hoss nodded in agreement and the brothers finished their meal in comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

~0~

"This shithole's got a helluva nerve callin' itself a town," Hoss said as he and Adam rode into a small grouping of buildings that stood alongside a dirt street with only a few cross streets. They had passed a sign that said "Welcome to the Town of Waterside" but there was no water nor grass except for a few patches and not much else. The paint was peeling off all he buildings and the signs outside n businesses were faded. Two skinny dogs sniffed along the main street and Adam pulled up his horse in front of what appeared to be the only saloon in town.

"I could use a beer," Adam said as he dismounted and looked around the quiet street. No one was out and about but the saloon was open or Adam would have thought it was a ghost town.

"I could use about four—maybe five beers," Hoss said as he looped his horse's reins over a hitching rail.

The saloon was practically empty. Two men seemed to be playing a half-hearted game of cards; they glanced at the door when Hoss stepped in followed by Adam. The bartender, leaning sleepily on the bar, his drowsy head propped up with one hand, reluctantly stood up when he saw prospective patrons.

"Two beers," Adam said, propping one foot on the copper rail that ran along the bottom of the bar.

The bartender nodded and drew two mugs of beer placing them in front of the men. Adam put down two bits and the bartender quickly swooped on the coins, dropping them in his apron pocket. Then he went to sit on a stool at one end of the counter.

Hoss took a swig of his beer and made a sour face. "Damn, this is 'bout the worst beer I done ever tasted. Must be horse piss—warm as piss too." He slammed his mug on the counter top. "Warm as blood too."

Adam sipped his beer and recoiled. "This is bad." He turned his head and spat on the wood floor.

"Hey, mister, use the damn spittoon."

"Tastes like you serve the contents of your spittoons as beer. This is…disgusting stuff."

"It's already drawn so I ain't givin' you back the money. Man's gotta make a livin'."

"Fine," Adam said. "I don't begrudge a man earning a decent wage. What else you have to drink?" Adam glanced at the shelves behind the bartender, recognizing a brand of Irish whiskey. "Give us each a shot of that." Adam pointed to a dusty bottle on the shelf.

The bartender looked behind him and then nodded. He put down two glasses and then reached under the counter.

"No," Adam said. "Open that one on the shelf."

"I got an open bottle down here." He held up a bottle of the same brand of whiskey. Hoss looked at Adam with a hint of admiration; Adam knew that the whiskey from under the counter wasn't the same brand as the bottle—and it was probably watered at that.

"No. Not from that one—the one on the shelf and if it's any good, I'll buy the bottle."

"Cost you five dollars?" the bartender said although it was really a question.

"Fine. Now get it and pour us each a drink. Have one for yourself as well."

"Yes, sir." The bartender smiled and moved quickly to retrieve the dusty bottle that must have been collecting dust for over a year if not longer.

Adam and Hoss exchanged glances—Hoss knew that Adam had now made a friend of the bartender and loosened his tongue with the one drink.

"So," Hoss said after he downed his whiskey, "how come this town's called Waterside? Someone's idea of a joke?" He placed his glass down and nodded at the bartender who poured him another drink while he sipped at his.

"Used to be a good-sized creek ran 'side the place but someone north upriver must've damned it or blown it up with dynamite or somethin' to change the course. Ain't nothin' left now but a creek bed but maybe it's all for the best."

"Why's that?" Adam asked as he poured both himself and Hoss another glass of the whiskey.

"Well, at least we ain't had no women killed her like they done in some of the town's around here over the last few years—all them women and girls were left in the water—strange the way it was—their upper bodies in the water—their lower part on the bank. Sad, real sad—not that I've seen any of them but a drummer come through about two, three weeks ago and told me that south of here, some women had been killed round Mule's Pass—left in the water the same way as in the other towns."

Adam stopped breathing; the world began to swirl about him like water. His throat closed up as against smoke trying to fill his lungs—or water.

"Adam?" Hoss asked. Adam was gripping his whiskey glass; he had gone pale. 'What's wrong?"

The bartender became defensive. "Must be the heat 'cause it ain't my whiskey. That's the best bottle of whiskey I have—or had. It's been hotter than usual for this time of year—gets to you, you know. Hey, mister—you okay?"

Hoss reached out and touched Adam's arm. Adam looked at Hoss as if just noticing he was there. "I'm sitting down," he said pulling his arm away. "Ask him about Joe." Adam almost lurched to the nearest table and dropped down in a chair trying to control the memory that gripped him—his ears ringing.