Summary: Adam had been innocently sent to prison years ago and his family had never seen him since. Now, Ben gets a chance to know what had happened in the
Nevada state prison from a new ranch hand, who’d been to the same prison. (You must read to the end to get to know)

Sorry, if any parts of the story will seem somewhat drastic – it was historically true, to the best of my knowledge.

 

Charlie looked again at the stranger. He had said his name were Eric Pine. He was... weird; he worked well, however. Charlie remembered their first meeting; the man did not change much since then, only his eyes were not hungry anymore, and his beard was neatly cut, and he didn’t wear such rags now. He worked hard and knew his job; whether branding or breaking horses, it seemed natural for him. He did not make a good companion, however; he spoke rarely, never in personal matters, and kept away from the other hands unless at work. As though he tried to hide somewhere from people. Maybe it was because he had just come out of jail, Charlie mused; it must have been this, he assumed, if exactly that helped the ranch owner to guess who the aloof, quiet man was, or rather had been. Eric admitted it quietly, gently, and Mr Cartwright – oh, he was sure a wise and good man – simply admitted him to work on the same rights as all the other hands. Well, Eric should be more grateful for that, but he shunned the Cartwrights even at work; maybe he did not feel well with such past...

Anyway, after a month everybody still considered him a stranger. There were days he did not even eat with the others. Usually, he ate only once daily, but at the common table. Today he left his meal untouched. For Charlie, the man was skinny enough to be hungry all the time; but he just sat in his corner, toying with something between his fingers, long, rich hair obscuring his face – as usually. Charlie – nobody ever saw his face clearly.

The foreman was startled out of his thoughts with the unexpected coming of Ben Cartwright. "Charlie, could I talk to you for a moment after you’ve eaten?"

"Surely, Mr Cartwright," Charlie nodded. "I’ll be done in a minute."

Ben’s gaze travelled to the lonely figure in the corner. "Eric? Why aren’t you eating?"

The shadowed shape slowly shifted.

"He has his days," Charlie shook his head. "Won’t get him to talk, Mr Cartwright, I’ve tried."

Ben nodded towards Pine. "Eric, come out for a minute, I’d like to talk to you."

The man did not seem eager, but on the other hand, he was quick – and really quick – only if his job required that. Outside, Ben could not help following the ray of light which glittered on the dark plentiful of soft curls. Eric started under the touch, then seemed to become indifferent again.

"Eric, do you have somewhere to go? Somewhere to live?"

The man shook his head slowly, not raising his eyes.

"I can see you work well," the rancher looked closely at him. Eric immediately turned his head aside. "Soon the job you’re doing now will have to wait for the new season. You’ll have to look for a new one."

No answer.

"I’d like... tell me, do you know how to count well and quickly?", asked Ben suddenly. After a moment, Eric nodded thoughtfully. "Well, how would you do with ledgers?"

The man thought for a while.

"Already did it, sir," he whispered. If his voice was not subdued, it always sank to a whisper.

"Don’t call me ‘sir’," Ben frowned. "My name’s Mr Cartwright, and I’m your employer, not a guard, is that clear?"

Eric nodded only. Four words in one answer were unusually much for him, and apparently too much for one day to allow another ‘Yes’ or ‘No’.

"As I said, you work well, and I wouldn’t like you to die of hunger while searching for a job. I don’t mean to insult you," he explained at once, "but it looked just like that when you first came here. If you do the ledgers as I expect them to be done, I’ll keep you for longer. Deal?"

Through the dark curtain he could see two brown lights in Eric’s face. His eyes were at the same time gentle, cautious and emotionless. Intelligent as well.

At last, the man nodded and cleared his throat.

"When?", he asked hoarsely, quietly.

"In three days your current job ends, if I’m right," Ben thought a second. "In three days, then?"

Eric nodded. "Sir," the whisper was seemingly the end of their conversation.

 

"And?", Joe curiously leaned forward to have a better look at Ben. "And?"

They had together agreed to ask Eric to stay. They liked him, the feeling mixed with compassion. He had to carry some drama inside, and they wanted him to be happy. Recently the brothers were surprised to find him in the stable, doing their chores. They gently told him whose duty it really was, and not to bother with that in his free time. He backed quickly as though scared by the possible conflict.

Before having an ex-prisoner living in his house, Ben decided to make some research on his past, just to know what kind of man Eric really was. Of course, Eric was not to know that; he might have felt suspected of some wickedness on his mind, and it was rather curiosity.

"Well, it seems he’ll work here for a while," Joe’s father glanced at the door. "By the typical scars the doctor judges he’d survived the plague, so he had to be in the state prison of Nevada."

The men grew grave at once.

"Eric Pine is not his real name, but given the description the prison governor assured me he’s calm and rather friendly, although aloof."

"What’s his real name, Pa?", Hoss frowned. "It’s not honest of him to lie about it."

"I don’t know, Hoss," Ben shook his head. "But no Eric Pine had ever been there. They knew hardly by the face who was who. But if he’d been sentenced in Nevada, maybe he does not want to put himself in danger by revealing his real name; people can be... you know."

Hoss sighed and nodded. "Yeah."

Somebody knocked softly. Eric kept himself at distance, as usually.

"Lack of horses," he reported briefly, quietly. "Branding done."

"Good," Ben smiled at him. "Ask the men to come for their money."

"Pa," Joe whispered when Eric left, "ever seen his face? He always hides it under the hair."

"Maybe he cut it especially awfully," murmured Hoss. "Oh, leave it for now. He’ll stay, you have enough time to get to know."

***

"Snow!", yelled Joe euphorically, rushing into the house. "A whole lot of snow!"

Ben winced. "We can hear you, son," he assured Joe testily. "Have you seen Eric?"

"Is he chopping wood?", Joe made sure. "Well, then I’ve heard him. He hates to be seen, you know."

Hoss rose from his armchair. "Come, Joe, we have some things to tend to before there’s really ‘a whole lot of snow’."

"Hurry," Ben reminded them. "I want to see you at supper."

After some minutes he rose, too, and went to look for Eric. He found him outside, indeed chopping wood, shirtless, standing in the deep snow in his poor, ragged jeans. He repeatedly refused to wear any better ones by such work.

Ben almost gasped at the sight of his back: there was hardly a spot not cut in halves by a vicious strike of a whip... a chain... and apparently a rod.

"Eric, you’ll get cold!"

The man straightened slowly and turned around. "Finishing, Mr Cartwright." On his left arm there was a small tattoo, Ben had never seen it before, and could not make it out well now. Under the man’s throat there were indeed four cuts, two for each little cross. So could a doctor help a man with one of the types of plague [see A. Camus]. Eric’s raw-boned chest exhibited his underweight far more than the strength Ben knew was hidden there.

"I wanted to go through the ledgers with you before you have dinner. Why don’t you eat with us, actually? And isn’t one meal too little for the whole day?"

Eric gathered the wood quickly. "Wholla lot o’meal," he breathed with a slight smile, so rare in his voice. "Going a-ready."

Dressed again, he showed his work to Ben, who shook his head in astonishment. "Perfect," he admitted. "Only Ad...", he broke off, suddenly grave and irritated.Some memory impressed biting pain on the older man’s face. "I knew somebody who could do it that well, but... well, he’s gone. Won’t take your place, don’t worry," he finished quickly, turning away. "You’d better eat now."

Eric waved Hop Sing away and sat back at the desk to work, rocking gently back and forth. His thoughts turned to the things which had made him to Eric Pine.

Three long days and nights when he howled inhumanly in agony and misery. Pride overflowed him again when he recalled as after the 150 strikes he crawled to the cell all by himself. Such achievements couldn’t continue for long, he knew. But after the 72 solitary hours the pain broke. Well, SOMETHING broke. Nobody asked him ever. Yet, they had to hear the inhuman sound, and had to listen. They left him alone later, they let him be, but by then he was past caring. And past the illness.

The torture of the plague. He saw them again, thrashing on the floor, devoured by the fever, he smelled the nauseous odour of sweated bodies and the products of illness, he heard them curse, yell, moan, he felt the skin opening under the sharp edge of the glass again – he touched the cheek instinctively. The man was ill, he repeated to himself, he didn’t know he had simply his face washed.

Suddenly catching Hop Sing’s scrutinising look, Eric dropped the hand and his eyes onto the pages. His own illness he did not remember. He remembered other things.

The tears. Whether of anger or fear, he didn’t know.

Hunger.

Thirst.

And all the worse.

-------------

"I have only two sons now," said his father. It was good he heard it before coming home – it was so good he got the job. He was a member of his family no more. That was surely why they sent him nothing for the last Christmas. He understood when they stopped visiting him. He never went to see them, and how awful it must have been for them to have such a criminal in the closest family...

If only he knew what HAD happened... there was no hope to get it back, the memory fled him, or rather he never had it. He was sorry to know a woman got hurt, and in such a way. DID he do it, or not?

------------

"Eric, eat your dinner," Ben bent over him with concern. The man backed slightly. "Ain’t hungry."

He always answered in quiet monosyllables.

Ben straightened with displeasure. Something happened that robbed Eric of appetite. It had happened before, but Ben could not find the reason.

"You should eat."

Silence. Only the pen made some sound.

"Eric, eat your dinner."

Nothing. Eric slowly rocked back and forth while writing, deliberately ignoring his interlocutor. His persistence was scary. He only seemed to have got used to living here; a cold stranger he was and remained.

Ben shook his head. There must have been some way into the aloof stranger, apparently struck by some tragedy in his life. They just wanted to help him be happy.

***

Eric startled when Ben stormed angrily into the house.

"Adam... was found innocent?", there followed Joe’s surprised question from the yard. "At last!"

"It’ll be of much use now," snorted Ben. Eric watched him jerk open the drawer of the desk almost hitting his own thigh. There in the drawer was a photo; Ben’s features constricted in sudden pain.

Eric glanced involuntarily into the drawer. ‘SORRY TO INFORM... ADAM CARTWRIGHT DIED IN PLAGUE... STATE PRISON... NEVADA’ What was that?!

He wanted to see more, in a simple gesture of curiosity. Just then Ben shut the drawer sharply – Eric froze, as pain shot up his arm. Had he jerked it back, the skin would have certainly suffered, in fact.

"I... I’m so sorry," virtually shocked, Ben quickly opened the drawer to free Eric’s right hand. "Oh, my goodness, I didn’t notice... is anything broken? Can you move the fingers?"

Eric carefully bent his fingers, then straightened them again. "Fine."

"A...are you sure? Maybe the doctor should see that?", Ben was clearly concerned and feeling guilty. Eric shook his head and took the pen anew. Almost instantly he dropped it, startling with pain.

"There is no way you can write with you fingers half crushed," Ben forcibly pulled Eric from the chair and to the fireplace. "I must at least dress that, maybe immobilise the fingers... all right, it may hurt now."

Hurt? That wasn’t real hurting. If he meant the fingers, he already felt them, what’s the point in warning? Eric watched stiffly what the older man was doing.

"I’m really sorry, I didn’t notice your hand was there," Ben looked at him guiltily, feeling the need to justify himself. "There’s just too much pain locked in this drawer... I simply didn’t notice... didn’t pay attention..."

"Pa," Hoss carefully took hold of Eric’s hand, pulling his father away, "let me take care of that. Joe, you get the doc."

"I’m fine," muttered Eric angrily, freeing his injured hand. "Can write by tomorrow." He rose from the armchair and headed to the door, then to the bunkhouse. In the back of his mind, he tried to coolly estimate how much pain was locked in that drawer.

"Joe," Ben looked at his son. "Get the doctor."

***

Ben and Hoss moved like entranced to the place where Joe sat, his hands tied behind his back. His eyes were wet. The reason was not as much the fact that his family was in danger as the motionless body on the stairs. Joe liked Eric more than he would admit.

The man with the gun smiled coldly. "You may take the gag out," he allowed them generously.

Ben gladly did that. Joe looked up at him.

"They shot him. They just shot him," he whispered in pain. "He didn’t even move, didn’t have a weapon, anything."

The other man, a bulky, rough brute, went over to Eric. He took the poker and nudged the body a few times, then hit at the spine. Having evoked no reaction, sat down on the stairs. He slipped his fingers into the black hair, grasped it strongly close to the skin with a vicious smile and brutally jerked the limp head up, bending down to Eric’s face. He saw no reaction again. He loosened his grip, left the metal rod there and turned to his friend.

"Maybe it wasn’t necessary," he admitted, wetting his lips. "Tie them up."

He went to take the gun from the other man; on the stairs, the fingers of the until now motionless man found the poker. His left hand was already securely holding it when he slowly raised his head and soundlessly braced his body, tense, back arched, like a wild cat before jumping on its prey, his eyes cautious, searching, judging the situation. No urging need to attack from the back, he decided.

"Hey," he said hoarsely, not bothering to raise his voice. They turned both. Everything went too quickly to notice anything but a sharp cry of pain.

It was not Eric who cried out.

The bulky man lay unmoving. The other cursed aloud, clasping his right forearm, his head bleeding.

Eric looked up at the Cartwrights and moved the left shoulder where his shirt was soaked with blood.

"Naught serious," he remarked. "Sorry." He nodded towards the men. "Weren’t together."

He had an incredible gift to convey a lot of information in two or three words, they had to admit that.

"There was a third one," whispered Joe. "They left him by the horses. We have to get him here... he must have heard the cry of pain," he realised suddenly. Eric shook his head, "Yours," he offered.

"I’ll take care of him," offered Hoss and wondered briefly, "Call him, or what?"

Eric allowed himself a shrug of his shoulders. "Easily."

A deeper breath – and the windowpanes shook from the unintelligible yell. It was probably a name, but something that loud simply had to be unintelligible. Hoss needed two moves to overpower the third man. Eric smiled slightly, glad to have made such good imitation of the real gang leader. Ben and his sons all breathed a sigh of relief, taking care of the gang.

Eric stood modestly aside, watching the motionless shape on the floor. Ben checked for pulse.

"He’s dead," he looked at Eric, who stepped back slowly.

"Sorry," he muttered hoarsely.

Joe stood up, his gaze fixed on Eric’s wounded shoulder. "You’re injured," he reminded the man. "It’s bleeding badly."

Ben carefully touched Eric’s face. "Are you all right?"

The man stepped back again and touched the stain on his shirt. "I’ll wash it."

He went to find a basin, filled it with water, then turned his attention to the arm.

Hoss tied the two men meanwhile and immobilised the broken arm of the cursing one. This finished, he gestured to Joe.

Eric had bared his shoulder and was finishing washing the blood away. It looked better now; the bullet went in under the collarbone, exiting millimetres over the shoulder blade. Suddenly, Hoss’ hand took the wet, bloodied cloth out of his fingers.

"Sit," suggested Hoss in a nice voice, pushing him gently with the other hand to the armchair. Joe eagerly helped to get Eric there and get him seated.

"Now," Hoss placed the basin on the table. "I’ll take care of that. Joe, go get Roy and Paul."

His brother stood up but then hesitatingly bent down to Eric. "How do you feel? This man... What did he do to you?"

The injured man raised his right hand, still wearing a bandage, and gently took hold of Joe’s chin, as though to reassure him that everything was fine; he let go almost reluctantly, waving Joe away.

Hoss carefully bandaged Eric’s shoulder, painfully aware he’d caused him much suffering never to be revealed by Eric. "Now, to bed with you," he ordered sternly.

Eric thought better of protesting and obediently headed to the door.

"Hey, I’ll take you upstairs," Hoss stopped him. "The doctor must see your shoulder."

Eric gently manoeuvred his arm out of the big man’s hold and nodded towards the door. "Nearer."

"And I say he stays here until the doctor arrives," Ben cut their discussion short. "He should move as little as possible. Now let me see your back, young man."

Noticing Eric startle, he added dryly, "I’ve seen it already. I must examine the effects of the poker strike."

Eric reluctantly waved Hoss away and began pulling the sleeve down his good arm to uncover the back, but Ben gently took hold of the shirt; Eric waited a bit nervously to be helped, not being able to help much himself. Ben shook his head.

"It doesn’t look too well," he announced. "Paul must see you necessarily."

Eric didn’t answer, just sat back in the armchair, looking away. Ben gently touched his left arm and looked up. "May I see it?"

There was no answer again, but nothing was done to stop him, either.

The little tattoo consisted of a circle, more than half an ellipse above it and six arched lines below, three at each side. It looked like a flower... not really... the circle was like a head... but of course! the head, the halo and the wings – an angel. ‘He was an angel among the others,’ so said the prison governor.

Ben found it a considerable effort to resist the temptation to touch Eric’s face tenderly. He shook his head in disbelief; he knew this man hardly half a year and yet he’d fain treat him like his family. How come? What was it about Eric that invoked such feelings in him? in them?

Through the dense wavy curtain of hair he could see the pale forehead relax, the dark eyelashes resting on the cheeks. He carefully covered the bare arm, turned to Hoss and put a finger to his lips. Eric had fallen asleep.

Hoss jerked his head towards the guestroom, looking questioningly at his father.

"Ask Hop Sing to bring a night-gown for him," Ben reminded him. "And be careful, he must be still in pain." He knew, however, that Hoss did not need to be taught gentleness in handling any hurting being.

Compared to Hoss’ strong arms and big chest, the skinny body if the injured man seemed feeble and defenceless.

"Mmm," Eric protested sleepily to being lifted, but did not seem to wake up really. His head fell almost limply on Hoss’ shoulder, then briefly sought a more comfortable position. Apparently, he didn’t mind Hoss’ actions that much.

***

"And you brought him to the guest room, right?", Paul frowned, lost in thought.

"Yeah, but he woke up when I wanted to undress him," Hoss sighed. "I was real careful, doc, but he just wouldn’t let me help."

"Well, you’ll have to help ME with him," remarked the doctor. "I won’t lift him to a sitting position or turn him on the stomach."

Ben shifted nervously. He’d just explained what had happened and was waiting for Paul to answer.

"I can’t tell you much before seeing him," the doctor shrugged his shoulders. "What I know is that the big man was an escaped prisoner, and his actions indicate extreme brutality... he escaped from the state prison... worse things happen there, Ben. I don’t seem to find much sympathy for that man."

He rose from the armchair. "Let’s see the patient now."

Ben and his sons startled and then rose simultaneously, hearing the doctor close the door. Apparently deep in thought, he reached the armchair, sat down and looked up at the men in front of him.

"Why don’t you sit down?", he suggested in a tired voice. "I told Eric to rest. He doesn’t seem in bad shape, the bones are whole, he just may be somewhat weak and dizzy for the next two or three days; he hit himself on the head while falling on the stairs," explained Paul. "Just a scratch on the forehead, and apparently not very serious, I mean no concussion or anything similar. You couldn’t see it, as it was hidden under the hair. He’ll be fine in a couple of days; an infection is rather unlikely to occur."

"Wait a second, you mean you saw his face?", asked Joe in surprise. "You know who he is?"

Paul nodded wearily. "He has strong reasons to conceal his identity, it’s all I’m allowed to say. Ben... I think you should explain to him about Adam."

Seeing his old friend’s pain-filled face, he added gently, "It would help both of you. He’s not very comfortable with the memory of your reaction to Adam’s photo."

After a moment of silence, Ben asked quietly, "Does his hand still hurt?"

Paul shook his head. "Not nearly as much as his wrong conception of the situation."

They sat silently for some time, remembering the dear, beloved son, brother, friend. Ben finally brushed the tears away and asked hoarsely, "Did he... know Adam?"

Paul pursed his lips, puzzled. "Ask him, Ben, just ask him. I don’t have the answers for you."

Hoss shifted uneasily. "And... this man?... What he did... How’s Eric?"

The doctor easily guessed the unasked, cruelty too difficult for Hoss to comprehend, let alone put into words.

"In prison there happen very strange and very bad things. I believe Eric’s been through worse, actually. It’s beyond our understanding, Hoss, far beyond it. You must have seen his back at least partially – would you ever imagine such beatings? However potentially fatal, this could be the least of tortures."

Ben moaned quietly, aged with sudden pain. "Adam’s been through THAT?"

Paul rose hesitatingly. "Talk to Eric, Ben," he answered gently. "Whenever he’s strong enough. I... have patients in the city. I have to go now."

Hoss and Joe, however miserable, felt obliged to accompany Paul outside, aware as well that their father needed time to gather his strength to handle the subject painful for them all.

***

A knock on the door. Ben hesitatingly glanced into the room. "May I?"

Eric nodded faintly. He was half sitting in the bed, looking out of the window.

"You are still weak," Ben started. "But... I would have a favour to ask of you."

Eric waited patiently.

"You see," Ben sat down in the legs of the bed, "the doctor told me... to put certain things straight with you."

Eric still waited, but this time he seemed more alarmed.

"It’s nothing bad," Ben smiled weakly. "Not for you. Do you remember the photo in the drawer? You saw it when I hurt your hand."

A careful nod.

"It depicts my oldest son. His name was Adam. He was sentenced... they sent him to prison for a couple of years. He never came back." Ben’s voice quivered. "We received a telegram saying that he... that the plague took him. Recently he was found innocent; that was the paper I brought then. We knew he was innocent. But there was no way to prove it then. I never got over losing him; my sons are my life, and he was always my greatest help and support... That’s why I reacted so harshly, because of the injustice of this loss... Are you fine?"

Eric shifted again, nodding. "Must lie down," he whispered. Ben could see he was far from fine, but there was only one thing left to be said, and he got too far to withdraw now.

"I shouldn’t have bothered you when you’re that weak yet, but I have a favour to ask of you, as I said, and it’s very important to me."

Eric sighed involuntarily. "Hot," he answered Ben’s concerned look. "What... favour?"

"First tell me, did you know my son? Did you know him in prison?"

"Yes." Eric had some problems forcing the word out. He felt hot.

"Can you tell me – not necessarily now – whatever you know of him? What happened to him, how was he like then? Did he talk about us? I have so many questions... Will you answer them when you are strong enough? Will you help me get a part of him back?"

Eric nodded. He suddenly felt dizzy. "Sure... Help me... lie down."

Ben moved quickly to help, then exclaimed in surprise, "My goodness, you have fever!" The weak body on his hands emitted unnatural heat, Eric was burning up.
"I’ll send for a doctor right away. Hold on, son, you must be fine."

***

It had been two days ago that Eric had woken up from the fever. The late morning sun was planting diamond sparks in the snow. The house was silent. Probably everybody was out doing chores, and it was too early for Hop Sing to prepare dinner. Eric felt suddenly hungry; then he remembered what he was to do today. It was just a few days before Christmas.

Shaving felt like an enormous change; he had not done it for a couple of years now. Every move of the razor seemed a part of a great ritual, so pleasant that he wanted to savour every moment of it. Then brushing the hair – slowly, thoroughly – he liked his hair that way, that length... He remembered his old photo suddenly.When was it taken? Some... five years ago. A little more, maybe. He studied his face; the nose, well, this changes little; cheeks – hollow; besides, he had been wearing a beard recently, and the scar under it changed his countenance even now; lips – as though fuller; eyes – yes. His eyes had changed. However, he could not find in which point exactly. Maybe they were clearer, maybe more careful; well, they certainly changed more easily, he smiled – just when he’d heard Hop Sing in the kitchen, the cool dark irises lit up into a warm, rich brown with a subtle touch of soft green. He’d seen himself so often in the mirror before; no wonder nobody recognised him; actually, he did change, he was different, new in a way – Exactly. The look in his eyes – it was not that of an element lacking or having been added; everything was of a new quality, similar and yet different.

He stretched; the pleasant image of putting things straight with his employer, the high-and-mighty softie Mr Ben Cartwright, reappeared in his mind’s eye, bringing a smile out onto his lips. At last, Christmas would be as he wanted them to be. He dressed, deciding to look for Ben outside, and opened the door.

"Mr Elic, you eat now and you go to bed!"

Indeed, he felt hungry, he recalled. The breakfast looked inviting.

"OK.", he set the tray on the table, "You convinced me."

Why not ask, actually?

"Nobody at home?"

"Oh, Mr Catlight and Mr Hoss go visit Mr Folestel and Lil’ Joe go to town. All back soon." Hop Sing was apparently good-humoured this morning, judging by the tone. "Hop Sing cook well, Mr Elic eat now tlee times fol day."

Eric would have laughed if he were not swallowing at the very moment, so he just smiled neatly at the cook. After breakfast, he took the jacket and set out to look for any oncoming riders.

"Whele you go?", Hop Sing called out worriedly after him. "Mr Elic to bed!"

Oh, he just wanted to see them coming home! There were two ways... he’d wait where they met, he decided. Soon, he heard hoof beats in the distance, and moved on in this direction to meet Joe, who should be just coming this way.

There came a sudden loud crack. Eric found himself unseated, the fall cushioned by the bed of soft snow. The horse trotted back to the ranch house, followed by another one, which looked very much like Cochise...

"Joe!!"

Eric stood up shakily, listening intently.

"Joe!!!"

Nothing.

God, let him live.

Eric headed at a dead run towards where Cochise had come from. He quickly spotted a motionless figure under a large, thick branch.

"Joe! Joseph," Eric landed hard on his knees, virtually throwing himself to the lying man. "Joe, wake up, wake up for me, please..."

Carefully, he washed the bleeding gash with snow and palpated Joe’s head. Seemingly, the gash was the only problem, unless there was a concussion to be dealt with. The ribs – arms – legs – bones fine, nothing broken. Hopefully no internal damage. The branch was thick, he observed, and probably heavy. Yes, it was heavy -–he left it where it was for the time being. More important was getting Joe out of the unconscious state, he wouldn’t manage alone, he desperately needed Joe to co-operate!

"Joe, Joseph, honey, darling, sweetheart, wake up," he tried the soft way, wiping the blood away with some snow. "Wake up for me, I need you to open your lovely eyes, come on, wake up, Joe, don’t leave me alone! Wake up, Joe, you cute little thing, I know you can do it for me."

Somehow, this worked. Eventually, Joe squinted at the face above him, which relaxed and sighed, "Thank goodness."

"What’s up?", whispered Joe, trying to fight the dizziness and headache.

"A branch broke and fell down on you," Eric stroked his forehead gently. "I need you to co-operate. Will you?"

"Oh, sure," Joe felt light-headed, but apart from that he was ready to help.

"I can lift the branch," explained Eric, "but I won’t drag it away, my arm’s too weak. You must pull yourself out. Is it clear?"

"Yeah," Joe carefully nodded. "You lift, I pull. Clear as day."

Without another word, Eric began to lift the thick branch. Joe obediently co-operated and pulled himself out from under it. When Eric bent over him again, Joe squinted and took a more accurate look. "Is it Christmas?", he asked weakly.

"Almost," Eric put his jacket around the injured man and managed a smile. "Let’s get you home."

How did he make it, he never knew. He just walked with Joe, then carried him in his arms the last couple of steps, until he reached the yard. Ben and Hoss dismounted at once, rushing towards them. He just put Joe in his father’s arms and stopped. Had not Hoss noticed him still standing there, he would not find strength enough to make another step.

Ben carried Joe hurriedly to his son’s room and laid him on the bed. With Hoss’ help he was able to undress him and put him to bed, so that he could redress the head wound, which had been bandaged with a bandanna by Eric.

Hoss turned to ask Eric about what had happened, but instead he grasped a quilt and put it around the shivering man, terrified by the loud chattering of Eric’s teeth.
The man gladly accepted the quilt and much more the strong embrace of Hoss arms. The big man easily understood the silent plea for rest.

"Pa, I’ll get him to bed, best in my room," he said quickly, catching Eric in his arms as he hardly stood. "He gave his jacket to Joe, he had a shirt only; hopefully, he won’t catch pneumonia."

Ben turned at that quickly.

"He shouldn’t be out of bed at all. Bring him there and get a doctor. Joe seems to be fine apart from the gash on his forehead, so don’t worry. Just get the doctor here."

Hoss quickly undressed Eric, who was shivering violently, wrapped him up in the quilt and put to bed. Eric immediately pushed the bluish cheeks into the pillow, curling under the cover.

Ben touched Hoss’ arm gently. "Go, son. I’ll stay with Eric, Hop Sing’s with Joe."

"He’s half frozen, Pa," Hoss shook his head, making for the door. "You’ve got to warm him up somehow."

Ben sat down by the bed and watched the trembling shape curled up under the cover. He tried to get a look at the injured arm, but Eric grasped the covering tightly, not wanting to be uncovered just when he was beginning to feel warmer. Ben carefully took him by the arms and started rubbing; slowly, he moved to the back; then, to the legs; then, he came back to the arms and rubbed the neck a little; finally, he half-turned Eric’s face, rubbing his cheeks – shaven! – as gently yet strongly as he could manage; Eric’s skin felt warm to the touch, indeed too warm; he was feverish already.

"Joe...?", he murmured questioningly into the strong hand, and partially into the pillow.

"He’ll be fine," answered Ben gently. "Hop Sing is with him."

"Mm," acknowledged Eric, settling into deep sleep. He was so tired.

Ben sat more comfortably in the chair, letting his hand rest on Eric’s cheek; he thought about this strange man, and recalled their first meeting.

------------

He had been shaken upon receiving the news from Charlie. According to the foreman’s story, and he wasn’t likely to make anything up, the young son of Mr Forester slapped this ragged man right across the face, and the man simply ignored him. Maybe he was afraid of the rich father of the boy, a sudden thought crossed Ben’s mind.

"Was it so?", he asked sternly.

The man only shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"What’s your name?"

"Eric Pine, sir," the voice was subdued and hoarse.

Ben recognised the specific stance of subordination.

"You’ve been in prison?"

"Yes." Just a simple ‘Yes’, no hesitation, no emotion in the quiet voice.

"Why did you ignore this slap on your face?", inquired Ben in a sterner tone, approaching the man, trying to see something through the dense curtain of bountiful black hair. Anybody else would have been ready to kill the boy.

Eric simply flapped his hand at that, as though the subject was least important. "Got hit too often to care." For the first time, Ben heard a half-smile in the hoarse voice; it did not seem forced.

The man was emaciated, dirty rags sad remnants of his clothes, but his hands were clean. Over the bluish shadows on the cheeks there gleamed the dark hungry eyes.

"When did you eat recently?"

Another shrug of the skinny shoulders. "Dunno."

Ben was never to know it had been a long hungry week – Eric considered the information hardly valuable.

"You want to work here, right? You know this job?"

A nod.

"One condition, and you may feel employed."

"Sir."

"Well, two conditions, actually," Ben corrected himself. "First, you eat a decent dinner before any work; and don’t call me ‘sir’, that’s the second thing. My name is Mr Cartwright."

--------------

The poker hit him so strongly on the spine and he lay motionless, limp – were he unconscious, or that much able to control himself? The man’s cruel look... Ben shivered at the memory. He saw it again: Eric’s vaulted back – despite pain – he must have hurt – the attack – the hit – one only – what strength was required to break a man’s neck? – was it revenge? – and yet he was sorry – they might have known each other, actually...

And he brought Joe home, sacrificing his own health to keep Joe warm in the state of shock.

Eric was a walking mystery.

What might he say about Adam? The refined, well-mannered, INNOCENT man locked in a world of pain and humiliation. Ben never saw him since. He still considered it a nightmare, it was not real, it could not be. Everything came too suddenly to accept it in any way.

Eric moved his head restlessly under Ben’s hand. He was flushed and his breathing was alarmingly strenuous.

Just then, the doctor rushed in.

"How is he?"

"Feverish," answered Ben briefly. "How’s Joe?"

"Well," Paul’s answer was even shorter. "He’ll be fine."

Eric responded weakly to the doctor’s actions. The fever was absorbing most of his energy and awareness.

"The arm’s more or less fine," said Paul while redressing the wounded shoulder. "I was expecting more bleeding. I am afraid of this fever, however, he may be too weak to fight it."

He threw a glance at his patient’s face, this time free from the obscuring dark curtain.

"I suppose he was looking for you outside there," he remarked. "Good for Joe. I guess he wanted to give you some answers you expected of him at last."

Ben winced. Yes, Eric was to tell him about Adam, as much as he knew. He wiped the man’s sweaty forehead; then, his hand wandered onto the familiar arch of the dark brow, the stubborn line of the jaw, the self-assured chin. He gently grazed the scar on the cheek. The heavy eyelids fluttered at these ministrations, then closed again. Ben was virtually afraid to touch the long, rich eyelashes resting on the cheeks.

Eric moaned quietly with the effort of fighting the fever; his head lolled unconsciously on the pillow, the breathing louder, more strenuous, almost a constant moaning. The night crept on unnoticed, and from Hoss’ room still there came quiet groans of effort and ragged breathing.

Ben carefully sat on the bed and put the ill man’s head in his lap, stroking the flushed face. Surprisingly, soon the ragged breathing eased considerably, although the fever did not. In fact, it soared at night, forcing them to use ice to fight it. Strangely enough, there was no thrashing on the bed, no restless shifting, no delirium. He just lay as though deeply asleep, hardly reacting.

"Live, son," asked Ben gently. "Live for me, if for no other reason; live for us."

At daytime the rich, fan-like eyelashes, which Ben used to admire in mother and son alike, would flutter once or twice at the sound of their voices; at night, the fever would burn his body out.

He remained unconscious for five days and nights.

***

The morning sun made him hide his face in the pillow in protection from the light shining straight into his eyes. Soon, however, somebody touched his arm.

"Wake up," a familiar voice said over him.

"Mm," he protested, not feeling up to getting out of bed, really. He was still sleepy, and strangely tired.

"Come on, Adam, wake up," urged the voice.

"Do I have to?", came the muffled question from somewhere inside the pillow.

"You’d better," advised the voice kindly, unable to control the smile creeping into it.

He raised the head and looked around. They were all there. He felt a kiss on his forehead. Ben smiled. "Merry Christmas, son."

"Merry Christmas," Joe and Hoss spoke up simultaneously.

As though nothing had changed.

"Christmas?" He thought for a moment, puzzled. He couldn’t remember so much time having passed. Could it be that he missed something? Oh, whatever.

"Yeah, Merry Christmas," he answered at last. "Then it’s holiday, and I don’t have to get up?"

"No," admitted Ben. "But the doctor wanted to make sure that you’re fine, and therefore we needed you to wake up."

"And I thought you wanted to tell me a kind-hearted ‘Merry Christmas’," grumbled Adam mockingly. "If Joe’s up by now, then let me uphold the family tradition.
Somebody has to sleep late in this house."

He returned the hugs, as heartily as only his strength allowed, and mumbled a ‘Goodnight’, turning back to the pillow, letting his hair cover it freely. Then he remembered something.

"And don’t you try to cut my hair in a civilised way," he demanded sleepily. "Otherwise no wishes but some sleep."

Ben smiled through tears. The danger was over, and Adam was back for good. Hoss put his strong arm over Joe, who whispered, "Best gift I’ve ever had for Christmas. Best I’ve ever had."

Ben bent over ‘the best gift’ and gently shook his arm.

"A few questions, Adam, and I’ll let you sleep the whole day."

A groan was his only answer.

"Adam..."

After a heavy sigh there came a muffled question, "How much is ‘a few’?"

Ben couldn’t help laughing.

"Just to keep you awake until breakfast. Please, son, we must talk," he grew serious.

Adam shifted and half-sat in the bed. "Breakfast, you said?" Then he grew serious, too. "I suppose you expect some explanations I owe you, right?"

"Well... yes," admitted Ben, sitting down on the bed. "Feeling up to it?"

"Sit here," Adam moved the pillow further away to make place. "I remember some of the last nights."

Ben gladly changed his seat and let Adam rest partially on his lap, and partially in his arms. This way he held him most of the last five nights, hoping to ease Adam’s breathing and help him fight the raging fever in this way.

Adam glanced at his brothers.

"Why don’t you sit down, you two? Don’t you think I missed your being near me?", he pretended to grumble. When they eagerly joined him and Ben, he raised his eyes onto his father.

"I guess it would be best to tell the whole story from the beginning," he decided. "Explanations will come by themselves.

"The sentence finished, I got back here. Upon coming home I accidentally heard you say, you had only two sons now, or something alike. The way you spoke... it appeared clear that you decided to expel me from the family for what I did; let me finish," he forestalled Ben’s reaction. "This explained why you stopped visiting me, why nobody came to bring me home the day I was released."

"You never came to the visits," Ben reminded him with pain.

"And be glad," answered Adam pitilessly. "The sight alone would have hurt you.

"Anyway, I had nowhere else to go, and I needed money, so I decided to seek job at the ranch. I went to Charlie first, because I wanted to check whether he’d recognise me. He didn’t, so I applied for the job, and you gave it to me, not knowing who I really was. I did my best not to be recognised, of course. I’d never had a beard, or long hair before; I hid my face; I changed my voice, my manner of speaking; I kept myself at distance from anybody else. It worked, apparently, as nobody seemed to have suspicions as to who I might be."

"And the name?", asked Joe curiously. "Was it somebody you knew?"

"I simply though of Ponderosa, hence Pine, and the first name came from Hoss. He doesn’t use it anyway. I hope you don’t mind?", he looked at his younger brother, who was visibly surprised.

"Sure I can share it with you, big brother," Hoss smiled at last. "Never thought of that."

Adam smiled back and returned to the story.

"I was virtually terrified when you offered me the other job, Pa, I mean the ledgers. First I thought you had recognised me, then I was certain you would if I spent more time near you or the more if you saw my handwriting. However, I took the chance. In the meantime I discovered that my handwriting had changed some, so I was safer than I had thought. Nevertheless, I decided to stay at the bunkhouse in my free time for greater safety."

"Doing our chores," added Joe smoothly. "I should have known, nobody else would ever do that, if they were you."

"Well," Adam flapped his hand. "Let’s say I wanted to feel more like home. I stopped, anyway, when you asked me to.

"There was such a moment when I was completely certain you’d recognise me, Pa, and I was afraid you’d throw me out immediately. Whatever happened, I wanted to stay. You looked at the figures then and remembered how I used to do it before. You simply had to combine the facts, they were too obvious. But somehow, you turned quickly away from the memory, not dwelling on it for a second. It hurt you deeply, I saw it clearly.

"Not until later did I understand your reaction, partially at least. It was when you brought the paper from the judge that I had been found innocent. Then I saw the telegram in the drawer; it struck me. I realised you did not expect me to be alive, and for that reason you did not observe or dwell upon possible similarities. I never knew about the telegram, not until I saw it. There had to be some terrible mistake... However, I was so certain that you hurt about my guilt I did not recognise... I... your reaction to the photo seemed to confirm my conviction; I saw clearly that you couldn’t bear the sight of my face. This, however, was in a way a positive factor, it meant you didn’t recognise me at all, you were nice to me, and didn’t shun my presence. You obviously hated to see Adam, but accepted Eric gladly. What was I to do? I wanted to stay, no matter the name, at least until Christmas.

"Then, Justice showed up." He smiled at their consternation. "That’s how they called him, the man I killed. I don’t think you were aware of the danger; he was very brutal, robbed completely of human feelings. He may have recognised me, judging by his actions, and could hurt you out of pure malice, just because he found me with you. Honestly, I didn’t know I’d hit that hard. It’s just... after I had hurt my right hand, so I couldn’t use it for a time, the left arm gained more strength, maybe I wasn’t aware how much more. It just happened," he shrugged his shoulders.

"Adam," Ben spoke up with hesitation, "he hit you so strongly, and he... I never imagined a man so cruel."

Adam shook his head calmly.

"Had he hit me strongly, he would have broken my spine," he answered simply. "He wanted a reaction, and I’ve learned long ago to control any. Just don’t bother about it anymore."

"But Adam, he shot you and then hit you so strongly, anybody would have been hurt!"

"I’m not anybody, Pa," said Adam seriously, "and nobody can hurt me so easily. That’s the point, you see. I’ve been through worse than a single strike in the back, I went through the critical point, and survived, and I accept myself more easily now. I gained more of myself in the prison after that, instead of losing anything but some inhibitions and the feeling of guilt. Besides, what’s the hurt, I don’t have my dignity smeared over me to be beaten off by some mad guy."

"Or slapped away by a rich kid?", asked Ben gently, hurting with the memory of his son being treated like that.

"Oh, I told you I’ve been hit too often to care, didn’t I?", Adam smiled shifting to make himself more comfortable. "Don’t bother, really. It requires more dignity to ignore such details than to react proudly, and if nobody can hurt me, who can fight me?"

Ben shivered, hugging Adam more tightly. It wasn’t the Adam he knew; and yet he was the same loving son and brother.

"When Paul saw the old scar over my ear, he recognised me," Adam returned to the story. "I asked him not to tell you, and I had to give my reasons for such decision. He kept quiet about it, as I understand, yet he sent you to me to clear up the situation. Not in the least was I considering... certain possibilities... but it seemed logical, it explained your reactions and your pathological aversion to deal with the subject. Besides, I know you well enough to guess what you feel by the tone of your voice and the gestures – well, behaviour.

"Then, having built up some strength, I got up to talk to you. I shaved, ate my breakfast and sought you. Then I heard Joe from far, and the loud crack of the branch.
I helped him home... and that’s more less it."

"I didn’t recognise you," admitted Hoss sadly. "What a shame. My own brother."

"Neither did I," sighed Joe. "That’s no fair, older brother."

Ben shook his head in pain. "I didn’t recognise my own child."

Adam stroked his father’s hand soothingly. "I didn’t make it easy for you, did I? If it makes you feel better, I didn’t recognise myself even after shaving. The Adam Cartwright you all knew died long ago in prison. You either accept the new one, or... oh, Pa, I love you all none the less than before!"

Spontaneous hugs came from all three sides, and he returned them most eagerly. Eventually, spotting Hop Sing in the doorway, he gasped:

"Don’t you think this bed is becoming slightly too crowded?"

He struggled into a sitting position and sniffed after the tray.

"All right, a deal’s a deal. Breakfast is there. Hello, Hop Sing."

"Mr Adam eat, Hop Sing cook all favoulite," the cook’s face lit up with a huge happy smile. Adam breathed deeply in the smell of the breakfast. " I admire your talent, Hop Sing," he declared whole-heartedly. "You’re second to none."

The little Chinese could not smile happier and more proudly anymore.

"Oh, Adam," Ben remembered something suddenly.

"Uh-uh," Adam shook his head. "No more questions, the breakfast is there, and then I go to sleep."

"Just one," smiled his father. "Tonight we have a Christmas party. Will you join in?"

In turn, Adam swallowed the food, shrugged his shoulders and yawned. "I don’t really know, Pa. I’ll tell you after I wake up, all right?", he decided.

"Whatever you say," Ben kissed his forehead in a very much fatherly way. "Pleasant dreams, then."

"See you later in the day," both Joe and Hoss hugged him fiercely once again and left, too.

Hop Sing shook his finger gravely. "Mr Adam lie to Hop Sing, not tell who he is. Bad boy."

"Very bad," admitted Adam. "Did I tell you already how I love your cooking?"

The cook frowned and pretended to be offended with Adam, but a moment later he laughed and shook his finger again. "Mr Adam talk about cooking so Hop Sing not angly. Sneaky boy, vely sneaky."

Adam pulled the bed’s cover onto his shoulders, making himself more comfortable in the bed. "Honestly, Hop Sing, you cook best; I don’t need to be sneaky to state a simple fact."

Hop Sing chuckled in answer, taking the tray away and heading downstairs to his little kingdom.

***

"I’m deeply sorry, that’s all I can say."

Mr Turner looked at Ben sadly. He was the first to insist on sentencing Adam, but then he deeply believed the young man was guilty of hurting his daughter. Now, however, knowing that he’d sent an innocent man to prison for him to die of plague there, he felt terrible guilt.

"I know one shouldn’t bring such things up at a party, Mr Cartwright, but I felt I had to talk to you... I know how it feels to see your child hurting, and to lose a child... what shall I say..."

"Holding any grudges won’t make us any better," answered Ben softly. " I can’t say it didn’t hurt me, but I hope I can say it is over. You were hurting yourself; no saying how I would act if I were you."

Mr Turner looked at his interlocutor in surprise. "Can you... really forgive me?"

Ben smiled somewhat sadly. "Yes."

"Oh, Mr Cartwright, Mr Cartwright!", a lady appeared beside them, glittering in her rich dress. She was a fairly new resident of Virginia City; well off, she was widowed young, and now was helping sometimes in the school to kill the time. Her name was Marilyn Benson, but everybody called her Mrs Mary.

"Good evening, Ma’am," Ben smiled to her. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, Mr Cartwright, you certainly can," she smiled back. "I saw somebody here that I don’t know; would you please tell me who he might be? Maybe a guest from the East? He is so refined, so well-mannered, and has such an innocent look... He is so handsome; is he married? I wouldn’t believe it if he weren’t, such a man must necessarily be in need of a wife..."

"Which of the guests is it, Ma’am?", Ben interrupted her gently. He couldn’t recall anybody whom she didn’t know at the party.

"Oh, the one dancing with Miss Turner, of course, the one with those gorgeous long hair." Only now did she notice Mr Turner standing nearby. "Oh, good evening,
Mr Turner; I must say your daughter looks really splendid tonight."

"Excuse me," a manly voice interrupted their conversation. "I was so bold as to ask a whole dance of your daughter, sir, and I must admit she is the best partner I ever had pleasure to dance with," the man smiled a bit sheepishly, leading a young lady, somewhat flushed from the dance, to Mr Turner. They both held some drinks in their hands, and seemed to have enjoyed themselves. Mrs Mary lit up, it was obviously this man she had been talking about.

Mr Turner frowned, trying to remember the man. "Excuse me... I think I know you but..."

The man traced the scar on his cheek with a smile. "I might have changed."

Ben frowned, too, but rather with annoyance, and pointed to the cup. "Isn’t it too early for you to drink? You just got up from bed."

The man grinned. "Coffee," he showed the contents of the cup. "The best Hop Sing ever made."

"I didn’t expect you to show up, you said you’d stay in bed," murmured Ben, considering the discourse private, or at least not for the ears of almost complete strangers.

"I could change my mind," the man murmured back, and turned to Mr Turner. "Shall I help you, sir?"

"Please," the elder man smiled thankfully. "I know we’ve met somewhere, but I can’t recall the circumstances."

"So good," his interlocutor breathed with a bit exaggerated relief. "My name is Adam Cartwright. I... don’t seem to recall the circumstances either... must have been in San Francisco or some other big city... nothing connected with this very place, right?"

Mr Turner blinked in surprise, then suddenly understood. "Oh... yes... San Francisco... it had to be San Francisco. I am glad... to see you in good health."

Noticing Mrs Mary turn away for a second, he asked anxiously in a murmur, "You really don’t recall... the proceeding?"

"What proceeding?", Adam murmured back innocently, smiling immediately when Mrs Mary turned to him. "I hope you can forgive me, Mary," he turned to his partner, "but I can’t manage another dance right now, if I am to stay on my feet for the next few hours. I AM sorry."

"I hope you can manage one later," she smiled. "Otherwise your brother will dance my feet off all by himself."

Adam gazed after Joe, seeking him in the crowd. "And there he is, sneaking here to steal you from me," he noticed. "I hope you will enjoy the party," he smiled again, allowing her to fall prey to his youngest brother, then rested himself in the armchair and gave Mrs Mary one of his most dazzling smiles, melting her down immediately. "Please have a seat, Madam. I have heard you have a rich collection of books, which you allow the schoolchildren to use. May I be so bold as to ask about certain titles I haven’t yet had the pleasure to read?"

The End (just kidding)



RETURN TO LIBRARY