Luck of the Draw

By Karen F.

It started out like any other day. He rode into town to do some errands for his father, and naturally stopped by the saloon. As he strolled through the wide, swinging doors, Joe paused and let the sights and sounds of the establishment wash over him. He was in his element and knew it. A group of his friends greeted him from a corner table, and Joe ambled over to join them. An obliging barmaid placed a beer in his hand and an arm around his shoulder. Taking a contented sip of the drink, Joe reflected that life just didn’t get any better than this. 

The one beer stretched into two, and then three. The barmaid had long since settled in his lap and was whispering sweet nothings in his ear, while his friends had grown raucous. Joe was feeling a pleasant haze of good will, when the dusty group of men walked into the saloon and bellied up to the bar. A quick glance from his keen eye was all that it took to figure out that these men were good with their guns and not afraid to show it. They wore their holsters low and within easy reach of their fingertips, and all had that hard-edged look about them. Not a group to be trifled with, and Joe was casually content to let them alone.

It was obvious the gunmen had other ideas, though. Joe watched as they surveyed the room with cold eyes, and held a whispered consultation as they looked over the group of young men in the corner. He knew the cut of his friends’ clothes indicated that most were the sons of local ranchers. The presence of the saloon’s two barmaids at their table bespoke of local popularity and money to spend. Joe knew they looked like just the kind of young pups who needed to be taken down a peg or two.

The leader of the group sauntered slowly over to Joe’s table and stood gazing down at the rowdy young men. At first, he was ignored as the young  ranchers continued with their fooling. But then, one by one, the voices died out and the eyes flickered upward. Finally, silence reigned at the table as the two groups of men waged a battle with their eyes. 

Tim Anderson, who sat to Joe’s right, spoke first. A tall, good looking young man of 22, he was popular with the girls of Virginia City and with the group of young men who sat at the table beside him. Tim was known for his quick wit and ready smile. He was always ready to make a joke and get a laugh going. Now, he poked Joe in the side and smirked up at the silent gunslinger. “Well, lookee here, Joe. I think this fellow don’t like us too much.”

Joe felt a stab of alarm as he saw the angry glint in the shootist’s eye. “Shut up, Tim,” he said, striving to sound genial and failing miserably. 

“Take your friend’s advice, pup,” the man advised in a raspy voice. “I don’t like the way you boys are keeping all the women to yourselves. I think you need to do a little sharing.” He reached down and snagged the arm of the girl in Joe’s lap and gave a tug.

The girl gave Joe a pleading look as she was bundled off his lap and pulled into the strong embrace of the hard-eyed man. “Joe?” she said imploringly. 

Joe frowned and tipped his hat back on his head. “I don’t think Daisy’s real happy about being pulled out of my lap, mister,” he remarked quietly. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let her go.”

As Daisy flashed him a grateful smile, the hired gun pushed her behind him and into the waiting arms of one of his henchmen. “Too bad, kid,” he said easily. “Daisy is now otherwise occupied for the rest of the evening.”

He nodded insolently and strolled away, his hard-bitten men following at his heels. Daisy flashed Joe another look over her shoulder as she was hustled away, and shook her head when he made a move to get up. She’d seen men of this type before and knew that Joe was courting disaster by coming to her aid.

Joe settled back into his seat reluctantly, his eyes remaining on the gunman and his compadres as they commandeered a table in the center of the room. He vaguely noticed that his own group of friends was no longer laughing and having a good time. Instead they were sitting sullenly back in their chairs, their eyes flashing with anger. Joe watched intently as Daisy was hauled into the leader’s lap, and held there, while she struggled to get free. His jaw tensed and he rose to his feet without thinking. Crossing the room in two strides, he stood over the struggling pair, arriving just as Daisy slapped the gunslinger across the face with a resounding crack.

“Let me go!” she shrilled angrily. “I told you I’ve got work to do; now let me up.” Daisy pushed futilely against the man’s chest, but he only gripped her more tightly.

“You’re working for me tonight, sugar,” the raspy voice drawled. The gunman spared a hand to rub the large red stain on his cheek. “I think you’re gonna regret that little stunt, Daisy. What’re you gonna do if I get you fired for not being friendly with the customers?”

“Let her go.” Joe’s voice cut through the man’s words, and Daisy looked up with a gasp.

“No, Joe, it’s okay,” she said urgently. “Go on back to your table.”

“You heard the lady,” the gunman drawled. “Go sit down, sonny, before I decide to teach you a lesson you won’t ever forget.” While he appeared to be occupied with holding onto the squirming barmaid, the older man’s eyes never left Joe’s left hip.

Joe registered the man’s interest in his gun, and he smiled. Joe was talented with his weapon. He liked the attention he got from being a good shot and he often indulged in shooting contests and demonstrations of fancy spins and twirls with his friends. Joe was widely considered to be the fastest shot in Virginia City, a fact that he didn’t usually trouble to disagree with. If the truth were told, Joe reveled in his notoriety around town. 

Now he stood confidently poised on the balls of his feet, an expectant look in his eye. He was more than ready to take on this stranger, an obvious gunslinger, and he felt only the adrenaline rush of excitement. “I asked you nicely, mister. Now let her go,” he said again.

With a scrape of the chair, the gunman stood abruptly, dumping Daisy from his lap as casually as if he’d been brushing a fly from his sleeve. She landed on the floor with a soft cry, and Joe’s eyes hardened imperceptibly. He held out his right hand to help the girl to her feet, and she grasped it in a sweaty palm. She let herself be hauled to her feet, and with a nervous laugh she brushed back a lock of her ginger-colored hair. “I’m fine, Little Joe, let’s go get a drink, okay.”

The gunslinger put out a restraining hand; the sneer on his face was repellent. “You’re not going anywhere with Little Joe, girl. You’re staying right here with me.” He stepped away from the table, giving himself more maneuvering room in the event of a gunfight, and Daisy’s face paled. “Now run along, sonny. Leave the women to real men like us.”

Joe took a deep breath and struggled to control his rising temper. “I’m not going anywhere until you let her go,” he replied. “Now, I’ve asked you politely. This time I’m telling you. Leave her alone.” He maintained his hold on Daisy’s satin covered arm with his right hand, but his left hovered near his hip.

Chairs pushed back, and men scrambled for cover in a melee of confusion. The signs of a gunfight were evident and no one wanted to get in the way. The bartender charged around the corner of the bar, his shotgun held high. “Little Joe, you know we don’t allow gunplay in here. You take this outside,” he bellowed frantically, his chubby face dripping with sweat.

Joe never looked in the bartender’s direction, instead, keeping his keen gaze focused on the shootist’s eyes. He was waiting for that infinitesimal flicker that would indicate the man was about to draw. “You want to take this outside, mister. Or do you just want to leave Daisy alone,” Joe asked calmly.

The dark-clad gunslinger burst into loud laughter. “You hear that fellas, this young pup thinks he can take on Jake Myers.” His glance dismissed Joe’s abilities with a single flicker of an eyelid. “I’ll take it outside, sonny, if you’re that eager to find your coffin.”

Joe flushed, but without deigning to reply he tipped his head in the direction of the swinging double doors. “After you.”

Myers laughed again, as he strolled casually to the door with a low, loose-hipped stride. His entourage followed close behind, already passing money as they wagered on how long it would take their leader to kill the young upstart.

Joe waited until they were all gone, and then he gave Daisy’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “It’ll be all right now, Daisy. You go on upstairs for a while, and I’ll straighten this fellow out.”

Daisy clung to Joe’s arm, a sob making her catch her breath in a gasp. “Don’t do it, Little Joe. The man’s a killer; I’ve seen his type a hundred times before. It’s not worth you risking your life.” She gazed up at him imploringly, tears making her dark eye makeup run in tracks down her cheeks.

Joe thumbed away the mess and kissed her gently on the forehead. “I think it’s worth it. Now you do as I say.” He gently disengaged her clinging hands and headed for the door, all the men in the saloon following behind him. A good gunfight wasn’t something they would willingly miss. 

Joe walked slowly, without a trace of fear, to the center of the dusty street. He saw that Myers was already in position at the far end. He could hear the low murmur of the crowd that lined the sidewalk as word of the gunfight spread like wildfire through the little town. He felt a slow trickle of sweat trace a path down his spine, but he suppressed the awareness of his discomfort. His world now centered on one man, and everything else vanished from his thoughts.

Myers flexed his fingers experimentally over his holster and Joe’s eyes narrowed. The murmur of the crowd disappeared from his mind, as he deliberately shut out all sound. His gaze sharpened, as he waited for that first, barely perceptible indication that the other man was ready to fire his weapon. He no longer saw the faces that lined the streets, they’d been replaced by a hazy blur that allowed him to hone in on the gunslinger’s every breath and subtle movement.

Time slowed, stretching to the breaking point, every second turning into an agonizing length of time. Joe felt his own heart thudding in his chest, and was aware of the tingle of his nerve-endings as he waited for the battle to begin.

And then it was there, the twitch that signaled the other man’s intent to draw, and Joe became all smooth motion. His weapon was clearing its holster and coming up to bear on the gunman, when a flurry of motion erupted from the blur on the sidewalk. 

Afterwards, Joe remembered every detail as if it were painted on a canvas. His bullet left the barrel of the Colt and headed down the street at the same time that Myers’s bullet roared towards him. But, Joe’s aim was affected by the distraction of a little bundle of churning arms and legs that seemed to be rolling across the street. He opened his mouth in a silent scream of horror when he realized that his bullet was bearing down on seven-year-old Peggy Hardesty. A piercing sound assaulted his ears when Peggy’s mother screamed as her daughter dashed toward her father on the opposite sidewalk. Joe never felt the impact as Myers’s bullet entered his right arm, near the shoulder, he was so intent on the scene at the other end of the street.

He watched in horror as the little girl crumpled bonelessly to the ground, a growing stain of red seeping into the earth beneath her. Freed at last from the paralysis that had overtaken him, Joe ran toward the little girl. He knelt beside her weeping parents and surveyed the scene in numb fascination as the crowd around them thickened and intensified. He reached out with a shaking hand to touch a lock of the blond hair, and was sickened to discover that it was now liberally daubed with blood.

“Get away from her! Haven’t you done enough?” Mrs. Hardesty’s voice was shrill, her gaze lethal as she glared at Joe. “You’ve killed my daughter.” The distraught woman gathered the still form of the little girl into her arms and cradled her against her chest. Keening sobs filled the air, the only sound heard on the hushed street.

Gentle hands pried at the child, as Paul Martin arrived on the scene. He was puffing slightly, out of breath from his frenzied run down the street in answer to the summons of an onlooker. “Let me see her, Mary. Let her go,” he murmured gently. “I’ve got to take a look at her, you know that.”

In response to the doctor’s continual stream of soothing words, the over-wrought mother finally released her child. Peggy lay limply in her mother’s lap as the doctor conducted his examination. Joe didn’t realize he was holding his breath, until a wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. Expelling the pent-up air in his chest in a shaky explosion, he worked to drag oxygen into his lungs. Concentrating on his breathing, he almost missed the moment when the doctor finally raised his head.

“She’s not dead, Mary. We need to get her to my office immediately. I’ve got to remove the bullet and stop the bleeding, if she’s going to have any chance at all.” Paul’s voice was brisk and unemotional, but his eyes told another story. He looked directly at Joe. “Wait in my office, Joe. I’ll take a look at that arm as soon as I’ve finished with Peggy.”

Joe stared at him, uncomprehendingly. Seeing the lack of understanding, Paul reached out and gently tapped Joe’s blood-soaked sleeve. Following the doctor’s fingers, Joe realized that his sleeve was covered with an ever-growing stain, accompanied by an insistent throbbing in the wounded arm. With a nod, he rose, intent on following the Hardestys and Paul down the street. 

A black-clad figure stepped in front of Joe, halting his forward progress. “Looks like you missed, Little Joe.” Myers sneered, a mocking smile plastered on his face. He tapped Joe’s chest with one finger. “I’m glad I didn’t shoot that poor little girl.”

A haze of red rose before Joe’s eyes and obscured his vision. With a wordless cry, he launched himself at Myers, intent on grinding his face into the dirt. He barely noticed the restraining arms that reached out to enfold him as he struggled to reach his goal. It was several minutes before he even heard the voice that was bellowing in his ear.

“Joe! Stop it! Settle down, boy.” Roy Coffee bawled frantically. “This isn’t doing anyone any good, son. Stop it, now!”

Joe abruptly stopped his struggles to free himself, suddenly aware that the object of his anger was nowhere to be seen. He was trapped in the arms of several of the townsmen, while Roy Coffee stood directly in front of him, his face apoplectic with fury. “Where did he go?” Joe asked. “Where’s that bastard, Myers?”

“I sent him out of town,” Roy replied quickly. “Now, do I have your word that you’ll calm down, Little Joe. I ain’t gonna have these fellas let you go until you do.”

Joe nodded reluctantly, and watched as Roy signaled the men holding his arms to let him go. A sudden thought surged foremost in his mind, and he grabbed Roy’s sleeve in frantic fingers. “Peggy Hardesty? Is she all right?”

Roy’s face was wary, and his expression remained grim. “They took her on down to the Doc’s office. I been too busy dealin’ with you to find out what’s goin’ on. Let’s walk on down there together, and we’ll get your arm checked while we’re there.”

Joe had begun to shake in reaction to the shock of the day’s events. The street swam in a hazy mist in front of his eyes, as he felt Roy grab his good arm and begin leading him down the street. They hadn’t gone too far when dark spots appeared in front of Joe’s eyes. They grew larger and enveloped his vision. He let the darkness take him, and crumpled into a heap at Roy’s feet.

**~**~**~**~**~**~**

The clock ticked loudly, and Joe buried his aching head in his hands once more. He had been alternating between huddling in a chair watching the hands of the big clock move with agonizing slowness, and pacing like a caged animal in the narrow confines of the doctor’s second examination room. It seemed like days since Roy had left him on his own in the little room to wait for Paul to finish with Peggy. Joe felt the acrid taste of bile at the back of his throat, as once again, his stomach rebelled against the ongoing tension that consumed him. 

He pulled himself shakily to his feet and hastily doused his head with a splash of cool water from a basin set on the small bedside table. Sickening images of Peggy Hardesty lying in a pool of her own blood flashed before his eyes, and he moaned softly. He was sure that the little girl was dying, if she wasn’t already dead. The fact that it was his bullet that the doctor was even now trying to pull from her small body was an idea so horrific that Joe had to struggle to make sense of it.

Joe dragged a trembling hand across his forehead, wiping away the moisture that clung to his skin. Already he could feel the flush of fever spreading over his body. His eyes burned in his head, and he blinked furiously. His vision remained clouded with a mixture of sweat and tears.

“No sign of the doc yet?” 

Joe jumped, startled by the sound of Roy Coffee entering the room. “What?” he gasped. When he saw who it was, he slumped against the examination table. “Sorry, Roy, you startled me. How’s Peggy?”

Roy sighed. “The doc’s still with her. He won’t let me in to see her, but it sure is takin’ a long time.” He leaned companionably against the table, next to Joe, intentionally letting his shoulder brush against the green jacket. “How’re you feelin’, Little Joe? You don’t look so good to me. Why don’t you lay down here, and I’ll keep an eye out for the doc?”

Joe shook his head grimly. “I’m fine. I’m not lying down until I hear something about Peggy.” He expelled a heavy breath and let his head droop, his wounded arm clutched tightly to his chest. “What happens if she dies?” 

Roy turned his head in surprise. “It was an accident, wasn’t it Little Joe? You didn’t aim to shoot Peggy, did ya?”

Joe glared at the older man. “Of course not! She ran into the street, but it was my bullet that hit her, and no one else’s. I’m responsible for what happened to her.”

With a muffled sigh, Roy heaved his weary body off the table, and reached to pat Joe gently on the shoulder. “It was an accident, Joe. Ya can’t change what happened. All ya can do is hope that Peggy gets better soon.” 

He walked slowly to the door, but he paused before leaving. With a frown creasing his craggy face, he said softly. “Why don’t you lie down on that table until the doc gets in here? You’ve got a fever, and your Pa would tear the hide off me if I let anything happen to you. I’ve sent someone out to the ranch to fetch him, so he should be here shortly. It’ll be all right, Little Joe.”

Joe stared blankly at the wall, the sheriff’s presence already forgotten. Roy closed the door behind him, a gusty sigh trailing in his wake. He had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

The sharp click of the door jerked Joe back to awareness. He glanced up quickly, only to realize that he was once again alone in the room. The green eyes tracked vacantly around the room, coming to rest on the pearl-handled pistol that peeked from the coiled leather of its holster. Joe made a sharp sound of revulsion when he thought of what that gun had done to Peggy Hardesty. He advanced across the room, his eyes locked on the silent weapon, until he stood in front of the table where it rested.

He reached out a tentative hand and touched the gleaming metal. The gun was cool to the touch, and Joe let his fingers trail down the well-oiled surface. He had so many memories of this gun. It had been a gift from his father when the older Cartwright had finally decided that Joe was of an age to carry a gun. Joe remembered the excitement of feeling like a man with the weight of the gun nestling against his left hip. He allowed his thoughts to focus on all the hours of practice with the weapon, his face reflecting the disgust that he now felt. He jerked his fingers back from the gun, suddenly repulsed by the feel of the cold metal.

He spun around, in an effort to shut out the sight of the gun that had become abhorrent to him. But still he could feel it. The gun’s presence shouted at him, even though he could no longer see it. He felt the deadly potential of the weapon reaching out to him, calling to him to pick it up and put it on his hip again. With a sharp cry, Joe wrenched open the door and left the room. He quickly crossed the waiting room and was running out into the night before he understood what was happening. Behind him the room was silent, the gun on the table the only sign that Joe Cartwright had ever been present.

**~**~**~**~**~**~**

The big buckskin horse pounded through the rapidly gathering darkness. Dusk had given way to night, and Ben Cartwright was heading toward Virginia City and his youngest son as fast as his horse could carry him safely. His thoughts were in turmoil and he battled with the rage that threatened to overtake all the other emotions that were coursing through him. Little Joe had done it again. Ben wondered when his youngest was ever going to stop getting himself into these messes. His impulsive actions had led him into trouble so many times that the weary father had long since stopped counting. 

As the lights of Virginia City appeared in the distance, Ben pulled the horse in a little. He needed the time to fix a calm expression on his face. With Joe wounded, the last thing he wanted to do was go in yelling. Time enough for that later, when the boy had healed some. Taking a deep breath, Ben approached Paul Martin's surgery and hitched Buck’s reins to the rail. Opening the door, he headed into the waiting area, only to stop short when he realized it was empty.

A quick glance around gave him no clue as to his son’s whereabouts, but the soft murmur of voices from the first examination room led him in that direction. Softly pushing open the door, Ben glanced in and just as quickly pulled back again. Paul was laboring over a still form in the bed, but the body was too small to be Joe’s. Heaps of bloody rags lay on the floor, and the presence of a teary-eyed, blank-faced Mary Hardesty was all the evidence Ben needed to know that he wasn’t welcome in this room. 

He backed into the waiting room and spun around slowly. He saw the door to the second examination room was ajar, and he headed for that. With a soft knock on the doorframe, he pushed the wooden panel open and stepped confidently into the room. Again, he pulled up short, when he realized that this room was also empty. A flash of fear stabbed through him and he wondered where Joe was. His eyes swept the room frantically, and immediately they fastened on the bundle that lay silently on the small bedside table.

He crossed the room in two swift strides and bent to pick up the gunbelt, obviously made for a left-hander. The pearl-handled pistol was all-too familiar, and gave evidence that Joe had been here. But where was he now? Ben glanced around the room, his eye drawn to the bed that was still made up, but rumpled a little as though someone had leaned on one edge. He moved closer and drew in a quick breath when he saw a couple of rusty stains that winked up at him from the white sheet. He touched one with the tip of a finger, and his eyes grew wide when he realized it was still damp.

Wiping his hand on his pants, he headed for the door. Paul Martin couldn’t be disturbed now, but Roy Coffee would know where Joe was. Absently, he slung Joe’s gunbelt over his shoulder as he walked. The sense of foreboding grew deeper as he struggled to piece together the information he had been given in the hasty message from the sheriff and the things he had seen at the doctor’s office. Joe was in over his head, as usual. Now all Ben needed to do was find him.

**~**~**~**~**~**~**

“Where is he?” Ben’s usually mellow voice was a little strident as he barged into the sheriff’s office. “Have you got him back in one of the cells, or is he over at the hotel?”

Roy looked up from a stack of paperwork, his shocked expression telling its own story. “What are you talking about, Ben? Little Joe? I left him over at the Doc’s office. I figgered you’d head there first.”

Ben’s face clouded with concern and he tossed Joe’s gunbelt onto Roy’s desk. “He was there, because I found this. But he’s not there now, so where is he? Your message said that there’d been a gunfight and that Joe was wounded. Has Paul seen him yet? And if he hasn’t, where would Joe go? And why would he leave his gun behind?”

Roy stood hastily, and he trailed a finger over the soft leather of the belt. “Joe wouldn’t go no place without his gun, that’s for sure. But he’s sure not here, Ben. I think you should check over at the hotel, and I’ll go back to the saloon. Mebbe he got tired of waitin’ on the doc, and he went back to check on Daisy. You know how Little Joe is.” 

Roy added the last statement in a matter of fact tone. They all knew how Little Joe was; it would be just like him to put Daisy’s welfare above his own, especially if the doc had been too busy to tend to him yet. He put a companionable arm around Ben’s tense shoulder. “We’ll find him at one of those two places, you’ll see. Then we’ll drag him back to the doc’s to get that arm looked at. It was hurtin’ him some, and he was startin’ a fever, but I think he’ll be fine in no time. It’s little Peggy Hardesty I’m worried about right now.”

Ben shot a sharp glance at the stocky sheriff. “What happened here today, Roy? What would cause Little Joe to take off like this?”

Roy’s shrug was almost hidden by the darkness as the two men headed out of the office and onto the dark streets of the town. “I’ll tell you about it after we find Joe. That’s what you need to be worryin’ about now, not what happened earlier. We got time enough to worry about that.” He clapped Ben on the shoulder, and pushed him gently in the direction of the hotel. “Go find your son, Ben.”

With a last look at the sheriff’s bland mask, Ben turned on his heel and headed for the hotel. Roy hadn’t set his mind at ease, if anything he’d added to the packload of worries that had settled on his back. Yes, finding Little Joe had suddenly become imperative.

**~**~**~**~**~**~**

Tired. He was so tired. He felt the tug of the dried blood on his skin, and he swayed in the saddle from exhaustion. His arm throbbed unmercifully and his head pounded in rhythm with the beat of his heart. But still he rode without ceasing. He didn’t care where he was going. In fact, his horse was picking the path more often than not. But he felt the need to continue. 

He still felt the urgent need to put as much distance between himself and his gun as he could. An uncontrolled trembling started again when he thought of the damage that his bullet had done to Peggy Hardesty. The thought of that gleaming gun that had been such a source of pride just a few hours earlier, now made him feel sick to his stomach. I’ll never touch a gun again! The thought echoed in his aching head, over and over again. And still he rode on.

The first faint glimmers of the false dawn were making their way across the horizon when he could go no further. With an incoherent moan, he felt himself slipping from the saddle. He grasped at the leather of the pinto’s lead rein as he fell, but it slipped through his nerveless fingers and did nothing to halt his descent to the ground. He felt the rough grit of the rocky ground as it gouged his cheek, but he couldn’t summon the energy to lift his head.

Joe remained so still for so long that the horse grew restless. Trained to a ground tie from an early age, the horse wouldn’t move far, but the call of the sweet grass at the edge of the trail proved to be too great a lure to resist. The animal moved away, cropping at the grass, he, too, close to exhaustion. 

The movement of the horse penetrated through Joe’s foggy brain, and he struggled to roll himself over onto his back. The shift in his position sent renewed agony through his wounded shoulder and his aching head. He could tell the wound had broken open again by the soft trickle of warm stickiness that trailed down his skin under his shirt. 

In his new position, Joe could see that the sky had lightened considerably, but he had no idea where he was. His headlong flight had taken him many miles from home, and while he knew every inch of the surrounding area like the back of his hand, he was too numb with fatigue to take in his surroundings. His vision swam and blurred, dark streaks interspersed with lightning sharp flashes caused him to blink. When he made the mistake of trying to shake his head to clear his eyes, it was too much, and the darkness reached out to claim him. Joe’s last thought as he tumbled helplessly toward oblivion was of his father. Ben Cartwright was going to be fit to be tied with his youngest son’s latest escapade.

**~**~**~**~**~**~**

Jolting movement reawakened the throbbing pain in Joe’s arm, and his stomach finally lost its battle to retain its contents. He retched until what little remained from yesterday’s breakfast was expelled. Once the dry heaves subsided, Joe took stock of his surroundings with a bleary eye. He was lying on his back, but for some reason the wooden surface he was resting on appeared to be moving. The soft tinkle of harness bells mingled with a constant soft tuneless humming, and he wondered what was causing the noise. Struggling to pull himself upright, Joe looked around frantically for Cochise. The only sight that met his eyes was a vision of stained and dirty canvas that swayed listlessly with the lurching movement of the wagon it covered. From the collection of boxes, barrels, odds and ends, and a seemingly endless supply of junk, Joe surmised that he was in a tinker’s wagon. He looked down at the pile of rags he had been laying on, now stained with blood and vomit, and his stomach lurched again. 

With hesitation, he crawled toward the ray of light that peeked in through a slit in the canvas at the rear of the wagon. After an agonizing passage over the assorted trash, he was rewarded for his efforts by an ever-widening gap in the canvas. He tugged harder and was able to see the welcome sight of Cochise trailing placidly behind the wagon. The horse whinnied softly and nosed at the opening when he spotted the grimy face peering out at him. Joe couldn’t help chuckling as the soft nose nuzzled his neck. 

The wagon stopped moving abruptly, and Joe was thrown off balance. He fell backward, his injured shoulder striking the edge of one of the innumerable crates. He couldn’t help the cry of pain that left his lips, and he grabbed at his arm in an effort to quench the fierce throbbing. 

Through a mist of pain, he was vaguely aware of the lurch and sway of the wagon as the driver left the seat. He heard the tuneless humming grow louder and a pair of booted feet crunched through the rocky roadbed. The footsteps stopped, and Joe raised his head. The light streaming through the gap in the canvas was gone, replaced by a nebulous blob that blocked the sun. The glare from the little light that made it past the tinker’s head kept Joe from making out the person’s features, and he instinctively struggled to sit up, not wanting to be caught lying down in the face of a potential threat. His hand moved toward his hip in an unconscious gesture, but stopped when he remembered that the familiar weight of his gun was gone. He held his head up as high as he could.

“Who are you?” he gasped out, hating that he sounded as weak as he did. “I owe you my thanks for picking me up off the road last night.”

The voice was velvety, deep with a hint of huskiness. “No problem. Ya looked like ya was in a heap o’ trouble, so’s I picked ya up. From the sounds o’ it, yer needin’ some tendin’. Whyn’t ya lay back down and I’ll git ya some cool water.”

The head was removed from the opening in the canvas, with the result that a shaft of sunlight struck Joe full in the eyes. He was dazzled by the brightness and closed his eyes against the glare. He heard the tinker shuffling back, along with the welcome sloshing of a canteen that accompanied the footsteps this time. As he propped himself more comfortably against the crates, he tried to shield his eyes for a better look at his rescuer.

“Here ya’ go, drink slow, now. Ya don’ wanna git sick agin.” The canteen was thrust into his hands along with the mellow-voiced advice. 

Joe drank eagerly, savoring the sweet taste of the slightly tepid water as it washed away the sticky residue of the vomiting and the grit from the road dust. He sighed in relief and resisted slightly when he felt the tinker tugging on the canteen.

“Enough, son; ye’ll be sick, I’m a’warnin’ ya.” The tinker chuckled throatily, and Joe couldn’t help but grin in response.

“I’ve heard those words before, but I never can stop myself from drinking too much,” he said mildly. “Thanks again.”

A husky laugh emerged from the dark shape that peeked in the canvas. “Yer soundin’ better all ready. Kin ya last fer a spell longer, or do ya need ta stop here? It’s still a ways ta my place, and I was aimin’ ta head there before I took a look at yer arm.”

Joe moved his arm experimentally, gasping at the sudden surge of pain that the smallest of movements engendered. “I’ll be fine,” he ground out from between his gritted teeth. “Don’t stop on my account.”

The head tilted a little in speculation. “Lie back down then, or ye’ll get banged up sump’n fierce. Try to sleep, it’ll be better fer ya, then tryin’ ta sit up there.”

Joe nodded slowly; he knew the tinker was right. He eyed the trek back through the debris dubiously, though. He didn’t know if he could face the crawl back with his entire body feeling like it had been caught in a stampede.

As if reading his mind, the dusky voice sounded again. “Need some help,” the tinker asked sympathetically.

Joe tried to gauge the stranger. It was obvious that the tinker meant no harm. He’d scooped up a total stranger and taken him under his wing. And he knew that he wasn’t feeling up to the crawl through the debris. Letting his guard drop completely, he answered the query with a simple nod.

Without further ado, the tinker hoisted a large soft body up onto the wagon’s edge. A pair of strong arms caught him up and deposited him in the back of the wagon as if he didn’t weigh any more than a child. A ragged blanket was drawn up over his shoulders and Joe let himself settle in as well as he could. With a soft sigh that was almost a moan, he shut his eyes. 

He heard the tinker moving back out of the wagon and summoned up one last surge of energy. “Thank you,” he tried to call, although it came out more as a whisper. He couldn’t tell if the tinker heard, and suddenly it didn’t seem to matter too much. He surrendered to the pull of sleep.

**~**~**~**~**~**~**

A pair of shiny bright eyes peered down at him, and Joe jerked reflexively. He pulled himself out of the grogginess of sleep through sheer willpower and gazed back at the owner of the eyes. He smiled involuntarily at the small boy who stood looking at him. The child had curly black hair and skin the color of coffee. “Hi,” Joe said quietly. “Who are you?”

“Jared,” the child answered sturdily. He rocked back on his heels and tucked a chubby pair of thumbs into his overall straps, never taking his eyes off the man in the bed. “You sick?”

Joe tested his shoulder and felt the renewed stab of pain. He could feel the binding of bandages and knew that someone had doctored him while he slept. His muscles shrieked in protest as he stirred. Mostly just sore from the long ride and the reaction to his injury, he decided. He felt flushed and warm, all-too familiar signs of a fever, but it didn’t seem too bad. All in all he’d been worse before.

“I’ll be okay,” he reassured the boy. “Where’d you come from?” He struggled to pull himself to a sitting position and looked around him with curious eyes. 

He was lying on a rickety cot in a ramshackle shack. Small, but cluttered, with an assortment of odds and ends piled haphazardly everywhere he could see. The fabric of the quilt that covered him was clean but threadbare, attesting to the general state of the room. It was apparent that there wasn’t much money to be spent on material things in this house.

The child’s voice startled him out of his reverie. Jared’s answer betrayed his disgust with adults who asked foolish questions. “I live here, silly. With my Pa. He brung ya here, t’other night. Ya been sleepin’ a long times.”

Joe grinned. “Sorry about that. I hope I haven’t taken your bed away from you.” 

Jared grinned back, and Joe recognized a kindred spirit. “Yep, ya did, but ah don’ mind. Pa says that ya needs it more’n me.” 

Just then the child clapped his hand to his head in a comical display of despair. “I’s almost forgot. Pa says ta give ya sump’n ta eat. Ya hungry?” 

The chubby body radiated an eagerness to please that made Joe forget the aches that plagued him. He shook his head. “No, I’m thirsty, more than anything. You wouldn’t happen to have some water, would you?”

Happy to have a job to do, the boy hustled away. He soon returned lugging a heavy bucket with both hands. Joe could hear the water sloshing with every step, and he saw that the boy was leaving a wet trail behind him. It would be a miracle if there were anything left in the bucket when the child reached the bed, he thought ruefully.

After an arduous trek across the tiny cabin, the boy carefully placed his prize on the floor next to the bed. He plopped a dipper into the bucket and proffered it to Joe with an expectant look on his face. “Here ya’ go. I fetched it from the well, so’s it’d be nice ‘n cold.”

Joe reached eagerly for the dipper and sighed with relief as the cool liquid soothed his dry throat. He drank deeply before he held the dipper back out to the boy. “Thanks, partner. That hit the spot. I already feel much better. I don’t suppose you’ve got a rag around here somewhere, so I could do a little washing up?”

The boy accepted the dipper and his face lit up. “I shore do. I’s s’posed to take keer a ya till Pa gits back. You’ll tell him I done a good job, won’cha, Mister?”

Joe nodded solemnly. “Son, if you find me a rag, I’ll be happy to tell your Pa what a good job you’ve done today.” He awkwardly reached out with his left hand, because his right was resting in a sling. “Want to shake on it?”

Jared’s dark eyes gleamed like ebony as a brilliant grin streaked across his face. He proudly held out his hand. “It’s a deal, Mister.” He turned to leave on his errand, but then stopped and turned back to the man in the bed. “Say, what’s yer name anyways?”

Joe’s green eyes twinkled. “It’s Joe. So can I get that rag now?” 

Jared nodded, his head bobbing up and down vigorously as he did so. “Sure ‘nough, Mister Joe. I’se be but a minute.” He turned on his heel and scampered away quickly.

Joe could hear the sounds of the boy digging through something on the far side of the cabin, but he was hidden by a tall stack of boxes. He felt himself relaxing against the bedframe, feeling calmer now than at any time since the shooting. A sudden thought of Peggy Hardesty crossed his mind, and Joe blanched. He drew a shaky hand across his forehead, feeling the trace of sweat that had sprung up. The little girl might be dead now. From the looks of Jared, he was about the same age as Peggy, although the man-child was completely different in every way possible from the little girl. Joe welcomed the distraction as Jared returned triumphantly brandishing a large square of white cloth.

“I jist knew Pa would hev sump’n to use for washin’,” he exclaimed excitedly. “Here ya go, Mister Joe.”

Joe gratefully accepted the cloth and dipped it into the bucket of water. He wiped the soft fabric across his hot forehead and sighed as the coolness brought him a little relief. “You can just call me Joe,” he remarked with his eyes shut, as he continued to bathe his heated face.

Jared sucked in a breath, and Joe opened his eyes to see a look of something like hero worship in the boy’s eyes. “Ya mean it? I kin call ya Joe?”

Joe winced. “Don’t look at me like that, kid,” he mumbled. He saw the hurt that streaked across the child’s face, and said hastily, “Of course I mean it. I’d like it if you’d call me Joe. We’re friends, aren’t we?” He was rewarded by a smile like sunshine on Lake Tahoe and couldn’t help but smile back.

“Sure, Joe. We’re friends,” Jared said happily. He jumped up onto the bed beside Joe, jarring the injured shoulder in the process. 

Joe winced as the movement sent a jolt of pain through his arm from his fingertips to his shoulder. Jared stared at him, a sudden hint of tears in his eyes. “I’s sorry,” the boy said quickly, and he moved to get back off the bed. 

He was halted by the hand that Joe placed on his shoulder. “It’s okay, stay,” he said quietly. “Just move a little more slowly, okay?” He patted the bed next to him. “Tell me about you and your Pa. Where is he anyway?"

Jared settled in, his happiness easily restored. He prattled on at great length, telling Joe about his father who traveled around ‘fixin' and mendin’. He didn’t specify what the man ‘traded’, but Joe took another glance around the room heaped with boxes, barrels and crates, all bulging with goods of one type or another, and was able to make a good guess at what the man was bartering. Apparently Jared’s Pa was gone for days on end, leaving the seven year old to tend the few critters that lived in a ramshackle barn next to the house. The boy’s Pa had a neighbor stop to check on things from time to time; the only visitor the boy had. The child must have seen the indignation building in his new friend as Joe grew angry at the thought of the little boy living on his own for such a long time. The story trailed off and the boy’s eyes grew huge in his face. 

“I guess thass all, Mister…I mean Joe. We ain’t got much goin’ on round here. Don’ get many strangers t’all,” Jared said quietly. “Ya mad at me, Joe?”

 

Joe shook his head quickly, but then regretted it, when he felt a sudden surge of dizziness sweep through him. He made a mental note to remember not to move suddenly before he managed to answer his new friend. “Of course, I’m not mad at you, Jared. But don’t you get scared being out here all by yourself for so much of the time?”

Jared smiled serenely. “Course not. I’s most a man, cain’t ya see? ‘Sides, if I didn’ take keer o’ the critters, they’d die. Then where’d we be? No milk, ner eggs neither. Pa d’pends ‘n me.” He puffed up his chest proudly. 

Joe had to laugh at the boy’s air of manliness. The child reminded him so much of himself at that age that it was eerie. The difference was that Jared didn’t have two older brothers to smother him with doting affection and more rules than a boy could shake a stick at. But he also didn’t have the security of two extra fathers to take care of him when his Pa was away, and for that, Joe was sorry. He leaned back against the headboard, his eyes drifting shut. He felt the small body curl up next to him. Together the two “men” fell asleep on the bed.

**~**~**~**~**~**~**

“No word from anyone?” Adam’s voice was soft, and his eyes darted quickly to his father’s desk where Ben was sitting. “Did anyone even answer the telegrams we sent?”

Hoss deliberately steered Adam toward the door. “I got answers, all right. They just ain’t good ones,” he said in frustration. “Ain’t no one seen Joe in any town within a hundred miles of here. If he was shot in the arm, like the doc says he was, then he couldn’a ridden too far. I just don’ understand this.” He slammed his fist on the doorframe.

“I know you’re here, you might as well stop whispering in corners and come give me the news.” Ben’s voice wasn’t loud, but it made itself heard in every corner of the room.

Hoss and Adam exchanged glances of trepidation, but they both walked obediently toward their father’s desk. “Hey, Pa,” Hoss called out, struggling to interject a jovial note into his voice.

“Any news?” Ben’s face was haggard, his eyes bleak with exhaustion and worry. “Did anyone answer the telegrams?”

Hoss handed him a sheaf of papers. “We got answers, Pa, just not good ones. Ain’t no one seen Joe since he left here.”

Ben sighed heavily, and he listlessly ruffled through the telegrams. “What’s the word from Paul?” he asked quietly.

Hoss lowered his eyes. “Peggy’s still not awake yet, and the doc says if she stays that way much longer, he cain’t hold out much hope.”

“I’ll ride out again in the morning. Don’t worry, Pa. He can’t have just ridden off the face of the earth. Someone’s got to have seen him.” Adam worked to sound calm and reassuring, but his effort was a failure.

Ben shook his head. “Where will you look, Adam? We don’t even know what direction he took when he left town. We’ve had men asking questions in every town within riding distance, and we’ve wired all the ones that were farther away. You and Hoss have spent every day this week in the saddle, but there’s just no place else to search.” His shoulders slumped and he put a hand against the desk as if to brace himself. “I think it’s time we admitted that Joe might be gone for good.”

“Pa!” Hoss’ voice was appalled. “Don’t say that. Joe’s gotta be around somewhere. We just ain’t looked in the right place yet.”

Adam shook his head, stubbornly. “I’ll find him. I’ll be riding out at first light. Don’t worry if I’m not back for a couple of days, Pa. I’m not calling off the search just yet.” He turned to his brother. “Come on, Hoss. Hop Sing’s got some sandwiches and coffee in the kitchen. We’ll eat light tonight.”

Hoss nodded, his gratitude for Adam’s words shining in his eyes. He clapped a companionable arm around Adam’s shoulders, and the two men headed for the kitchen.

Ben sat at his desk, staring at the stack of useless telegrams in his hands. In spite of his words, he felt reassured that his sons hadn’t given up hope. If anyone could find Joe, it would be Adam and Hoss. He rubbed a tired hand over his face and allowed himself the luxury of a moment of quiet despair. Then, with a decisive push of his chair, he rose and headed for the kitchen, as well. If his boys hadn’t given up, neither would he.

**~**~**~**~**~**~**

“Ya don’ need ta do that, Joe.” The velvety voice made Joe jump and he almost dropped the pail of water he was lugging back to the shack. He looked up to see the tinker making his way toward him, a worried expression dominating the man’s face.

“Sure I do. You and Jared have taken good care of me the past couple of weeks and now it’s my turn to do something for you.” Joe continued his trek to the shack and the tinker fell alongside him, matching the slow pace, step for step.

“Least’ways lemme take the bucket,” the older man insisted, reaching out a strong arm to take it away from Joe. “Yor arm ain’t near ready ta be haulin’ a load like ‘is.” He wrested the bucket away from Joe after a good-natured tussle, and Joe smiled ruefully.

“Come on, Hiram. You’ve got to let me do something for you. My arm’s fine. I’ve been lying around long enough. I know there’s a lot of things that need mending, and I figure I’m the man for the job.” Joe thumped his chest playfully. “See, hale and hearty, that’s me.”

The tinker chuckled, the deep sound reverberating deep in his belly, making Joe grin in response. “Wal now, if’n yer really of a mind ta help, ya could hunt up some game fer supper. That’d not be too hard on that arm.”

Joe’s step faltered and his face grew pale. A sudden vision of a small girl lying huddled in the street while blood soaked into her blond curls sent a shiver up his spine. “Hunt up some game?” he repeated. “I . . . I don’t think I can do that. I’m sorry.” He turned his face away from the dark eyes that now looked at him in amazement. “How about I chop up a load of kindling for the stove while you go get the supper?” He asked quickly, forcing his voice to a normal register.

Hiram stopped walking and peered at Joe intently. “Ya don’ hunt?” he asked simply. “Got sump’n gainst it?” He pointed at Joe’s hips. “O’course I noticed right off that ya didn’ hev no gun, but I figgered ya lost it to whoever winged ya.”

Joe swallowed and ducked his head. “I did. I lost my gun to the fellow who did this. And I don’t want it back either.” He began to walk quickly toward the shack, Hiram hurrying at his heels.

“I kin lend ya m’gun, if’n thass all it is, son,” Hiram said helpfully, the water sloshing on his heels as he tried to keep pace with Joe. “Why don’ ya go ahead and give ‘er a try. She’s a right nice ‘un, if’n ah do say so meself.”

They had reached the shack, and Joe stood irresolutely at the doorway. “I said I didn’t want to hunt, and I don’t want to borrow your gun,” he flashed irritably. Turning on his heel, he pushed into the shack, heading straight to the little cot. He sank down on it and buried his head in his hands.

He could feel his body trembling, and he flushed miserably at the spectacle he was making of himself. But the thought of handling a gun terrified him. “I can’t hurt anyone else, I just can’t,” he thought over and over again, and the memory of the shooting played itself out in his mind. “I’ve already killed one little girl because of my stupid fascination with guns. I won’t take the chance on someone else getting hurt because of me.”

Finally getting his breathing under control, Joe lifted his head. He jumped a little when he found the tinker sitting quietly in a chair, companionably smoking a pipe and waiting until the younger man had himself under control. Joe felt the heat rising on his face, and he looked down at the floor, unable to meet Hiram’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he forced out. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“S’okay,” the other man returned. His quiet voice was laced with compassion. “Ya got some family I needs ta be gettin’ in touch with, Joe? Yer arm’s bout healed, and I figger someone’s worryin’. I know I’d be outta ma head if’n Jared just up’n disappeared.”

Joe flushed, the heat sweeping up from his collar to engulf his face in flame. “I can’t go back there!” he snapped. His voice faltered a bit as he thought of the people he’d left behind. “M…my Pa will be looking for me, but he’s got to know I can’t go home again. He’s got to understand that I had to leave.”

“Why?” Hiram took a puff on his pipe and the soft scent of the tobacco filled the room.

Joe felt a floodtide of memories stir and threaten to overwhelm him. Pipe tobacco reminded him so strongly of his father, and the thought that he might not ever see the man again brought a hint of moisture to his eye. He took a deep shuddering breath and dropped his head, so that Hiram couldn’t see his face. “I killed a little girl,” he said softly. “It was an accident. I was in a gunfight with someone, and she ran across the street. But all I can think of is her mother’s face. She was screaming at me…” Joe allowed his voice to trail off, and he clenched his hands to control the trembling that shook them.

Bringing his head up suddenly, Joe met Hiram’s deep brown eyes. “Can’t you understand? I can’t go back and face those people ever again. I killed a little girl. I was so proud of that gun, always showing off and bragging about how good I was. And what did it get me? It’s ruined my life. I’ll never touch another gun as long as I live, but that still won’t bring Peggy back,”

Still the other man sat in silence, his craggy faced lit up with a compassion that Joe had seen in his own father’s eyes. Puffing on his pipe, he let the silence grow until Joe wanted to scream. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, Joe let the words burst out. “So you want me to leave now? Now that you know what kind of man I am?”

Hiram smiled softly. “I ain’t askin’ ya ta leave, Joe. I’se saw how ya is with Jared. Yer not the man ya seem ta think y’are. Looks ta me like ya got a bit more healin’ t’do. Yer welcome here as long as ya want ta stay.” He rose to his feet. “I’m gonna go rustle up some game fer supper. Ya wanna fill the woodbox?”

The older man headed to the door without a backward glance, taking Joe’s silence for assent. Joe sat gazing at nothing, his thoughts turned inward. The thought of touching a gun still left him feeling sick and shaky. Resolutely forcing his mind to calmness, he stood. Grabbing the axe that stood by the door, he headed for the woodpile. Soon the only sound that could be heard was a rhythmic thudding that filled the air.

**~**~**~**~**~**~**

The heavily laden wagon rumbled forward slowly. This time Joe sat on the seat next to Hiram, with Jared carefully wedged in between the two men. As the ramshackle dwellings of a small town appeared around them, Joe took a deep breath. He hadn’t been near anyone but the tinker and his small son since the shooting of Peggy Hardesty. He wasn’t sure he was ready to face the rest of the world yet, but Jared had begged his new friend to “come’n see my town.” Joe didn’t have the heart to refuse the excited plea from the small boy.

Even now the child was chattering away, excitedly pointing out items of interest to the silent man on the seat beside him. Joe felt the small hand tug on the sleeve of his jacket and heard the boy exclaim, “There ‘tis, Joe. See it? Thass where Pa’s gonna trade us up some stuff, ‘n he’s gonna git some real nice things fer th’ house.” He pointed in another direction. “An over there, thass where Mr. Tom’s got some right nice horses. He lets me pet ‘em when I’s in town.” 

Joe let the words wash over him, and he scanned the street for familiar faces. He was hoping that he didn’t know anyone in this little town. He didn’t want to run the risk of his father finding out where he was just yet. He rubbed absently at his still-tender shoulder, and resolutely pushed the thoughts of his family to the back of his mind.

The town was small. The wagon was moving at a leisurely pace up the center of the single street. A line of wooden buildings on either side of the street was the extent of the little pocket of civilization. Hand-lettered signs indicated that the town boasted a saloon, a general store and a sheriff’s office. The livery stable that housed the ‘real nice horses’ graced the end of one of the rows, while the simple cross marked the presence of a church at the other end. The rest of the buildings were a motley assortment of dwellings in various states of disrepair. While some showed that the inhabitants still cared enough to try, the others were clearly being allowed to decay until they were swallowed up by the dust that eddied in small swirls everywhere. 

They finally reached the general store, and Hiram jumped down to hitch the team to a rail that swayed drunkenly on its support posts. “I’se got some bizness wit ol’ Sam Jenkins here, Joe,” he said. “You wants ta come in wit me, or take a walk wit Jared?”

Joe couldn’t help but notice the excitement on the boy’s face, and put a hand on the little shoulder. “I’ll take a little walk with my friend here, if you don’t mind,” he replied with a chuckle. “I think he wants to show me his horses.”

Jared beamed, a sunny smile spreading across his face. He grabbed Joe’s hand and tugged. “C’mon, Joe. I’se tol Mr. Tom all bout you. C’mon.”

With a nod to the older man, Joe walked slowly down the street with the small boy tugging his hand the whole way. He could feel the curious stares from the town’s few inhabitants, and knew that he was the topic of conversation on most of the lips that were carefully concealed from him as their owners shared quiet words. He guessed that strangers didn’t come to the little village too often. He squinted at the line of horses hitched in front of the saloon. Obviously it was the one establishment in town that was doing a booming business.

He spent a pleasurable fifteen minutes discussing horses with Jared and his friend Tom, a swarthy man who stood at a whopping six feet five inches. His bulk would have made Hoss look small, and Joe felt a sudden pang of homesickness at the thought of his older brother. His thoughts turned to Peggy Hardesty and the homesickness was washed away by a rush of sick remorse. He could never go back to Virginia City again, and he might as well get used to it.

He turned abruptly, stopping Tom mid-word. “I think it’s time we headed back,” he muttered. “We told your Pa we’d meet him by the wagon.”

Jared looked hurt for a moment, but then the child’s natural ebullience reasserted itself. He once again grabbed Joe’s hand and they headed back toward the wagon. “Wern’ them the best horses ya ever seen, Joe?” he asked, his face a study in pride and wonder. “Mr. Tom’s got the nicest horses in the whole town.”

“Sure, they were great,” Joe replied distractedly. His thoughts were centered on another herd of horses, most of which he had broken himself. He was only vaguely aware that the child’s chatter continued.

They were almost on top of the wagon, when Joe realized that Hiram had indeed returned to the conveyance, but that he wasn’t alone. A small group of men clustered in a loose semi-circle around the tinker, and their stance indicated that they weren’t feeling friendly. The angry voices carried in the still air, and instinctively, Joe pushed the child behind him as they stopped just outside the circle. 

“Come on, man. Tell us what you did with them,” shouted one of the men. He was dressed in shabby trail clothes that were caked with layers of dust. His eyes were bleak with anger, and he towered menacingly over Hiram.

“I don’ have nothin’ that don’ belong ta me,” Hiram asserted. His eyes were wide and sweat gathered on his forehead. “I tol’ ya already. Search m’wagon if’n ya don’ b’lieve me.”

The group shuffled forward, but a cold voice stopped them. “He doesn’t have anything of yours in his wagon. You don’t need to search it.” Joe stepped forward as all of the heads turned toward him.

“This ain’t none of your business, Mister,” shouted one of the men. “Keep on walking, this don’t concern you.”

Joe stood his ground, his gaze level, but his eyes burned with anger. “It does concern me, and I’ve just told you that you aren’t going to search this wagon.”

“S’alright, Joe, let ‘em search. They won’ find what theys after,” Hiram said. His eye darted behind Joe to where Jared stood, his face reflecting his uncertainty. “Once theys looked, they’ll leave an' it’ll be ovuh.”

Joe put his hands on his hips, his face set in a grim mask. “I don’t like people who threaten my friends,” he said quietly. “Whatever it is you’re after, it’s not in this wagon. Go on over to the saloon and have a drink and leave this man alone.”

The men muttered and shifted. “What right d’you have to be telling us what to do, sonny?” demanded the spokesman, advancing forward. He planted himself in front of Joe, and he glared down at the smaller man. “It’s obvious that this man ain’t no kin of yours. So leave us be. He’s got our saddlebags in his wagon, and we aim to get ‘em back.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Joe replied. “I said to back off.” He stood his ground, refusing to be intimidated by the man’s size.

“Joe, watch out!” Jared’s shrill voice rang through the air, and Joe turned in time to see one of the men heading toward him, a stout stick in his hands.

A sudden flash of rage swept through him, and without thinking, Joe dove into the man before he could raise the cudgel into the air. He drove the man’s body into the dirt, and felt a satisfying gush of air leave the attacker’s body in a rush. The man’s grunt of pain, and the stick flying from his suddenly limp hand encouraged Joe to crush his fist into the man’s chin. One down.

From the sounds behind him, he could tell that Hiram had entered the fray. Joe was on his feet, in a flash, fists flying, an unholy gleam in his eyes as he vented his frustrations on the hapless group. The crack of a bullet leaving someone’s gun took him by surprise. He lurched to a stop and turned to see one of the remaining men holding his gun up and ready to fire again.

Joe raised his hands slowly in the air, while his stomach lurched with a surge of nausea. He kept his eyes glued to the gun that was pointed at his heart. For the first time he wished for the familiar weight of his holster, and then shuddered as the image of a blond-haired child lying in a pool of blood flashed before his eyes, the desire for his gun dying a quick death.

“Stand back!” the gunman barked. “Burke, search that wagon. Fletcher, see if Shorty is okay.”  Two men moved quickly to follow orders and Joe moved back a pace to stand silently beside Hiram.

Jared was sheltering behind his father’s broad back, so that Joe couldn’t see his face, but he could feel the tension radiating from the man who stood next to him. It sickened Joe to see the men tossing odds and ends around the wagon’s interior. Bits and pieces came flying out to land in the dust beside his feet, and he closed his eyes to shut out the sight. To stand and allow the men to conduct their search galled him, and he fought back a wave of bitterness.

“They ain’t here, Coop,” Burke called. He emerged from the wagon and shook his head. “No sign of the saddlebags or the…” His words were cut off by a peremptory shake of the gunman’s head.

“Where’d you put ‘em?” Coop demanded, advancing a pace nearer to the waiting trio. “Where are the saddlebags?”

Joe interposed himself between the gunman and Hiram. “He doesn’t have them. We already told you that. You’ve had your search and the saddlebags aren’t in there. Why don’t you fellas move on?”

Coop took another step forward until the brim of his hat was almost touching Joe’s. “We’re gonna look around town, but if we don’t find those saddlebags, we’ll come find you,” he growled. 

He spat, and watched with satisfaction as a messy trail of slime worked its way down Joe’s face. “Don’t get in our way again, boy,” he said with a vicious grin. “You don’t want to make that mistake twice.” He spun on his heels and strode toward the saloon, his men trailing at his heels.

Joe stood silently, his body shaking with suppressed rage. He reached for his kerchief and wiped away the disgusting mess that had tracked its way into his collar. He jerked at the sudden pressure on his shoulder, looking up to see Hiram gazing at him intently.

“You okay, Joe?” Hiram let his gaze run up and down the slender figure. “Did them fellas hurt yor shoulder agin?” He reached with a gentle hand to touch the part in question.

Joe shook him off impatiently. “I’m fine,” he snapped. “What was that all about anyway?” He stooped to pick up some of the debris from the roadway, and began stowing it back in the wagon.

“Theys thought I done stole their saddle bags,” Hiram stated flatly. “Don’ know why, but I reckon, I’se jist handy. People only sees what theys wanna see.” He joined Joe in the restoration of the wagon’s contents.

When the last item had been put away, the three silently mounted the wagon seat and set out on their return trip back to the little cabin. No one spoke for the duration of the long ride.

**~**~**~**~**~**~**

“Out with it. Why are you so angry with me?” Joe asked as he dropped to the ground beside Jared. 

The boy was sitting under the spreading branches of the lone tree that graced the yard of the little shack. He picked listlessly at the faded grass and kept his eyes glued to the ground. He had spent the previous day avoiding Joe, running to the barn if Joe entered the house, or heading for the yard if Joe followed him into the barn. When they had shared the evening meal, Jared kept his eyes on his plate and his mouth, which normally issued a steady stream of chatter, was used only for chewing. Joe saw Hiram give the boy a long, measuring look, but the man hadn’t pressed the issue. Jared had escaped to bed as soon as the silent supper ended.

Now, the afternoon sun glinted off of several items from Hiram’s latest haul, adding a festive air to the ramshackle little cabin. Joe studied the dwelling and the bits and pieces strewn about the yard as he waited for the boy to acknowledge his presence. He risked a glance from under his hat brim, and saw that Jared was stealing a look at him, too. He smiled encouragingly and the boy ducked his head quickly. But not before Joe saw the gleam of tears in the little boy’s expressive eyes.

“What’s wrong, Jared? I thought we were friends,” Joe pressed. “Friends can tell each other what’s on their minds, you know.”

“Why’d ya let those bad men throw our stuff outta the wagon?” a small voice asked finally. “Whyn’t ya stop ‘em, Joe?”

Joe stared at the boy in amazement. “There wasn’t anything I could do, you know that. Those men had guns, Jared.”

The dark eyes came up at that, and they glared at Joe. “Ya coulda had one too. I done heerd Pa offer ya his one day. A man likes y’are otta hev a gun,” the child asserted.

Joe smiled grimly at that. “A man like me?” he asked. “What kind of man am I, Jared?”

The child looked startled. “Why, ya knows wat I means. Travelin’ around, fightin’ with yer gun. I heerd bout men who done that, but I’s never met one til ya come here. I thought ya’d shoot ‘em or sump’n. But ya just stood there.” The child dropped his eyes and sighed, his face a study in disappointment and anger. 

Joe was appalled. “What made you think that I was the kind of man who traveled around making a living from my gun? I never told you that’s what I did. I don’t even wear a gun, Jared, you know that. I’ve spent my life on a ranch with my family, not moving from town to town picking gunfights with other men.”

The child looked up again, confusion battling to the forefront on his expressive face. “But…” he stopped, but at the compassionate look on Joe’s face, he struggled on. “If’n yer not a gunman, then what was ya doing out there when Pa found ya? And how’d yer arm git shot up? Why aren’t ya home if’n ya’s got a fam’ly? What do’s ya do onna ranch?”

The questions could have continued on endlessly, but Joe’s laugh dried up the stream. Jared smiled shyly, and stopped talking long enough to allow his friend to speak. “Whoa, fella!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s a lot of questions to hit a man with.” He stopped to think for a moment. “Okay, let’s take them one at a time, then if you have more, you can ask them. Is that a deal?”

Jared nodded eagerly and held out a grimy hand to seal the deal. Joe took the hand without hesitation and gave it a manly shake, which widened the smile on the little face. 

“First question, what was I doing out there? That’s a tough one.” Joe stopped and swallowed against a sudden thickening in this throat, then continued. “I got myself into a lot of trouble back home. I was showing off with my gun, thinking I was a big man, and a little girl got hurt. She wasn’t much older than you, and she’s dead because of me. That’s why I left. I couldn’t face the fact that I let a little girl die because of my stupid pride.”

Joe watched the little boy carefully, waiting to see the first glimmer of disappointment take root on the boy’s face. When Jared just gazed back curiously, his face showing his struggle to control his tongue until his friend had spoken his piece, Joe gathered his courage and continued. “I got shot in a gun fight, just like the ones you’re talking about, but it’s not what I do for a living. My Pa owns a big ranch, and my brothers and I help him take care of it. I left because I couldn’t bear to see the shame in my father’s face when he looked at me. So you see, I’m not a hero, or a gunfighter. I’m just a man and not a very good man at that.” 

Jared sighed, his eyes huge in his little face. “What happened to the lil girl, Joe? Did ya mean ta shoot her?” 

Joe shut his eyes in pain. “No, of course I didn’t’ meant to shoot her,” he said vehemently. “I was so confident that I could take that guy, I just knew it. Something went wrong, and suddenly, Peggy was in the street, and my bullet hit her instead of him.” He drew in a shaky breath. “It was horrible, something I’ll never forget. She was so little, and she was just lying there. . .” 

Jared waited for a minute and then realized that Joe wasn’t going to say anymore. “But ya wassn’ aimin’ at her, was ya, Joe?”

Joe shook his head, unable to speak.

The boy eyed him wonderingly. “Then, woudn’ that be a ak- aksident? If’n ya didn’ mean to do it?”

“I shouldn’t have been shooting my gun in a crowded street,” Joe shot back. “Of course I wasn’t aiming at her. She was only a little older than you. But I was responsible. I could have refused to fight that man, or walked away from him, but I didn’t. There was a woman that I was trying to protect, but it all went wrong. It was my fault, accident or not.”

Jared patted Joe’s knee with a gentle hand. “Ah’ll bet that li’l girl wouldn’ be mad at ya, Joe, if’n ya had ta hep another lady.” His words careened onto another subject as his little mind struggled to grasp what Joe was saying to him. “So ya think yer Pa’s wonderin’ bout ya, Joe? Ya been gone awhiles now.”

The sudden wave of homesickness washed over Joe like a tide, and he flinched at the boy’s question. “Yeah, I guess he probably is, now that you mention it. And if you want to know the truth, I miss him, too. He and my brothers are probably looking all over for me, right now. But I can’t go home, don’t you see, boy? A little girl got hurt because of my stupidity, and I can’t go home ever again.”

 

Jared studied Joe quietly. “My Pa wouldn’ like it, if’n I’se just up and lef wif no note, nr nuthin.”

Joe grinned ruefully. “I imagine my Pa doesn’t like it too much either, now that you mention it, and I don’t even want to think of what my brother, Adam is saying about me. But then, Adam wouldn’t have made such a mess of things if he’d been in my shoes, either.” He stood up and stretched. “There’s a woodbox that needs filling, and I promised your Pa I’d take care of it. Thanks for talking to me, Jared, you’re a good friend.”

The little boy puffed up his chest with pride and walked to the woodpile with Joe, struggling to match him stride for stride. “Yer a good frien’ too, Joe,” he said, and slipped his hand into Joe’s.

Joe clasped the hand tightly, grateful for the return of the boy’s ready smile. But the questions about his home and family had left him shaken, his confidence in his decision to leave eroding just a bit. His Pa must be fit to be tied at his long absence. In fact, he was probably tearing up the countryside looking for his lost sheep. 

At the woodpile, Jared scampered to sit atop the pile of split logs; his favorite perch while Joe was at this chore. He kept up his constant stream of chatter, and Joe lost himself in the rhythm of the work. With each blow of the axe he tried to push the thoughts of home and family back into the recesses of his mind.

**~**~**~**~**~**~**

The last piece of wood was stacked neatly, and Joe stepped back to survey the results of his labors. He felt the ache deep in his wounded shoulder and he rotated his arm to ease the pain. When that didn’t help, he massaged the muscles with the heel of his other hand. 

“Shoulder playin’ up on ya, boy?” The mellow voice floated out from the shadows of the house.

Joe jerked his head up in surprise and squinted in the direction of the voice. “A bit,” he said, moving to join his friend. “I think I overdid it some.”

Hiram stepped out of the shadows and surveyed the towering pile of split wood that now lay neatly stacked. He let loose with an appreciative chuckle. “Looks like ya chopped enuff fer two winters, Joe. I ain