"Pa," Hoss said. Standing in the hallway, he grasped Ben's upper arm and held him in place, his expression decidedly conflicted. "I never knew you dreamed about Adam trying to jump off the edge of a cliff."
Casting Hoss an exasperated look, Ben moved his free arm, grasping the knob on Adam's bedroom door and pulling it shut before looking Hoss up and down. "That was a private conversation," he whispered, "between your brother and me. Have you been hiding out here the whole time?"
"I'm sorry," Hoss said. The apology sounded more unthinking than genuine; an automatic response that had been cultivated throughout the years meant to placate the first hint of his father's disapproval.
It did what it was intended to.
"It's alright," Ben said. He couldn't blame Hoss for eavesdropping, not after all that had happened, not with his concern for Adam. After all, hadn't he been the one to tell Hoss that there were to be no secrets between them where Adam was concerned? That was weeks—months—ago but that didn't make the order any less valid. If he was expecting full disclosure from his younger sons where his oldest one was concerned, then wasn't it reasonable they expect the same from their father? And besides, if Adam knew about his dreams of Kane and the cliff, what was the point of hiding it?
"No," Hoss said seriously. "It ain't."
"Son, it's—"
"Because that dream you've been having about Adam and the cliff ain't no dream. It really happened."
Ben felt the breath rush from his chest, leaving it empty only to be filled by dread. It wasn't possible for his dream to be real. He had never come upon Adam on the edge of a cliff—not a real cliff. The Adam of before, the man who he had been prior to Peter Kane and the desert, would never have done such a frightful thing. And the Adam of now had never been allotted the chance. He had gone missing that one day, sure, but they had found him at Lake Tahoe; he had been surrounded by water, not jagged rock.
"It's true," Hoss said morosely.
"When? Why did you never say anything?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't know it was important." Cringing, Hoss let go of his father's arm. "Nah, that ain't true," he added, his voice becoming quiet. "I think I always knew it was, but I reckon I just never found the right way to tell you. I guess, I always thought Adam would find a way to tell you himself, that is, if he ever remembered doin' it in the first place."
"Lord Almighty, boy, will you make sense?"
Hoss looked at him for a moment, his face contorting sadly. "You really don't know when Adam would have wanted to do that?" The question was stated in an even tone, but it was his eyes that declared Ben should have already deducted the time period being alluded to.
Shaking his head, Ben was agonizingly uncertain. He couldn't seem to recall. When in his life had Adam ever been in such a state that he would be implored to stand on the edge of a cliff intending to jump? It was such a foreign question; one which seemed so unsuitable to even ask—because the Adam of now would never be allowed to do such a thing, and the Adam of before was too dependable, too commonsensical to ever want to.
Except for when he hadn't been dependable or commonsensical, a small voice whispered in the depths of Ben's mind. That horrible period of time when his regret and anguish seemed intent on tearing him apart. It was the time Kane had alluded to in his dreams, but Ben hadn't been tolerant of discussing it. He hadn't wanted to discuss it. Not with Adam or either of his other two sons, not with anyone else—and especially not with Kane.
"It wasn't long after we buried Ross and Del," Hoss said. "It was after Adam bought their land at auction, after he left home and decided to live on it. After he got in trouble, first in Carson City, and then in town with Sheriff Coffee, and he was forced to come home for a bit. After he became so sick with fever that he didn't have control of himself, he returned to the Silver Dollar and set both the barn and house on fire."
Nearly two years ago, Adam's grief had made him reckless; his anger, resentment, and frustration over how things had always been destined to be had served as a haunting, unsettling rival for how he had wanted them to be. Unbearable pain had led Adam to drink and fight too much; it led him to leave home. Ben had been so afraid of losing him then. He was so consumed by fear that Adam was following in his grandfather's footsteps and becoming a drunkard. When he didn't worry about the amount and frequency in which his son was drinking, he worried Adam would become too drunk to think clearly and get himself killed. And when he didn't worry about either of those things, he worried about something else.
The devil was in Ross Marquette, that was what Joe the Preacher had once said—something which Kane had been quick to remind Ben in his dreams—and shortly after Ross's death, the preacher had said the same about Adam, because the time which followed Ross and Delphine's deaths had had been a living nightmare.
Do you remember what the time that came after was like? Kane had once asked Ben in a dream, his words implying he would be fortunate enough to forget. He would never forget.
"The day Adam burned the Silver Dollar to the ground," Hoss continued, "he stood on the edge of the cliff where he shot Ross dead, fixing to jump. I found him on it, Pa. He was sick out of his mind, talkin' about the devil and such. About how nobody would understand what Ross knew before he died, what Adam thought he was beginning to understand himself. He said sometimes there's no stopping what's meant to be. If a bad thing wants to happen it will. If the devil wants to find you, he can. There's no stopping him. No changing what's meant to be. Standing on the edge of that cliff, Adam said I couldn't catch him. He said I shouldn't even try."
"He was planning on jumping?" Ben asked numbly.
"Yes, sir. I do believe if I hadn't come upon him then he would have ended up on the bottom of that cliff. He was so dadburned sick, Pa. Remember? The mightiness of the fever burning through his body wasn't allowin' him to think straight. He was so unsteady on his feet; if I wouldn't grabbed ahold of him, he would have fallen."
"But you were there to hold on and pull him back from the edge."
"Yes."
"Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell me where you found him, what he said or did?"
Shrugging weakly, Hoss expelled a deep sigh. "Oh, Pa," he said softly. "I don't know why. I guess, it just didn't seem all that important after Adam's sickness passed. He quit drinking and running away, and I guess, I didn't want to make him feel bad about much of anything because I was afraid he'd set his sights on drinkin' and running again. I thought if he truly had recollection of standing on that cliff then he woulda talked to you about it, eventually. He talks to you about everything."
"Not everything," Ben said. Not even close. "He never talked to me about that."
Adam had become incredibly ill. Fever had ravaged his body and held his mind captive, and it was what led him home. After his sickness, Adam didn't talk to Ben about much of anything. He recovered; he stayed out of trouble and mostly at home. But he was different than he had been before. He was quiet and distant. He became more careful and reserved. He wasn't the same. There was a distinct difference between who he had been and who he had become. It was then his need to leave home truly became apparent. It was as though he couldn't tolerate remaining in place for more than a week. He began favoring business trips over being home, and anytime travel was needed Ben began delegating it to him. He chose him for those trips over his other sons because he knew the truth. That dreaded day was closer than it had ever been. Someday was approaching quicker than it ever had. What he could offer him, the life and legacy he had built was ceasing to appease him.
Adam was born a wanderer, but it was his pain over what had happened to Ross that gave birth to his need to run. He couldn't stay where he was, not forever. Not for long. The memories of what happened were consuming him; there was too much pain for him to contend with. Ben could feel the fateful day approaching; it was becoming closer and closer with each minute that passed. That dreaded inescapable day when Adam would leave home for good. But Ben couldn't let him go, not then. Not yet. Not feeling the way that Adam was. Not with a chip on his shoulder and pain in his heart, because that—Ben always knew—promised trouble. It guaranteed bad things on the horizon. But maybe that couldn't have been helped, because maybe bad things were always destined to come no matter what.
What's the point of being gifted dreams if you aren't going to heed their warnings? Kane's voice hissed from the depths of his memory. What is the point of knowing something bad is on the horizon if you don't do anything to stop it?
Ben had tried to stop it, because when a trip to Eastgate became necessary he had tried his best to keep Adam home. He had wanted him to stay home. Away from Eastgate and its foreign saloon full of liquor and trouble, away from the cliff-filled desert which seemed so like the one in his dreams. It hadn't worked; it never worked. He had never been able to change Adam's mind once it was made up. Any kind of agreement or concession on Adam's part was merely ceremonious. He was always going to do what he was going to do.
He went into that desert knowing what he would find, Elizabeth's statement rang in Ben's ears.
If Adam had gone into the desert knowing what he would find, if he knew Kane was out there, and what would happen to him if they met, then why would want to do such a thing? Because he didn't expect to come back, Ben recalled sadly. But even so, what was the purpose of going in the first place? What was the purpose of it all?
You don't know what happened, Pa, Adam had sobbed on the floor of the Eastgate boarding house. You don't know… You don't know... You don't know... You don't know!
Had Adam been talking about the desert? Or something else? Rarely could his son's statements not be interpreted to have numerous contexts. He was careful with his feelings and his words; he always had found ways of talking about things without discussing them.
You found your son and you're allowing your relief over locating him to distract you from the questions you should be asking, Kane had said. It was a statement that was as infuriating now as it had been in his dream. What were the questions he should be asking?
You're the Great Ben Cartwright, Kane had said, don't pretend you don't understand the importance of considering the past when trying to navigate the future.
What about the past was important? What were the decisions and events that led Adam here?
That's gonna be me! Adam had said as he watched Obadiah Johnson's lifeless body sway back and forth on the end of a noose.
It was a statement easily attributed to how Adam felt about Kane's death. What did Ben know for certain Adam actually did? Even if he had killed Peter Kane—something his father still struggled to believe—it was a defensible action. The sheer state of him when he had been found wandering the desert had declared any objectionable theory about Kane's death inadmissible. Adam had had marks on his wrists and ankles; it was obvious he had been tied up. He had marks on his body, evidence of beatings; he had been starved, and dehydrated. If Adam had really killed Kane, then he had done what was necessary to survive. It was just like before when he had done what was necessary to keep himself alive.
Standing amongst jagged cliffs, Adam shot and killed Ross Marquette because Ross was trying to kill him. And then after his best friend's death, guilt had led Adam to drink and fight. It had led him to buy the Silver Dollar; it had led him away from home, further away from his family and toward the cliff Hoss had found him upon.
But prior to all that Adam had had a bad feeling himself. He had bad dreams too. In the days following his discovery of Ross's violent treatment of Delphine, Adam had been plagued with nightmares and palpable uneasiness. Looking back now, it seemed to follow him like a dark shadow as he worked absently and silently next to his brothers and father as they rounded up cattle to be branded.
"I dream about Ross and Del and the devil too, I think," Adam had admitted to Ben as they rode side-by-side on their horses a mere day before Del and Ross would both be killed.
"Dreams are just dreams, son," Ben had tried to soothe. "You know that. They aren't real, so they can't come true."
Adam wouldn't be calmed so easily. "But what if they can?" he insisted. "What if Minister Joe is right? What if the devil is inside of Ross and that's what caused him to change? And how do you save someone from the devil, Pa? How do you save somebody from themselves?"
"It is your nightmares that are making you tortured by such a thing?"
"I feel like something bad is going to happen. I don't know what and I don't know when, but something is… building and growing and it's going to continue growing until it becomes too large and then it's going to finally explode."
Ben couldn't have known it then, but Adam had been right. The morning would come, bringing the bad thing Adam had been anticipating; the truth would finally be known about Ross Marquette. And Ben would always look back on that day regretfully wishing for a kinder outcome. If not for Delphine or Ross, then for Adam.
"I'm sorry, Pa," Hoss said again. "You've always trusted me to tell you important things and I let you down."
"You didn't let me down," Ben said absently, his mind turning from the memory of Adam's words on the range. "You told me, didn't you?"
Adam had asked how someone could be saved from the devil and how one could save someone from themselves. These were both questions that Kane had posed to him in his dreams. But they weren't Kane's words. They were Adam's; they had always been Adam's first. Glaring and irrefutable, it was such an odd thing not to remember. How hadn't he realized it before? He wondered what other questions Kane and Adam shared. What it meant to know that at least some of their words were the same.
And with all the things Ben still didn't know, he was reminded of one he was certain of. Adam didn't kill Peter Kane, but he had killed someone else. He had killed his best friend.
He had killed Ross Marquette. Then, captive to grief and guilt, he had changed. He began misbehaving, drinking too much, and fighting with any and everyone. His family, strangers, even the law. Buying the Silver Dollar, he had left home. Ben had wanted so badly to make him stay but he couldn't find the right words. He couldn't seem to say much of anything to lessen his son's pain. And so, he had stepped back and let his son go, not with any intention of allowing him to wander too far or to lose his grip on him completely. Just enough for Adam to be alone with his grief, so he could feel it fully and decide he wanted—needed—his father's help to work through it. But Adam never decided upon such a thing. Time and space had done nothing to soothe the storm raging inside of him.
During this time, Hoss had fallen into the habit of accidentally overhearing conversations between Adam and Ben. Some were kinder than others, although they all could be perceived as teetering on the very edge of what could constitute as respectful. Except for one which Ben was relieved to know hadn't been overheard. If not to protect Adam's words from being looked upon in an unfavorable light, then to protect his own actions from being viewed in the same way.
It was the middle of a cold, dark night that brought Ben to the Silver Dollar to look in on his son. Hoss had done his best to linger close to Adam, keeping a careful eye on him as his father requested. The last few days Adam had been missing from the property and when Hoss had voiced his concern, Ben decided he could no longer tolerate being away from Adam. He needed to look upon him with his own eyes and verify the situation for himself.
Arriving at the Silver Dollar, Ben found the house as dark as the surrounding night sky and Adam sitting on a hay bale in the barn. Clutching a half-empty liquor bottle in his hand, he was drunk. Too drunk to be expected to maintain a civil conversation; too drunk to take kindly to a middle of the night visit from his Pa.
Captive to hard liquor and a black mood, Adam's pain was obvious. His extreme mental anguish and grief coupled with brown liquid he was consuming had left him uninhibited, loosening his tongue and rendering him incapable of reining in his anger, shifting his tone, or carefully choosing his words. Most of the things Adam had said to his father didn't bear repeating. Ben didn't want to repeat them, because they had been terrible enough to hear and endure at the time. There was one statement in particular he tried hard to erase from memory completely, if not for how it had made him feel but for the shame he felt over what it had prompted him to do.
"What are you going to do, Adam?" Ben had demanded ferociously. There was a sharpness to his tone, his anger facilitating the question. He had long reached the limit with his son's belligerence.
"Why don't you tell me?" Adam roared, his fury matching that of his father. "You're the Great Ben Cartwright! You're so omniscient and wise! You know all there is to know about anything. You tell me what I oughta do."
"You keep a respectful tongue in your mouth when you speak to me!"
"I don't want to speak to you all!"
"ADAM!"
"Christ, Pa! Won't you listen? Why are you even here? I want you to leave."
"I will not!"
"You will! Get the fuck off my proper—!"
With the strength of his backhand, Ben finally silenced his son. Even after it was done, he couldn't have explained what exactly had prompted him to do such a thing. If it was his son's unmitigated anger, his spiteful statements, or the blasphemous word he had dared aim at his father. Maybe it was all those things put together, or maybe it was really none of them at all. In the moment, Ben wasn't particularly concerned with why he had done such a thing; he was too horrified over having done it at all.
Never in any of his sons' respective lives had he backhanded any of them. He had yelled at and lectured them, tanned them, perhaps grasped them a little too firmly by their upper arms and led them to a private place to deal with their insolence and bad behavior. But he had never once lifted a hand to their faces; he had never struck them while captive to fury, reacting to the moment rather than allowing himself time to think.
The red mark on Adam's cheek was immediate; obvious and accusing beneath the darkness of his short beard growth. His haggard breaths were the only noise to be heard. Thick and shaking, they seemed to fill space between them as Adam stood, suddenly seeming so close and far away, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. Adam wanted to hit him back, Ben was certain of that. In Adam's raging eyes, he could see his son's indigitation so clearly. There was anger there, a familiar type; it demanded immediate, impulsive action no matter the consequence. It was anger Ben recognized, because he had experienced it before. He had displayed himself when he and Adam had been so much younger than they were. It was behavior learned from his father's example, his own father learning it from his father and so on. It was hereditary. And it was dangerous. It promised trouble, unfavorable complications and consequences always accompanying impulsive mistakes.
For a moment, Ben was certain that Adam was going to hit him back. Then, overcome by shame and remorse, he was certain his son wouldn't dare. Even if Adam couldn't control the angry words slipping from his mouth, he could at least remain the master of his physical actions. His eldest son always seemed so capable of doing the things his father failed to do. It was a simple fact that smarted, but it was what Ben saw in Adam's eyes that stung the most.
Standing before him, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, Adam's expression changed. His anger melted away in an instant, only to be replaced by something more bothersome and haunting. Ben wasn't sure if it was the amount of liquor his son had drunk, the stinging of his cheek or pride, his fear or his shock that prompted Adam's unmasked, regressive reaction. He wasn't sure if it ultimately mattered in the end.
Wide and brimming with tears, Adam's hazel eyes were sparking with pain as he looked upon his father in a way he hadn't since he was a small boy. There was an accusation in those tearful eyes, a heart-wrenching conflict that so clearly screamed: you are my father; you are supposed to keep me safe and love me no matter what. But you hurt me and now I don't know what to think.
It was a look more fitting of a youngster than a man of Adam's age who had a firm understanding that bad behavior always came with consequences; he had knowledge about context that allowed him to interpret actions and behavior. He knew his father was a fierce, formidable man, who could hurt someone who threatened their safety but would never dare raise a hand to him to do the same. Except, in that moment, Ben realized quickly that he had.
"Adam," he whispered dreadfully as he extended a peaceful hand toward his son who was quick to back away. "Son."
The damage was already done, a fact that was only emphasized when Adam turned around, hiding his face from view as he gave into the sobs he could no longer keep at bay. He had always been like this. Even when he was a little boy, he never allowed the person who hurt him to immediately comfort him after. There had always been a waiting period allotted for him to contemplate what had been done, how it demanded things change or remain the same. He never accepted immediate condolences. He had always required time.
Ben couldn't tolerate listening to his son's distress without doing something to ease and soothe it. He had never been good at watching his sons cry. And Adam was due for a good long cry, of this Ben was certain. Whether it was prompted by his anger or his son's cavernous sadness over the death of his friends, those tears would have come eventually. They just happened to come then, after their tense angry words, after the furious motion Ben longed to take back.
"Adam," he tried gently. Moving in front of him, he pulled his son into his arms. Adam was noncompliant at first, moving his limbs to weakly push him away. Ben stood rooted in place, holding his son close until he gave up his meek fight.
"I'm sorry for striking you," he whispered, his own emotions feeling too close to the surface. "But not for being disappointed by what you said."
He was never certain if it was his apology or something else that prompted Adam to finally hug him back. It was a moment—a mistake—that seemed to change everything and nothing at the same time. He wondered if this was the moment that prevented Adam from talking to him about the cliff or his real reasons for demanding to be allowed to go to Eastgate. He wondered if this was the conversation that shifted things for Adam or if that was something that happened before, a complication of another conversation when Adam had been so worried about Ross and Del.
I dream of Ross and Del and the devil too, I think, Adam had said. It was a difficult admission for his son to make, but Ben dismissed it immediately. He hadn't taken the time to figure out what Adam was really saying. What it all really meant.
But what did it all really mean? Was it all somehow connected? Did one decision lead to another and then another? Or were they all singular? Each existed independently of one another. A string of bad things just happening with no discernable reason.
The moment in the Silver Dollar's barn would become the last time, prior to his departure to Eastgate, Adam would hug his father. It was also the last time, before being found aimlessly wandering the desert, Adam would allow Ben to see him cry. And finding him in that desert after searching for so long, becoming so overwhelmed by relief and then fear, Ben would be forced to yell at his son to rescue him from his crazed ramblings. It would work, but for one horrible second, before Adam began to cry, Ben was certain he had seen fear etched on his son's face and it reminded him of that night in the barn. It was a memory he didn't want to think about, but he knew it would never leave him.
It was undeniable that Adam was different after Ross and Del's deaths, after buying the Silver Dollar, after his drinking and fighting, after that fateful night in the barn. After his sickness had finally forced him to come home. He awoke from his fever with a strange look in his eyes; he looked upon his father at his bedside speaking of ships and storms. At the time, Ben had taken it as a good sign. A sign that Adam had finally resolved himself to come to terms with all that had taken place.
But what if it hadn't been a good sign? What if it had been a warning of something which had yet to come?
Ben and Adam didn't talk much after. Eventually, there came to be a distinct difference in how his son acted towards him and everyone else. He was quiet and reserved, inpatient to a point. Looking back, he seemed bored, irrefutably troubled by the perceived stagnancy of his life. But what if it hadn't been boredom or stagnancy that changed Adam's view of his surroundings?
What if it was something else?
What if it was that indecipherable bad thing Ben had felt approaching all along?
"I hit your brother," Ben admitted softly. Hoss's indignation over such an occurrence was immediate. "Not today," he qualified. "Not recently. But if we're talking about things that happened after Adam bought the Silver Dollar, then there you are."
"When?" Hoss pressed.
"The night I went to see him for myself. He was drinking heavily; we exchanged words; he said something I took offense to."
"That was his habit back then. He didn't seem to be much for talkin' but there wasn't anything that came out of his mouth someone couldn't take offense to. He was always lookin' for trouble, rearing for fight."
"That doesn't make what I did right," Ben said.
"No, sir."
"He was belligerent, and I reacted to him in anger. Neither one of us were acting as we should."
"I understand, Pa," Hoss said earnestly. "It was difficult back then. Adam was so in need of help, and he wasn't interested in takin' none. We all did our best to do right by him, and he sorted himself out in the end."
"Did he?"
Hoss shrugged. "I thought he did. He quit drinking and fightin'. He stayed out of trouble and at home."
"He became quiet."
"Adam always gets quiet when he's thinkin' things through. He's independent. He likes to stand on his own two feet and handle things on his own." Hoss frowned, his brows knitting. "Or at least he used to," he added softly.
Maybe he still does, Ben thought.
"Pa?" Hoss asked. "Memories and thoughts of Adam standing on the edge of cliffs and bad dreams, what does any of that have to do with right now?"
Shaking his head, Ben didn't know for sure, but given more thought, he suspected he would.
