THIRTEEN
Adam was back in the cave, seated on the floor, wondering if he had ever been anywhere else, or if the whole time he had spent with Red Leaf and Yellow Bear had been nothing but a dream. Or maybe a better word for it was, a vision. His heart was racing wildly, running like a thoroughbred bent on bursting through the finish line first, and he felt stiff and a little lightheaded. Whatever it was that Many Marks had given him to drink, it had left him dry-mouthed and feeling slightly sick. Reaching up with a finger, he drove away a bit of spittle that hung on his lower lip. The taste of it was acrid, like the scent of sulfur that colored the air of the chamber he was in.
"What am I doing here?" he whined to himself. How was this going to help Joe? For all he knew his brother might be dead, or maybe stolen away by an Indian shaman who believed erroneously that Little Joe was somehow meant to be 'one' with his Thunderbird. He had to get back, had to make sure Joe was all right.
He had to get them both out of there.
Adam rose to his feet and stood there swaying for several heartbeats. The room spun around him at a dizzying pace, drawing in the shadows that edged it like dark pigment stirred into white paint, changing, coalescing, taking shape. He fully expected Red Leaf and Yellow Bear to reappear. They didn't. Someone else did.
Or something else.
The black-haired man stumbled back, not stopping until he encountered a wall. Before him stood a man – or at least, it was something like a man. He was tall and powerfully built. His chest was bare and covered with tattoos; his head shaved, with the exception of a single scalplock that hung to the left of his face. A cloak comprised of black feathers lay across his broad shoulders and dripped from his outstretched arms, falling in an ebon wave to the cavern floor. On his feet were odd leather shoes made to resemble a bird's talons. The man's face was long and hawkish and his eyes were closed.
When he spoke, his voice was thunder echoing over the hills.
White man, why are you here?
Adam stepped away from the wall. So maybe this was who he had been sent to find – a shaman dressed as a Thunderbird.
At least he hoped it was a shaman dressed as a Thunderbird.
"Are you Nenimkee?" he asked.
I am.
Ben Cartwright's eldest son planted his feet and lifted his chin. "I have come to ask you to release my brother." It felt silly to say it, but then again he was in a cave talking to what might prove in the end to be the embodied spirit of a giant bird.
Nenimkee's head cocked to one side, birdlike. Your brother is mine. What will you give me in exchange for him?
Adam did not hesitate. "Take me."
The figure before him drew his feathered cloak about his strong frame and glided across the cave floor, so smoothly it seemed his feet did not touch. He stopped before him and asked, You would sacrifice yourself?
Adam nodded. "Yes. Now let my brother go."
The shaman's eyes remained closed and still, it seemed the man studied him. After a moment his thin lips twitched and formed something akin to a smile. Many Marks has chosen well. You will do.
"Do for what?"
Many Marks is wrong. I do not desire a life nor am I looking for a keeper. What I desire is your aid in fulfilling my mission.
"While I would love to do that," Adam hedged, "my brother needs me. Joe may be dying..."
The circle is all, Adam Cartwright, the Thunderbird said. It was I who drove the fiery one to scale the rock tower. I, who chose to let him fall. If Joseph Cartwright had not been wounded, you would not be here. If you were not needed here, he would not have been wounded. The shamanic figure paused and then repeated, The circle is all.
Adam swallowed hard. How did the man know about Joe's fall from the rocks – or know their names? Unless, maybe, Many Marks had told him.
Do you know why I and the others like me are here?
"'The 'others' meaning more Thunderbirds?" He shook his head. "No."
It is the Creator's design that we guard the gates of Heaven and make certain justice is had upon the earth below. You will bring justice. That will save your brother's life.
"Justice to who? And for what?"
Nenimkee leaned in, so close their faces were nearly touching. Then he opened his eyes. As lightning flashed he spoke.
See.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Joe Cartwright groaned as he came back to consciousness. He was laying on his back on a hard surface and everything – and that meant everything – hurt. When he shifted and tried to rise an intense fire tore through his left shoulder, reminding him that he had been shot and infection had set in and that was why he felt like Hell. It took him a minute or two more to remember that he was in one of the passageways that connected the series of caves that dotted the landscape by Lake Tahoe. He had been searching for Adam when he heard voices. There had been men – men who were hunting him. He remembered backing into a niche in the wall and hiding until they'd passed, and then striking out to locate his brother Adam, and then...
Then...
Joe's eyes flew open and he looked around. He couldn't see much. The only light in the passageway was dim and must have come from some sort of luminescent cave plant or other natural source. Still, he had been in the caves for so long now that his eyes had adjusted and it was kind of like walking outside on a night without a moon or stars. He could make out shapes and sense movement.
There was a large shape close to his feet and it was moving.
The brown-haired man sucked in a breath and held it as the last thing he had seen before passing out – a great winged creature with a bald head and bright eyes – flashed before his own. He remembered the bird reaching toward him and covering him with its wings.
Suddenly Joe became aware that one of them covered him now. Though the creature lay at his feet like a faithful watch dog, it had one great wing extended and he was sheltered under it like a chick. That's why he felt warm, why he wasn't shivering.
It might be why he was still alive.
Another minute or two passed as he considered what to do. The only plausible explanation he could come up with was that Hoss' Thunderbirds were real. He tried to remember what his brother had told him about the supposedly mythic creatures that the Indians believed in. They controlled the weather and fought against some kind of serpent, and had something to do with making wrong things right. He thought they were supposed to be friendly to man. As Joe shifted to ease the pain in his shoulder, his fingertips encountered a bank of feathers. A heartbeat later the creature stirred, lifted its head, and looked at him.
Joe swallowed hard. He sure hoped they were friendly.
"Hey, there, Mister Thunderbird," he said as he backed out from under the wing and rose shakily to his feet, "how's it going?"
The bird's bald head cocked at a quizzical angle, as if it was as puzzled by this encounter as he was. It snorted and then hissed like a snake as it folded in the wing.
"Thanks," he said, and then cleared his throat, "thanks for watching over me. You were watching over me, weren't you? I mean you weren't just waiting to...eat me or something?"
Like someone using his elbow to rise, the bird leaned on the joint of its wing and reared up off of the floor. He'd known it was big, but as it straightened up, Joe realized it was almost as tall as he was. It hissed and snorted again, and then shook itself and stretched like a man does after a long, restful sleep. It's wings spanned the passageway.
It had to be twelve or fourteen feet wide.
"N...N...Nenimkee, that's your name, right?" Joe stammered as a sudden chill took him. He winced. "Nice Nenimkee..."
His answer was another snort. It almost sounded dismissive. But then again, it might have just been a snort and this might just be a bird – maybe it was some kind of pet belonging to the old shaman.
A really big pet.
"Hey, Nenimkee," Joe said, glad there was no one around to hear, "you think you could lead me out of here? You know, maybe help me find my brother? Adam's down here somewhere. You'd...like Adam..."
It was looking at him. Right at him. Joe met the Thunderbird's eyes and for just a moment seemed to sense a human intelligence behind them.
Curiously, it seemed to be amused.
"Unless, of course, you have some other idea..."
The giant bird made a clicking noise and then, again, it hissed like a snake. It's head pivoted from side to side as if it was stretching its neck and then it turned and began to lumber along the passageway. Joe hesitated, but knew he had only a second to decide whether or not to follow. If it was a Thunderbird, it might be leading him to Adam. But then again, it might not. He'd just remembered another thing about them. The Paiutes called the giant birds 'tricksters'. That meant they liked to play tricks, like ornery little kids.
As the bird's tail feathers dragged into the darkness, Joe moved to follow.
He'd find out soon enough.
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Adam stood alone on a windswept plain. The sky overhead was a black veil punctured every so often by lightning. There was a sting of rain in the air and in the distance, the sound of thunder rumbling over the land. Before him lay a long low structure and beyond it, a series of gently rising hills. To either side was desert. It wasn't the Ponderosa. Maybe it wasn't even Nevada. But wherever it was, someone was dying.
A man's cry drifted across the hot steaming sand, carried on the back of a blistering wind.
The man in black instinctively reached for his gun only to find he didn't have it. Puzzled, Adam frowned even as his fingers searched his holster's interior as if – miraculously – he might find the missing weapon tucked away in a corner. He seldom left the house without a gun. He knew he's had one when he started off in pursuit of Joe – two, in fact, since he carried his brother's.
What was going on here?
Another cry, lower this time and punier, made his head turn. Whoever it was, was nearby, and they were in trouble. Gun or not, he had to go see if there was anything he could do. Following a bloody trail drug through the sand, Adam struck off due west. As the desert fell away beneath his boots, the man's cries were reduced to whimpers, as if he was growing weaker. Or at least, that's what he thought until he found him. The injured man wasn't weakening, he was terrified.
So was he.
The man lay on the desert floor. It took a moment, but Adam recognized him as Many Marks. Above him, on a high rock wall, loomed a great black bird. The Indian scout scrambled back, as the bird spread its wings and swooped down, landing bare inches from him.
Adam dropped to a crouch and placed some gorse between him and them. From his position of safety he watched the native stagger to his feet. Panting, the injured man leaned against a boulder even as a bolt of lightning jolted across the sky and the thunder rumbled, shaking the land beneath their feet.
In the thunder, there was words.
*You must come with us.*
The native shook his head. "No. I must return to tell the Captain what I know."
The creature rose up. It spread its massive wings wide, blotting out the sky. *You must come with us*.
"No," the native declared. "Jenkins will die."
*He is not your concern. We are your concern, Many Marks.*
"Catterson knows he let me go. To a white man that is treason. Jenkins saved me – "
*We saved you so you could come with us and be prepared.*
Many Marks limped forward. "Prepared for what?"
The great bird shifted. It opened its colossal wings again and closed them two times, driving wind and rain before it.
*For the time when you will be used. Now, you will come!*
Adam rose to his feet as the creature took to the sky. He looked for Many Marks but the Indian was gone. Seconds later the lightning flashed again, so close this time that sound and light came as one.
The power of the blast forced him to close his eyes and fall back. When he opened them again, he was in a different place. A small structure, something like one of their line shacks, lay before him. Rain was falling. The smell of hot wet sand and weeds assaulted his senses. After glancing at the sky and checking – he had to admit – to see if a great black shape hovered there, Adam approached the shack from the back side.
As he drew near he heard men's voices. One of them had a thick Scottish accent. It only took a moment to realize it was Gil Jenkins.
"There won't be a trial – dinnae you understand?" he said, his whisper fierce. "The Captain's goin' to hang you. You must go! Many Marks, think of your family and your bairns. What will they do with you dead? Well?"
"You will hang instead," the Indian replied.
"I will nae. Captain Catterson can nae harm me. There is no war yet. I did nothin' wrong." Reaching into the small structure, Gil took hold of Many Marks' arm and drew him out. A second later he had taken his place. "I'll tell them you overpowered me. Here," he lifted his gun from its holster and held it out, "take this. Strike me with it."
Many Marks looked at the gun in his hand and then at him. "Why do you do this, Doctor Jenkins? You too have a family and a hope for a life."
Adam could see Jenkins' face. It was solemn.
"Because it's right."
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Joe shot out a hand to keep himself from falling. He was breathing hard again and at the end of his strength. The creature he followed moved like something in a dream. Just when he thought he had caught up to the Thunderbird, it would become one with the shadows and disappear and he would have to scramble to find its trail. Finally, he had begun to look for sign. There were tracks left by its talons, and the bird's shed feathers shone in the meager light. He began to collect them as he went.
The last one had been covered in blood.
The brown-haired man couldn't be sure, but he thought the Thunderbird was wounded. Of course, the blood could have been his, transferred when the creature watched over him. Still, he didn't think it was. Unfortunately, the giant bird seemed hell-bent on going deeper into the caves. Maybe, like some animals, it was looking for a special place to die. Joe scowled. He'd like to have been heading toward the light and the surface instead. He was still half-afraid he was going to die down here alone and spend eternity as a pile of picked over bones. But he couldn't desert the Thunderbird, not after it had helped him.
A click, hiss, and snort caught his attention. Joe looked and found the bulk of the curious creature blocking the corridor. It's piercing eyes shone in the unnatural light of the corridor.
It was staring right at him.
Joe gulped. "Did...did you need s...something?" he stuttered.
It hissed again and rolled to the side, leaving the passage open and seeming to indicate that he should pass through.
"You want me to...go ahead?"
Another hiss and a snort this time.
He guessed that meant 'yes'.
Mustering what he had left of both courage and strength, Joe pushed off the wall and headed for the Thunderbird. As he drew close he felt its warmth call out to him. His pants were torn open and there was next to nothing left of his shirt. The bandages he wore were soaked through with sweat and fresh blood. He was clammy and cold and shivering and wanted nothing more than to lie down beside the bird's great hulk and snuggle into its feathers. But he couldn't. He couldn't give in.
He wanted to help the Thunderbird and he had to find his brother.
The creature remained still as he came alongside it. Joe could hear its heart pounding and felt the heat of its breath as he moved past. Once he was through the great bird shifted back to so it blocked the passageway again. As it did, he heard voices on the other side, back the way they had come, calling out his name. It was Burley and Lane. They were hunting him.
And the Thunderbird was trying to save him.
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Adam's head was spinning. As his time with the Thunderbirds drew to a close, the images he was being shown came more quickly. He saw Gilchrist Jenkins taken into custody by soldiers, accused of aiding and abetting Many Marks' escape, and Prescott Catterson's order for Gil to be executed by hanging. He watched as Catterson's concerns were summarily dismissed by his superior officers and the man vowed he would find proof. He saw Catterson, in the desert meeting with his men, ordering them to go to Many Mark's village and burn it to the ground. There were men and women, running, children too, trying to escape the hail of bullets that rained down on their lodges and tents.
And there was one last image – Many Marks, kneeling in a field littered with scorched corpses.
Red Leaf and Yellow Bear among them.
The man in black sucked in air like a swimmer breaking the surface. He rose to his feet and stumbled over to the wall to brace himself. Adam was surprised to find that he was incredibly sore and somewhat weak, as if he had actually experienced all he had seen and heard. As he stood, catching his breath, the man in black realized he was soaked in sweat and trembling from head to foot.
What had just happened?
As a boy he had seen something like this. A shaman, dream questing as they sometimes called it, seeking truths that were hidden and could only be revealed by those on the other side. The potion Many Marks had given him had somehow propelled him into the events that had happened so long ago, revealing that justice had been left undone. Was this, then, what the Thunderbird shaman meant when he told him that there was something he had to set right? Adam ran a hand over his face, driving back the feeling of leaden fatigue that threatened to overcome him.
Still, how could he be certain that what he had seen was real?
The black-haired man waited a few more seconds for his head to clear before starting back the way he had come. He had to question the old Indian. It was possible Many Marks was the only living witness to the events that had happened and the only one who might be able to convince Catterson that Walton – not Gil or Many Marks – was the one who betrayed him and his men.
Adam hadn't gone very far when he heard a noise that stopped him. Someone was coming his way. From their advancing shadow, they were moving unsteadily and might even be injured. He could hear ragged breathing. The desperate sound echoed down the corridor, arriving before they did.
Flattening himself against the cave wall Adam waited, every sense alert. It was almost impossible to see, though a vague sort of light illumined the passageway, most likely caused by a plant similar to Foxfire. Within seconds a shadowy figure entered his line of vision. Whoever it was stumbled into the passage, turned and looked back the way they had come, and began to collapse.
"Adam..."
"Good God!" he cursed, his whisper tense. "Joe!"
Adam literally dove from his hiding place and caught his brother just before Joe's slender form would have struck the floor. His body was on fire. Adam touched his brother's face and started to call him, but fell silent when he heard another sound.
Someone else was coming.
FOURTEEN
It was a good thing he was a big man. It took all of him to blockade the front door and keep Gil Jenkins' girls from escaping. They was mighty sore at him cause he'd done about everything he could do to stop them short of hogtying the three of them and leaving them behind while he hid every horse and wagon on the ranch. A few minutes before they'd fired their last volley – using a woman's most fiendish, sure-fired and underhanded method to break a man.
They'd all started crying.
He wasn't budging.
"Now, ladies, you heard my pa and your'n. If'n you go out there, you're just gonna make things worse for both of them and Adam and Little Joe. There ain't nothin' you can do to help!"
Deirdre marched straight over and turned her tear-streaked face up toward him. She poked him in the chest to emphasize every word. "And here I thought you were a gentleman! I don't know how I could have been so wrong about someone. You're just like every other man, you think we women haven't got a brain in our heads!"
"Now, than ain't true, Miss Deid..."
"Don't you Miss Deid me, you lout! If anything happens to my father, I will never forgive you!"
Fiona came up beside her. "And if anything happens to Little Joe, I won't ever forgive you!"
Hoss held his breath, waiting for the third part of the Jenkins' trinity to pass final judgment. When it didn't come, the big man looked at Ainslee. She was standing by the fire, staring into the flames. She'd been the quietest of the three, not saying much, though it was clear she wanted to go after her pa.
"What about you, Miss Ainslee?" he asked.
It took a second, but she turned toward him. "Hoss is right. It's no use."
Deirdre and Fiona turned in chorus. "What?"
"We'd only get in the way," she said. "Maybe if certain...parties were cooperative, we could help, but as it is we don't know the lay of the land, the paths through it, or anything else." Ainslee sighed. "We'd just be giving Catterson three more hostages against fate."
Hoss's fingers relaxed where they gripped the doorjamb. Maybe he wasn't going to have to resist all three of them barreling through at once. "Now, you two listen to your sister. She's right smart."
Those big brilliant blue eyes that had looked on him with love were cold as ice now. Deirdre scoffed at him and then rounded on her sister. "So what is it you propose we do, Aine? Sit here and do nothing!"
Fiona's hands were firmly anchored on her slender hips. "Yes. What she said!"
Ainslee approached him. She reached out a hand and touched his arm. Her voice, when she spoke, was sweet and conciliatory. "Surely there's something we can do to help, Hoss. You just tell us what it is."
He lowered his arms. "Well, Miss Ainslee, I don't rightly know as there is. Truth to tell I feel just as useless as you three do – maybe more. As a man I oughta be out there looking for my brothers, but this here game leg is stopping me." He struck his thigh. "Dag blame it!"
The eldest Jenkins' girl regarded him a minute. "I noticed Hop Sing rolling bandages. Is he going to head out to help look for Joe and Adam?"
The big man winced and nodded. "Pa thought it'd be right smart to be prepared...just in case."
"He's probably preparing food too?" she asked.
He nodded again.
"Well, the least we can do is help with both. Isn't that right, sisters?"
Hoss looked from one to the other. They were smiling and nodding.
Why did that make his skin crawl?
"Now you ain't planning anything, are you Miss Ainslee? Like sneaking out the kitchen door?"
She looked all innocence. "Even if I wanted to, how could I? Hop Sing would stop me."
She had him there. Hop Sing was pretty strong – and he had knives.
Hoss thought a moment. "I ain't sure I'm comfortable with all three of you being in the kitchen together."
"Fiona and I will bring the bandages in to the table so you can keep an eye on us, if that will make you feel better," Deirdre said, her tone curt.
He glanced from one to the other. Something was up. He could feel it. 'Sides, he knew how it was with him and Adam and Joe. They didn't have to say a word, but they understood one another. Still, if he was watching Deidre and Fiona and Hop Sing was keeping track of Ainslee, everything should be all right.
Shouldn't it?
"Well, I guess it's okay," he relented.
"We'll feel better if we're busy," Ainslee said. "You know how women like to be busy. Now why don't you go sit down and rest that leg and let us get to what we do best."
Hoss thought another minute and then surrendered his hold on the door. When the three of them didn't rush the opening, his mind eased a bit. With his cane in hand, he hobbled over to the fire and took a seat in one of the big red chairs. A few minutes later Deirdre came over and without a word lifted his foot and put a stool under it.
A few minutes later they settled into the picture of domesticity as Fiona and Deirdre took a seat at the table and began to strip and roll linens, and Ainslee retired to the kitchen to help Hop Sing.
It was maybe an hour later when Hoss figured out something was wrong. He looked at the pair at the table and noted that their heads were together and they were talking quietly under their breath – and giggling.
It was then he realized there was a strange noise coming from the kitchen.
As he rose Deirdre and Fiona looked at him and smiled. They smiled still as he passed the table and entered the short hall leading to the kitchen. They were probably still smiling when he turned the corner and found Hop Sing trussed up in the corner with the cord he used to tie up the roast beef.
As Hop Sing told him later when he had been liberated – a patient woman can roast an ox with a lantern.
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Prescott Catterson was not a happy man. Adam and Joe Cartwright were still free. Ben Cartwright would not be fooled for long unless he had at least one of his sons in hand and could show the boy to him. He had checked in at the camp with Garland and found that the men were still canvassing the tunnels. In the end he decided to join them in the hunt. Since Cartwright was not coming until noon – which was about three hours away – there was time and, invested as his men were in finding justice for their fellow soldiers, none of them had the demons driving them like he did. He would find Ben Cartwright's sons. He would take them.
And he would use them to destroy the man who had wronged him.
Garland proceeded him, carrying a torch. They had just found and left a chamber that had obviously been occupied not all that long before. From the look of it, the man who lived there was a native and he was guessing it was Many Marks. Catterson snorted. Here, the old man had been under their noses all along. He wondered where he was now – with the Cartwrights? Or maybe the Indian was on the run, frightened that he was about to be found out and knowing what would follow. The former scout would be an old man now – well over seventy years of age. The damage Walton inflicted to his leg would have been lifelong, so he couldn't move quickly. It shouldn't be hard to find him and take him, and then most likely they'd find Adam and Joe too. There were indications among Many Marks' things that he had treated someone who was injured. They'd found a clay dish with a bloody bullet in it.
Joe Cartwright had been shot.
"Pres," Garland said, gripping his arm and indicating the passage before them.
He looked and saw Lane and his brother, Burley, coming out of it. Lane waved and then hurried forward. "We got 'em trapped, Pres. Way down deep."
"Who?"
"That kid Lane shot, and his brother," Burley snarled. Lane's older sibling was an ugly man, both in spirit and form. He was a brute who craved killing like other men craved sex. Prescott loathed him but, unfortunately, sometimes you just had to have a soldier who had no moral compass.
"The Cartwrights, then," he breathed. 'Take me to them."
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Adam drew back into the shadows as best he could. He was holding Joe who, thankfully, had passed out. Whoever approached was moving slowly, which gave him time to adjust his grip and pull Joe in close. There was an indentation in the wall behind him and he tried the best he could to become one with it. If these were the men who had pursued them earlier and they spotted them, they were done. Joe couldn't run and he couldn't leave Joe.
Catterson would have them and that would be the end of it.
Drawing in a breath, Adam held it and waited as the man appeared in the opening. He was dragging a leg. It didn't take very long to recognize the man and put a name to him.
"Many Marks!" Adam exclaimed, easing forward.
The old man halted and turned toward his voice. He approached and knelt by their side. "You must go," he said.
Adam frowned. "Go? Go where?"
"To make things right."
He could feel Joe's breath on his skin and his brother's weakening heartbeat pounding breast to breast. "I can't leave my brother."
Many Marks reached out and touched Joe's face. "The Thunderbird explained to me what he wants from you. He has sent me to watch over your brother so you can go."
Adam looked at Joe. He was pale. His breathing was shallow. If he was honest with himself, his kid brother was probably dying. "I can't..." he began. "I can't leave him."
"Then all will die."
His jaw tightened. He knew Many Marks spoke the truth. If he stayed here, he chanced dooming not only Joe but the Indian and Jenkins, and maybe his father too. Catterson had to be looking for them. "Will you protect him?" he asked. "If I go?"
The old man sighed. "For as long as I am able. The Thunderbirds have called me. I go to them soon."
Adam shook his head. "Then Catterson will take him! I can't do that!"
"If you do not go now, Catterson will take you both. Only if you are free – only then is there a chance to save your brother. You must do the Thunderbirds' will."
The Thunderbird's will. Adam looked at Joe and was stabbed by a presentiment of loss. What would their house be like without his ornery, ebullient, emotional, expressive and irreplaceable presence? For all the times he had wanted to shake some sense into his brother's curly brown head or wished Joe was out on the range so he'd have some peace and quiet, he couldn't imagine living without him.
Couldn't imagine Joe lying quiet and cold in a wooden box.
Adam gasped like he was coming up for air. Many Marks said nothing, but placed a hand on his shoulder. The man in black gripped Joe even tighter and then surrendered him and placed him in the native's arms.
"You've got my heart there," he said softly as he rose.
"While there is breath in Many Marks, he will guard him."
Adam choked back the emotion that threatened to unman him. "That's all I can ask."
The old man looked up at him. "You go to stop Catterson?"
He nodded. "Yes."
The Indian's aged hand found his. "The Thunderbird goes with you."
Adam glanced at the opening through which Many Marks had come. There were shadows there, large ones, shifting as if alive.
He nodded and was gone.
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"They're down there, Pres," Lane said, pointing into the darkness. "We've got them trapped."
Prescott Catterson nodded. They'd descended until they were quite deep in the caves, so deep the walls were lined with a weird sort of plant growth that cast an eerie disturbing light as it reflected their torches. There were shadows within shadows and at times, it seemed they were alive. As they moved along the corridor they became the images of the men he had lost during the war. They leered at him, challenging him to make things right, to free them at last and let them go to their rest.
"Pres, you gotta come here."
Lane's voice was odd. It sent a chill up his spine. "What is it?" he asked as he headed for the other man who was standing just outside of an offshoot of the passage they were in.
Lane nodded over his shoulder. "Looks like we're expected."
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Adam paused to catch his breath. Many Marks had sent him out of the opposite end of the chamber they occupied, explaining that there was a quick passage to the surface that he would find not too far down the corridor, with a sort of natural stair. It came out near the tower of rocks where this whole thing had started and would put him on the road back to the Ponderosa and help. He had to face it, most likely by now Joe and Many Marks were in Catterson's hands. His only hope was that the former army captain needed Joe as a hostage and would do his best to keep him alive.
He doubted he could have the same hope for Many Marks.
The stair was narrow – barely as wide as his shoulders – and it was difficult to navigate. By the time he emerged he was bathed in sweat, his fingers bloodied, and his face smeared with dirt. Adam hit the ground running and ran for all he was worth, back toward the ranch, back toward home and hearth and help, hoping to Hell that he had made the right choice and that he had not just condemned his little brother to death.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Ben Cartwright removed his hat and dragged a hand through his near-white hair. Raising three boys had done it, he thought; turned his brown locks white and him into an older man. Still, he would not have traded one hour with his three boys. They were all precious and unique, and though they tried a man at times – especially that youngest one – they were all that mattered in his life, worth far more than the empire he had built. He glanced at his old friend where he sat by the fire and considered the choices he might have to make this day. They would not be easy. Anticipating that things might not go the way he hoped, he had asked Roy Coffee to trail a ways behind them. The sheriff had agreed to wait an hour and then follow in their tracks.
Backup, Ben thought. Backup. ...just in case.
The older man tipped his hat back as he returned it to his head and looked at the sun. It was still a few hours before noon. There was time. Time to find Joe and Adam. Time to stop Prescott Catterson.
Time to save Gil from himself.
"You know, Gil," he said as he returned to the small fire they had kindled where his friend was sitting, sipping coffee out of a cup, "you're not responsible for any of this."
His friend snorted. "I'm responsible for it all. If I had let Catterson carry out his sentence twenty-five years ago, none of this would have happened. Your sons wouldn't be in danger. My daughter would not have been...destroyed."
Gil had told him about Ainslee and her relationship with Catterson on the way to the lake. "Does she still love him?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. I'm afraid she does. It doesn't matter."
Ben sipped his coffee and then asked, "Think about it, Gil. Could you have done anything else? About Many Marks, I mean."
"I was a soldier, Ben. The Indian's death would not have been my fault." He snorted. "What is it every good soldier says? 'I was just following orders'."
The silver-haired man was silent a moment. "I'm sure that's what Catterson said."
He watched the words hit his friend hard. Gil put his cup on the ground and then covered his face with his hands. "Good God, Ben! What am I? What have I become?"
Ben placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're just a man, Gil. A man like any of us, prone to mistakes and filled with regrets. Take hold of that, Gil, make something of it. If we can stop Prescott Catterson now, we can put all of your demons to rest."
Gil remained silent for several heartbeats, processing his words, and then looked up. A pale grin lifted the corners of his lips. "I've been wallowing a bit in self-pity, haven't I?"
Ben smiled. "A bit."
Gil rose to his feet. "All right. Let's go meet Catterson." At his look he added, "I promise you that I will do everything I can to come out of this alive – but your boys come first. Remember that, Ben. They're young men, with much of their lives before them. I've had a good run."
The words of gratitude choked in his throat, so the silver-haired man merely nodded as his friend headed for his horse. Ben emptied his cup on the fire and then kicked some dirt on the coals. When he was done, he looked back the way they had come. They'd passed the place where Hoss had fallen from his horse an hour or so before and figured they were about an hour out from the rendezvous point Catterson had set. Whatever was going to happen, was going to happen soon.
He just prayed they all came out of it alive.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Joe returned to consciousness just in time to hear someone say, 'Looks like we're expected.' He rolled to the side, as far as his screaming wound would allow, and saw a man standing in the middle of the rocky chamber. He was holding a torch that revealed his buckskin leggings and glinted off of his bare chest.
It was Many Marks.
The Indian remained absolutely still as two men appeared in the entry to the cavern. One was short and stout, his coloring light and his clothes those of a cowhand. The other man wore a dark suit and had a head of deep auburn hair that shone like a copper kettle in the light of Many Marks' torch. When the redhead saw the Indian, his body went rigid as a spike. He hesitated briefly and then marched over to the elderly native and struck him so hard across the cheek that the Shawnee was driven to the ground.
Fury filled Joe, fueling a body way beyond rising to do so. He stood, wobbling for a moment, and then staggered forward. The man with the auburn hair turned toward him. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. His message was all too clear.
It was delivered at the end of Joe's own pearl-handled gun.
"The next step you take will be your last, Mister Cartwright."
Joe scowled. "Who are you?" he asked between sharply drawn breaths. "And how do you know who I am?"
"My name is Prescott Catterson. Does that mean anything to you?"
He'd heard the name, like something in a dream. Maybe Adam had mentioned it? "No. I don't know you."
"Oh, but you do. You just don't know it. Or maybe, I should say, you know – knew my brother."
Joe swayed, feeling lightheaded. He didn't know anyone named Catterson. He was sure of it. "I don't – "
The man approached him, the pistol still aimed at his belly. "His name was Mace. You met him a few days back, Cartwright," the redhead snarled, coming so close the barrel touched his exposed skin. "When you or your brother shoved him over the edge of those rocks and sent him to his death."
Joe tried to suppress it, but he didn't have the strength. He shivered. "It was me," he admitted, "but I didn't shove him. I tackled him to stop him from...shooting Adam." He swallowed hard. "We both...fell."
The tip of the barrel pressed up, under a rib. "Convenient."
The other man who had entered with Catterson was standing a watch over Many Marks. Joe heard him clear his throat. "Pres?" he began.
Catterson's black eyes were fixed on him. Joe felt hate radiating out of them – hate and a desire to end his life right here and now.
"What?" Catterson growled.
"I thought you said we needed him."
It was only seven ordinary little words, but they saved his life. The auburn-haired man closed his eyes. For a second, he fought with himself. Then he opened them again. "Damn," he said.
A second before he used the pistol to cold cock him.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Prescott Catterson straddled the fallen body of Joe Cartwright with his legs and pointed the gun at the kid's head. It would be so easy. So right. And yet, if he gave in to the need for personal revenge, that would leave him with no hostage to hold against Ben Cartwright. For the first time Prescott glanced around. Joe's older brother, Adam, was nowhere in sight. He had thought at first that the man in black must be hiding, but when he struck the kid and no one came to his rescue, he changed his mind. Adam must have found a way out. He was probably headed back to the Ponderosa for help. Prescott pulled his watch out of his pocket and looked at the time. Quarter 'til eleven.
He'd never make it in time.
Stepping back, the redhead tucked Joe's gun behind his belt and then turned to look at Garland. "Bring him here," he ordered, indicating the native who lay on the cave floor.
Garland bent down and lifted the Shawnee to his feet. Prescott watched as the broken old Indian walked haltingly forward, favoring the leg that Forest Walton had put a bullet in so long ago. When both stopped, he told the other man, "Get Burley. Have him help you carry the Cartwright kid to the surface."
The corporal scowled. "Burley? Pres, I don't know why you keep him around. I heard him the other night, grousing. I don't know that you can trust him."
Prescott shrugged. "Maybe not, but I need him." He waved Cartwright's gun. "Now, go."
Garland knelt beside Joe Cartwright. Then he dared to challenge him again. "Pres, maybe it would be better to just let this go..."
He pinned the other man with a determined stare. "That's enough, corporal! You have your orders."
As Garland complied, lifting the boy and bearing him toward the cave opening, Prescott turned to look at Many Marks.
The Indian was awake.
"The boy killed your brother no more than I killed your friend," he said quietly.
"Is that right?" he asked, his jaw tightening with impending rage. "Well, just like there was no one but Cartwright and Mace, there was no one there that night but you and Forest. You got rid of him so he couldn't tell how you had betrayed your own company!"
The Indian's face was sober. "You are wrong. There was another man there."
"Another? What do you mean?" The redhead took hold of the old man's shoulders and shook him so hard the feathers fell out of his hair. "Who else was there?"
"A man who was not his own man, but came from one called Don Miguel."
Catterson blinked. No. "What did you say?"
"We were met by a man who came from Don Miguel. He told your friend as he shot him that Don Miguel was 'sending him to a place where the streets were paved with gold.'"
He shook his head. "No. That's not possible. We had a deal with Don Miguel. He was instrumental in letting us know about Alejandro and in giving us access to the hacienda."
It was Many Marks turn to be surprised. "You? It was you who betrayed your men?"
"No. No!" He licked his lips. "The war just wouldn't come. The politicians were arguing and looking for angles while our country was under threat. I found out that Don Alejandro was advising Santa Ana to lay low and wait. Don Miguel assured me that, if we took the hacienda and Alejandro was put out of commission, he would take his place at Santa Ana's side. He said he would advise him to strike immediately – before Mexico was prepared."
For a moment the Indian was silent. Then he asked, his tone quietly accusatory. "And did he? Did he do as he promised? Or like Walton, was Miguel in it for money and power."
Sweat streamed down his face and onto his neck. "Shut up!" he ordered. "You're lying! Forest wasn't like that. He was my friend. He wouldn't have – "
Many Marks spread his hands wide. "I am an old man. I die soon. There is no profit in a lie."
Catterson struck out, taking the native by the throat, thinking how easy it would be to just snap the old man's bones and silence his voice.
Silence the voice of truth.
Had he really been so naive?
"It doesn't matter," he said at last. "It was your escape, and Jenkins' testimony that caused me to lose my commission. The army was my life."
Many Marks looked him squarely in the eye. "Your life, maybe. But not your heart. You have no honor, Captain Catterson."
"And you," the redhead snarled as he pressed the barrel of Joe Cartwright's gun into the old man's ribs, his eyes wild and wide, "have no life."
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
The sound of a single gunshot echoed through the underground passageway and worked its way into Joe Cartwright's consciousness. He roused himself enough to note the familiar sound, but not enough to guess its meaning. A second later the blond man who supported him on his left side snorted.
"Well, he did it," he sighed, sounding as if he did not approve of whatever 'it' was.
The other man who held him – a big, brute of a man whose rough touch had sent him into unconsciousness more than once since their journey had begun – grunted. "The old man got what he deserved."
"Maybe. Maybe not." Joe felt the blond adjust his grip so he held him more tightly. "I told Pres we needed him alive. Who's gonna look after this one and make sure he doesn't die before his old man comes for him?"
Old man? They meant his...pa.
"Pa?" Joe whispered, all of the hope and longing of a boy's heart making the word sing. "Pa..."
"He's sure out of his head," the ugly man scoffed. "Maybe we should just take it off for him and put him out of his misery."
"You know what Garland said. We gotta keep him alive until old man Cartwright shows up with Jenkins."
"So Catterson take the Scot and salve his conscience with a mock trial and execution." The big man snorted. "I ain't interested in that. I say, when Cartwright comes, that we put old Catterson out of his misery and tell the old man that if he doesn't bring us every cent he can get his hands on, then the only thing he's gonna take home with him is a corpse."
The blond man halted. "You mean betray Pres?"
"Why not? What's he ever done but order us around like we're still in the army?" The man's fingers bit into his flesh. "It's his vendetta, not mine." There was a pause, and then he asked, "Well? Are you with me, Lane?"
The short stocky blond was silent for a heartbeat. "I'll let you know by the time we break the surface,' he said, and then they began to move again.
As he stumbled along with them a single thought formed in Joe Cartwright's mind. Adam was safe. Somehow Adam was safe, but now his pa was in danger.
He had to save his pa.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
As Adam Cartwright emerged sweat-soaked and filthy from the bowels of the earth, near the tower where his brother had fallen and Mace Prescott had died, Hoss and Gil Jenkins' remaining girls sat down in the ranch house to eat the lunch Hop Sing had prepared, not one of them with an appetite. Worried, Hoss let out a deep sigh as the Chinese man chided him for not eating, while far away from the homely table with its ominous empty seats, the big man's beloved Little Joe was dumped unceremoniously on the ground in the makeshift camp and a gun placed against his head. This happened even as Joe's father and Gil Jenkins began the last leg of their journey, and Prescott Catterson, leaving a portion of his shame and the body of the old shaman behind, began to climb toward his final hour, sure that justice at last would be done but little knowing that his own men were planning his demise.
Which left only one player unaccounted for.
Ainslee Jenkins reined in her mount and studied the landscape before her. She knew where her father and Ben Cartwright were headed. She had seen Roy Coffee leaving the yard just as she emerged from the ranch house and had followed him at a safe distance ever since. They were all headed for that rocky tower where it had all begun – the one that had taken on the garment of nightmare, turning, with the day's events, from a pile of plain rock into a hard unrelenting omen pointing toward disaster. The blonde woman had recalled, from her talks with both Adam and Hoss, that there were many paths through this hilly part of the Ponderosa. The night before, as she had formulated her plans, she had sought and found a map of the area in Ben Cartwright's office, certain that – in the end – it would come to this. If she turned east, the land relented. There were flat places where a horse with an experienced rider could find footing and move fast. That was where she was headed. She had to arrive at the rendezvous before Sheriff Coffee, before Ben Cartwright – before her Da.
She had to talk to Catt. She was the only one who could.
She was the only one he might listen to.
FIFTEEN
Adam stumbled for the tenth time, only this time – instead of catching himself – fell face forward into the dirt. He lay there, breathing hard, telling himself he had to get up, had to get going – had to get home. The rock tower lay a good half hour behind him, even though all of its unpleasant memories were with him still – the death of Mace Prescott, his brother's fall, the subsequent chase and Joe's being wounded and last of all, Prescott Catterson's face as he saw it in the vision – driven, determined.
Hell-bent.
The man in black righted himself and sat on the ground, waiting for the world to stop spinning. He hadn't had anything to eat since shortly after Joe fell – and not much for a day before that. Hunger, coupled with a lack of sleep, was taking its toll. It was a long way back to the Ponderosa. He was hoping a stray ranch hand with a horse, or maybe someone coming to the lake could provide him with transportation. He'd thought of doubling back and trying to free Joe himself, but had decided against it due to all of the above. He wasn't thinking clearly. It would be easy to make a mistake.
One mistake and his brother was dead.
As he sat there, gathering strength for the next leg of his journey, a familiar sound caught his attention and turned his face upward. At first he didn't see it – the sky was filled with thick gray clouds – but then he heard it. A snort, followed by hissing and a click. A second later he was struck by a rush of wind and a great black shape swooped low overhead. Adam smelled the Thunderbird's dragon breath even as its keen eyes opened and something like sheet lightning lit the sky. If Many Marks was right, the bird's appearance heralded an approaching storm.
Great. Just...great.
Adam climbed to his feet and approached the rocky perch the bird had landed on. It was some twenty-odd feet above his head. Never before had the creature remained where it could be seen. It was almost as if it lacked direction, or maybe, whatever had directed it before was no more.
It made him wonder if Many Marks was dead.
"Well, fellow," the man in black said, gazing up, "looks like both of us are in need of some help."
The bird, and for all of its great size, bird it was, tilted its head and eyed him. It opened its massive beak and clicked again and then spread its wings wide. Their span was nearly that of the porch at the ranch house. He guessed it must be thirteen or fourteen feet. From head to toe, measured against the wing span, Many Marks' Thunderbird appeared to be about five feet high and that included its scavenger's head and reptilian feet.
Looking at it, exposed as it was by the daylight, Adam knew at last what it was. He'd seen one on his trip to Sacramento a year or so back. It had fallen to earth and lay dead in the desert, its skeletal remains looking like something out of an archaeologist's note book. Maybe this was what those publicity hounds had seen in California.
A giant condor.
Adam snorted. He sighed and shook his head. Whatever was in the potion Many Marks had given him had transformed the bird into the reality of myth – into one of the legendary Thunderbirds the old man believed in. They'd probably hooked up somewhere along the way, the shaman and the bird, and the Indian had come to believe this living creature was the spirit guide sent to him by Mise Manito.
Adam was a little disappointed.
"So, you're real after all. Too bad I can't climb on your back and fly to the Ponderosa."
The bird shifted in response, as if it wanted to comply. Then it hissed again.
There was something different about the sound this time. It was pensive, almost as if the bird was saying goodbye. Adam stepped back so he could see better. As he did, the bird faltered. It shifted its grip on the rocks, seeking a better hold, opened one wing for balance – and then toppled in one great black mass to the ground.
It took a second – a second to make reality gel with legend – and then he was on his way to its side. Kneeling beside the bird's massive form Adam probed its feathers with his fingers. When they hit a large patch that was wet and sticky, he pulled his hand back and looked.
They were coated with blood.
Probing further, under the feathers, Adam found a bullet hole.
"So they got you too," he sighed even as the bird clicked and let out a long low hiss that served as its death rattle. "Rest," he soothed as he stroked the bird's silken feathers. "Rest. Your journey's done."
"Well, I ain't never seen the like!" a familiar, if unexpected voice exclaimed.
Adam closed his eyes as relief flooded through him. "Roy Coffee," he breathed as he rose to his feet and turned toward the sheriff, "may I said, 'a sight for sore eyes' does not begin to describe it!"
"The sight of you is makin' these old eyes sore, boy. What happened to you?" Roy looked around. "Where's Little Joe?"
Adam waved the question away intent, for the moment, on other things. "Is my father with you?"
The sheriff shook his head. He nodded in the direction of that damn stone tower. "He and Gil are ahead of me. You shoulda passed them."
"I came from underground." Again, he held up a hand. "I'll explain later. What is Pa doing?" He thought a moment. "He's not going to meet with Catterson?"
Roy nodded. "The man said he had you and Joe. Even though Gil's youngest girl came back to tell us that was a lie, your Pa was sure he'd have you by now."
Adam scowled. "Well, he's half right." The sound of what he had to say was sour on his tongue. "I'm sure he has Joe by now." At his look, he added, "Joe's hurt, Roy. Hurt bad. I had to leave him behind. It was a risk, but Catterson needs him to make Pa do what he wants. If Joe...dies...it will do that villain no good. I just hope – "
Roy approached him and put a hand on his shoulder. "A man does what he's got to do, Adam. Ain't no one goin' to condemn you for that."
His hazel eyes shot to the sheriff's face.
"No. No one but myself."
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Ainslee had seen a fire burning in the distance. She dismounted about a quarter mile from it and tethered her horse to a tree. Moving with stealth, she approached the campsite. There were two men patrolling its perimeter and two more in the camp itself. The pretty blonde watched the guards for several minutes, noting their pattern, and then moved in as they moved away. After that she concealed herself in a thicket of tall grasses and waited.
Waited for a sign of Catt.
Ainslee knew from the time they had spent together that Catt's soul was twisted with a need for revenge. He hadn't told her everything, but his need for it ate away at him, poisoning everything in his life – their love included. She was certain it was why he had run and why he had gone away without a word. He'd chosen to protect her instead of using her.
And that had to mean there was hope.
Inching forward, Ainslee positioned herself behind a boulder half-hidden by gorse to watch the camp, eager to spot the man she loved. While she didn't see him, she recognized one of Catt's friends whom she had met at the medical college. If she remembered right, his name was Garland Frank. Garland was behind the fire. He was kneeling on the ground and reaching out for something, or maybe to someone. The blonde woman shifted so she had a clearer view. It was then she saw a man writhing on the ground. It took a moment, but she realized Garland was holding the man down. Even though she knew it was dangerous, Ainslee decided to move in so she could get a better look. Taking up a new position behind a brace of trees, she looked again and caught a glimpse of a head of curly brown hair.
It was Joe!
Mortified, she watched as Little Joe struggled against his captor, shouting and striking out with his hands. Garland held him tight, speaking to him, seeming more concerned than angry. Joe yelled again and then fell deathly quiet. The other man leaned forward, touched his forehead and felt for a pulse. Then he straightened up and stood. It was all she could do not to burst out of her place of concealment and run into the camp – she wanted so much to make sure Little Joe was all right. But she didn't.
Captured she could do Joe – she could do no one any good.
Still, she was worried. Ainslee shifted slightly to get a better look. As she did, a figure emerged from the trees to the right side of the camp and walked straight over to Joe. Gil Jenkins' eldest daughter drew in a sharp breath.
It was...him.
It had been more than ten years since she had seen him, but there was no mistaking that upright figure, the military bearing, and most of all, that head of deep, rich auburn hair. Ainslee's hand reached out toward him, even as a tear slipped from her eye to trail the length of her cheek.
"Catt..."
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Prescott crouched beside the Cartwright boy. Taking his wrist in his hand, he felt for a pulse. It was there, if thin and thready. Rocking back on his heels, he lifted his hat and ran a hand through his auburn hair, shoving it out of his eyes. If he'd been a betting man he would have laid odds Adam's brother had passed. Fortunately, he hadn't. The kid was strong and he was hanging on. All the better.
He'd make a poor exchange dead.
"Pres, I don't know how long he's going to last," Garland said as he came to meet him.
"Did you give him that medicine we had?"
"From when Lane was shot last month? Yeah, but I don't know how effective it will be. I'm not a doctor. Could be its worthless."
"Like some doctors," Prescott snarled. He glanced at the sun then. It was directly overhead. "If Ben Cartwright doesn't show soon, it won't matter."
"You aren't going to kill the kid outright, are you, Pres? He's done nothing."
"Oh, you're wrong. He's done plenty. He was born the son of a man who is a friend of traitors." Prescott toed the boy. "His life is forfeit to the greater good."
Garland hesitated, and then said, "Pres, you know I want justice, but sometimes..."
" 'Sometimes', what?"
"Sometimes it seems that it's just an excuse."
"What is?"
"Like you want Jenkins eliminated because his truth is not the same as yours."
"There is only one truth," he replied, the words forced through gritted teeth. Then he asked, "What is this really about, Garland?"
Garland Frank shifted on his feet. "I've been with you a long time, Pres, and I admire you. But lately, the things you are willing to do..." He indicated Joe Cartwright's prone form with a nod. "I had hoped the other night when you let the girl go, that maybe this was over. That, maybe, you'd decided to let it go."
His hand was out before he knew it and he had Garland by the throat. "It will never be over until one of us is dead – Jenkins or me!"
"Pres, you're hurting me," his friend protested. "Pres!"
He wasn't listening – not to Garland. He'd heard a horse whinny.
"They're here," Prescott Catterson said.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Ben Cartwright dismounted and watched as his friend did the same. They'd spotted a campfire and assumed it was Prescott Catterson's. As he tethered his horse, Ben held on to the hope that everything the man had said back at the Ponderosa had been a bluff, that the madman didn't have Joe or Adam, and that they would be free to act.
That hope was dashed when Catterson's voice rang out loud and clear. "Come out where I can see you, Mister Cartwright – you and Jenkins – and throw your guns on the ground. Do it now or your son dies!"
The silver-haired man looked at his friend and then moved forward, parting tall grasses as he went. He stopped at the edge of a small clearing, his breath and movement arrested by the scene that greeted him – Joe dangled from Catterson's arm and held a gun against his son's head. The boy was obviously sick. Joseph had that look – the one a man gets when he's battling a fever that is bound and determined to take him down. His son's hat was gone and his pants were a shambles, but worst of all, blood stained what was left of the fine gray shirt he had bought his youngest not that long ago.
"What have you done to him?" the older man growled as he stepped into the clearing.
Catterson worked the barrel of the pistol further into Joe's curly brown hair. "Your weapon, Mister Cartwright."
Ben halted. His hands were shaking with rage so it proved hard to unbuckle the belt. When he managed it, he dropped the weapon at his feet. "Now, will you let me have my son?"
"Not before I get what I want. Not until I get..." Catterson's voice trailed off as his expression changed from one of dogged determination to a strange sort of exultant joy.
"Let the boy go, Prescott," Gil Jenkins said as he came alongside him. "This is between you and me, and it's time we end it."
"Ever the noble physician, eh, Jenkins?" Catterson snarled.
There was a man behind Catterson. He had remained silent until now. Stepping close to the redhead he said, his words gentle but firm, "He's right, Pres. Let Mister Cartwright have his son. You made a deal." He nodded toward Gil. "If you break it, what makes you any better than him?"
Prescott shook his head. "Not yet, Garland. You tie Cartwright up."
"No!" Gil objected.
"Shut up, and you," he waved the gun at Ben, "you keep quiet too! Once justice is done, I'll free you and the boy. Not before."
The silver-haired man ached to look after his son. "Joe needs a doctor!"
Catterson snorted and then broke into a gale of ominous laughter. The gun swung from Joe to Gil.
"Too bad this one just closed up shop."
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Ainslee stood by, horrified. She recognized the man before her, but she didn't know him. She wondered now if she had been wrong to come – if the Catt she knew had grown too old and too cold to listen to her. Still, she had to try. She had to –
A hand caught her arm and then another clamped over her mouth, stifling her scream. Ainslee," came the terse whisper, "its Adam. If I let go, will you stay quiet?"
She nodded and within seconds was released.
"What are you doing here?" Ben Cartwright's oldest son demanded.
The blonde looked past him and saw Sheriff Coffee. The older man dipped his head, acknowledging that he saw her too. Ainslee did the same and then answered Adam. "I came to talk to Catt."
"Catt?"
The blonde nodded. "Catterson. I knew him long ago. We...we were going to be married. He broke it off, to protect me, I think – from this."
"Talking isn't the answer," Adam scolded.
"And what is? More killing? Do you ride in, in a blaze of glory, with all barrels blasting?" She pointed toward the camp. "Your brother is in there, and my father and your father! Do you want all of them killed?"
"Now there, Miss Jenkins, Adam is right," Sheriff Coffee said softly as he came alongside them. "Ain't nothin' but to take a man like him out."
Ainslee turned back to Adam. She gripped his hand and held it between her own. "Please, Adam, give me a chance – give Catt a chance. You're different. I know you understand." She paused, trying to think of the way to put it best. "Adam, if giving a man a chance to redeem himself isn't justice, I don't know what is."
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Ben Cartwright knew the feeling well. He'd experienced it often enough over thirty years of rearing boys – headstrong, active, risk-taking boys who needed mended more often than a fence on a windswept range. It was that feeling of being out of control, of matters taken out of one's hand – the feeling that no matter how much you tried, not matter what you did, you simply couldn't do enough. He felt it now, stronger than ever.
Joe lay on the ground beside him, just out of reach.
Catterson's man had bound his hands and placed a gun against his head even as the auburn-haired man released Joe and watched dispassionately as his son's limp form struck the ground. It was like watching snow fall. Joseph made no sound as he hit and lay there silent and unmoving. Catterson took hold of Gil then and slammed him into a rock wall, throwing him to the ground before binding his hands and feet. After that the redhead walked back to Joe and, catching him by what was left of his shirt, dragged him across the clearing and deposited him under a tree. Then he ordered Garland to do the same with him, but to leave enough space between them that he couldn't offer any aid.
If he could just touch Joe – even brush his arm or face with his fingers – then at least the boy would have some sense that he was here. That he was not alone.
That he wouldn't...die alone.
Joseph looked bad. His face was deathly pale, his skin hot and slick with sweat. Dirt clung to every part of him, but especially to the blood stains on his shirt, which meant most likely that it was also in the wound. Since they'd been placed there together, his son hadn't moved at all. From the dried blood on Joe's shirt and pants, it had been a while since the bullet had penetrated, and that meant that every minute that passed was one minute more infection had time to take root.
If he didn't get him to a doctor soon...
"Ben," a voice whispered near his ear. "Ben, don't look. It's me. Roy."
Relief flooded through him. Roy! He had forgotten about the sheriff following them. "Roy," he whispered fiercely, "you've got to help Joe!"
"I mean to, Ben. Just as soon as Adam makes his move."
"Adam's here?" The relief became painful, so deeply did he feel it. "Where is he?"
"Wait a second, Ben. Someone's coming."
It was torture, waiting for the sheriff's voice to return. It did about a minute later. "That was close. One of Catterson's men. He's moved on now."
"You said Adam is here?"
"He's with the Jenkins' girl. The oldest one."
"Ainslee?" Ben frowned. Could things be more complicated? "What's she doing out here?"
"That girl's just plain loco, Ben. She wants to talk to Catterson. Thinks she can get him to change his mind."
"It's too dangerous." His eyes returned to Joe. "Catterson is a killer."
"That's what I tried to tell Adam. But he's a chip off the old block and dad-blasted stubborn as his old man." Roy paused. "That man's coming again, Ben. I'm going to take him out this time."
With that Roy, and his connection to hope, disappeared. Ben closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer. When he opened them, he looked at Joe again. His son was staring straight at him, his eyes fevered, his hand outstretched.
"Pa..."
"I'm here, Joe. I'm here."
Joe moaned. "I can't...see you, Pa."
"You're sick, son. Just lay quiet."
"No...can't. Want to...hurt you. I have to..." The boy stirred. A second later he attempted to rise. "Gotta save...pa."
"Joseph, this is you pa. Lie still!" He was terrified Catterson or one of his men would hurt the boy if he stood up. "Listen to me. Obey me! Joseph!"
Joe was on his knees. "Have to...help...pa..."
Ben pulled on his restraints, but it did no good. He was trussed tight as a ornery steer. Panicking, he raised his voice, just loud enough that he hoped Roy and no one else could hear. "Roy! You have to stop Joe!'
There was no answer. Roy Coffee was gone.
Unfortunately, so was Joe.
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He had to be out of his mind. Ainslee's last words echoed in his head. 'Adam, if giving a man a chance to redeem himself isn't justice, I don't know what is.'
How could she know? She couldn't know.
Could she?
Following hard upon her words, were the words of the Thunderbird. It is the Creator's design that we guard the gates of Heaven and make certain justice is had upon the earth below. You will bring justice. That will save your brother's life.
Justice. He had thought he was to bring it to someone – to find them and make them pay for past sins. Was it possible that the justice the Thunderbird craved was, well, mercy instead?
Ainslee was standing there, looking at him, waiting for a decision. This woman who loved a man bound and determined to drive her away. A man who threatened his family. A man who meant to kill his father's friend and her father.
"Adam?" she asked as another tear fell.
He glanced at Roy. To say the sheriff looked dubious was definitely an understatement.
"I can't let Catterson harm my family," he began.
"I'm not asking that. I'm asking that you to let me walk into that camp."
"Now, just you wait a minute, young lady," the sheriff cautioned. "We ain't givin' no more hostages to that outlaw."
Ainslee rounded on Roy. "He has my father!. Catt doesn't need hostages anymore. Da has given up and given in." The blonde paused, gathering herself. "Besides, if I go, the first thing I mean to ask him is to release Ben and Joe."
Roy was shaking his head. "Adam, you talk some sense into her."
He pursed his lips. "I think Ainslee is making sense, Roy. It can't hurt to try. If Catterson surrenders, then no one dies – not Joe, not Pa, and not Gilchrist Jenkins."
Roy pointed toward the camp. "You think that madman is going to listen to her? You're plain crazy, Adam."
He looked at Ainslee. "Love has a way of working miracles, Roy. Maybe this is one of those times."
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Ben struggled against his bonds. In his delirium, Joe had stumbled out of the camp looking for him even though he had been laying right beside him. Catterson's men were patrolling the area. One of them could easily shoot the boy either by accident or on purpose for trying to escape. His only hope was that Roy was out there somewhere and he would find Joe first. Roy, or Adam.
Where was his eldest son?
The older man looked toward the fire. Prescott Catterson paced before it. Gil lay behind it on the ground, unconscious or dead, he didn't know which. The other man, Garland, was pacing as well near the edge of the camp, looking for all the world as if he would bolt at any minute. Maybe he'd realized that Catterson was unstable. If so, there might be a hope in getting him to change sides. Dragging his body back, Ben shifted so he was leaning against the base of a tree. He felt around it with his fingers, looking for a sharp edge, and finally found one on a rock half-buried beside it. After checking to make certain no one was watching, the older man began to saw at the ropes that bound him. He stopped at the sound of a woman's voice.
Ainslee Jenkins was stepping out of the trees. Adam followed close behind her.
Joe had an excuse for his reckless behavior. He was fevered.
Adam must be plain mad.
Ben started to rise, but saw his son shake his head as he did. He knew Adam's every gesture. His eldest was asking him to trust him.
The older man sighed. Then he settled back and began to work on the ropes again. He trusted Adam, but only so far.
Things would be different when he was free.
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Prescott Catterson had been pacing, pacing and thinking. He wanted nothing more than to push his gun into Jenkins stomach and pull the trigger. But that wouldn't be right. It wouldn't...be enough. The Scot had escaped a hanging years before and nothing but a hanging would do. Jenkins was a traitor. He'd let that Indian go and testified against him, influencing his commanding officers, making them think that he had gone rogue in making the raid against the hacienda before war was officially declared. It wasn't true. It had been a well thought out choice to make a decisive blow. And it wasn't like they should be surprised. It had been done before. Andrew Jackson was a good example. Jackson moved into Florida though he'd been ordered not to, and his bold move had put an end to the war in 1812. An officer had to have the stones to call it like he saw it. Don Miguel was an influential man and the man had promised – he had promised to use his influence to jumpstart the war in favor of the Americans. Due to Jenkins that never happened. Due to Jenkins he had lost his commission – his purpose in life. And Many Marks? The Indian had to have lied about Forest. He had to have lied about Forest Walton betraying him and the men.
It couldn't be...true.
After all of these years, he couldn't be...wrong.
Prescott Catterson pressed his hands to his head and moaned.
"Catt?" a light voice called.
The auburn-haired man scowled. He was losing it. There weren't any women out here.
"Catt, it's me. Ainslee."
No...no...no! Not Ainslee. He'd done everything he could to keep her out of this. Prescott opened his eyes and turned toward the voice. There she was, standing just outside the ring of firelight, flanked by Adam Cartwright.
Ainslee Jenkins. The woman he loved.
Prescott shook his head. It seemed he couldn't stop shaking it. "Ainslee, no. No! Go away!"
She took a step toward him. "I won't. Not until you hear me out."
"Aine, get out of here. I don't want you to be hurt –"
"I'm already hurt." He saw her jaw tighten. "That's my father lying on the ground behind you. My father, whom you intend to kill."
He glanced at the old man. After he had thrown him against the wall, his rage had exploded and he had beaten him until he lost consciousness. Turning back, he said, "He has to die."
"Why, Catt? To salve your conscience? I don't know what you did, but I do know that the treason, the betrayal that you blame my father for, was yours. No innocent man carries a burden of guilt like you have. No innocent man throws everything away in the name of vengeance."
His head was pounding. "He has to die to...end it. I can't rest. I can't find peace with him alive."
"And when my father is dead, will you find it then?" Her words were sharp. "Or will you just keep on hating...hating yourself."
"Aine, you don't understand," he moaned.
"Oh, don't I? If you had really thought my father guilty, you would never have run from me. You would have used me to get to him and killed him all those years ago. But you didn't. Catt, love won over hate. Let it win now."
"I ran from you, because..." He stopped. Could he say it?
"Because you loved me."
Prescott Catterson drew in a sharp breath and nodded.
Ainslee left Adam Cartwright's side and approached him. He backed away as if she was a snake or some other dangerous thing. Because she was. Ainslee Jenkins was about as dangerous as it came. Dangerous to his hate. Dangerous to his vendetta.
Devastating to everything he had aimed his life toward for the last twenty-odd years.
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Adam watched Prescott Catterson as he backed away from Gil Jenkins' daughter. He had to give her credit. Ainslee had no fear for herself. He listened to the words she spoke and wondered if they would make any difference. The auburn-haired man seemed to be faltering. Maybe falling apart was a better description. The gun had fallen from his fingers and he was on his knees. Adam watched as Ainslee dropped beside him and gathered his quaking form in her arms.
He was about to go to them when a familiar voice stopped him.
"Adam! Son!"
He hadn't noticed his father. The older man was on the other side of the camp, leaning against a tree. With a last glance at the pair by the fire, Adam sprinted across the open space and knelt by him. As he turned him and reached for the ropes that bound his hands, he noticed the blood.
"Pa, you've hurt yourself."
"It's nothing," the older man snapped. "Forget me! Adam, you have to find Joe."
Good Lord! He'd been so caught up in what Ainslee was doing he hadn't given a thought to his brother for some time.
"Where is he, Pa?" he asked as he finished his hands.
"Joseph is out of his head." His father nodded toward the trees to his right. "He disappeared through there. He's looking for me, Adam."
"Joe's looking for you?"
"He thinks I'm in danger. Adam, you have to – "
The sounds of a scuffle drew their attention back to the fire. As Adam stood, Ainslee Jenkins screamed.
"Adam! Help!"
He looked and saw two men threatening her and Catterson. Close by them Garland Franks lay on the ground, the fabric of his shirt still smoking. One of the men was big and ugly; the other, short, stocky and blond. Catterson had placed himself between them and Ainslee.
"What is this about? Lane?" The redhead turned to the big man. "Burley?"
"We decided we've had it with you and your vendetta against Jenkins," Burley replied. "Who cares what happened more than twenty years ago?"
"You did, once," Catterson said, sounding confused. "Or at least, I thought you did."
"You paid us to care," Burley said. "It ain't enough anymore. You got an opportunity here to strike it big and ain't man enough to take it."
"An opportunity?"
Here it came, Adam thought. They had to mean Joe. They meant to use Joe to get money out of Pa.
"Adam, run. Run now!" his father shouted.
"Pa, no. What if..."
"That's an order, Adam!"
As his father's terse whisper sounded in his ears, Burley shouted. The words were unintelligible. Adam turned toward him just as the big man fell to his knees while clutching his side.
"Get him, Lane! Don't let him escape!" he gasped.
Adam thought the outlaw meant him, but then he realized Prescott Catterson and Ainslee were gone. Catterson must have had a weapon on him – he could see blood dripping through Burley's fingers. Maybe a knife. He must have used it and run.
He glanced at his father. The older man's smile was grim, but it was there. "Find your brother, Adam," he pleaded. "Bring Joe home."
The man in black took a long look at his father, knowing it could prove the last look he would ever get, and then he dove into the underbrush even as a bullet struck the grass in the spot where his feet had been a second before.