Encounter at Oxbow

by Kate

Adam Cartwright mopped the back of one hand across his brow and straightened.  With a slight groan, he worked the knuckles of his right hand into the small of his back, attempting to whittle away the ache that had taken up residence.  "How about a break?"  he said aside to Hoss.   

Glancing up from the pile of wood he'd been chopping for fencing, his younger brother expelled a sigh.  Despite the rapidly cooling temperature as the day inched into evening, sweat beaded dew-like drops against Hoss's broad face.  "Sure.  It's probably gonna be awhile 'fore Elliot gets here with that next wagon load of lumber anyhow."  Extracting a kerchief from his pocket, Hoss mopped the rag over his forehead.  One eyebrow inched upward in speculation as he watched Adam step to the water bucket.  "Little Joe must have gotten tied up in town, huh?" 

Spooning a ladleful of lukewarm water into his mouth, Adam considered his brother with narrowed eyes.  His glance was direct, making Hoss squirm.  Though he'd been loathe to draw attention to Joe's absence, Hoss had begun to fret over his younger brother's tardiness.   

Adam spat the water from his mouth.  "Only thing keeping Little Joe in town is a lack of respect for my instructions." 

"Hey, Adam, that ain't fair--" Hoss stepped away from the half completed paddock they'd been constructing in the west pasture.  Dusting splinters of wood from his trousers, he joined Adam at the water pail. Behind him, the sun dipped towards the horizon, giving birth to the first blue- tinged shadows of late afternoon.  "Maybe something came up that got him sidetracked." 

"Like a pretty face or a game of cards?"  Adam gave a snort of disgust.  "He went for the mail, Hoss.  When are you going to realize Joe has a different set of priorities than we do?  I just thought with Pa away, he'd listen for a change.  He knows how much Pa wants this fencing finished, not to mention that new string of horses ready for auction." 

"Yeah, I know," Hoss conceded hesitantly.  Once again he found himself assuming the role of defender over his younger brother's carefree behavior.  "Joe don't mean to be difficult, Adam--" 

"Look, I'm tired of you making excuses for him."  The stress of running the ranch suddenly caught up with Adam.  For the last three weeks he'd been holding things together, planning work around deluging rains and increasing autumn winds.  He'd lost three of his hands to a mining payroll, and rustlers had claimed ten head of cattle.  The last thing he needed was an irresponsible sibling, and another who persisted in defending that conduct. 

"I ain't making excuses."  Hoss felt himself growing annoyed.  If he discovered Joe was dallying in the saloon, he'd do more than just reprimand his brother, but at the moment the nature of that dalliance was yet to be established.  It galled Hoss that Adam immediately contributed Joe's tardiness to tomfoolery.  What if something had happened?  Joe was already three hours overdue.

He was about to point that out to Adam, when the sound of approaching hoofbeats drew his attention.  Expecting to see Joe's horse broach the horizon, Hoss was surprised by the appearance of Les Cronin--one of the Ponderosa ranch hands.  "What's got him all fired up?"  he muttered to Adam, noting the haste with which the rider approached. 

Moving away from the half-completed fence, both men waited for Cronin to draw rein.  The other's normally ruddy face was flushed a deeper shade of red when he came breast.  Tossing a backwards glance over his shoulder, he indicated the direction from which he'd come.  "Got a situation, gents.  Elliot and I were movin' lumber when we found a man back there by the creekbed.  Looks like he had a heart attack or somethin.'  Ain't a mark on 'im, but he's dead as a door nail."  

Adam and Hoss exchanged a glance.  

"You wait here," Adam told his brother.  "Finish up what you can.  I'll go with Les." 

Hoss's head bobbed in agreement.  Sucking his bottom lip, he watched as Adam mounted his horse. In short order, both Adam and Cronin had disappeared into the jagged line of trees bordering the horizon.  Alone, Hoss moved back to the fence.  The autumn wind snaked beneath his collar, puckering goosebumps over his arms.  He shivered, but the touch had nothing to do with the crispness of the wind.  Shadows inched nearer--puddles of gloaming, banked by weak sunlight.  The hair rose on the back of Hoss's neck.  Uneasily, he thought of the body and the overly long absence of his younger brother. 

Bending, Hoss retrieved a saw.  If he were a superstitious man, he'd view the body as an omen.  Aligning the sawblade with a leaf-stripped piece of wood, Hoss worked the protruding teeth back and forth.  He licked his lips.  Joe would be fine, and he didn't believe in omens. Even so, Hoss said a hasty prayer. **** 

Adam paced restlessly, his fingernails clacking against the edge of a chipped coffee mug.  Shoving the battered cup onto the edge of a table, he turned and took three quick strides to the back of the room.  A solid door greeted him, obstructing his path.  With an irritated sigh, Adam spun and sank into the nearest chair.  "Roy, I really need to get back to the ranch." 

Seated across from him, Sheriff Roy Coffee calmly inclined his head.  He was a steady man-- rarely rushed, rarely flustered.  Steepling his fingers together, he braced his elbows on the arms of his chair and considered Adam.  "Soon enough, Adam.  Just be patient.  It doesn't look like any foul play took place, but we need Doc Martin to make sure." 

"Yeah, I know."  Adam bowed his head into his hand and laced his fingers through his hair.  Earlier, he'd helped Les Cronin load the body into the wagon, replacing the lumber that had rested there--then dismissed both Cronin and Elliott while he drove the buckboard to town.  With Sheriff Coffee's assistance, he'd surrendered the deceased to Doc Martin, then stabled the man's horse at the livery.  Now, he fidgeted restlessly, awaiting the outcome of the autopsy.  A perusal of the man's pockets, performed by Roy Coffee, had produced a wallet and a telegram.  Papers in the wallet identified the man as Leland Folke, but revealed no address or city of origin.   

"Let me see that telegram again." Leaning forward, Adam extended his hand. 

Roy tugged the slip of paper from his vest pocket and passed it over.  "Doesn't explain a thing," he commented in his soft, lilting drawl. 

Adam's eyes fell to the crinkled parchment: Have procured item (stop) Bids accepted (stop) Arrive no later than 16th (stop) W. Learn 

Adam shook his head.  "We don't even know where Folke was headed.  Likely, he was just crossing the Ponderosa."  Though uncomfortable over the man's death, Adam found it hard to feel remorse for someone he didn't know.  Though appearing trim and physically fit, Folke also looked upward in years, indicating something may have failed within him.  Adam had no sooner completed the thought, then the rear door opened, and Doc Martin appeared, silently mopping his hands with a towel. 

"Well?"  Adam asked, coming to his feet.  At his side, Roy Coffee rose also. 

Unrushed, Martin walked to the small stove in the corner of his office and poured a cup of coffee.  "It's like we guessed--his heart just gave out.  There's not a mark on him to indicate otherwise.  There's bruising on the chest, but that likely happened when he fell from his horse.  I found an obstruction within the heart wall, clearly indicating trauma within the heart itself." 

Adam nodded.  He had his answer.  "Roy do you need me?" he asked. 

The sheriff shook his head.  "I'll send out some inquiries to neighboring towns--see if I can find out who he was.  If I come up with anything, I'll let you know." 

"Good deal."  Adam started for the door.  It was already dark outside. He'd spent longer in town then he'd anticipated, and was anxious to get home.  As his hand closed over the knob, he hesitated, turning back to the two men who quietly conversed behind him.  "Say, Roy.  You didn't happen to see Little Joe in town today, did you?" 

"Actually I did.  Caught him coming from the post office.  He seemed kind of agitated and in a hurry." 

"What time was that?" 

"Oh . . ." Roy glanced at the ceiling as he contemplated.  "Must have been just before noon." 

Adam's lips pressed together.  Plenty of time for his brother to make it back to the Ponderosa and help with the fence.  "Thanks, Roy."  Adam gave a flip of his hand and tugged opened the door.  A rush of cool air washed over him, ushering him outside.  His soles scraped against the scuffed planks of the boardwalk, sending clipped echoes rebounding into the night.  Climbing into the buckboard, Adam collected the reins, his disposition growing increasingly sour.   

Where had Joe gone after the post office, he wondered?    

With an impatient flick of the reins, he sent the wagon barreling into the night.

****  

Hoss met Adam at the door the moment he stepped inside.  His expressive face pickled in an anxious mask, the big man practically danced with impatience.  "Well?  What'd you find out?" 

Moving a lot slower than Hoss would have liked, Adam unbuckled his gunbelt and set it on the sideboard by the front door.  "Nobody we ever heard of--just someone passing through.  He had a heart attack, like we thought."  

Unconvinced, Hoss licked his lips.  He'd spent most of the day fretting over what he considered a bad omen.  To have Adam dismiss the man's demise so callously seemed unjustly cruel.  At his side, the grandfather's clock struck the hour, sending melodic chimes rippling through the room. 

"Is Joe back?"  Removing his hat, Adam cast it aside.  He scrubbed a hand over his face, realizing how dirty he was.  The grime and sweat of the afternoon had congealed to a scale-like crust on his skin.  He was filthy and hungry, not to mention in a foul frame of mind.  "Well?"  he prodded, fixing Hoss with an icy glare. 

The bigger man nodded.  Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he scuffed a boot against the floorboards.  "He's back, Adam." 

"Well, where is he?" 

"He--" Before Hoss could utter another word, Joe's footsteps could be heard coming from the kitchen.  As he rounded the corner of the dining area, Adam pushed past Hoss to confront him.  Drawn up short, Joe halted at the edge of the sofa, his green eyes widening in surprise.  Clean, his hair neatly combed, it was obvious he'd been home for sometime.  A half-eaten apple was held in his left hand. Adam felt his irritation kick in.   

"A-Adam," Joe sputtered.  "I-I didn't realize you were back.  I need to talk with you." 

"Talk, huh?  I want an explanation of where you've been all day." 

"That's what I'm trying to tell you."  The edge of hostility in Adam's words, immediately made Joe defensive.  With effort, he tried to get his emotions under control, realizing an argument would serve no purpose.  "I went to pick up the mail, like you wanted, but Tom flagged me down with a telegram." 

Expelling a here-comes-the-story-sigh, Adam considered his brother.  "What was in the telegram, Joe?" 

"It's from Shey.  He went to Silverton to look at a horse--" 

"I remember," Adam interjected coolly.   

Joe hedged.  His brother's arrogant disregard was making him uncomfortable. "On the way back, he must have stopped in Oxbow.  The telegram just says he's in trouble and needs my help." 

"Your help?"  Unable to control his smirk, Adam folded his arms across his chest. "This is the same Shey Cutter who set you up with Rob Falcon's *daughter* remember?"  The heavy emphasis on the word "daughter" made Joe visibly bristle.  "Don't be a fool, Joe.  He's just playing another one of his games." 

"What if he's not?"  Walking to the dining table, Joe set the apple aside.  He'd already considered what Adam proposed.  Bending forward, he braced his hands against the wood, locking his elbows.  "Shey may like to needle me, but he's not going to run me two days out of my way, when he knows we're short-handed as it is." 

"What about that?"  Adam demanded, angrily striding forward. "We've got more work than we can handle--" 

"I'm sorry."  Turning to face his brother, Joe tried to make Adam understand.  "I have to go after Shey.  I rode out to the Circle C to see Rob--that's why I was late.  He thinks Shey might be in serious trouble--" 

"Rob was involved in the last trick Shey pulled on you," Adam exploded.  "If Shey were really in trouble, why wouldn't he wire Rob?  Why you?" 

"I don't know!"  Joe's voice rose in volume.  "Because I'm his friend--" 

"Friend?"  Adam cast the word in contemptuous disbelief.  "You've been friends with Shey Cutter for a little over three months.  Prior to that, you couldn't stand to be in the same room with him.  Have you forgotten this is the same kid that used to beat you black-and-blue in the schoolyard? What kind of friendship is that?"  

Joe knuckled his hands into fists.  He'd taken about all he was going to take without losing his temper.  His lips compressed in a tight line, green eyes narrowing as he struggled to control his anger.  "So it's an unusual friendship," he spat.  "But it *is* a friendship. I'm leaving in the morning." 

"Wait a minute!"  Adam snagged his arm as he started past, wrenching him to a brutal halt.   

Joe's eyes flared.  "Get your hand off me, Adam." 

"Fellas--" Mute up until this point, Hoss stepped forward.  He could sense the mood growing ugly--feel the tension crackling through the air like heat lightning on a summer night.  Joe's green eyes were fueled with angry brilliance. While Hoss might trust Adam to remain somewhat level- headed, he knew his impulsive younger sibling would likely say or do something he'd soon regret.

"Maybe you two should just take a moment to rethink things--" 

"I don't need to rethink things," Joe said tightly.  Though he addressed Hoss, his eyes remained on Adam--angry and challenging.  "This isn't open for discussion.  I'm leaving in the morning." 

Adam's hand fell from Joe's arm.  "And if I disagree?" 

Joe gave a soft snort of disdain.  "I'm well past the age when you can tell me what to do, Adam." Brushing by his brother, he headed for the stairs, his stride clipped with repressed anger. In a matter of moments, his footsteps could be heard fading down the hallway.  Hoss flinched at the resounding bang of a door swinging violently shut.  

Sighing, he moved to the sofa and dropped into the stiff embrace of the cushions.  Scowling heavily, he chanced a glance at Adam. "Ain't you being just a tad unreasonable, older brother?"   

"Unreasonable?"  Disgusted, Adam folded into the leather chair by the hearth.  Heat from the fireplace engulfed him, adding to his growing irritability.  "There you go--defending him again.  I don't think there's anything unreasonable about expecting him to stay here and do his share of the work--especially when we're short-handed!"  Adam's voice rose on the last phrase.  For emphasis, he dropped his fist against his knee.  "This thing with Shey Cutter--" 

"--look, Adam, it's a strange friendship, I'll admit," Hoss shifted on the sofa, once again assuming the role of mediator.  Not for the first time, he wished his two siblings weren't so extemely different in temperament.  "But, you gotta give Joe credit' for wantin' to stand by Shey." 

Exasperated, Adam pinched two fingers against the bridge of his nose.  "Hoss," he said quietly, "Three months ago Shey started a fight with Joe in Ridgeville and swindled him out of seven hundred dollars.  A couple weeks ago, he set him up with a prostitute, then had his foreman go after him with a gun." 

Hoss licked his lips trying not to laugh.  Though he knew Adam found the situation humorless, he secretly wished he'd been a mouse in the alley when Rob Falcon had gone after Joe.  " . . . er . . . um . . ." Hoss struggled around the laughter building in his throat.  " . . . Shey's a little wild, I grant you."  

Adam pressed his lips together.  Into the silence the fire crackled and hissed.  Once again Adam felt the sticky rush of heat fan over his face.  Bracing his hands against his knees, he pushed to his feet, his gaze never leaving Hoss.  "I'm going to clean up, then I'm going to bed.  Tell your brother, I expect to see him here in the morning." 

Hoss pursed his lips, watching Adam depart up the steps.  Wishful thinking made him hope Ben would be home soon.  His father's brief visit to San Francisco, three weeks ago, had developed into a longer stay when a friend became unexpectedly ill.  What would Ben say, given the same situation, Hoss wondered.  Would he allow Joe to go after Shey?   Though Joe might not be as defiant with his father, he'd still chafe to be away.  Denied that opportunity, his explosive temper would flare as easily as it had with Adam.  Hoss grinned.  Of course, Ben would put him in his place a lot quicker too.  

With a weary exhalation of breath, Hoss rose to his feet and trudged to the kitchen.  Though his brothers were squabbling and would spend the evening brooding in their rooms, he intended to have dinner and relax before retiring.  Sibling rivalry be hanged.  He'd sort it out in the morning.

 **** 

"Come on, Cooch."  Joe spoke softly to the mare as he led her from the barn.  Residual darkness still clung to the sky, thinning in the east, where dawn lingered a few hours distant.  Though the moon was blotted by clouds, starlight flickered weakly against the steely backdrop--multi-hued icicles, awaiting daily demise.  "Early today, huh?"  Joe whispered, as he adjusted the mare's bridle. His fingers were growing stiff in the cold morning air.  Reaching inside his pocket, he retrieved his gloves, quickly tugging them over his reddening fingers.  A ragged breeze scuttled through the yard, swirling leaves around his boots.   

"Way too early for you, little brother." 

Joe flinched, startled to be caught unaware.  Glancing over Cochise's broad back, he watched as Hoss materialized from the velvety shadows draping the barn.  Joe's lips thinned in agitation.  "Are you spying on me?" 

"I wouldn't call it spying."  Though Joe's tone was terse, Hoss's remained carefully neutral.  Approaching from the opposite side, he confronted Joe across Cochise's back.  "So you're goin' to Oxbow?  Even though Adam don't want you to?" 

"That's right."  Crisply, Joe adjusted the cinch strap.  His movements were efficient and clipped, as though his mood--sedate just moments before--had turned suddenly antagonistic.  Sensing that unexpected hostility, Cochise shifted and whickered softly. 

Disgruntled, Hoss dispensed a weary sigh.  "You know Joe, if you'd just put your hackles down, you'd realize I ain't here to give you grief." 

Hoisting his bedroll onto the rear of the saddle, Joe reached for the tie-down straps.  "Come to say goodbye?" he asked sarcastically. 

"Actually I did."  Hoss pursed his lips.  A sudden breeze scattered the leaves at his feet, making him wish he'd had the foresight to grab a coat before venturing outside.  Blue eyes dipping to the ground, he tried to find the words to cut through Joe's anger.  "You're gonna do just what you wanna do, little brother. Ain't no stoppin' you, once you've made up your mind.  I just came to say 'be careful'." 

Joe swallowed, uncertain how to respond.  He'd been so sure Hoss was going to try to talk him out of leaving, he'd immediately grown defensive.  Moving around Cochise's hind quarters, Joe stepped to his brother's side.  Bowing his head, he studied his hands a moment, his sandstone hat effectively concealing the heated flush stealing across his highboned cheeks.   "Sorry," he mumbled.  Hesitantly, leaf green eyes rose beneath a thick veil of black lashes.  "I thought--" 

"I know what you thought," Hoss interjected with just a hint of smug satisfaction.  "You'd think by now I'd be used to that impulsive streak of yours."  Hoss's lips curved upward, inching into a grin.  "You just make sure you don't bite off more than you can chew in Oxbow.  And another thing--" A thick finger plunked against Joe's chest.  "--if this is Shey Cutter's idea of a joke, you tell him, he's gonna have to square things with me."  

Joe chuckled.  "I seem to recall you going after him a time or two in my younger days." 

Tucking his tongue in the corner of his mouth, Hoss rocked backwards on his heels, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops.  "Hmm--so I did.  But only when he rounded up a few of his friends to corner you." 

Joe's smile was dazzling in the half light of predawn--a crooked grin revealing the precise line of his perfect teeth.  "Big brother's gonna save me again, huh?" 

"Get outta here," Hoss said with a shake of his head.  Still grinning, Joe clapped him on the back, then swung up onto Cochise.  Gathering the reins, he looked down at his brother. 

"Adam's gonna be a bear when he finds out I'm gone." 

"Rightly so."  A hint of amusement crept into Hoss's sapphire eyes.  "One of these days, Joseph, I'll just let him have you." 

With an answering smile, Joe tipped his hat, then urged Cochise into the cool embrace of the velvety night.  Behind him the Ponderosa faded, and with it, the protective mantle of his brother. ****  

The air warmed as the day progressed closer to noon.  Sticking to a path that led through cottonwoods and pine, Joe wound deeper into the verdant country that surrounded his family's ranch.  He halted shortly after noon, setting up quick camp on the bank of a stream; pausing long enough for a brief meal of beans, hard bread and black coffee.   Already restless over the perceived threat to Shey, he found his mind rambling.  Though his friend's temper was not as volatile as his own, Shey Cutter possessed a streak of arrogance likely to rile anyone.  He'd no doubt done or said something to offend the wrong person in Oxbow.  Though Joe had been to the small town once or twice, he knew little about the community, other than it's people seemed suspicious of outsiders.  Local law enforcement was often hit or miss, depending on who had greased the sheriff's pockets that day.  Of all the towns with which to become entangled, Oxbow was a region better avoided.   

Gathering his meager supplies, Joe doused the campfire.  Thin ribbons of smoke plumed into the air--the acrid reek clinging to his jacket, mingling with the tart redolence of fall.  A tapestry of gem-bright leaves crunched beneath Cochise's hooves, whispering in dry parchment voices as Joe urged the mare away from the stream. The bubbling gurgle faded behind him--sunlight laced water giving way before vast grasslands--the undulating terrain already browned with the impending touch of autumn.   

Joe rode well into the evening, stopping only when dusk draped grape-purple shadows over the mountains, consuming the pale pink flesh of the sun.  Starlight emerged with the gloaming--a random dusting of prismatic radiance suspended on a field of silver-blue.  The wind scrolled between the trees, conjuring dragon-tails from fallen leaves; protesting groans from age-brittled  branches.  

Warming his hands before a hastily built fire, Joe squatted on his haunches and stared into the flames.  He'd long since grown accustomed to nights on the trail, but couldn't help want for a soft bed and home-cooked meal.  At the ranch, his brothers would have finished work for the day and retired to the great room after supper.  Even now, Joe could hear the imagined hiss and crackle of the fire in the large stone hearth; the bark of Hoss's laughter over some humorous quip; the crinkle of paper as Adam paged through a newly purchased novel. 

With a sigh for the cold air seeping beneath his collar, Joe dragged cooking supplies from his saddlebag.  Approximately five yards away, Cochise swished her tail as she bent a graceful neck to the ground.  Moonlight accentuated the white patches on her coat with eerie luminance, creating a myth-like glow against darker blots of shadow. 

All she needs is a horn on her head, Joe thought with a grin.  "Hey, Fair Lady," he called softly, "No damsels to rescue.  Just one cock-sure rooster.  Shey Cutter owes us for this." 

Hours later, the thin edge of his appetite sated, Joe spread out his bed roll, attempting to find a spot of comfort on the cold ground.  Drawing the brim of his hat low over his eyes, he listened to the velvety echoes of the night settle around him. 

Within moments he was asleep.  

****  

Hoss rolled his hand into a fist and pressed it against his mouth.  With dramatic emphasis, he cleared his throat.  The sound fell away into the crackling hiss of the hearth, but his brother failed to respond.  Lips thinning in a grimace of annoyance, Hoss tried again.  

"Get yourself a drink," Adam commented, without raising his head.  Warmth had been lacking all day from the elder Cartwright, whose dour expression had altered little with the steady progression of hours. Seated in his father's favorite chair by the fireplace, the dark-haired man stiffly flipped through a well-worn book.  Night had settled hours ago, making the interior of the house all the cozier for its welcoming cocoon of yellow light.  

Hoss rolled his eyes, the gesture overlooked by his older brother. "Adam," he said at last, "You ain't spoken barely two words all day.  Don't you think you should say what's on your mind?" 

"Said it yesterday," Adam returned briefly.  Paper crinkled as he turned a page.  

Hoss's lips batted loosely together on a frustrated whuff of air.  Rising from the sofa, the big man paced to the edge of the fireplace where he stood contemplating the frenzied dance of the flames. "Little Joe don't mean no harm," he tried again.  

Though Adam made no reply, Hoss could sense a tensing of his muscular frame.  Adam's jaw tightened perceptibly, but his eyes remained on the book.  It was clear from the glower on his face, he no longer saw the words.  "I don't want to get started on this again, Hoss.  You know how I feel about you protecting him.  I expected him here today, and he chose defiance over responsibility."  

"Yeah, I know," Hoss said softly.  Turning from the hearth, he looked squarely on his brother.  "Just one thing I think you're overlooking--" 

Adam raised his head, a thin smirk ghosting across his lips.  "Oh?  And what's that?" 

Hoss ignored the trace of sarcasm.  "If Shey Cutter really is in trouble, then Joe's headed there too." 

Adam blanched.  The surliness left his eyes, replaced by a ripple of sheer anxiety.  No sooner had that emotion surfaced, then it was tamed beneath a resurgence of anger.  Adam snapped the book closed.  "His choice," he said bruskly, pushing from the chair.   

Hoss felt the air quiver as he brushed by.  Adam's brisk strides took him to the staircase, where he ascended with stiff-limbed agitation.  With a sigh, Hoss retreated to the sofa.  Adam would maintain his unforgiving posture right through to the dawn, but secretly Hoss believed he too had begun to fret over Joe's safety.  Though he might berate their younger brother's feckless nature, he'd be the first to defend Joe, should push come to shove. Hoss bowed his head to his hands.  He prayed that wouldn't be necessary.  

**** 

A day later Joe arrived in Oxbow.  The afternoon had worn thin, inching close to evening when he rode Cochise down the narrow strip of the town's main street.  Those few people who lingered on the boardwalk stopped what they were doing to turn guarded stares on him.  A white-haired shopkeeper swept a broom back and forth across plank boards--the methodic swipe producing a sibilant hiss in the stillness.  The sheriff appeared in the battered frame of his doorway, habitually working a toothpick between his teeth.  A trio of courtesans lounged over the balcony of a ramshackle brothel, eyeing him speculatively as he passed beneath. 

Unflustered, Joe drew rein before the saloon.  Though eventually he'd speak with the sheriff, he knew the best source of information was usually found where whiskey flowed and coin changed pockets.  Tethering Cochise to the hitching post, Joe brushed a gloved hand across his jacket, sending a film of white dust whaffling into the air.  If nothing else, after eight hours in the saddle, he could use a beer.  

Pushing aside the swinging doors, he stepped into the tavern.  Inside, the room was small, comprised by five circular tables replete with barrel-backed chairs, a worn wooden bar, and an ancient upright piano.  Moving to the bar, Joe ordered a beer.  

The directive earned a scowl from a jowl-heavy bartender, who moved away to comply with the order.  Tugging free his gloves, Joe let his gaze sweep the room.  Three cowhands were hunched over a poker game in the back, their eyes carefully adverted to their cards.  At a separate table, a  fourth man nursed a bottle of whiskey, oblivious to all but the amber liquid in his glass.  A pair of  saloon girls lingered with the cowhands, their gaudy dresses appearing old and dinghy in the murky light filtering through dirt-encrusted windows.  

"Thanks," Joe said when the bartender returned with his beer.  He swallowed the lacy head from the glass, grimacing slightly at the bitter taste.  "Oh, that's aged," he said with a hint of a smile, but his humor was lost on the man behind the bar.  Dispensing a grunt, the heavy-set man wiped a rag over the pock-marked wood.   Water rings stained the blistered surface--the result of numerous glasses leaving their mark through the years.  

"Maybe you can help me," Joe said, returning his mug to the bar.  Retrieving his gloves, he tucked them inside his jacket.  Pig-like eyes followed the movement, anything but friendly.  Ignoring the caustic stare, Joe kept his tone casual.  "I'm looking for a friend of mine.  Name of Shey Cutter--" 

"Never heard of him," the bartender said quickly.  The rag swiped over the wood as though pushing the question aside.  

"Well maybe you've seen him.  He's about my height, my build, with fair hair and dark eyes--" 

"Nope."  Once again the response was lightning quick, indicating no thought was involved. 

Joe's gaze grew pointed.  He could feel himself growing restless.  The ride hadn't helped, and the curt dismissiveness of the bartender was wearing on nerves already rubbed raw. "Any strangers recently?"  This time the words were bitten off with marked hostility.  

Sensing his change in mood, the bartender dispensed a deprecatory glare.  "Look Mister, I ain't seen your friend.  I ain't seen no blonde cowboys, and I ain't seen no strangers."  

"I didn't say he was a cowboy."  

Rattled by Joe's offhand comment, the bartender flushed scarlet.  Sucking on a fleshy lower lip, he shook the soiled rag in Joe's face.  The sour odor of mildew wafted from the cloth.  "You'd do well to mind your manners, boy.  We don't take kindly to strangers pokin' their nose where it don't belong."  

Tilting his head to the side, Joe let his lashes drift down over his eyes until his glance was unmistakably sharp.  "Didn't realize asking about a friend's whereabouts was considered meddlesome."  

"Hmph!"  The bartender blew air through a blunt nose.  Stalking to the opposite end of the bar, he busied himself toweling out glasses with the grimy rag.  Joe flipped a coin onto the bar.  He hesitated momentarily before retrieving his beer and moving to the table of poker players.  Though the trio had maintained a steady interest in their cards since his arrival, their attention to the game now carried an air of anxiety.   

Joe tipped his beer to his lips, swallowing a mouthful of lukewarm ale.  Behind him, he could feel the suspicious gaze of the bartender lingering on his back.  "Hey, fellas . . ."  Joe's tone was neutral, but it didn't draw so much as an eye in his direction.  The saloon girls had retreated, hovering unobtrusively behind the card players--each with an arm draped over the shoulders of one of the men.  "I'm looking for a friend of mine--" Joe said into the sticky silence.  

"Haven't seen him," a dark-haired man said shortly.  Laying two cards face down on the table, he motioned the dealer for replacements.  

One again, Joe felt his irritation kick in.  "How do you know?  You--" 

"Heard you askin' Lyle," a second man cut him off.  Alarmingly thin, with bright eyes beneath a beetled brow, the speaker was almost wraith-like in appearance.  He gave Joe a passing glance before returning his attention to his cards. "Sorry you made a trip for nuthin'."  

Joe pressed his lips into a thin line.  With a loud clunk, he slammed the beer mug onto the table.  Five sets of eyes tracked to his face--the girls growing nervous, the men watching guardedly.  "I'm getting a little upset with the short supply of information around here."  Reaching forward, Joe snagged the man nearest him, his fist knotting in the craggy fabric of a homespun shirt.  With an angry wrench of his arm, he hauled the startled cowboy to his feet.  Buff-colored eyes widened in a hollow-cheeked face.  "I want some answers, and I want them now."  

"Can't tell you what we don't know!"  the frightened man sputtered.  His fear was so palpable, Joe felt it slice through him like a knife.  At the table, the two remaining men had stiffened, their bodies tensing for flight.  Briefly, Joe's eyes flickered to the bar.  The area was empty now, the heavy-jowled man having vanished into the back.  Though his gaze remained deadly, Joe released his captive.  "Where's the hotel?" he demanded curtly.  

"End of the street." His former prisoner gave a quick tilt of his head to indicate direction.  Straightening his shirt, he sank gratefully into his chair.  

"And the telegraph office?"  

"Other end, by the bank," the dark-haired man supplied.  Collecting his cards, he ducked his head, evidently hoping the brief spurt of information had gained him a reprieve. Sensing something sinister in the trio's forced silence, Joe backed slowly from the table.  His gaze remained scathing--a clear testament of his intent to return, should the information prove false.  

Once outside he hesitated, trying to quell the explosive edge of his temper. It would do no good to badger the trio in the saloon.  Shey had sent a wire from the telegraph office.  If anyone had information about his friend, it would be the operator. Though the nervous evasiveness of the men he'd questioned, left Joe decidedly uncomfortable, he knew the only way to gain information would be to continue to pry.  Gathering Cochise's reins, he led the mare down the street to the livery stable.  Once again, wary eyes followed him, every visible townsperson stopping to ponder his passage.   

Relinquishing the mare to the stable attendant, Joe asked briefly about Shey.  His questioning produced the same pre-programmed replies as the men in the saloon.  Rather than push the issue, Joe relayed instructions for the care of his horse, retrieved his saddle bag, and slung it over his shoulder.  Stepping from the yawning doors of the barn, he headed across town to the telegraph office.  He was still a few feet distant when a hand appeared in the window, flipping a dangling rectangular sign from "Open" to "Closed."  

Feeling a fresh influx of anger, Joe stalked to the door and pounded a rolled up fist against the frame.  "Hey, open up!  I want to talk with you."  Though he heard a scuffling of sound behind the barrier, the door remained shut.  Wrapping his hand around the knob, Joe pulled violently, rattling the obstructing wood.  "Hey!  Open this infernal door!"  

"Is there a problem here, son?"  

The voice so took him off guard, Joe whirled, his hand dropping instinctively to his gun. Startled, he was greeted by a rawboned man with a spade beard and nut-brown hair. The presence of a five-pointed star pinned to his shirt, identified the newcomer as Oxbow's sheriff.  Nervously, Joe licked his lips, his hand falling from his holstered pistol.  

"S-Sorry, Sheriff.  I need to speak with the telegraph clerk."  

"Office is closed," the other intoned flatly.  

"Yeah, I know, but this is important, and just a moment ago--"  

"Office is closed," the sheriff said sharply.  A pointed stare fell to Joe's revolver.  The earlier motion of the younger man's hand had not been overlooked by the taciturn peace officer.  "Don't like fast draws in my town.  Better hand over that weapon, son."  

"Why?"  Joe's anger was squelched by sudden bewilderment.  

"Told you--no place for trigger-happy fools in Oxbow."  A calloused hand appeared palm-up in the air.  "Now hand it over.  Belt too.  You can have them back when you leave."

Knowing an argument would only make matters worse, Joe unbuckled his gunbelt and surrendered his weapon.  The sheriff checked the chamber, then flipped the cylinder closed, appraising the piece with a shrewd eye.  "Fancy toy.  Rich boy or gunslinger?"  

With effort, Joe controlled his temper.  "Neither."  

"Hmm."  The sheriff raked him with a discerning gaze, noting the cut of his clothing.  His eyes dipped to the fine tooled leather of the gunbelt he held.  "My guess is rich kid."  

Joe bit his tongue.  "I'm looking for a friend--name of Shey Cutter."  Joe's voice was clipped, bristling with the restrained edge of his anger.  "He sent a wire from here about five days ago--" 

"Probably moved on."  The sheriff tucked Joe's gun into his waistband.  "You should too.  Cool weather tomorrow, nice day for riding.  You can collect your horse as early as 6:00 A.M."  The directive couldn't have been any blunter.  With a tip of his hat, the sheriff moved away, strolling leisurely down the boardwalk.   

Joe hesitated, silently fuming to be dismissed so abruptly.  He shot one furtive glance to the telegraph office, but realized persistence would probably land him in jail.  One thing was certain-- this wasn't a joke orchestrated by Shey Cutter.  For the first time since receiving the telegram, Joe felt a blatant stab of fear over his friend's safety.  Scrubbing the back of one hand beneath his chin, he tried to collect his thoughts.  He couldn't afford apprehension or anger if he was to think clearly.  In order to help Shey, he had to leash the emotions that so often defined his erratic personality.  

Tomorrow the telegraph office would reopen and he could question the clerk.  The telegram was proof that Shey had been in Oxbow.  In the meantime he would pass the night at the hotel, staying alert for trouble.  

Joe found the two-story building a pale imitation of grander hostelries.  Though the lobby was large, it was sparsely decorated--the furnishings clearly having seen hard wear.  The reception area sofa was frayed; the gold tasseling on matching wing-backed chairs dangling from scarred frames.  Though the desk was clean and tidy, it was surprisingly small--shoved into a corner and backed by a wallboard with keys.  

A swarthy-faced man with coppery hair sat slouched in the sofa, a newspaper raised for perusal.  Behind the desk, a yellow-haired clerk raised a fluttery smile at Joe's entrance.  Still surly from the treatment he'd received elsewhere in town, Joe's greeting was terse.  "Need a room."  

The clerk's smile danced upward but never quite reached his eyes.  "Of course, Mister--?"  

"Cartwright."  Joe dropped his saddlebag on the desk, then spun the registration book around.  Retrieving a pen from the ink well, he scrawled his name across the parchment--the distinctive backwards slant of his writing a stark contrast to the other entries on the page.   

The clerk spared a glance for the name.  He'd already retrieved a key.  "Room eight, Mr. Cartwright.  You can pay when you leave."  

Accepting the key, Joe hooked his saddlebag with his free hand and dragged it from the desk.  It thumped against his leg, hanging loosely at his side.  His gaze grew flinty as he considered the clerk.  "I don't suppose you remember a Shey Cutter staying here?"  

"C-Cutter?"  Watery eyes flicked to the man on the sofa, then hastily darted back to Joe's face.  A quavering smile stretched narrow lips.  "I don't seem to recall--" 

"Maybe you could check the register," Joe interrupted bluntly.  He'd scanned it himself when checking in, but the page only went back two days and there were no additional sheets beneath.  Uncertain how to respond, the clerk hesitated, his face frozen in a look of despair.  Recovering, he cleared his throat and produced a second book from beneath the desk.  Moving to open the cover, he gave a startled gasp, when Joe wrenched the ledger from his hands.  Flattening the spine against the counter, the younger man flipped through the pages, frowning when the list of names availed nothing.  

With a curt nod, Joe dismissed the clerk and headed for the stairs.  Behind his back, the copper- haired man lowered his paper and rose slowly to his feet.  Joe made it to his room and had the key in the lock before he heard footsteps behind him.  Turning, he saw the other approach.  

"You're looking for Shey Cutter--I can take you to him," the man informed briefly.  

Suspicious at the offer, Joe hesitated.  "Why didn't you say something in the lobby?"  

"Too many ears.  Are you interested or not?"  

"Yeah."  Joe stepped away from the door.  He'd taken two steps down the hall, when the door to his room suddenly opened.  He caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye; saw the copper-haired man move forward, a malignant grin stretching his lips.  Joe half-turned, raising an arm to ward off the attack from behind.  The butt of a handgun clipped his arm, continuing a brutal path to his skull.  He felt the impact at the same time the copper-haired man reached him.  Joe's legs buckled, sending him face down against the floorboards.  Snagged in a web of descending darkness, he felt a boot toe him in the ribs.  "Mr. Learn will be pleased," a disembodied voice said on the edge of his thoughts.  

Joe's eyes rolled into his head, sensation bowing before the oppressive weight of unconsciousness. 

****  

It was the cold that brought him back to consciousness.  He felt like he was lying on a slab of ice, frigid breath seeping through his thin clothing and burrowing into his veins.  Groaning, he struggled to rise.  A firm hand gripped him and helped him sit up, supporting him across the back until he could prop his shoulders against a wall.  He blinked, trying to bring his surroundings into focus.  The first thing he noted was the slightly enigmatic expression of his friend.   

Stunned, Joe sputtered for breath.  "Shey--" 

A finely shaped brow wriggled upward into the other's wheat-pale hair.  "You look a little green, pal."  Squatting on his haunches, Shey Cutter reached out a hand and gingerly inspected the tender area on the back of Joe's skull.  "Lucky for you, you've got a hard head.  Being  uncooperative as usual, I see." 

Frustrated, Joe brushed his friend's arm aside.  His vision had settled enough for him to decipher the shadow-draped walls of a square room.  Exposed crossties acted as braces overhead, while parallel I-beams served as support posts--the construction and deep walls indicating a basement.  The room was windowless, the only illumination coming from two oil lanterns suspended from the rafters.  Shadows lingered in profuse abundance, draping crates and barrels stacked against the opposite wall; snuggling in dense patches against the stout door barring their exit. 

Sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, Joe bent one leg, tucking it close to his body.  There was no heat in the room, and the cold quickly made an impression.  "Where are we?" he blurted. 

Shey gave a half-hearted shrug.  "Beats me.  Last thing I remember, I was having a beer in the saloon.  I walk outside for some air, and *bang!* I end up here." 

Joe pressed two fingers to his temple.  His head was throbbing and he felt slightly nauseated. "I don't get it Shey." 

"That makes two of us.  What are you doing in Oxbow?" 

Dumbfounded, Joe lowered his arm.  "What do you mean what am I doing here?  You sent for me." 

Shey snorted.  "Look Cartwright, I'm glad you're here and all, but I think that knock on the head rattled your brains.  Why would I send for you?" 

"Because you were in trouble.  Because--" Perturbed, Joe's mouth tugged downward.  Reaching inside his pocket he withdrew the telegram and passed it to Shey.  The other scanned it briefly, then more slowly a second time.  Shaking his head, he passed it back. 

"Sorry, Joe, but I didn't send that."   

The sense of bewilderment was growing stronger, and with it the prickly infusion of cold.  Suppressing a shiver, Joe rose from the icy floor, bracing a hand against the wall to steady himself.  Shey rose with him, hovering one step shy of his side should he need assistance, his own eyes narrowed in thinly-masked appraisal. 

"If you didn't send this--" Crisply, Joe waved the paper in the air.  "Then who did?" 

Shey's glance was cutting.  "More importantly--why did they send it?" 

Joe licked his lips.  He hadn't stopped to consider that.  Letting his arm fold beneath him, he leaned into the wall.  The nausea had departed, but the splintering ache at the back of his skull made it difficult to concentrate.  "Maybe you better tell me how you got here." 

Shey nodded.  Turning on his heel, he strode to the opposite wall, bracing his back against the crates stacked beneath the rafters.  With his legs crossed at the ankles and the tips of his fingers resting just inside his pants pockets, he appeared almost casual.  "Got here . . . I don't know . . . maybe five days ago.  I just intended to pass through on my way back from Silverton.  It was getting cold, and I thought the hotel might be nice, rather than a night on the trail." 

Folding his arms across his stomach, Joe turned to face his friend.  Though Shey was wearing a heavy coat, Joe's own light-weight jacket did little to deter the cold.  Pulling his gloves from his pocket, he tugged them on while Shey continued his tale. 

"I checked in at the hotel, then went to the saloon for a beer.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  I got in a conversation with someone named McPhee--" 

"What'd he look like?"  Joe interrupted. 

Shey paused as he considered.  "Not very tall; kind of chunky; reddish hair." 

"We've met," Joe said with a tight smile, remembering the man who'd addressed him in the hallway.  

"As I recall, he asked about you."  Shey tapped one finger against his lips as the memory resurfaced.  "I mentioned I was from Virginia City and he asked if I knew a family named Cartwright.  I brought up your name--said we were friends."  Shey grinned somewhat cynically.  Friendship was still an implausible concept for both men.  "After that he changed the subject, finished his drink, and left.  A half hour later I stepped outside and took a whack on the head.  I've been here ever since."

Joe exhaled.  His mind was still sluggish; slow to grasp the information Shey imparted.  Agitated, he tried to concentrate.  He could feel the cold air across his face, reddening his cheeks and chafing his lips.  

"I've heard a name mentioned a couple of times," Shey continued.  "The head honcho who runs this place--and most of the town, from what I've gathered--is called Learn.  That name mean anything to you?"  

Joe shook his head.  He closed his eyes briefly, a flicker of pain skittering over his face.  "How long was I out?"  

"A couple hours.  McPhee and Steger dropped you off.  One of them normally shows up about twice a day--long enough to leave scraps of food and water, then snicker theatrically."  Shey's bottom lip curled, his sense of sarcasm still firmly intact.    

Despite himself, Joe managed a weak grin.  "Hired guns."  

"Looks that way, but I don't think we'll have a return visit 'til morning."  

Relieved, Joe looked around for a place to sit.  The floor was too cold, but he was beginning to feel the aftershock of the blow to his head, and knew if he didn't sit soon, he'd probably crumble.  Sensing that need, Shey Cutter nodded to the rear of the room.  "There's some blankets back there.  I found them behind one of the crates.  I've got 'em spread over some wooden skids.  Not the most comfortable thing in the world, but it beats the floor."  He grinned brazenly.  "Welcome to Hotel Cutter."

Joe hesitated.  " . . . um . . ." 

"Lay down, Cartwright, before you pass out.  I'd ring for a bellhop, but I'm a little short-staffed right now."  When Joe continued to stare, his mind muddled and slow, Shey stepped forward and hooked his arm.  Pulling him to the rear of the room, he pressed one hand against Joe's chest and pushed him down on the skids.  " 'Night, night." 

"Cutter, I'm in no mood." 

"Geez, a little blow to the head and you turn into the Ogre of Oxbow."  Tilting his head, Shey gazed at his friend with attentive regard. "No funnin', Joe.  Lie down, okay?  You don't look too good."  

Too weary to argue, Joe folded into the blankets.  There was a vague ringing in his ears, nothing serious--just a reminder he had pushed himself too hard that day.  It wasn't that long ago he'd recovered from an impaling injury to his shoulder, sustained outside of Rimsmoke.  He still tended to tire easily and the blow to his head hadn't helped matters.  Against his will, his eyes drifted shut.  He heard a muted shuffling as Shey Cutter moved away.  The scuffling returned a moment later, prompting Joe to watch through slitted eyes as his friend settled for the night.  Shey had found another blanket somewhere and wrapped it around him, tucking in the frayed ends to help combat the icy chill of the earthen floor.  Leaning his head against the wall, Shey let his eyes sweep aside to Joe.  Frowning, he studied the form curled beneath the blanket.   

In the ebon-drenched gloaming of the room, the finely chiseled planes of Joe's face were scrolled by shadow.  Shey could see that his eyes had fallen closed--his lashes creating a soft, jet-colored fan against his cheeks.  His breathing slowed to a steady rhythm, indicating he bordered on the peripheral edge of sleep.  

The last time Shey had seen Joe Cartwright struggle against a head wound, had been at the hands of his own uncle.  The similarity to their present predicament made Shey distinctly uncomfortable.  Once again Joe was a prisoner, but this time, he was captive as well.  Though Joe was strong, Shey knew he was still recovering from the injury he'd sustained outside Rimsmoke.  Consequently, he knew little about those circumstances, just that Joe had suffered trauma to his shoulder, and the incident involved a map reputed to be of Ringgold.  His friend avoided discussing the affair, clearly unnerved by the memory.  Not for the first time, Shey wondered what had occurred among those mountain passageways.  

Satisfied that Joe rested peacefully, Shey shifted, trying to find a position of greater comfort.  Though the skids were hardly ideal sleeping mats, they were far more comfortable than the floor.  With a crooked grin, Shey glanced enviously at his friend, curled beneath a mound of ratty  blankets.  "Hope you appreciate the sacrifices I make for you, pup."  

Oblivious to the comment, Joe slept undistributed.  It was just as well, Shey mused.  He had a feeling come morning, they would find out exactly why they were being held. And that, he was certain, revolved around Joe Cartwright.  As his eyes drifted shut, Shey couldn't help feeling he'd been bait in a carefully laid trap. ****  

It was difficult to tell the passage of hours confined in the basement, but there was a lightening of shadow in the room and Joe guessed the hour had inched past dawn.  He was seated cross-legged on the skid, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, more rumpled beneath him.  Lacing a hand through his hair he glanced about the room. "What's behind the crates?" he asked.  

Shey shook his head.  He was pacing restlessly, the overhead light sending his shadow jumping across the floor.  "Just the wall."  

"How 'bout inside them?"  

"Empty from what I can tell."  

 "All of them?" 

Shey stopped his impatient wandering.  Turning, he leveled a deliberate stare on his friend.  "Trust me on this, Cartwright.  I've been over every inch of this room and there's no way out, except that door."  

"Then we need to find a weapon. If we bust up one of those crates, we've got a good start."  

Shey considered.  "Hmm.  Homemade clubs?  Some of those boards have nails in them.  That's good enough to do serious damage."  

Stiffly, Joe rose to his feet.  "We'd have to catch McPhee and Steger off guard."  Shrugging the blanket from his shoulders, he crossed to the wall of crates.  He'd slept soundly through most of the night, and though a dull ache still lingered at the base of his skull, it was no longer an debilitating distraction. Rapping his knuckles against the wood, Joe cast Shey a half-grin.  "Adam's always been the carpenter in the family.  How long before our friends make an appearance?"  

Shey moved to speak but the sound of footsteps beyond the door distracted him.  Normally he wouldn't expect a visit until late morning.  The fact that his jailers came early, drew his attention back to Joe.  Uneasily, he considered his friend.  "Looks like you're something special, Cartwright.  They never come this early."  

Moving away from the crates, Joe joined Shey in the center of the room.  The door swung inward and two men entered, each with a drawn pistol.  As though executing a military maneuver they fanned to either side of the confined area.  Joe recognized the one on the left as McPhee, the man from the hotel.  The other, short and squarely-built with salt-and-pepper hair, he assumed was Steger.  Each remained silent, their faces schooled to detached composure.  Joe's eyes tracked back to the door.  He could feel the presence of a third man within the shadows, his face masked by the partial gloaming.   

Joe felt his body tense, some sixth sense awakening at that hidden presence.  The hair rose on the back of his neck, his stomach knotting coldly inside.  

"Welcome, Mr. Cartwright," a voice said from the darkness, and the touch was like soiled velvet against his skin.  Shadows slithered to the corners as the man moved forward, stepping into the waxy light of the room.  

Joe blanched.  The shock of recognition tore through him, causing the breath to snag in his throat.  His dismay was so painfully evident, even Shey looked on, aghast.

The newcomer chuckled softly.  "It's good to see you again, Joseph."  Stepping forward, he closed the door behind him.  The sound as the lock clicked into place sent a bolt of despair racing to the soles of Joe's feet.  

****  

Adam and Hoss were just finishing breakfast when they heard a light rap on the front door.  "I'll get it," Adam said, taking one last gulp of coffee, before setting the cup back on the table and heading for the entryway.  Behind him, Hoss continued to consume a generous portion of steak and eggs, accompanied by a mound of fried potatoes and biscuits.   

"Roy!"  Adam's surprise was evident at finding the sheriff of Virginia City on the threshold.  Drawing the door wide, he motioned the other inside.  "How about some breakfast?  We're just finishing up."  

"No thanks."  Roy gave an acknowledging smile with a tip of his head.  "Already ate earlier.  Hoss . . ." He nodded to the big man, as the younger Cartwright came around the corner.  "Sorry to interrupt you boys.  I've got some information I thought you might be interested in."  

Hoss was still nursing his coffee.  Palming the cup in a calloused hand, he lowered it to his waist.  His mouth scrunched to the side as he considered the lawman.  "Must be pretty important to bring you out this early."  

Roy shrugged.  "Maybe.  Maybe not.  It's about that fella that had the heart attack--you remember, Adam--name of Leland Folke."  

"I remember," Adam returned evenly.  "Did you find anything new?"  

"Sort of.  Last night a fella came to me in town.  Said he was to meet a Mr. Folke and had heard there'd been an accident.  I explained what had happened, then questioned him about his relationship with Folke.  Seems the two had never met.  Folke hired him through an advertisement to do an appraisal.  They were to meet here, in Virginia City."  

"Appraisal?"  Adam's voice lilted up on the word.  His brows drew together in sudden interest. "What kind of appraisal?"  

"Folke didn't go into detail, but this gent--Damien Conrad--thinks it must have been on some type of artifact or antiquity.  Apparently, he's renown for his expertise in that area.  He was to meet Folke here, then continue to another location where he was to do the appraisal.  Whatever the item was, there were multiple bidders for it, and Folke hired Conrad to verify its worth.  Guess he was afraid of purchasing a fake."  

"Yeah, but a fake what?"  Hoss said, clearly befuddled.   

Adam, however, seemed to be cataloging pieces of the puzzle, the assessment taking place behind his dark eyes.  "Did this Damien Conrad happen to mention where he was going to do the appraisal?"

Roy's head dipped in acknowledgment.  "Matter of fact he did.  Said he and Folke were headed for Oxbow."  

"Oxbow?"  Hoss's voice cracked in alarm.  Exchanging a quick glance with Adam, he wet his lips uneasily.  "Little Joe headed for Oxbow two days ago."  

Uncertain what all the fuss was about, Roy glanced from one to the other.  "Don't see where that's a problem."  

"Except that Joe received a telegram from Shey Cutter saying he was in trouble."  Adam was clearly unnerved now.  The smooth planes of his face hardened into rigid lines, his expression severe.  "Say, Roy--do you still have that telegram we found on Folke?"  

"Yeah, I got it right here."  Patting his breast pocket, Roy fished the paper from his shirt.  He passed it to Adam who flipped it open with the backwards stroke of an index finger.  Hoss stood behind him, gazing over his shoulder as his eyes scanned the contents once more:  

Have procured item (stop) Bids accepted (stop) Arrive no later than 16th (stop) W. Learn

"Obviously this relates to the item Conrad is to appraise." Adam muttered quietly, more to himself then the others, both of whom watched with rapt attention.  Tugging his bottom lip into his mouth, he kept his eyes glued to the parchment.  It was all connected somehow--Joe's summons to Oxbow, and this telegram--but the common thread continued to elude him.  His eyes dropped to the name.  "W. Learn . . ."  

"Yeah, who's that?"  Hoss ventured, and Adam started, unaware he'd whispered the appellation aloud.  With a guilty flinch he glanced at his brother.  Hoss worked his big shoulders into a shrug.  "That name don't mean nuthin' to me."  

Adam's eyes returned to the parchment.  He had a sudden dreadful thought.  Striding quickly for his father's study, he retrieved a pen from the desk.  Behind him he could hear Hoss and Roy's footsteps as they followed.  "You got something, Adam?"  Hoss asked.  

"Maybe."  With the paper spread flat on the desk, Adam scratched a short burst of letters across the bottom.  His face was severe as he turned to confront the other two.  "You're right, Hoss.  The name 'Learn' doesn't mean anything to us, but if I realign the letters . . ." he passed Hoss the paper, " . . . they spell something entirely different."  

Swallowing hard, Hoss's eyes dropped to the parchment.  He knew without looking, something dreadful awaited his gaze. Beneath the telegraph clerk's slanting scrawl, Adam's precise handwriting defined letters Hoss hoped never to see: A-R-L-E-N.    

Raising his head, Hoss met his brothers eyes.   

Adam's lips constricted in a tight, bloodless line.  "William Arlen," he said softly. There was no longer any doubt that Little Joe was in grave danger. **** 

It took every ounce of control Joe had not to panic.  He stood stiffly mute, eyes schooled to practiced calm as the albino entered the room.  Inwardly he shuddered, his heart rate accelerating to dangerous levels.  Sweat broke out on his back, and he realized with a detached kind of shock, he was afraid.  Of all the men he'd tangled with over the years, this one had succeeded in scarring him permanently.  

****

Arlen tilted his head, thoughtfully pursing his lips as he contemplated the younger man.  "Well, Joseph, I must say you're looking considerably better than the last time we met."  Stepping smoothly forward, Arlen brushed past him, their shoulders nearly touching as he strode the length of the room.  "I apologize for the accommodations, but the town is rustic.  Surely you've noticed."  

Joe half-turned, not wanting the albino at his back.  "What do you want, Arlen?"  

"I see you two know each other," Shey Cutter commented casually.  Though his voice was soft, it carried a deadly edge.  

Intrigued, the albino turned.  Near colorless eyes settled on Shey in rapt dissection.  Arlen spared barely a moment before tapping three narrow fingers against his mouth, stifling a yawn.  "Oh, yes--the bait.  Cutter, isn't it?" Arlen's lips curled thinly, the glint in his eyes unmistakably cruel. Folding his arms, he titled his chin down, studying Shey from beneath heavily lidded eyes.  "As it happens, I have very little use for you any longer--" 

"Arlen!"  Alarmed, Joe stepped forward, instinctively placing himself between Shey and the albino.  He could feel himself growing panicky, the insides of his palms slick with sweat.  "This doesn't concern him--" 

"You're right, it doesn't."  Arlen's voice was suddenly sharp.  Striding forward, he came within inches of Joe, his pale eyes fired with malignant light.  One bone-white finger jabbed beneath Joe's chin.  "You and your father cost me something I struggled most of my life to attain.  I don't look favorably on men who've wronged me, Mr. Cartwright.  In fact, you might say I tend to be overzealous about repaying those debts."  

"Is that why I'm here?"  Joe goaded.  "To satisfy your need for revenge?"  

Amused by the defiance he heard in the younger man's voice, Arlen fell back on a silky smile.  "Nothing so paltry, I assure you.  Like your friend there, you're most useful as bait. As brief as our encounter was, I could hardly hold you responsible for costing me the map of Ringgold.  I lay that blame on another."  

The blood drained from Joe's face.  "My father?" he whispered.  

Arlen's brow shot into the milk-white fringe of his hair.  "Bright lad."  With a jerk of his head, he motioned McPhee forward into the circle of light.  "Now Joseph, Mr. McPhee is going to leave paper and pencil, and you're going to pen a missive to your father begging him to rescue you.  As I recall, he's quite handy at that."  

Joe took a step backwards.  He tried to gauge the distance to McPhee and Steger.  If he lunged, Shey would follow suit, but the albino was likely armed as well.  A sudden rush of anger dispelled Joe's earlier fear. "You're crazy if you think I'm going to bring my father here. There's nothing you can do that will make--"  

"Spare me the heroics," Arlen inserted tiredly.  Holding out his hand he accepted pencil and paper from McPhee.  Once dispensing his booty, the red-haired lackey quickly retreated towards the door.  Setting the writing instruments aside on the nearest crate, Arlen's flesh-colored eyes returned to his captive.  "I'll be brief, Joseph:  Seth Chatwin is dead, and I have the map.  I've had no luck in locating Ringgold, thus I intend to auction it to the highest bidder."  His lips thinned.  "That person will meet with an unfortunate accident, similar to Mr. Chatwin's--once I've procured payment, of course."  

"And then you turn around and sell the map again," Shey said quietly from the side.  

"Exactly.  Thus, while I never locate Ringgold, I benefit from its wealth regardless."  

Joe felt sick to the stomach.  It must have showed in his face, for Arlen chuckled.  "Don't look so appalled, boy.  Worse schemes are hatched by business magnates everyday.  You and your father threw a wrench into my plans, but I've rallied.  I hold Oxbow in the palm of my hand--power, control, wealth--it's all mine.  These people have never heard of William Arlen.  To them, I am Willard Learn."  

Joe couldn't stop the flicker of revulsion that spread across his face.  His eyes dipped to the floor.  "A rose by any other name . . ." 

Arlen's lips curled derisively.  "Methinks Shakespeare had something far sweeter in mind--a young man needing his father perhaps?"  

Joe's temper snapped.  "I'm not writing your damn letter."  

"Oh, I think you will."  Reaching inside his coat, Arlen withdrew a slim pistol.  Eyes cold and deadly, he extended his arm, pressing the muzzle against Shey's temple.  "This man means nothing to me.  The only thing keeping him alive right now, is your cooperation."  The hint of a smile played around Arlen's thin lips.  "Do I make myself clear, Mr. Cartwright?"  

Joe's hands balled into fists.  "Yes," he said tightly.  

Lifting his free hand, Arlen cupped tapered fingers around his ear.  "I don't believe I heard that."  

The man was goading him, but there was little he could do.  "Yes!" Joe hissed with emphasis.  

Arlen lowered his arm.  A lizard-like gleam danced in his pastel eyes.  "Yes, *Sir*," he instructed,   clearly enjoying the mastery.  

Joe stiffened, every muscle in his body recoiling in self-loathing.  He ground his teeth together.  "Yes . . . Sir," he repeated dutifully.  

Satisfied, Arlen withdrew the gun.  "You see--that wasn't hard at all."  He smiled pleasantly, tucking the weapon inside his jacket.  "Now I suggest you get busy on your letter, Joseph.  I'll give you until nightfall, only because I want it as emotional as possible.  You beg daddy to come rescue you, and I'll let your friend live."  

Dispensing the directive, Arlen moved for the door. The moment his back was turned, Joe lunged forward, grappling the taller man about the waist and bearing them both into the wall.  He heard a surprised grunt from the albino followed by a swiftly spoken string of curses; a shuffling of feet behind him and a sudden shout of warning from Shey.  Joe tried to fling the albino aside, but a horrible weight cracked across his skull, driving him into the ground.  With a startled grunt, Joe released Arlen and crumbled. 

***  

Damien Conrad was short and dumpy, with upswept brows and a curling crest of chocolate- brown hair.  He fidgeted nervously, pacing in the sheriff's office, his round eyes darting between the lawman and the two cowboys who hovered near the door.  He assumed they were ranchers from the cut of their clothing and the gruff manner in which they conducted themselves.  The larger of the two was a strapping man with a barrel chest and massive arms.  The smaller, dark- haired and muscular, made Damien think of a predator shrewdly measuring it's prey.  Though he'd spoken little, nothing escaped his coolly appraising eyes.   Clearing his throat, Damien addressed the lawman.  "Sheriff Coffee, I really don't see as I have to go along with this."  

"You don't."  Leaning forward in his chair, Roy Coffee spread his hands flat on the surface of his desk.  A quick tilt of his head indicated the two men by the door.  " 'Course the Cartwrights are willing to pay you for your time, and since you're expected in Oxbow anyway . . ."  Roy let the sentence dangle like bait on a hook.   The promise of payment had the desired effect.  Damien's eyes shifted back to the Cartwrights.  "How much?"  

Unwinding, Adam stepped forward.  "What Folke would have paid you, plus half."  

A glint of appreciation flickered through Conrad's gray eyes. "But you're asking me to be dishonest," he protested.  Hedging, he twined his hands together.  Clearly enticed by the promise of payment, he licked his lips.  "I've never met Mr. Learn, and neither had Mr. Folke--" 

"All the better," Hoss insisted, stepping to his brother's side.  Stretching out one hand, he smiled in congenial supplication.  "Look, Mr. Conrad, all we're askin' you to do, is go along with your original plans.  Only difference is, Adam here will be pretendin' to be Mr. Folke.  Since Learn ain't never met neither of you, he ain't gonna know the difference."  

Conrad pawed one hand over his chin.  "It makes me nervous," he said in a fluttery voice.  

"Double," Adam said quietly.  

The gray eyes flew to his face.  "Pardon?"  

"I said double.  You go with me to Oxbow and I'll pay you double what you would have gotten from Folke."  

It was too much to pass by.  It also indicated how desperate his employers were.  Not clear on the circumstances, Conrad could only nod.  "When do we leave?"  he asked.  

Stalking to the door, Adam wrenched it open.  "Get your gear together and meet me at the livery stable."  

"Now?" Conrad's eyes rounded like marbles in his head.  

"Now," Adam returned crisply.  There was little room for discussion in the directive, thus the appraiser moved swiftly through the open door.  When he had disappeared down the street towards the hotel, Adam turned back to the others.  Behind him, the door drifted silently shut.  "Roy, do you have Folke's belongings?  I might need a few of his things if I'm going to pull this off."  Glancing down at his clothes, Adam dusted a hand over his black shirt.  "This doesn't seem the proper attire for a buyer of antiquities."  

"You really think it's the map Arlen's sellin'?" Hoss asked doubtfully.  

Adam rolled his shoulders into a shrug.  "Seems likely."  Though his manner was steady, inwardly he seethed.  The thought of Joe in Arlen's clutches made him want to rush out the door and barrel into Oxbow, guns blazing.  No time to think, no time to plan--just rescue his kid brother.  The rational side of him insisted he would do Joe more harm than good.  Chafing, he bided his time, carefully aligning his strategy.  Under the guise of Leland Folke, he could stroll beneath the albino's nose.  Since they'd never met, Arlen would be oblivious to his true identity as Adam Cartwright.  

"Roy, do you think it's worth wiring the sheriff in Oxbow?" Adam heard Hoss ask.  His eyes skittered aside to the lawman, catching Roy's negative shake of his head.  

"We've got no real evidence that this W. Learn is really William Arlen," the older man said  reluctantly.  "What's more, we don't even know that Joe's in trouble.  I'm afraid we'd just be tipping our hand in the long run.  Adam can judge the merit of the local law when he gets there."  

"Agreed."  Adam turned to Hoss.  "You wire Pa and let him know what's happening.  I'll try to get off a telegraph if there's any information to be had in Oxbow.  And, Hoss--" Adam stopped, seeing the twisted knot of concern on his brother's brow.  "--don't worry." He laid a hand on Hoss's thick shoulder, squeezing gently.  The corners of his lips titled upward in the barest hint of a smile.  "I'll take care of Joe." 

****    

"Cartwright." 

Shey's voice penetrated Joe's thoughts, pushing aside the disorienting mire of returning consciousness.  With a groan voiced more from frustration than pain, Joe allowed his friend to help him sit up.  His back to the crates, legs sprawled out before him, Joe cast the other an off- kilter glance.  Fingering the back of his head, he smiled tightly.  "Is that one lump or two?"  

Shey snorted.  "My friend, you're on the way to half a dozen--the latest courtesy of McPhee."  

Tucking his legs close, Joe gave a weary shove to his feet.  Shey steadied him with a hand beneath the elbow, aiding him up.  The room tilted, shifting abruptly to the side, then righting itself more slowly.  Ducking his head, Joe pressed one hand against his temple and drew a battered breath.  He felt Shey's fingers tighten on his arm.  "Pretty foolish, huh?"

Shey shrugged.  "There were three of them," he pointed out.  " . . . with guns."  His mouth quirked in lazy smile as his fingers fell from Joe's sleeve.  'We're lucky that ivory-haired cadaver values your hide, or we'd both be dead."  

Joe wet his lips, decidedly uncomfortable.  His eyes were dusky green, his thin attempts at humor suddenly falling short.  "Shey, I'm sorry I got you into this," he said levelly.  

"I seem to recall that being the other way around," his friend corrected, "But since I am involved, how 'bout telling me what happened outside Rimsmoke? This man--Learn, Arlen--whatever he calls himself, appears to have a personal vendetta against you.  Having once felt the same way--"  Shey grinned broadly, "--I can see how you'd irritate the hell out of anyone.  Fess up, Cartwright.  What'd you do to rile Mr. Grim?"  

Despite the bleakness of their present circumstance, Joe found himself amused by his friend's easy banter.  In some ways, trading quips with Shey was a lot like sparring with Hoss.  The only difference was, Shey's barbs were naturally razor-edged, dispensed with a streak of underlying arrogance.  Not for the first time, it struck Joe terribly odd they'd become friends.  "It's a long story."  

"Hmm . . ." Shey glanced meaningfully at the confining walls.  "I've got a few minutes to spare."  

Reluctantly, Joe nodded.  He really didn't want to talk about Rimsmoke--didn't want to remember the agonizing torture of those few days in the wilderness.  Much of it lingered only as disjointed pieces in his mind--strung together by pain and the stabilizing influence of his father.  Unconsciously his eyes dipped to the floor.  He was becoming aware of the cold again--could feel the icy touch of dead air across his cheek.  It took him back to a time when the breath was heavy in his lungs, weighted like stone, and he choked on the smell of his own blood.  "I . . ."  His voice trailed away and he shivered.  

Surprised at the uncharacteristic hesitancy, Shey regarded him with narrow eyes.  "Maybe you should sit," he suggested.  

Joe nodded.  Though normally loathe to admit a weakness, he feared what reliving the experience might do.  Returning to the skids, he sat on the edge and pulled the blankets around him. There was a dull ache behind his eyes, leaking splinters of pain down his neck.  "It started with a man named Willie Daven," Joe told his friend.  He shifted uneasily. "He sort of ran into me right before Pa and I left Rimsmoke . . ."  

Thus the tale unfolded.  In halting speech Joe relayed Arlen's desperate attempt to retrieve the map of Ringgold.  He relived the stage coach attack which resulted in the initial injury to his shoulder, and his captivity at the albino's hands.  He told of Ben's perilous scheme to free them both, and the cruel hours he'd lingered under Durrell's sadistic guard.  

When he was through, Shey shifted uncomfortably.  He'd seen the sliver of anxiety in Joe's eyes as he relayed the tale.  He knew, from personal experience, the youngest Cartwright was not easily intimidated.  Even his uncle had not managed to cow Joe, despite physical abuse.  Yet there was something about the tall albino that clearly unnerved his friend.  "So he holds you responsible for losing the map?" Shey ventured.  

"He's obviously retrieved it," Joe said carefully.  Once again he touched the back of his head, feeling for the lump beneath his hairline. "And killed Seth Chatwin into the bargain.  I think Arlen is the kind of man who can't stand to lose at anything.  My father tricked him, and that's a personal affront to his pride.  He has to correct it anyway he can."  

"So he uses me to lure you here, and now you're bait for