Somewhere in Northern Illinois in 1832

The left side of Mr. Clark's head exploded in crimson mist, and the bullet – uncaring of the man whose skull it had just penetrated – went on to lodge itself into the side of the covered wagon with a resounding thud, followed by several others of its kind.

Where others may have cursed, Benjamin Cartwright mumbled a silent prayer, a plea laced with desperation – "Dear Lord, have mercy on us…" – as he rubbed a hasty hand over his face to try to get rid of the mix of his sweat and Mr. Clark's splattered blood stinging in his eyes. How deep had the bullets gone? Had they pierced the wood, too? Had any found his travel chest in the center of the defensive circle, or the bundle within?

An arrow, intended for him, whizzed by, close enough for him to feel the wind of it.

He gritted his teeth and took aim. He only had half a box of bullets left. Each needed to do their part. He couldn't afford to miss. If he failed now, his beautiful baby boy wouldn't live to see another sunrise. He had hoped to show his son the path, so surely it couldn't end like this? Adam still toddled a little when he ran with his short legs. Just that morning he had given Adam a seeding dandelion for blowing only for the boy to put it right into his mouth, the big brown eyes trusting and curious.

The desperation turned his manner curt, and the next prayer he whispered to the barrel of his rifle was a single word, one that left his lips just as the rifle recoiled against his shoulder and a whooping Potawatomi was silenced forever,

"Adam."

The name that was his entire universe, his everything, all the love and hardship he had endured on his way to the West, to Illinois. The Lord would understand, he knew. This was the most powerful prayer Ben had ever known. It was his whole heart, the name he had often whispered in thanks, in blessing, in pain, in gratitude, in desperation, in silence, in battle, in sorrow, when he had missed Elizabeth the most. The Lord would understand this time, too, just as He always had.

With his throat tight, Ben reloaded the rifle, then aimed. But a blink of an eye later, a Potawatomi fell off the horse. The animal went on galloping, leaving the rider behind in a pile of broken limbs.

Mr. Picklemore howled on the other side of the defensive circle they had formed with their wagons when they had first seen the men riding towards them, his cry cutting off when another shot echoed there in the valley. His wife, the freshly-made widow, began to scream, and Ben's jaw set as he took down another nameless Potawatomi, then another.

The prairie air was thick with the smell of gunpowder, and the taste of copper, slimy on his tongue, spoke of his own injuries, as he spat it out.

Thou shalt not kill, Exodus 20:13, but Ben killed, and he listened. Desperately, he listened, begging to hear, pleading for a sign that he still had a reason to go against the commands of God Himself – Adam, please…

Like thunder, the hooves against the prairie, and each bullet, each arrow, a flash of striking lightning. There was rain, too – the blood and the sweat, and the children who wet themselves in their terror. Mrs. Krüger was shouting at the Potawatomis in German from where she was shooting at their attackers from next to her slain husband, with his fallen husband's rifle, and the Potawatomi that galloped around their defensive circle were whooping and laughing and trying to break in.

The weathered canvas canopy rustled softly in the breeze as though it was disturbed to stand witness to this – this – this insanity, while a buzzing bee went about its day, blissfully unaware of the carnage.

"Adam," Ben gasped again and heard nothing in response but the furious thudding of his own heart.

Children were crying, but they were the four little Smiths and the Krüger twins. Ben would have recognized Adam's voice had it been among them, but it wasn't.

Why wasn't Adam crying? Why hadn't all the noise frightened him into crying? That morning, Adam had cried when a bee landed on his knee. Why didn't he cry now?

Maybe the chest hadn't been enough to protect him from the hail of bullets after all. Or maybe he had run out of air. Maybe the travel chest Ben had meant for protection had become the coffin for his only son.

No! No, it couldn't be so. Please, God, spare my boy. Adam couldn't go to Elizabeth, not yet. It wasn't his time yet, it couldn't be.

He never should have taken the boy away from the Stoddards. They should have stayed in the East with Elizabeth's family. He should have raised Adam there and forgotten all about his ambitions of creating something better for his little boy. Adam could have become a humble harbor worker, and maybe in time Ben would have learned to live with the reminders all around, with the ghost of Elizabeth and their lost love everywhere he turned.

Reloading, he exhaled a shaky breath that felt more like a shudder than a prayer. He whispered Adam's name, the only sound that mattered in the cacophony of gunfire and desperate cries. In this hell of blood and chaos, it echoed like a mantra—hope woven through despair.

"Adam… Adam… Adam…"

Grim, Ben aimed and shot, took lives whenever he had the opportunity to. Adam was not dead in the travel chest. He had simply… fallen asleep. It had to be so. Ben refused any other possibility. Each bullet bought another breath for his boy, each slain Potawatomi improved Adam's chances. If the West had turned Ben into a thief, he was a greedy one, for he now stole lives to grant his son another prolonged minute. He would taint his soul if it meant life for his boy.

The wagon of the Karlsons caught fire. It blazed there, and the Potawatomi cheered at the sight.

The fire spread from wagon to wagon, and the hot smoke forced tears from Ben's stinging eyes. Mr. Karlson tore down the burning canvas canopy and got an arrow in his throat for his efforts. The grass caught fire, too, and the women abandoned their children in the center of the circle to stamp it out while their fathers and husbands kept shooting.

One of the small Smiths broke away from her siblings, calling out for her mama, and an arrow pierced the small chest a heartbeat later. Gurgling, the child fell, and the terrorized, disbelieving screams of her older siblings had bile rose in Ben's throat.

The fire left their defensive circle weakened, and the Potawatomi broke through. Suddenly the horses were galloping inside their circle as well as outside of it, and the screams of the women and the men both were cut off with slashing knives and headshots. A young Potawatomi grasped Anna Krüger by the fair hair and – with her small feet kicking about – cut her throat. Dropping her, he reached down for Little Hans, too, but Ben pulled the trigger and the warrior fell half a skull shorter. Mrs. Picklemore got trampled by the hooves of the riderless horse, and Ben reloaded, sending desperate glances at the wooden chest in the middle of it all, far too close to the wildly kicking horse.

He shot the horse before it could trample the Smith children, and the animal fell on Mrs. Picklemore, who had already gone still and silent.

They wouldn't make it, the realization hit him just as a Potawatomi slashed down at Hans Krüger and the boy staggered back with blood gushing from his throat. Ben was fumbling with the rifle bullets like a fool, his fingers slick with sweat, with the Potawatomis overwhelming them in numbers and strength. Ben could read and write, and he had a fairly good head for numbers, and the mind many had described as sharp was now whispering to him that their chances of survival were close to none.

The canvas canopies were thrown aside, and more horses came galloping into their protective circle.

"Adam," Ben breathed and made a dash for the travel chest. Before he reached it, something hit the back of his head, and –

He smelled smoke, and it had him frown.

His cheek was pressed against the ground, and when he forced his eyes open, he saw grass swaying in a gentle breeze. Dazed, he blinked, the back of his head thudding with an insistent, dull ache. He sat up and rubbed the ache, his hand coming back bloody. His arms felt heavy like someone had put him in shackles.

He saw the blue sky first, the wisps of clouds promising rain, possibly sometime within the next month. And then, underneath that blue sky, smoking remains of burnt wagons. Scattered within the circle of the remains of the wagons was hell itself. Bodies. Torn ones. Bodies of people he knew, had known. They were all dead, even the children.

His breath hitched when it all came back – ADAM!

He tried to stagger up, but the grass shot up and he found himself on it once more. Grunting, with determination more so than strength, he forced his limbs to work. With effort, he got up to his knees. Adam. Adam needed him. Where was the boy? Where was his son?

His rifle gleamed in the sunlight. The barrel was still warm. He couldn't have been unconscious for long.

His fingers had barely grazed against the metal when a heavy boot landed on it, forcing it out of his grip.

Looming over him there was the barrel of a gun, and beyond that, a painted face. Black eyes blazed down at him and the lips twitched up in a joyless smile. Behind the warrior, there were others. It was silent but for the buzzing of insects, and Ben Cartwright brazed himself for the inevitable. These men had destroyed his world, and if Adam wasn't dead already, he would soon follow his father and mother to the heavens.

He looked up at the blue sky, at the vastness of it. All had been taken from him, but he would get to choose what he saw in his last moments. The sky, rather than the eyes of his killer. If only he would have gotten to hold Adam, the boy wouldn't have had to die alone. Courage, my son.

"You fought bravely," the Potawatomi spoke with nearly perfect English. "We will let you live so that you can tell your army that Chief Maghtain's warriors laughed when they slaughtered your women and children. Chief Maghtain showed no mercy. Chief Maghtain fears none. Remember this name – Chief Maghtain."

"Chief Maghtain."

The name rolled off Ben's tongue with a bitter aftertaste. The death of his travel companions, some of whom he had considered friends. Entire families lost. The Krügers had come here all the way from Germany. The Smiths had spoken of a farm. Hopes and dreams and futures burnt in wagons.

He could almost feel Adam's small hand clutching his finger as he closed them around nothing. The closed hands turned into clenched fists, and he lowered his gaze from the skies above to study the warrior, coolly. It flickered to the bodies, to the lifeless faces of the children he had tried to protect.

His travel chest stood among the carnage, intact, untouched. A beacon of hope that had his heart thud faster.

"Chief Maghtain is just a man," he said, his voice gravelly from the smoke and sorrow that filled his lungs. "He will know fear, and he will know loss. I will convey your message to the army, and that will be the end of Chief Maghtain."

The warrior laughed, an empty, cold sound. He nudged Ben's rifle further away with the toe of his boot. "Chief Maghtain is a brave man, and he will face your army. Bring your army to his tribe, and you shall see what kind of a man he is. He will not stand alone."

Alone. It echoed in Ben's mind. Alone, alone, alone.

But the chest remained, and he along it.

"I will bury my companions," he said. "Then I will go to the army."

"You will bury none," said the warrior. "And you will go to your army now."

Ben had a knife strapped to his belt. Maybe he could have found a way to plunge it into this man, into this killer. But the travel chest remained intact, and that kept him calm. He would have to survive for long enough to know for sure what had happened to Adam. He was alive for now while all the others had been killed, and if the Potawatomi hadn't found Adam in the chest…

Hope still remained.

"We will leave you one horse," said the Potawatomi. "You will ride north to your army and you will tell them that Chief Maghtain has declared war. We will come back here when the sun sets. If you remain here when we return, I will cut you into pieces myself."

The Potawatomi took the horses, even Wendy whom Ben had gotten for himself back in New England the day after Elizabeth's funeral. With little care about whose bodies they were trampling, the men led the horses away, the rhythmic pounding of their hooves ringing in Ben's ears like a funeral dirge.

Clutching the rifle, he waited until he was certain they wouldn't come back. With a visceral effort, he then pushed himself to his feet, fighting the weakness of his limbs and the ache in the back of his skull. The trampled bodies all around were destroyed to the degree that he couldn't tell where one began and another ended.

"Our Father, who art in heaven…"

Bile shot up his throat and he threw up. Hands unsteady, he staggered toward the chest, heart hammering. Each breath he took came with a cost as if the very air was laden with loss. The weight of it forced him down on his knees before the chest, the prairie wind and the buzzing of insects fading into an eerie silence until nothing remained but his labored breathing and the frantic beating of his heart. Clenching the latch, he bent his head in a silent plea and hesitated for a heartbeat longer. Was this still a travel chest, or was he now kneeling before the coffin of his only son?

When they had first spotted the approaching Potawatomi, he had flung this chest open and emptied it of his belongings, uncaring of each item in his haste to find a safe place for Adam to hide in. Now his hands trembled and the fear had lost its sharp edge. It had grown all-encompassing as though into a piece of his very existence.

Inside, a quilt, the one Elizabeth had sewn during the months her belly had grown while they had expected their firstborn, the fruit of their passion and love. Now, nestled within the folds was the small form of his son,

"Adam."

The eyes, once a dark shade of blue, now brown, stared up at him. The small face was frozen in a look of terror so great the child didn't move, not even now. Adam had wet himself, the smell of it pungent in the air. His small chest rose and fell fast, but he didn't make a sound. Ben burst into tears at the sight of him and tried to calm himself down, for the sake of his boy. Adam was frightened enough as it was.

"It's over now. Shh, shh. Pa's got you. Pa's got you, my beautiful boy."

He unwrapped the quilt from around the boy and patted him down for injuries. Frantic, he searched for wounds, for blood – and found nothing. Adam was unharmed.

"Adam."

The one word, a prayer of gratitude, a thank you, pure relief. Ben gathered the boy into his arms and held him to his chest. He exhaled, shakily, and brushed back Adam's hair, burying his nose in it, reveling in the sweet, familiar scent of him.

The child whimpered, the sound of it softer than the buzzing of a bee. But in the end, it was only the father, who wept.

"Shh. Hush, my boy. Hush. It's over now. Pa's got you. Pa's got you."

It wasn't over yet and Ben was well aware of it. The Potawatomi would return. Some of them may have stayed and may come back at any time to witness the one small body left for them to hurt.

He rose unsteadily to his feet, cradling Adam against him. The child's small frame was his anchor, the center of his universe. He had failed to keep his son safe before, but he would not fail again. Not now.

He went around and looked for survivors. He shook them, tried to encourage some kind of a reaction. But none responded. They had all been killed.

Feeling utterly useless, the failure like a vice around his heart, the guilt rolling down his cheeks, he looked at the mutilated bodies, the remnants of their travel companions, of his friends. Fred Picklemore, Otto Krüger, the Smith children, the twins who had delighted in making Adam laugh... Why had they died? Why had they been slaughtered? Why had all this happened? Why hadn't he fired faster? Why did he live and they didn't? Why hadn't he carried more bullets with him? Why – why –

Why?

"I'm sorry."

Though it sat poorly with him, there would be no time to bury any of them. He would have to leave them as they were, and the nightfall would bring the animals to a feast. These poor souls deserved a funeral and graves and the blessings of a priest, but Ben had nothing to offer but a hastily uttered, "The Lord bless you and keep you."

He needed to focus on Adam. He would send the army here, and the army would do for the dead what he couldn't.

Careful to keep Adam in the folds of the quilt so that he would see none of the carnage, he gathered supplies, three water canteens, a bag of dried meat. Another quilt. Almost everything had been burnt along with the wagons. He couldn't even find the coins he had had with him.

He worked quickly, fighting against the gnawing worry that each moment spent here could lead to their end.

The burning wreckage, the bodies. The vultures gathering up in the sky. The brutal indifference of the nature.

Adam whimpered. His wet clothes needed to be changed, but there was no time for that, not now.

Mounting the horse the Potawatomi had left for him, Ben took one last glance at the remains of the camp. Each body had been a world of its own just that afternoon. He had known them all by name. Their families would never know about what had taken place here since Ben had no means of contacting anyone, especially not the remaining Krügers somewhere in Germany. Maybe he would be able to talk to a journalist, later. For certain, he would tell all to the officers of the army.

With Adam nestled against him, Ben turned his gaze north, where the distant mountains lay beyond a hazy horizon. The army needed to be alerted, he agreed with their attackers on that.

But whoever Chief Maghtain was, he doubted it was the name of the chief whose warriors had killed his companions. They had taken the horses and had given the name of a chief. It all reeked of a gang of opportunistic killers and horse thieves. More likely, the gang was trying to use the army to destroy Chief Maghtain's tribe, for revenge, for control of the land, for whatever reason. Why else had they let him live?

"Don't worry, little man," Ben whispered, tightening his hold on Adam. "Pa's got you now."

Adam's chin quivered.

"I cwied Pa, but Pa didn't come."

A/N:

I have no idea if anyone is still as much into this fandom as I am, but if you're out there, friend, please let me know. I don't know if I'm writing into a void and thus wasting my time by sharing this story, but if someone is reading, please leave me a comment and let me know. I'd love to write more, but if it's only for me, I might as well just imagine it instead of actually writing it all down.

Love,
a lifelong fan of Bonanza