One Little two Little Three Little Thunderbirds

by Marla Fair

A friend of Ben's comes for a visit, bringing with him his three daughters and a dark secret from his past. At first it appears the greatest danger the visit presents lies in the insanity of a trio of young females in the Cartwright household. All too soon it becomes apparent that Gil Jenkins' demons have not been laid to rest and threaten not only him, but the Cartwrights as well.

4. Part Four

TEN

Things were not going the way he had expected.

Prescott Catterson eyed the terrified young woman huddled near the fire and then left the camp in search of Lane and his brutish brother, Burley Culpepper. The pair had brought the girl in some time before. Their task had been to find one or both of the Cartwright brothers and instead they had returned with one of Gil Jenkins' daughters.

Exactly what he had tried to avoid happening.

He knew the easiest way to make Gilchrist Jenkins surrender would be to threaten one of his girls. He'd lied when he told his men otherwise, though it was true there would be more hell to pay for taking a woman hostage than an able, capable man. The truth was he simply could not do that to Ainslee. Though the loss of her father would be hard, he was an older man with many sins on his head. All three girls were innocents.

Fiona had been little more than a child the last time he had seen her. Still, the likeness to Ainslee was unmistakable. He'd confirmed his suspicions when he interviewed her. Between sobs the girl had told him practically her entire life story. She was here with her father, Gilchrist Jenkins, and her two sisters. They were staying with the Cartwrights. They had come out to have a picnic, but their wagon had broken down and they had been stranded. Joe and Adam had gone missing. Hoss was injured and couldn't lift the wagon to fix it, and on and on and on. He'd finally had to quiet her with a shouted command. While he found her youth and innocence mildly amusing, his men did not.

And Burley Culpepper had a hungry look in his eye.

Before he left the camp he had placed Fiona in the care of the only man he had with him whom he trusted completely – Garland Frank, who had been a corporal in his command – and given Frank instructions that as soon as it was feasible he was to see the girl back to the Ponderosa. He wanted her out of the way before whatever was going to happen went down. Prescott ran a hand across his stubbled cheek. First, there was Jenkins to deal with and then, the Cartwrights.

Mace was dead. That was something else Ainslee's sister had let slip. She hadn't said it, but it was obvious one of the Cartwrights had killed him.

Prescott's jaw grew tight and his teeth gritted one upon the other. Mace had been an impulsive, quick to anger and quicker to make a mistake type. He'd hauled his little brother's ass out of more trouble in thirty-five years than any man should have been able to get into. He'd fought him at a fever pitch both verbally and physically, trying his best to make Mace think – to make him look before he leapt.

Well, he'd failed again – and for the last time.

Prescott removed his hat and ran a hand through his auburn hair. He sighed deeply, replaced it, and then went to look out over the land to where the sun was cresting behind a high mountain range. The sky in California had looked the same that day – red as hellfire and laced with dark clouds, heralding an impending storm. He wondered sometimes if it was worth it, this vendetta he'd carried for more than a quarter of a century now, and his single-minded pursuit of the two men he held responsible for his dismissal from the army and the death of his men. More than once he'd questioned himself. More than once he'd told himself to let it go. But then the sights and sounds – the bodies falling, the cries of his men as they were cut down – rose again before his eyes and he knew that was something he could not do. No matter how much time had passed and no matter how far away they were from that night in California, both Many Marks and Gilchrist Jenkins had to die.

He would never know peace otherwise.

The redheaded man dropped into a seated position on a flat boulder and closed his eyes. It was there, as present as yesterday, that scene that had unfolded over twenty years before.

As Captain Prescott Catterson he had been the officer in charge of an advance party with a dozen men under his command. The war with Mexico was undeclared, but everyone knew it was coming – and any day. He'd been part of a discussion with his superiors and had balked at the delays, believing that any extra time would only favor their enemy. In the end his regiment had been sent out to spy on one of the haciendas where known sympathizers to the Mexican cause were alleged to be housed, to determined whether or not they were friendly to the Mexicans. Don Alejandro, the owner of the ranch, was suspected of supplying not only food but arms to the enemy. Traveling along with his regiment was an Indian Scout and interpreter called Many Marks. The Indian's adult name had come not from any marks of honor or from killing, but from his writing skills. His people had been amazed how quickly he had taken up the white man's books and tongue. On his orders the Shawnee, along with one of his men – Lieutenant Forest Walton, a fellow Philadelphian who was as close to him as he had been to Mace – were sent to scout out the hacienda and see if it was feasible to take those within by surprise. Many Marks didn't know, but he already suspected him of duplicity with the enemy.

There was nothing he could do without orders to silence him, so he told Walton to take him out.

Prescott sighed. His struck away the beginning of tears and forced himself walk through it again. Walton was supposed to return if there was trouble. If not, after one hour, the regiment would follow. It was a long hour and about ten minutes before it was over their camp was attacked. His men were busy, preparing their packs, readying to ride, and had no chance to take up their weapons and defend themselves. As they scattered there were shots. Mexican lances pierced the air and flesh. The redhead ran a hand along his chin. Out of fourteen men in the camp, five survived.

His friend was not among them.

There was no time to lick their wounds. He ordered the men to mount and they rained down on the hacienda in a storm of righteousness and retribution. The men inside were celebrating their victory over the Americanos with tequila and had no idea what hit them. His small party killed all but one, including Don Alejandro. During the interrogation that followed, the man they had taken admitted that the owner of the hacienda had been in league with Santa Ana, and that there was a double agent planted in their regiment. Unfortunately, before he could tell them who, one of his own men, in a fit of overzealous rage, silenced him. Still he knew who it was. Who it had to be...

Many Marks.

Leaving his regimental surgeon behind at the hacienda to tend to their wounded and deal with the dead, Prescott set out with his remaining men to find the Shawnee traitor. He sent some of them to the man's village with instructions to burn it to the ground if the natives would not tell them where Many Marks was. Then he took others and rode out into the desert himself. It didn't take long to catch up to the Indian. He'd been wounded and was moving slow. They took him and bound him and threw him into a makeshift jail. Due to military custom and the Indian's position as scout, the army dictated there had to be a trial.

It would be a quick one.

Prescott rose to his feet and began to pace, seeking to escape the remembrance of things past he could not undo. He'd placed Many Marks in one of the outbuildings, posted a guard, and then sent for the company's surgeon to tend to his leg wound. It was a bad one. The ball had entered high in the inner thigh. The redhead's upper lip curled in a sneer. After all, he didn't want the turncoat to die before they could hang him. After that he returned to his bunk and dropped into bed and fell into a heavy sleep fraught with nightmares where the men he had lost accused him of cowardice and complicity. Sometime later, he was awakened by shouts. As he stumbled out of the structure one of his men informed him that Many Marks had escaped. The guard had been found unconscious and the surgeon locked in the outbuilding in the scout's place.

At first, it had seemed plausible that Many Marks had overcome the man he had posted and then overtaken the surgeon. After all, he was a native and in his middle years and the outbuilding was not a jail. Then, one of his men came forward to report his suspicions. He had assisted the doctor with the surgery and the Doc told him that the Indian had lost a great deal of blood and was so weak he could barely stand on his own. The soldier also reported that another of the men had seen someone leaving and reentering the camp about the time Many Marks disappeared. There were other things as well – overheard words, whispers of collaboration and expressed sympathy for the enemy. They all pointed to one man.

The regiment's surgeon.

The man was taken and interrogated and in the end confessed that he believed the Indian innocent and had feared he would hang him without a real trial. He said, it was the only thing in good conscience he could do. Nothing they could do, say, or threaten would make him say anything further. Not even when Prescott Catterson threatened to hang him. His corporal, a man named Franks, told him he couldn't do that – that the surgeon was a high ranking officer in his own right and they dare not mete out justice on their own. Finally Catterson agreed to take him to the nearest fort where a Court's Martial was convened.

Astonishingly, the surgeon was acquitted.

There was no war yet, the authorities said. Therefore there was no enemy to collaborate with. In fact, he was censured for having sent his men in the raid against the hacienda. He was drummed out of the service and lost everything.

While Gilchrist Jenkins walked away a free man.

Prescott Catterson's fingers clenched into fists. Before God, he would not let that stand!

"Pres?" a rough gravelly voice called, intruding on the memory that had driven him to do whatever he had to do to make it right for more than two decades.

The auburn-haired man stirred and shook himself. Turning toward Garland he asked, "What are you doing here? I left you to guard the girl."

"I brought her with me. She's close." The former corporal nodded toward a thicket of trees. "I thought this was important."

He scowled. "Go on."

Garland was a handsome man by women's standards – lean, with a taut muscular build, a head of large graying blond curls and a winning smile. He'd apparently used all of that to gain the girl's trust. "After you left I got her to talking in more detail. She told me Adam and Joe Cartwright returned here yesterday morning to hunt down steers, or at least that's what they told their father. She said they were really looking for some huge bird that the younger one had seen. She called it a Thunderbird."

Prescott shrugged. "So the youngest Cartwright is a dreamer, what's that to me?"

"Listen, Pres, give me a chance. Fiona said the giant bird lived with an old Indian who took care of him. The Indian rescued the Cartwright boys."

"So?" he asked, growing impatient.

"She said he was Shawnee. And he limped."

Reality rolled over and nearly left him dead. "Shawnee?"

"Yeah, how many of them are out here?"

Garland had been in his company that night, when the Indian had run.

"Was it from a leg wound?"

The other man nodded. "Joe Cartwright said it was badly healed and left the old man bent over. Like no one had time to tend it and it healed wrong."

Had Providence smiled on him at last? Was it possible they'd take not only Gilchrist Jenkins but Many Marks as well?

"Did Fiona say where this Indian was?"

"She didn't know. But me and the boys were thinking. The caves around here are all interconnected. If we go back to the one we saw the Cartwrights disappear into and then backtrack through the various passages, we should be able to find them. That is, if they're still with the old Indian."

They'd wounded the young one. The odds were he was hurting, maybe even dying from infection right now. "Oh, I think they'll still be with him. The Shawnee's not going to lose such an opportunity. If it is Many Marks, he knows I'm still after him. The Cartwrights would make a good shield. He'll keep them there somehow – and use them in the end."

"So what do we do?"

He considered it. There were only four of them, but just over the rise another four were waiting – men who had lost fathers and brothers to Jenkins and Many Marks' treachery. He'd spent years gathering them together.

Years waiting for it to be done.

"Send Burley to get the other men, and then him and Lane and a few of the others into the tunnels. They can flush the Indian and the Cartwrights out. Make sure they know we want all of them alive," he insisted.

"What do you want me to do?"

Prescott's gaze went to the north where the Ponderosa lay. He thought a moment. "I changed my mind. Take Fiona to Virginia City instead. Send a wire to Ben Cartwright that she's there and safe. Then come back here."

"What are you going to do?"

He looked to the north. "I'm going to pay the owner of the Ponderosa a visit."

"What for? There's nothing to bargain with. We don't have his sons yet."

"We will and, besides, Ben Cartwright can't know for certain that we don't. You remember, Garland, how it was in the war? Fear goes a long way toward a man's cooperation. We have those items we picked up from the first camp Hoss and Joe Cartwright made, don't we?"

"Yeah. A wallet, and a few others things."

"It's enough. Get my horse ready and place them on it. They may be just the thing I need to tip the scales against Gilchrist Jenkins.

"Mister Cartwright will have to decide which is more important – his old friend's life or his sons'."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

They had returned to the ranch house.

In the end Ben had been the one to make the call, and it had been one of the hardest calls he had ever made. There was no sign of a trail leading to Adam and Joe. His missing sons could have been anywhere in several dozen square miles. Hoss was injured and weakening. The remaining Jenkins' girls were hungry and exhausted and just plain terrified for their sister, while their father was useless. Guilt had driven Gil to a place where all he could do was pace and wring his hands. In fact, Hop Sing was the only one who was still optimistic and steady on his feet. So, he had made the decision to mend the wagon and use it to bring everyone back to the Ponderosa. After he had them all settled, he intended to go to town and have Roy raise a search party to look for Adam and Joe.

Ben completed his descent and paused at the bottom of the stairs. It was almost dark and none of the lamps had been lit yet in the Great Room. He'd just seen Hoss to his bed. His middle son had protested but had fallen asleep even before he could finish arguing with him about how he wasn't tired. As he'd walked down the hall, heading for the staircase, he'd heard Gil's two girls talking. Deirdre was nearly hysterical with worry. Ainslee's voice, on the other hand, had an odd sort of calmness to it – like someone facing the gallows and willing to go. He meant to talk to her when he had a chance, but now – now – he needed to talk to her father. After his eyes adjusted, the silver-haired man looked around the room.

Gil was nowhere to be seen.

Or so he thought. He found his old friend in the end, seated in the little anteroom that housed his desk.

Crossing over to him, Ben leaned his hands on the polished wooden surface and asked, "Gil, what is this all about?"

For a moment the Scotsman said nothing. Then he answered his question with a question. "How much, would you say, Ben, a man's honor is worth? Imprisonment? His life?" He paused. "The lives of those he loves?"

Ben caught the chair that one of his boys usually occupied and moved it from its position on the wall to where he could sit directly opposite the other man. "Is this your honor we're talking about, Gil? Or someone else's?"

"Oh, mine." His friend steepled his fingers and leaned them against his chin. "When I became a surgeon, I took a vow. 'I will use treatment to help the sick according to my ability and judgment, but never with a view to injury and wrong-doing.'" Gil paused. "Those were words I meant when I said them, Ben."

"I know you did, Gil." Ben waited, allowing his friend time to move at his own pace.

"After you left the service, and after I married Lydia, I continued on with the army for a few years. It was an income and we needed it. Ainslee came along and then, to my everlasting regret, I was called to the field in forty-five and sent to California."

"To aid in the taking of it?"

He nodded. "I was attached as first surgeon to a regiment captained by a man named Prescott Catterson. Like most military man he was itching for a fight. When he didn't find one, he made one. Using the excuse that someone had betrayed him and his men – someone allied with the owner of a hacienda he had pegged as being hostile – Catterson attacked and killed most of those within. We had a scout with us, an Indian man named Many Marks. Catterson laid the blame for the attack on his camp on Many Marks and ordered the Indian hung." Gil lowered his hands and straightened in the chair. The look in his eyes was a mix of pride, determination, fear, and regret. "I helped him escape."

Catterson's name seemed vaguely familiar. Ben was thinking about where he might have heard it when Gil's last statement penetrated and drove the question right out of his head.

"You what?"

"Captain Catterson was going to hang him, Ben, right there on the spot. He had me treat the Indian." Gil blew out a disgusted breath. "He wanted him saved so he could hang him! I knew Many Marks was innocent. I... I incapacitated the guard and helped him escape."

"Gil, that's treason!"

He shook his head. "It would have been, had we been at war. We weren't – not yet. I was accused of treason."

"What happened?"

"In the end I was exonerated and Captain Catterson was convicted for disobeying orders. A year later he was drummed out of the service in disgrace."

Ben leaned back in his chair. "Gil, why did you come to the Ponderosa?"

"Don't you think I keep asking myself that?" His tone was sharp and filled with self-recrimination. "When your last letter came, it seemed to offer an opening, maybe even an answer to prayer." Gil leaned forward. His gaze went the stair. When he spoke, he lowered his voice. "Ben, Ainslee doesn't know that I know. Prescott Catterson was a lecturer at her college. He sought her out and tried to use her to get to me." He scowled. "She's never been the same. I thought if I brought her out here, away from it all... I thought, if I left the East, I'd leave Catterson and the past behind as well. But it seems, fate has not been so kind."

"You think this Catterson is here? And that he is the one who has the boys, and maybe Fiona?"

"I'm sure of it! Ben, what else could it be? Maybe he intercepted our letters. I don't know. Somehow he became aware of my arrival and has determined he will kill me – and he doesn't care who gets caught in-between!"

"Is that all?" Ben asked, sensing there was more.

Gil hung his head for a moment and then lifted it and met his eyes again. "No. When I said fate had not been kind, I meant that everything is coming together in such a way that it seems I will be made to pay for the choice of my youth."

"How is that?"

"The Indian I saved, Ben – Many Marks – I believe he's the same one who rescued Hoss and Joe that first night."

That seemed a leap. "Why?"

"Joe's description. The game leg. The fact that the man is an Eastern Indian. His age. It all fits." Gil drew a breath. "Ben, your sons are being held hostage against a choice I made twenty-odd years ago and it's going to cost them their lives." He looked at his hands. "And perhaps Fiona's too."

"Now, Gil, calm down. Fiona might simply be lost. There is no proof that she's being held by anyone. Joe and Adam could be holed up somewhere. Or, maybe, even now all three are on their way back to the Ponderosa. Even if this Indian is the one you saved, and even if this Catterson is here, there are literally hundreds of acres out here and the odds that they will all end up in one place are, well, to put it mildly, astronomical."

Gil snorted. "That all sounds well and good, old friend, and very sensible." He shook his head. "But I know different."

"Gil, I..." Ben broke off. "Did you hear that?"

His friend nodded. "Someone's coming."

He listened. It was a single horse. That suggested it was someone other than the boys and Fiona. "You better go upstairs, Gil. I'll go see who it is and what they want."

As the troubled man rose to his feet, Ben made his way to the door. He paused, and then opened it and stepped outside just as a single rider entered the yard. The man stopped about fifteen feet out and reined in his mount.

Stepping off the porch Ben approached him. "Welcome, stranger," he said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

The man, who was about fifty, with deep auburn hair graying at the temples and a pair of piercing dark eyes, inclined his head and acknowledged his greeting. He removed a saddlebag from the horse's back, took something from it, and then tossed the item to the ground.

"My calling card, Mister Cartwright."

Ben stared at the man, and then at the object. A moment later he knelt and picked up. The worn leather case bore the Ponderosa brand and, in a place only a member of the family would know to look, the initials JFC.

It was Joe's wallet.

The older man's fingers went white on the brown hide. "Where is my son?" he demanded.

"Safe. They're both safe." The stranger leaned forward in the saddle. "For the moment."

The implication was that this man, whoever he was, had both Joe and Adam. Ben's jaw tightened as he held out the leather wallet. "All this proves is that you have something belonging to Joe. You could have found it lying beside the road."

"Or I could have taken it off of the boy's dead body," the man said dryly. "Shall we speculate further, or do we get to the matter at hand?"

Still gripping the case, Ben nodded. The man acknowledged his gesture with a tip of his hat and then dismounted. After tying his horse off to the rail, he turned toward him and fell into what Ben recognized as a military stance known as 'at ease'.

"What is it you want?" Ben asked. "If it's money, there's little in the house right now. I would have to go to town – "

"Do I look like a common criminal, Mister Cartwright?"

"You claim to be holding my sons for ransom and have threatened Joe's life – what else would I think you look like?"

"A man with a mission," the stranger said, his intensity surprising.

"What mission?"

"One of justice long deferred." The man's deep brown eyes pinned him. "What I offer you is an exchange, Mister Cartwright. The safe return of your sons for the pleasure of the company of your current houseguest, Gilchrist Jenkins – and your silence."

Ben went rigid. Could this be the man his old friend was talking about? "What do you want with Gil?"

"To carry out the sentence that was pronounced long ago."

"Gil was acquitted of any wrong doing."

"Oh, I see he's been filling your ears with lies. Did Army Surgeon Gilchrest Jenkins tell you that I acted without orders? That the raid on Alejandro's hacienda was my own personal 'war'? That I was going to hang the Indian without a trial?" The auburn-haired man paused. "Desperate men can be very convincing, Mister Cartwright, though – from what I know of you – I expected more."

"What you know of me?" Ben examined the man more closely. No, there was no recognition. "We've never met."

"We have not, sir, but we have done business." The man shifted. He removed a glove and boldly held out his hand. "Prescott Catterson, junior partner of Wendeln and Holmes, suppliers of belts and pulleys and other items related to the timber trade. I came out west a few years ago in order to raise...funds to pursue my cause. Imagine my surprise when I found out – that after years of staying one step ahead of me – Gilchrist Jenkins was running into my arms."

He knew the name had been familiar when Gil mentioned it. He'd seen this man's signature on papers Adam brought to him to sign. So that was how Catterson knew Gil had come to Virginia City. Adam must have mentioned it during an earlier transaction.

Ben refused the hand with a look. "Catterson is not a common name. I take it you are the man who was in charge of Gil's regiment?"

"Yes, and the man you are harboring in your home is responsible for helping the man who betrayed my regiment to escape." As he spoke, Catterson grew more enraged. His jaw tightened and his near-black eyes narrowed. Into them came the light, almost of madness. "You will, sir, turn him over to me or suffer the consequences of aiding and abetting a traitor to these United States!"

Ben waited a moment. When he spoke, his words were quiet. "Those 'consequences' being the death of my sons? How does that make you any better than Jenkins?"

Thos near-black eyes did not waver. "I will give you until sunup tomorrow to surrender the prisoner," the auburn-haired man replied, completely ignoring his question. "You will bring him to the place where your sons were camped. If Jenkins does not arrive by noon tomorrow, one of your sons will die. And if you choose to be so foolish as to go to the law and wind of it comes to me, there will be two coffins to fill." Catterson held his gaze. "Do not test me, Mister Cartwright. I have killed men before. I will do as I say."

"What if I promise to take Gil to the closest fort and turn him over to the authorities there? You could bring your case – "

"I already brought my case before the 'authorities', sir, and it was summarily dismissed! I will not take that chance again. No. You will hand Gilchrist Jenkins over to me tomorrow morning. It is his life or your son's."

He opened his mouth to speak again, but Catterson turned away before he could. The auburn-haired man mounted his horse, put spurs to horse flesh, and flew out of the yard without another word.

Ben stood still for a moment, feeling the weight of Joe's wallet in his hand and all of its implications. There was no way to know if the man was bluffing or telling the truth. Joe and Adam were missing. The trouble was, the boys could be Catterson's prisoners and he simply couldn't take the chance. Just like he couldn't take the chance to turn Gil over to a madman, no matter what the promised 'consequences'.

The silver-haired man closed his eyes as defeat washed over him. Then he looked up, seeking that help that always came, no matter how delayed or seemingly far away.

A second later Ben heard the door to the ranch house open. When he turned, he found Gil standing in the doorway, a stricken look on his face.

"Old friend," Gil said, staring after Catterson, "we need to talk."

ELEVEN

Joe Cartwright awoke abruptly, jolted out of deep sleep by an acute sense of danger. He had been dreaming and into that dream had crept a gut-wrenching fear for his brother, Adam. Though he couldn't see him well, he knew it was Adam by the way his older brother stood, with one hand on his gun and the other on his hip and one shoulder thrust out as if all of his concentration was aimed forward, toward whatever it was that threatened him. Joe couldn't see that either, but he could hear it and knew what he thought it was – a snake hissing and a horse snorting, the massive animal unnerved enough by the sudden sight of a reptile to strike out with hooves wielding pain and death. He could see the shadows of both man and beast cast on the cave walls, shifting, forming, reforming as if the fire that created them danced and flickered. Joe tried to rise to go to his brother but, to his dismay, found that he couldn't. Each second that passed as he lay there, watching, unable to go to Adam's aid was agony. He tried to shout a warning, but no sound issued from his throat. His brother stood there, unmoving, waiting for whatever was going to happen – for the hooves to strike him, for the snake to bite, for death to come and take him in hand. For –

"Adam!" Joe's eyes flew open. It took a moment, but he realized what he had just seen wasn't real. It had been a nightmare within a nightmare brought about by the dangerously high fever that raged within him. He shuddered with the memory of the fear he had felt and, truth be told, still felt. He didn't know how he knew, but his brother was in danger and fever or no fever, nothing was going to stop him from finding Adam and fighting for him. With a trembling hand Joe gripped the blanket that covered him and slowly pulled it aside. He shifted his body, prepared to rise, but had to stop when the motion caused pain to shoot through his upper body and he nearly passed out. Falling back Joe lay on the pallet of furs, panting hard, waiting for the stampede of his heartbeat to slow. Then, planting his teeth deliberately and determinedly in his lower lip, he tried again.

And failed again.

Defeated, Joe fell back as tears flooded his eyes. They weren't for his own pain, but for his brother. Something was wrong. Adam was in danger. Adam was...

Where?

Unexpectedly, cool fingers brushed his forehead, pushing back the curly brown fringe that dominated it. A moment later an aged voice said, "The Thunderbird's fire burns deep within you."

Joe blinked and turned his head slightly. It was the old Indian. What was his name? "Many Marks?" he asked weakly.

"He calls you," the old man said as he lifted his hand.

The brown-haired man licked his lips and coughed. "He? He...who?"

The native pivoted and reached for something. When he turned back, he held a cup of water in his hand. Slipping an arm under him, Many Marks lifted him up and placed it against his lips.

"Drink," he said.

Joe didn't argue. While he was drinking, he realized the old man had changed clothes. He was bare-chested now, which revealed a number of tattoos written into his leathery skin. His face was painted like a warrior, as if he was prepared for battle, and a headband – decorated with long black feathers and shells – contained his long loose white hair. Joe glanced down as he took a final sip and saw that Many Marks was wearing a pair of cream colored buckskin leggings and no shoes. In a way he was stripped down like a man who had shed almost everything in order to survive a long walk in the desert.

As the Indian returned him to the pallet, Joe asked the question uppermost in his mind, "Where's Adam?"

The Indian had put the cup down and was reaching for a bowl. Many Marks glanced back as he answered. "He talks to Nenimkee."

Joe watched as the man dipped his fingers in the viscous stuff that filled it. "Who's Nenimkee?"

"He knows you. You know him as well," the shaman said as he layered the viscous stuff onto a large leaf and placed it over his wound.

Joe sighed, and then fought to remain conscious as relief cool as a naked boy skinny-dipping on a blazing hot day, flooded through him. "I don't know anyone named Ne-nim-kee," he said even as he yawned. "Is he another Shawnee?"

In answer the native reached up and removed one of the black feathers from the back of his headband. Balancing it on his fingertips, he closed his eyes and spoke a few soft words, so low Joe couldn't hear them. There was a pause of a few seconds and then Many Marks placed the feather on top of the leaf that covered his wound.

"Nenimkee will protect you while I am gone," he said as he rose.

"Where are you going?"

"To pray," the old man said as he rose to his feet.

Joe's looked down at the single black feather laying on his chest. It was close to the length of his forearm. His brow furrowed and he frowned – and then instantly regretted it as a wave of nausea rolled over him and he almost went out. Was Many Marks claiming that Nenimkee was one of the Indian's legendary Thunderbirds?

And did the giant feather mean the Thunderbird was real?

Joe waited until the nausea had passed and then asked, "Where is he – Nenimkee, I mean? Is he..." He paused, remembering the sound in his dream of the hiss and snort – the same sounds he had heard that first night when the black shape flew overhead. A pit opened in his stomach. "He's not with Adam, is he?"

The old man had thrown on a short cloak that was lined with dozens of black feathers. In his hand he held a fan made of more of the same. "Your brother has gone to plead with the Thunderbirds for your life," Many Marks said solemnly. "I go to ask them for his." When Joe started to rise, the native shook his head. "You must stay here."

"Like Hell, I will," he protested, rising up again. "If my brother is in danger – "

"It is you, fiery one, who will bring him danger. You must remain still and grow strong. I must pray and he must win the heart of the Thunderbird."

Joe fell back to the pallet, half in pretense and half because he could barely hold himself up. It would do no good to argue with the old man. He was a mystic and believed the spirits controlled their destinies. He, on the other hand, believed there was only one spirit that could do that and He would give him the strength to find and aid his brother before it was too late.

Feigning a sudden weakness, Joe feebly waved the Indian on. "You go do what...you have to do," he said, deliberately slowing and slurring his words, "and I'll just...do what...I have...to..."

Silence descended on the cave. Joe concentrated on his breathing, evening it out so it appeared he had fallen asleep. Then he waited.

At first, there was nothing. Then, slowly – almost reluctantly – Many Marks left his side and walked toward the cavernous room's opening. Once there the shaman paused, and then his footsteps echoed down the passageway and faded to nothing.

Joe lay still, listening for some time, then he drew his cover off again and laid it to the side. He took a deep breath, held it, and willed his battered and feverish form to rise to a seated position. The effort cost him and he had to remain where he was for several minutes. Then, pushing past the limit again, he worked his way to his feet and stood there swaying. He told himself the pause was so he could think it through and determine the best course. The truth was he was so lightheaded he wasn't sure what would happen if he took a step. Closing his eyes, he listened to his body like his pa had taught him. 'Joe', Pa said, 'God created man to survive. It's the strongest instinct he has. Your body knows what you need. Listen to it! It will tell you. It will save you!'

His body was telling him it had been over fourteen hours since he had eaten and he needed food.

The brown-haired man glanced around. A small fire smoldered near the back of the cave. Joe staggered over to it. On a spit over the flames was the remnant of a roasted rabbit. Dropping to the floor beside it, he pulled the rangy meat off the bone and then forced it past his nose and took a bite. The taste of charred flesh sickened him but he pushed on in spite of it, pulling little bits of meat off with his teeth and chewing them until they were soft enough to swallow without liquid. The meat would give him strength. It had to.

Adam needed him.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Adam sat on the floor of the cave Indian-fashion, his head down, his arms extended and his hands resting on his knees. After drinking whatever it was the old Indian had placed in the clay vial, he had grown dizzy and dropped where he stood. It had been a stupid thing to do, but – under the circumstances – he'd felt it was the only thing he could do. On top of being the only 'doctor' capable of tending Joe, Many Marks held the answer to the mystery of what the great black shadow was that they had seen, of why it and the men who had tried to kill them were here, and how all of these things were related. The old man was a shaman – a medicine or mystery man – and his ways were not the ways of the ordinary Indian. He walked in a land of shadows filled with visions and visitations. It seemed to Adam that, by giving him whatever was in the flask to drink, the native had invited him in – accepted him in a way. He really had no idea what this had to do with Joe. He didn't believe for one minute that a mythical Thunderbird intended to steal his brother's soul. And yet, he had to acknowledge that there were things a man such as Many Mark's understood that someone like him – someone with a logical, rational mind – would never understand. He remembered a lecture he had heard while at school in the East, presented by a student of Humphry Davy. 'Nothing is so dangerous to the progress of the human mind than to assume that our views of science are ultimate, that there are no mysteries in nature, that our triumphs are complete and that there are no new worlds to conquer.'

Wise words from a wise man.

Adam stirred as the world about him began to melt, the cave walls running with shadows that traveled their length to pool on the floor. He drew a breath, wet his lips, and waited as they stirred as if troubled by a sudden wind. Seconds later a form rose from out of the blackness. It hesitated and then opened a mighty pair of wings, the tips of which reached from one side of the cave to the other. The potent stench of sulfur rolled over him and a hot wind burned his cheeks as it shifted and began to move toward him. The man in black did not flinch as it stopped before him. For a heartbeat neither of them moved.

Then, curious, Adam reached out.

The darkness that loomed above him broke like a bevy of black butterflies. A thousand, thousand tiny wings touched his flesh and whispered across his cheeks, brushing his lips, gently, in a lover's kiss. His instinct was to strike them away, but he resisted and allowed them instead to circle about him. For a second, all went dark, and then the black whirlwind rose toward the ceiling of the cave...

...revealing two native men. The pair stood before him, arms crossed, their heads tilted slightly to the side as if considering him and the choice he had made to enter their world. Both were young and dressed in buckskins, their stoic faces painted like warriors, though neither appeared to be hostile. Each had a symbol tattooed on his cheek and wore a single feather tied on by a leather thong and dangling from the surface of his dark brown hair. The mark the first and taller of the two wore was that of a red leaf. The other had one in the shape of a yellow bear. Somehow, he knew they were brothers, just like he knew the symbols were their names. Red Leaf and Yellow Bear.

The dead sons of Many Marks.

The eldest beckoned him. Come, he said, let your journey begin.

He hadn't forgotten what he had come here for. "I'm not going anywhere. I need to speak to Nenimkee."

Yellow Bear grinned – the kind of grin Joe had, cocky and too sure of himself and just plain appealing. Nenimkee waits on the other side, he replied, holding out a hand. You must travel through to meet him.

Adam pursed his lips and sighed. "Well, if I must," he replied as he rose. Once on his feet he reached for Yellow Bear's hand.

As the youth clutched his fingers, his elder brother stepped forward and wrapped both his hands around their wrists.

Red Leaf's black eyes sought his. See, he said.

And he did.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Joe braced himself with a shaking hand against the cave wall. He glanced back the way he had come, fully expecting to find Many Marks or that big black bird he had imagined coming after him. When he heard and saw nothing, he wiped sweat from his brow with what was left of his sleeve and started out again, determined to find Adam. The old man had been vague about where exactly it was his brother had gone to meet with this Nenimkee, but it seemed it was deeper within the network of caves cut into the land that bordered Lake Tahoe. It had been hard to see by the light of small torch he'd kindled, but he had managed to find a path with curious tracks leading to a fork, and then into the right hand branch of the passage that turned sharply down. The tracks looked like they'd been made by someone dragging a rake or pitchfork –

Or maybe by the talons of a giant bird.

Joe swallowed over a lump in his throat large as Nevada. If what he'd seen was real, he really didn't want to run into it unexpectedly in the middle of a dark narrow passageway cut into the heart of the world.

With one hand held out before him, the brown-haired man began to work his way forward again. Joe found he could travel about five minutes before the fever and fatigue drove him to rest. The meat he had eaten had given him a little strength and he no longer felt like he was going to pass out. Still, he was hampered by the fact that a high fever was licking at the edge of his senses and he wasn't sure that everything he saw or maybe even thought was real. It was hard for a man to know if he was delirious because, if he was, all those crazy things seemed perfectly sane. At times it appeared that the shadows on the walls had a life of their own. They would move backwards from where he was and rise up, spreading out like a pair of great black wings, to loom over him. Then, from the heart of the blackness, twin beams of light would flash as if the night had opened its eyes to watch him. He told himself it was just the fever painting pictures. That nothing was there. That there was no such thing as Nenimkee, the Thunderbird, and that Many Marks was just a crazy, lonely old man. That's what he told himself.

What he believed was something Joe kept even from himself.

After pausing again to rest he continued on, moving ever downward, leaving the surface and any chance of escape even farther behind. Joe's footsteps echoed and at times he thought he heard voices. He couldn't tell if they were real, but it was something to aim for and so he moved forward, straining his ears, seeking the speakers – hoping against hope one of them was his brother, and that once they were reunited they could get the Hell out of wherever the Hell it was they were.

Joe blinked. Maybe he should try that again.

As he paused, the sound repeated. Definite this time. Men. Talking. He frowned and bent his head and listened, trying to discern their words. He just about had it when he realized whoever was speaking was coming closer. It might be Adam. But then again –

It might not.

Joe extinguished the torch, plunging himself and the passageway into total darkness.

"I thought I saw a light over here," a man said almost immediately. "Did you?"

"It might have been a trick. Happens sometimes in caves. Our light might have struck a vein of ore, or water that reflected it back. Or it might be that weird moss, you know that stuff that glows?"

They were almost on top of him now. Two men. Vaguely illuminated by torches. One was big and ugly. The other shorter, with blond hair.

"I guess you're right," the ugly man said. "This place gives me the woollies. You notice it's us down here and not Pres."

There was a pause. When the blond spoke, he was right in front of him. "Burley, tell me. Do you think Pres is...well...all right?"

"I ain't sure he was ever right." Burley spat. "I used to think he knew what he was doing and the money was good. But now...I think he's lost it. You know, Lane, clearing Catterson's conscience ain't important enough for me to die."

"I'm sure Mace thought the same thing," the other man agreed. "You know how he argued with the captain."

His companion snorted. "What do you think Pres will do when he catches the Cartwright kid that pushed his brother off of that rock?"

Joe stiffened. It was him. They were talking about him!

"We'll know once we catch him – and his brother. They gotta be down here somewhere."

Lane shifted his torch to his other hand The light penetrated the edge of the crevice Joe had worked his slender form into. He tried to become even smaller.

"Come on," Burley ordered. "Let's keep hunting."

Joe whistled softly after the light had disappeared. So that was what the men were doing down here. They were searching for him and Adam because they blamed them for that man's death.

After waiting another minute to make sure the pair didn't double back, Joe left the shadows and stood in the center of the passageway. He still had the torch and he had matches in his pocket, but now he was afraid to use them. Who knew if there were more men searching the tunnels between the caves? Without light he would have to move more slowly, but there was really little choice. Coming to a decision, he turned and began to walk and almost immediately stumbled. As he caught himself by taking hold of a rock protruding from the cave wall, he closed his eyes and listened to his body again. It was telling him to stop. It was telling him he was one sick boy.

It was telling him that if he didn't listen soon he was bound to die.

"Sorry, Pa," Joe said softly as he pushed off the wall and headed deeper into the cave. "This time I'm going to have to hope that you're wrong."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Adam halted to catch his breath. A low-slung building lit with torches on the outside and lamps within lay before him. The torches flickered in the strong wind that blew across the shallow basin that held the hacienda, stirring up sage and driving it tumbling across the hard baked surface of the earth. Shutters banged in the wind, as well as one loose side door. The door kept a steady rhythm as it banged against the wall of the stucco structure. Several figures moved within the building's confines. Adam couldn't make out who they were, but they seemed comfortable, as if this was their home or headquarters. A short square man, obviously Mexican, came to the front door and looked out as if expecting someone.

Adam glanced at Red Leaf and Yellow Bear where they flanked him on either side. He had asked them what this was all about. Neither had given him much of an answer. Red Leaf had only repeated.

See.

Yellow Bear caught his shoulder and pointed. Adam looked in the direction the boy indicated. Two men were making their way across the desert, snaking low across the sands as if they did not want to be seen. Though he couldn't see, and there was no way he could know, he knew one of them was Many Marks. The pair crawled up along a low sand bank topped with gorse and stopped just in front of him. Sitting with his back against the sandy wall, the Indian's companion – who was a white man – spoke to the shaman.

"This is it. The place we're supposed to scout. Prescott needs to know how many men are inside and if it looks like we can take it with the few men we have."

The Indian rose up on his knees to look. Adam was surprised by what he saw – a strong, able man in his early fifties, much like his father, with the light of determination and conviction in his near-black eyes. "I will go, Lieutenant Walton," he said.

Walton shook his head. "We go together."

"I am quieter and the spirits are with me." Many Marks found and grasped the amulet he wore around his neck. "There is no need for you to take a risk."

"You know I don't believe in that nonsense," the lieutenant spat.

"You are an educated man from Philadelphia. You believe in what you read." The Indian released the amulet. "I believe in what I see."

Walton turned and rose up to look over the bank. "Well, what I see appears to be a hacienda with little or no defense. And while it's not within my authority to give orders to a civilian, I still think..."

"Your order does not change anything. This is something I must do."

The soldier shrugged. "Very well." He palmed his rifle and prepared it to fire. "I'll watch your back."

Many Marks nodded. Then he slipped, sure as any creature born to the desert, over the top of the sandy rise and began the run toward the house.

When he was halfway there a shot rang out. Adam jumped as Many Marks fell.

It had come from Walton's gun.

The lieutenant waited several heartbeats and then rose up and walked to where the Indian lay on the desert floor. Blood poured from a wound high up on his leg. Walton snorted as he kicked him.

"You said it, savage, seeing is believing."

Adam turned to Red Leaf. The native's look was grim. "What is this?" he asked. "What am I seeing?"

It was Yellow Bear who answered. The truth.

A sound made Adam turn back. A man was crossing the desert, approaching Walton and Many Marks. It was the Mexican who had been in the hacienda.

"Is the Indian dead?" he asked.

Walton shook his head. "He's bleeding out. He will be shortly. It's better this way. It will look like it happened in the raid." The soldier indicated an area of land just beyond where they stood. "I'll take him over there and leave him. They'll find him when they find the others and think he crawled off. No one will be the wiser."

"Not even your captain?"

The soldier snorted. "He ordered me to kill the savage. I did. If the reason why is something else, well, Catterson doesn't need to know." The lieutenant paused. "Do you have the money?"

"For betraying your regiment. Si, I have it."

"Look who's passing judgment. Don Miguel told me Alejandro was your friend."

"Si," he said again, and then the Mexican grinned, "he was."

"So the other American will come, soon?"

Walton nodded. "Honor is for men with deep pockets. Not men like you and me."

"When will your captain come?"

"The plan was that the captain would come within the hour if he didn't hear from me." The soldier glanced at the sinking sun. "He's probably on his way right now."

"You have done your work well. The American soldiers who survive will be disgraced, and Don Alejandro will be dead. Don Miguel is pleased, Forest Walton. He told me to give you a bonus once we knew for certain that things would go according to plan."

Walton's face lit with avarice. "A bonus? What kind of bonus?"

The Mexican produced a small snub-nosed pistol from a sack at his waist and fired it. The bullet took Lieutenant Forest Walton in the stomach. As his eyes widened with understanding and Walton fell to the sand beside the still form of Many Marks, the man who had shot him smiled and said, "Don Miguel is sending you to the place where the streets are paved with gold, Senior Walton. There you will be richer than any man alive."

As the Mexican spoke a pair of men came up behind him. He indicated they should remove both Walton and Many Marks and place them some distance away where the advancing troops would not be able to see them. As they moved away, the men began to fade, as if they walked into a thick mist.

Red Leaf touched his shoulder and indicated he should follow him.

Adam did as he was told.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Joe sat on the floor of the passage with his head thrown back against the wall. Maybe this hadn't been the smartest thing to do. If he died down here, no one would ever find him and his Pa and brothers would have no way of knowing if he was alive or dead. He knew what kind of hole that would leave in his heart if it had been his older brother or Hoss who'd disappeared. Still, that was why he was here – that was why he was traveling down, down, down into God's cellar.

He didn't want to spend the rest of his life wondering what had happened to Adam.

Sweat poured down Joe's neck and back, soaking and darkening the filthy fabric that still managed to cling to his lean frame. His shoulder was throbbing, beating in time with his heart , which raced like a stallion. His vision had become cloudy as well as clouded with all manner of horrors painted by an imagination fueled by fever fire. Out of the darkness he had seen John C. Reagan coming at him, all fists and fury. And Sam Wolf, dragging his little brother's rotting corpse behind him. He'd watched again as his brother Hoss was shot, only this time – screaming, cursing, seething with rage – he'd pulled the trigger and killed Red Twilight.

And then there was Adam, shot by Cochise's men, dead in his arms.

Joe started and drew in a sharp breath. He had to get up. Had to continue on. If he sat here, giving in to the delirium and feeding it with hunger and pain-driven fear, that last one would come true. Adam was going to die.

And it would be his fault.

The brown-haired man shifted. He pressed his back against the wall and began to work his way up. Joe moaned as he did and almost tumbled over, but at the last minute found his balance and kept his feet. He was just about to push off the wall when a sound stopped him. He cocked his head and listened. It wasn't men this time. There were no words – just a soft scraping sound like a rake being dragged over the hard-packed earth of a barn floor. Holding his breath he remained where he was; flattened against the cave wall, breathing hard. A second later he saw something move. Joe blinked, uncertain if the sight was real or if his fevered brain was making it up. After all, it might be nothing more than the wavering vision of one of the great jutting columns of stone that rose up from the cavern's floor. Still holding his breath held, he waited as whatever it was moved toward him, rolling with the gait of a seaman fresh off of a ship. When it came to rest, it was nearly as tall as he was and its bulk filled the corridor. The dismal light did little to reveal his strange visitor, but the brown-haired man knew what it was. Its body was black, it had feathers and a beak, and its keen eyes were open and fixed on him.

Joe let the breath out slowly. He blinked again and swallowed. Feeling like a fool, he asked, "You wouldn't happen to be Nenimkee, would you?"

The giant bird remained still. Only its head moved, tilting slightly to the right as if puzzled.

"Have we met before?" he asked, his voice squeaking.

The bird snorted, sounding for all the world like a mare blowing out a warning. Then it moved even closer.

He couldn't back up any farther so Joe stood there, brave as any man would be who had no other choice. He waited for the Thunderbird to attack him, to peck his eyes out, to kill him and tear the flesh from his bones...

Instead it spread its giant wings wide, encompassing his weary form, and then drew him forward and brushed his cheek with the tips of its feathers.

TWELVE

Ben Cartwright looked hard at his old friend. It seemed Gil had aged twenty years in the twenty minutes since Prescott Catterson had appeared and told them that he and his men were holding Adam and Joe, and that the price for their release was the Scotsman's life. Gil was willing to give it for his boys.

He was not willing to take it.

"Ben, you have to understand," Gil protested, glancing up at him from where he sat on the edge of the hearth with his hands linked between his legs, "I know Catterson. If he says he will kill Joe if I am not surrendered by noon tomorrow, he means it."

"I understand that Gil," Ben said softly as he approached and took a seat on one of the red leather chairs beside the hearth. "But going to your death is not an option. I won't trade one of my boys for you." Ben paused. "Do you have any idea what happened? I mean, if the Indian – if Many Marks – didn't betray Catterson's company, who did?"

Gil drew in a breath, held it, and then let it out slowly. "I've had a quarter of a century to puzzle that out, Ben. I'm thinking it was Forest Walton, who was Prescott's personal friend. He was the only one who had the opportunity since he went out with Many Marks' to scout the hacienda." The Scotsman rose and moved to the bottom of the stair. "I've heard rumors Forest was on the payroll of the Mexicans."

"And that's something Catterson would never have considered?"

His old friend nodded and then placed his hand on the newel post and looked up toward the second floor. Hop Sing had supper on the table and though none of them had an appetite, they were waiting for Gil's two remaining girls and Hoss to come down. Hoss had reinjured his leg and was barely able to walk. Watching his middle boy was painful, but not because of that.

Hoss had two brothers missing and in danger and there was nothing he could do about it and that, to put it simply, ate at his soul.

Ben shifted in his chair and glanced toward the door. While Gil had been otherwise occupied, he'd secretly sent for Roy Coffee. He'd asked the sheriff to come out to the ranch but to wear street clothes and to use something to mask his face just in case Catterson was watching from a distance. For all he knew Gil's old enemy had been in Virginia City for weeks now. He could know Roy on sight.

And that might get Joe – and maybe Adam too – killed.

Gil was pacing again. This time his restless energy took him to the area of the office. The Scotsman halted near the desk and lifted the portrait of Joe's mother he kept there and looked at it. When his friend realized he was watching, he turned with the frame still in his hand. "You know, Ben, there's only so much a man can bear. He gets tired. He wants to quit. He needs to quit."

"Gil..."

"Not only have I endangered Marie's son – and your oldest – but my child as well. We know now Fiona is not with Adam and Joe."

"Unless Catterson is lying," he reminded him. "He might not have the boys at all."

Ben could hear through the open window behind the desk the hustle and bustle of the end of a most extraordinary day. He had sent several ranch hands out earlier to search for Fiona. A few had returned near suppertime and were stabling their horses now. Other workers were heading for the bunkhouse and their beds. So far the men who had come back had brought no news of the girl's fate. He hesitated to send them, or any men, out again since Catterson might suspect they were in the area to hunt for Joe and Adam and react accordingly.

If she wasn't with the boys, that left Fiona completely alone.

Gil returned the portrait to its place on the desk. "I am going, Ben, to find Fiona and to turn myself into Catterson." When he began to protest, the Scotsman held up a hand to silence him. "I am not one of your sons. You cannot order me to stay."

Ben crossed over to him and took him by the arm. "It will be your death, man!"

Before Gil could answer a shout went up from the yard outside. One of his men called out, "Mister Cartwright, come here! Mister Cartwright! Come right now!"

The silver-haired man ran to the front door and threw it open, hoping against hope that he would find a pair of disheveled but very alive boys surrounded by his men. Instead he saw one untidy and obviously terrified girl sitting on the back of a horse next to Roy Coffee.

Fiona was home.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Hoss had heard the ruckus and looked out the window of his upstairs bedroom just in time to see two horses ride into the yard. As soon as he recognized the woman rider as Fiona, he hobbled across the hall, knocked on the door of the room that held her sisters, and sent Deirdre and Ainslee flying down the stairs. The big man followed more slowly, leaning heavily on the solid cane that was his crutch, feeling for all the world as useless as a one-legged man in a two-legged race. By the time he reached bottom, Fiona had been taken in hand and brought into the Great Room where she sat with a blanket wrapped tightly about her quaking form and a sister on either side.

He couldn't help but smile. It plumb brought his heart pure joy to see a lost thing found.

Hop Sing walked into the room carrying a steaming mug of tea and made a beeline for the exhausted girl. "Here, Missy Fiona, you drink this," he said as he handed it to her. "Make you strong."

"Thank you, Hop Sing," the girl replied, taking a sip and then holding the cup in her trembling hands.

As Gil took a seat on the table in front of Fiona, Hoss felt a hand grip his arm. It was his pa. The silver-haired man directed him to the place where Roy Coffee waited. The sheriff explained how he had found Fiona stumbling through the town and once he'd heard her story, headed straight for the ranch. His father filled him in on what Fiona had told Roy as they traveled. She had wandered off deliberately, frustrated and fearful, partly in search of Joe but mostly to make the rest of them follow and start the search quicker. While in the wood she had been accosted by two men and taken – bound and gagged – to their camp. There had been men there that frightened her, but one had been nice. His name was Garland Frank. Garland had listened to her tale before going off to talk with a tall, mean-looking man named Catterson. When he returned, Garland ordered one of the other men to saddle two horses and told her to mount and took her to Virginia City where he let her go.

Hoss frowned. Why would the man release such a valuable hostage as one of Gil's girls? There just had to be more going on here than any of them realized.

Crossing over to where the family huddled together, his pa looked down at Fiona. She was pale as the bit of underpinnings that showed through the torn shoulder of her rust-colored dress.

"Gil, if I may?" he began.

His pa's old friend glanced up. "I asked her, Ben. She didn't see Joe or Adam."

The silver-haired man heard the same thing in Gil's voice that he did – there was more.

"But?" he prompted.

Fiona answered instead. "I overheard some of the men talking, Mister Cartwright. They don't have Joe and Adam, but they are sure they will soon."

His pa let out a sigh of relief. "So Catterson was bluffing!"

Relief washed through Hoss as well. Dang them brothers of his! They could take of themselves.

"There's something else, Mister Cartwright."

Fiona's tone made them both look straight at her. "What is it?" the older man asked.

Tears flooded her eyes and a tremble shook her small frame. "Little Joe's hurt. One of them shot him." She drew in a ragged breath. "They said they found a lot of blood at the entry to one of the river caves and it was enough that he might be...dead."

Hoss glanced at his pa, noting how much the older man had paled.

"Do you think they were telling the truth?" he asked. "You know, maybe they were just saying that so you would come back and tell us."

Fiona's red curls bounced on her shoulders as she shook her head. "I was pretending to be asleep. They didn't know I could hear them, and it was before Garland told them to let me go."

The big man thought about it, and then he remembered the man they had found dead and buried. They'd figured either Joe or Adam had tackled him and, knowing his little brother, it was most likely him what had done it.

"Pa, what're we gonna do? If Joe's out there bleeding to death somewhere..."

"He has Adam with him. He'll be all right." The older man said it as much to reassure himself as everyone else.

"But Pa, we don't know that! They coulda been separated."

"Hoss, if you are suggesting you ride out to find your brothers, the answer is no!" his father snapped. "Two sons are more than enough to worry about. I don't need to worry about three!"

Roy Coffee had remained silent throughout their discussion. Now he stepped forward. "Don't you worry, Hoss. I'll find your brothers. I'll raise me a posse and we'll – "

"You'll do no such thing!" Gil protested as he stood. "I will not endanger any more lives or give them as sacrifice to a precarious choice I made years ago. I will ride out, and I will ride out alone and surrender myself to Prescott Catterson!"

A chorus of protests rose from the throats of the three girls. His pa held a hand up, calling them to silence as he faced his old friend. "I agree," the older man said. As Gil relaxed, Hoss thought to himself, 'Wait for it...'

"On one condition – I ride with you."

"Now Ben, even if Gil agreed, you can't just take the law into your own hands," Roy objected.

His father's trim form went rigid. "Those men are looking for my boys, Roy, and mean to hurt them. Yes, I can!"

"You know better," the sheriff scolded. "Let the law take care of it."

"But there's been no crime," Gil said, suddenly inspired. "The law can't go after a man for making a threat. Can it?"

"Well, no," Roy admitted.

"And we have no proof anyone shot Joe, only idle gossip," his pa added.

"And who says we are riding out looking for anyone?" The Scotsman threw a glance his father's way. "Ben has some land south of here he wants to show me."

Roy Coffee looked from one man to the other. The exasperated look on his face would have been comical if the situation hadn't been so downright awful. Raising a finger, he wagged it at them like they were ornery ill-behaved little boys.

"Well, if you ain't two of the most bull-headed, contrary, mulish men I ever done met! I may not be able to stop you going, but I sure as shootin' am going to stop you from doing somethin' stupid." He removed his badge from inside his coat and placed it in his pocket. "Ain't no one gonna know I'm the law. I'm going with you!"

"Roy, no," his father said.

The sheriff got that look, the one that squinted his eyes and drove his lips into a straight line. "Well, now, Ben, as you ain't on the town council or a state's marshal, so I don't see as you can stop me."

His pa almost smiled. "I suppose it wouldn't be worth trying?"

Roy shook his head. "Nope."

Hoss watched the wheels turn in that silver-capped head he loved so well. After a moment, the smile broke across his father's face. "Welcome aboard, Roy!" the older man laughed, giving the lawman a slap on the shoulder.

"I'll get my gear," Gil said, and then turned to find himself facing a wall of determined women.

"Da, you can't!" Ainslee protested as the others echoed her sentiments.

Gil reached out and touched her face. Then he planted a kiss on her cheek. "Aine, take your sister upstairs and help her into bed. She needs to rest."

Hoss watched as Ainslee's eyes flicked from her father to Deirdre. Her sister gave a small nod. "Very well," she said, catching Fiona about the shoulders and practically lifting her from the hearth. "Here. Deid, you take her up. I need to speak to Da."

As the two girls departed, Ainslee crossed to where her father stood. She took his hand in hers and started to speak.

He stopped her. "You, more than the others, Aine, know why this has to end."

From Ainslee's expression – it sorta looked like surprise mixed with guilt – it was clear she knew what her father was hinting at.

She shook her head. "Da, no..."

The Scotsman turned and looked at his father. "Ben, if you would excuse us for a minute."

"Certainly," the older man said. "Hoss, come outside with me."

"Sure thing, Pa," the big man agreed and followed him out the door.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Her father indicated the settee. "Ainslee, please sit down."

The blonde woman did as she was told, though all she wanted to do was run as far away as she could, as fast as she could. She settled on the small sofa and linked her fingers together, resting them on her dress.

Hoping the older man would miss the fact that they were trembling.

He covered them with his own. "Aine," he said, searching her eyes, "I know."

She started. "How? How could you?"

After giving her hands a little squeeze, her father leaned back. "When you came home from college, you weren't yourself. I hired a man – a detective of sorts – to find out what had happened."

"Da, really!" she snapped, a bit insulted.

He shrugged. "Father's prerogative – especially a hapless old father who finds himself solely responsible for a bevy of beauties such as you and your sisters." The older man paused, and then went on. "The truth, Aine. Did you love him?"

Panic made her breath come quickly. She looked down at her hands to hide the tears that were forming in her eyes.

Her father would have none of it. He lifted her head by the chin. "Do you love him still?"

"Da..."

His other hand caressed her cheek. "Aine, pretend I'm your mother and not a silly old man. Tell me."

How could she? She'd been so young when she had gone off to the medical college and so alone without her sisters. Being of a serious mind, she had found it hard to make friends with the other girls who wanted to attend concerts and balls and flirt and dance with all the boys.

And they were that – boys.

Toward the end of the year Professor Prescott Catterson arrived. The first time she saw him, it had been that deep auburn hair she'd noticed, that and the look out of his piercing near-black eyes. They were sad and soulful and expressed without words the melancholy nature of his soul. He was a tall man – taller than her – and carried himself with military bearing. She'd always admired that in her father. If the truth be told, Catt reminded her of her father. It was part of the attraction.

Unfortunately, the likeness was only skin deep.

In the beginning they were no more than student and teacher. She attended his lectures on the newest innovations in medical treatments, many of which had been discovered during the course of the last two wars. Catt had a way of bringing it all to life, of making you understand that what you were learning would alter and improve the lives of those who would eventually be your patients – and sometimes even save them. It was all so exciting. One day she had remained behind to ask him to clarify a point. He invited her to dinner.

A week later, she was in his arms.

The romance had been a whirlwind. It came on so fast, in fact, that she was slightly embarrassed, and so she kept their relationship from her family, making no mention of it in her letters. By December they were talking about marriage.

By March, it was over.

She never really understood what had happened. One day Catt simply disappeared. When she asked the administrator of the school where he was, she was told that he had resigned and taken another post and left no forwarding address.

She did not go home that Christmas. Instead she made an excuse and remained at school. By the end of the school session, she decided she had mended enough to be able to face her family.

She never went back to school. The study of medicine lost its appeal. To be truthful, life lost its appeal.

"Aine?"

She shook herself. "I'm sorry, Da. What is it you want to know?"

"Just what happened."

Ainslee shrugged. "Catt was my teacher. We flirted and I thought I had fallen in love, and then he deserted me. There's really nothing else to tell."

"Why didn't you tell us about him?"

Lifting a hand, she struck away a tear. "There are some things that belong to a woman alone."

"Like pain? Aine, we could have helped you."

Rising, she looked down at him. "Don't you understand? I didn't want your help or your pity. I still don't!"

"Those are two different things."

"Are they?" she snapped. "I'm not so sure."

Her father reached for her hand. "All right. Please sit down. I have some other questions." At her look he quickly added, "Not about the past, but about the present."

She stared at him hard and then returned to her seat. "What do you want to know?"

"Did you know when we left Philadelphia that Catterson was here?"

"No. If I had, I wouldn't have come. I wouldn't have put you in jeopardy and I certainly did not want to see him."

"All right. Is there anything you can think of – anything of character or purpose that would help us locate him yet tonight?"

She thought of what her friend had told her. "Da," she said softly, "you are his purpose. For whatever reason, Catt wants you dead."

The older man looked thoughtful. He nodded. "I know. It's what I told Ben. It's me or Little Joe. I am sure you know that Prescott Catterson is a man of his word, if nothing else."

That stabbed her. No, she didn't. He had said he loved her, her had given her his 'word' that they would marry, and it had all been lies, lies, and more lies.

"Yes," she said, lying herself.

"Aine, I am going to go with Ben and Roy and we are going to find and free Little Joe – and Adam if Catterson has him as well. I need you to be brave and to keep your sisters here. Will you promise to do that?"

Her voice trembled. "You want me to promise to let you kill yourself?"

It took a second, but he nodded. "There's no other way. I've lived my life. I've had a wife and raised a family. That young man deserves a chance to do the same. I will not have him lose that chance in order to save my neck!" The older man took her by the shoulders. His intensity surprised and, if truth be told, frightened her a bit. "Promise!"

As more tears fell, the blonde woman placed her hand on top of his. She couldn't say it, but she nodded.

And condemned her father to death.

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"What do you suppose they're talkin' about in there, Pa?" Hoss asked.

Ben glanced at the door to the house, which was closed. "I imagine they're saying goodbye."

The big man swallowed, clearly uncomfortable with that. "Are you just gonna let Gil give hisself up, Pa?"

"Not if I can help it," the older man said as he turned back. "Between Roy and me, we should be able to prevent Gil from doing anything foolish."

"What if that there Catterson fella gets to Joe and Adam afore you do?"

The possibility haunted him. What would he do? Could he exchange one life for another – even the life of a beloved son – and live with the choice?

"Son, there's a passage in the Bible that speaks to the fact that God gives a man what he needs when the time comes. I...don't have an answer. I will simply do what I have to do."

His middle son was quiet for a moment. "I wish I was going with you, Pa."

"I know you do." He reached out and placed a hand on Hoss' shoulder. "But you have just as important a job here."

His son's blue eyes narrowed. "Pa, no. You ain't gonna – "

"I need you to make sure none of Gil's girls follow us."

"Pa, that'll be like herding bobcats. They ain't gonna listen to me."

"You'll have to enlist the men – and Hop Sing – but whatever you do, do not let those young ladies follow us. It would put not only them in danger, but your brothers." He squeezed the big man's flesh. "The best thing you can do for Joe and Adam is keep them here."

"Well, maybe..." Hoss grinned. "Maybe if I call in all the ropers and hogtie them."

Ben laughed. "That sounds like a plan."

At that moment the door to the house opened and his old friend stepped out, closely followed by Roy Coffee. He'd sent the sheriff up to his room and told him to change into some of his extra clothes. It was odd to see the lawman dressed up like a rancher with a leather vest and a kerchief tied around his neck.

"Will I do?" Roy asked as they came alongside him.

"Just don't give up the law anytime soon," he laughed. Turning to his middle son, he said, "Hoss, if you feel like it, will you go and get Buck out of the stable, and bring a good solid mount for Gil? They should already be saddled."

"Sure thing, Pa. I'll be glad to have something to do."

As Hoss limped toward the stable, Ben turned toward his old friend. Gil was staring off into the distance, pensive. He touched his shoulder and when the Scotsman turned, addressed him. "Gil, I don't intend to deliver you to Catterson without a fight."

"It could mean the life of one or both of your boys, Ben. Are you prepared for that?"

Was he? Was there any way to prepare for such a thing?

"No, Gil, I am not prepared for that. But neither am I prepared to hand over a friend to a man who means to kill him. There has to be another way."

"And if there's not..."

Gil's words hung in the air.

Ben's jaw grew tight. "Then I'll make that choice when I have to."