Shortcut to Terror

By DebbieB
DLB1248@aol.com

Hot, dirty and past being tired, the two riders pulled their equally weary mounts to a halt. One man slid from his saddle and walked over to the nearest boulder where he sat down, moaning softly.

“I’m beat,” he told his companion as he stretched.

“Yeah…I know what ya mean,” the second man agreed as he pushed the cork back into his canteen and then did as the first man had done and slid from his saddle. He joined his companion and leaned against the boulder, resting his broad back.

“My backside’s numb!” he said with a slight grin on his chubby face.

The older man, who was the bigger man’s brother, laughed.

“I sure hope we find them soon, I could use a bath, a hot meal and a good night’s rest…in my own bed.”

“Wonder where they got to, Adam?”

“Beats me…all I know, this isn’t a bit like Pa not to let one of us know where he’s going…now, if it were just Little Joe…”

“Yeah…but they’s together this time. Could be they’re in some kind of trouble.”

“That’s possible…we’re not that far from Indian Grief…” Adam concluded as he pushed himself from his resting place. “Come on…lets see what’s over that ridge.”

“Oh Lordy, Adam…ya don’t reckon them two took another one of Joe’s shortcuts, do ya?”

“Who knows,” moaned Adam with a smirk, “You know Joe can talk Pa into just about anything…”

Joe watched from the corner of his eye, his father stumbling along trying to keep up. Both men were practically being dragged along behind the Indians who had slipped up on them and taken them prisoners. Both Joe and Ben’s hands were bound tightly together and each were being forced to trot along behind their captors.

Ben, exhausted from the long run, stumbled again, this time falling face down into the dirt. Joe called out to his father to get up, but it was useless, Ben was rendered helpless and after being dragged for several yards, his captor at last stopped. Ben lay motionless, face down in the dirt. Seconds later, Soaring Eagle stopped as well, giving Little Joe time to catch his breath. He glanced anxiously at his father, who had yet to move.

“Pa!”

Soaring Eagle yanked hard on the rope, practically knocking Joe to the ground. Joe’s eyes moved from his father’s lifeless form to the man who sat on horseback towering over him. Joe held his tongue, not wanting to anger the man more than he already was. Soaring Eagle made no secret of his hatred for the white man.

“My father…needs help,” Joe said at last.

Soaring Eagle, not wanting his prisoners to die…at least not yet, nodded his head toward Ben, indicating to Joe that he was to go to the older man.

Silver Fox, Soaring Eagle’s companion, remained sitting on his horse, caring nothing that his prisoner was totally exhausted and was in dire need of water.

“Pa,” Joe cried softly as he gently turned Ben over onto his back.

A muted cry escaped Joe’s lips when he saw the condition of his father’s face, the scratches and small cuts embedded with dirt and tiny stones. Joe glanced up at the small band of Indians who had circled them. He forced himself to mask his true feelings for it would serve no purpose if he allowed himself to voice them.

“Water…he needs water,” he demanded.

Silver Fox shook his head no.

“I’m alright, son,” Ben said weakly as he allowed Joe to help him to his feet. Ben wobbled slightly as he brushed the dust from his eyes with the backs of his bound hands.

Soaring Eagle turned his horse about and kicked him in the ribs. Once more, Joe and Ben were made to trot along behind. Joe kept a watchful eye on his waning father. He knew that if Ben stumbled again, he would be of no use to help him. The band of Indians were set on reaching their destination, regardless of the condition in which their prisoners arrived.

It seemed as if they had ran for miles before Soaring Eagle and Silver Fox pulled their mounts to a stop. Instantly, both father and son dropped to their knees, lungs heaving, and straining to suck much needed air into their chests.

Joe took a quick look around and nudged his father.

“Look,” he muttered between gasps.

Ben lay flat on the ground, totally spent he raised his head slightly and looked in the direction his son had indicated. Beyond where they rested, only yards away, was a stream. Already half the braves had led their horses to the cool water and allowed them to drink their fill.

Joe stood to his feet and pulled Ben to his. They leaned heavily against one another, both just about spent and drained of all their energy. As they started toward the water, both were brought to a sudden halt.

Soaring Eagle and Silver Fox yanked back on their ropes, jerking each prisoner around, away from the water. With a nod of his head, Soaring Eagle motioned for four of his men. They grabbed the Cartwrights and shoved and pushed them toward two tall cacti brimming with high arches and branches filled with tiny, prickly thorns.

Joe was the first to have his back shoved against the wide trunk. He gritted his teeth against the sharp pain in his back, determined not to cry out. With no feeling for the stinging pain of their captives, the braves hauled Joe’s arms high over his head and secured them with the rawhide ropes. His feet barely touched the ground and if to add insult to injury, the braves wrapped another length of rawhide about the boy’s ankles and securing them around the bass of the cactus and thus making it impossible for Joe to move away from the offending needles. He dared not squirm, for fear of adding more pain to his already stricken back. The same was done to Ben until both stood stiffly and ramrod straight against the tall cactus. Joe could hear his father making soft moaning sounds. When he turned to look at his father, his heart fell, Ben looked more dead than alive.

“Pa?” Joe called in a muttering voice.

Ben made no response. Joe watched helplessly as the Indians drank from the stream. His dry and parched mouth caused his senses to yearn for the same. Every so often, Soaring Eagle would look his way, a mocking grin upon his dark skinned face as he toyed with the cool droplets in his hands, laughing when he saw Joe unconsciously lick his cracked and chapped lips. As awful as he felt, Joe knew that if his father were not given water soon, Ben would succumb to his mistreatment. Fear and anger began to boil and fester deep within the younger Cartwright’s soul for the Indians who had begun their slow and deadly game of torture. Water seemed less important then as he glanced again at his beloved father and saw Ben squirm against the prickly cactus and heard the soft whimpers of agony that Ben unknowingly made.

The hours of darkness seemed to linger on for a lifetime. Joe’s back felt damp with the collection of blood that he knew seeped from his wounds. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt thick from the lack of water. His head slumped slightly downward, his chin almost resting on his chest. He was too weary, too weak to even make an effort to look around at his father. Joe feared the worst for his parent. It had been hours since he’d heard so much as a soft moan. There had been no movement on his father’s part; Ben’s entire body sagged forward, straining against the restraints that held his body upright against the cactus. Joe’s greatest fear was that his father would soon die, if he had not already done so.

The sun rose slowly over the crest of the mountaintop. Joe heard the Indians approaching, speaking in soft tones. When he glanced up, he saw Silver Fox grab a handful of Ben’s hair and jerk the senior Cartwright’s head upright. Ben’s eyes were closed and even from where he stood prisoner, Joe could see the chalky whiteness of his father’s face and knew without having to be told, that sometime during the long night hours, Ben had lost his battle against his enemies. Tears welled in Joe’s hazel eyes, a knot the size of his fist lodged in his throat. He felt his stomach rumble and was forced to turn his head away, letting the hot acid that boiled from deep down and worked its way into his mouth, spew out onto the hard packed earth beneath his feet.

Silver Fox shouted in victory and danced around his prisoner, tossing his head and arms up and down as he twirled around and around in circles. Soaring Eagle and the others watched, adding their voices to their companion’s. When the band of warriors had tired of their victory dance, Soaring Eagle moved to stand before his own prisoner, gleaming proudly at the defeated expression on the young man’s face.

“Your father is dead…” he sneered at Joe. “Soon, you will join him…”

Joe, his eyes dark with hatred spat in the red man’s face.

Angered, Soaring Eagle grabbed Joe by the hair and yanked his head backwards. With his other hand, he jabbed the sharp point of his knife into the middle of Joe’s throat, making a tiny slice in the flesh where instantly it appeared red with bright blood.

“You will regret that!” jeered the Indian. “I will make you suffer…you will beg me to kill you…and I shall…but not before you have endured many hours of great pain…”

Soaring Eagle slammed Joe’s head back against the sharp pricks of the cactus, causing Joe to grit his teeth tightly to keep from crying out. The tears that lingered escaped from one corner of his eye, causing the red man to stare in awe at the tiny droplet. But only for a moment, then Soaring Eagle tossed back his head and laughed loudly. The sound echoed in Joe’ ears, lingering when the Indian turned and walked away, mocking him, caring naught for his prisoner’s broken heart and crushed spirit. The white man was nothing to the red man…except for one thing…his enemy, which he aimed to destroy.

When the braves untied Joe, he struggled, digging the heels of his boots into the earth as he bulked at being forced along. With great longing showing in his eyes, he glanced at his father’s still form that remained tied to the cactus where his body was left to rot in the hot sun.

“NO!” screamed Joe as he was literally dragged along.

He soon ceased his struggles as he was forced to the ground, held down by strong hands while other hands yanked and jerked on his boots, removing them from his feet. Joe watched as the brave holding the boots tossed them aside. He was then hauled to his feet, his stocking feet already feeling the heat that emitted from the hot ground beneath them. Another brave checked the man-make ropes that bound Joe’s wrists together, making sure that the knots were still tied tightly. When he was sure they were, the brave nodded his head at Soaring Eagle, who sat proudly, head held high, on the bare back of his dark pony. Soaring Eagle looked down at Joe, hate brewing in his ebony eyes.

“Now you begin to suffer,” he said in a surprisingly soft tone.

Joe was unprepared for the warrior’s next move and almost stumbled when Soaring Eagle gouged his pony in the ribs with the heels of his feet and took off at a run. Joe was forced to run along behind, following in a staggering manner through the thick dust kicked up by the horse’s hooves. Tiny particulars of dirt stung his face and blinded his eyes, yet he some how managed to stay on his feet, though he soon began to feel the jagged rocks cutting into the tender flesh of his near bare soles.

By the time that Soaring Eagle and his band of braves stopped, Joe was huffing and puffing. He dropped to his knees, head bent forward, gasping for air to fill his heaving lungs. Blood soaked the bottoms of his socks with a dirty orange color as it mixed with the dirt, yet he felt no pain except for the fiery burning in his chest. Totally spent, Joe collapsed, rolling slowly over onto his back. Though the sun shone brightly, he saw nothing more than the blackened image of the man standing over him. The brave was talking, but his voice seemed muffled and far away to his prisoner. The wounded man strained to bring his eyes into focus, stretching out his hands, longing for the touch of the one man whom he knew could help him, forgetting that his father’s corpse was now decaying in the scorching sun.

“Pa?” he muttered in an inaudible voice seconds before his world went black and his eyes closed against the pounding pain of his broken heart.

“Hoss, look down there!” Adam called as he brought his horse to a sudden halt.

Hoss pulled Chubb to a standstill along side his brother’s horse and looked in the direction Adam was pointing.

“That’s Pa’s horse…” Hoss exclaimed. “Adam, see that big oak tree just to the right of Buck? Ain’t that Cochise standin’ in the shadows?”

“Sure looks like it; come on, Pa and Little Joe must be down there.”

Adam spurred his mount and galloped down the hill. Hoss followed, keeping his eyes fixed on the two horses. Buck stopped grazing and looked up as Adam and Hoss drew near. He whinnied softly at his stable mates.

Adam slid from the saddle and moved to examine his father’s horse and gear. He glanced around, hoping to see his father and brother.

“PA…LITTLE JOE!” Adam called.

Hoss had walked into the brush and appeared again, leading Joe’s pinto.

“I didn’t find anything out of the norm…what about you?” he asked his older brother.

“Nothing,” Adam said as his eyes searched the surrounding area.

“LITTLE JOE!” he shouted again.

“PPAAA!” Hoss yelled.

The big man hated to admit it, but he was becoming more alarmed as the minutes ticked away. He looked anxiously at his older brother.

“Somethin’ ain’t right, Adam,” he muttered with a worried frown.

“Yeah…I get that same feeling,” Adam answered as he secured the reins around a limb. “Let’s look around a bit. I’ll go upstream, you go down…if you don’t find anything after about ten minutes, cross over and head back this way…I’ll meet you…”

“Alrighty,” Hoss agreed as he secured Joe’s pinto.

Hoss set out down stream, being careful to watch the ground for any signs that might give him a clue as to what happened to his family. When he had walked for what he believed to be the allotted ten minutes, he waded across the shallow stream and started back. He’d only gone a short distance when he stopped suddenly. Lying on the ground right in front of him was Little Joe’s hat. Hoss snatched it from the ground, turning it over and over in his large beefy hands. He checked the inside brim. His hands froze, he gasped.

“Oh Lordy,” he muttered to himself as he touched the stain with one finger. The substance felt sticky. His heart sank…it was blood…Little Joe’s blood. Instantly, Hoss started walking quickly back toward Adam, keeping his eyes opened wide for any more signs.

“ADAM!” he called as he neared the place where he was to meet his brother.

Adam appeared instantly, already seeing the hat that Hoss held tightly in his hand.

“Looky,” Hoss said as he handed the hat to Adam. “There’s blood on the inside brim.”

Adam’s face looked drawn and tired. His lips were pressed tightly together. Hoss could easily read the worry in his brother’s dark eyes when Adam looked up at him.

“There’s been a struggle…over there, come have a look,” he told Hoss, leading the way to a small clearing.

Hoss looked at the ground, the signs were easy to read. The moss-covered earth was ripped and torn in more than one place. A couple of small branches lay at the base of a small scrub bush, broken. Hoss walked around in a semi-circle, stopping to stoop down about halfway around. When he straightened, he fingered what he held in his hand and then turned to Adam, extending his hand.

“A feather…an Indian’s feather…see…it came from an eagle,” he said quietly. “They’s in trouble Adam…bad trouble,” he muttered, glancing again at the area around him. “They sure ‘nough put up a fight…see…” he pointed to the ground. “And over here…half a dozen horses…two men on foot…following behind…” Hoss gulped as he glanced at his brother.

“Pa and Joe’s them two on foot, Adam…see the indention on this smaller print…that’s made from the hole in the bottom of Little Joe’s boot. They been took prisoner…”

Adam and Hoss followed the trail until the sun sank so far below the hills that they were forced to stop for the night. Neither was happy that they had found nothing more, other than prints left in the dirt. Both refused to mention to the other the signs on the ground telling them that their father had obviously fallen and had been dragged behind the Indian and his pony that forced him to continue despite the fact that he was no longer on his feet.

Fear for their family’s welfare however, was written into the deep creases on their faces and the dark brooding glare in their eyes.

“We’ll go on as soon as it’s daylight,” Adam said as he unrolled his bedding and spread it on the ground close to a cluster of rocks that provided shelter from the cold wind that had risen. “We best not light a fire, Hoss,” he suggested when he noticed his brother picking up small sticks. “It might draw attention…”

Hoss paused in his work and glanced around as if expecting the Indians to spring from the brush. Carelessly he dropped the sticks and dusted off his hands.

“I suppose ya right,” he grumbled as he sat down on his own bedroll and began digging into his saddlebag. Moments later he offered his brother a slice of jerky. “Ain’t much of a supper,” he mumbled, “My ole belly is plum empty…”

“I know, mine’s been rumbling since lunch…but just think, Hoss…” he held out a hardened biscuit and offered it to Hoss, “could be worse…I doubt that Pa and Little Joe’s had anything to eat or drink. Those Indians we’ve been tracking are moving fast…”

Hoss had the biscuit almost to his mouth but his hand stopped in mid-air. He swallowed hard, glancing over at Adam who sat watching him. The expression on his rotund face as he looked at the uneaten bread was a guilty one.

“Go on, brother…eat it, Pa wouldn’t want us to go without…”

Again Hoss swallowed, but he nodded his head this time, in agreement and then took a bite, chewing it slowly.

Even before the sun was entirely up, the pair of brothers had already saddled their mounts and was ready to leave. Adam swung onto his horse’s back and led the way from the little clearing, keeping a sharp eye on the trail left by the small band of Indians.

They hadn’t traveled more than a couple of miles when Hoss, now in the lead and watching closely the tracks embedded into the ground, suddenly yanked back on his reins bringing his big horse to a sudden and unexpected stop. Sport almost collided with his stablemate but veered to the left, almost unseating his rider.

“What the…” grumbled Adam as he fought to keep from falling out of the saddle.

Hoss twisted his head around. Adam, seeing the horrified look on his brother’s face, stopped his retort in mid-sentence. He saw his brother gulp deeply.

“Hoss?”

“Adam, looky down there!” Hoss said, pointing down the hill where two tall cacti stood out in stark contrast to the blue-sky overhead. The vast prairie opened up just below them, ending the scantly cluster of forest on the hillside where they had brought their horses to a standstill.

Adam strained his eyes against the bright sun as he tried to make out the form that looked like an extension of the cactus’ branches. “What is that?” he muttered more to himself than to his brother.

“Looks like…” Hoss’ eyes darkened and without saying more, he kicked Chubb in the sides and galloped across the open space, caring not that the enemy might be hiding somewhere nearby.

“HOSS WAIT!” commanded Adam with no results.

Sighing deeply, he nudged his own mount down the slope. With a look of disbelief mingled with fear, Adam slipped from his horse. Quickly he pulled his knife from his pocket and cut the ropes that had for so many hours, held his father prisoner to the cactus. Ben’s body sagged heavily against that of his eldest son. Too overcome with emotion, Adam cradled his father’s limp body in his arms for several seconds, until Hoss shook off the icy fear that had momentarily stopped him cold, and rushed to help his brother. The look on Hoss’ face left no doubt of his turmoil as he aided Adam in lowering their father’s body to the ground. Hoss glanced up at Adam sickened at what they had found.

“Is he dead?” he whispered, almost too distressed to voice his question aloud.

Adam, his lips drawn taunt, pressed his fingers against the vein in Ben’s neck that would answered his brother’s question. He closed his eyes tightly, praying silently that what he feared would not be so. For several agonizing moments he remained so, without speaking or opening his eyes.

“Adam?” muttered Hoss as he pressed his hand down on Adam’s shoulder. He could feel the silent tremors that coursed though his brother’s body.

“It’s faint…but its there,” Adam said, opening his eyes at last and giving Hoss a wee smile.

“Thank you God!” squealed Hoss.

Tiny tears had formed in his eyes and when he blinked, they were released. He cried only briefly and then wiped the sleeve of his shirt across the front of his face, removing the traces of emotion that had given away his hidden fear.

“Get me some water,” Adam issued as he dusted the dirt and smeared blood from his father’s face.

Hoss was already pulling the cork from his canteen when he squatted down next to Adam. Adam held out his neckerchief and let Hoss pour enough water onto it to wet it and then by pressing his fingers tightly, he squeezed out the excess before using the cloth to wipe his father’s brow.

Ben moaned softly, turning his head slightly toward Adam’s broad chest. Carefully, Adam pressed the lip of the canteen to his father’s blistered lips and tipped the receptacle upward allowing a small stream to spill over into Ben’s mouth. Ben’s lips parted and as he drank he began struggling to take the canteen from his son’s hand, almost spilling the precious liquid.

“Easy, Pa…easy,” Adam cooed in a gentle voice. “Drink slowly,” he cautioned as he fought to maintain control.

“He’s about thirsted to death,” muttered Hoss.

The sound of Adam’s voice penetrated into the deep recesses of Ben’s confused mind and slowly began luring the withering man’s dying thoughts back to the surface of life where it belonged. Ben at last pushed the canteen away from his lips as he struggled to open his eyes to see the face behind the voice that beckoned him back from death’s door.

“Ad…am…”

Adam smiled, unaware that he had done so. “Yeah, Pa…it’s me…”

“And me…” Hoss said in a thick, emotional tone.

Ben turned his head slightly, enough so that he could make out the rotund face of his middle son. With great effort, he raised his hand toward the larger man. Hoss, smiling, grasped his father’s hand in his.

“Ya sure ‘nough gave us a scare, Pa,” he coughed.

“I’m…sorry…”sputtered Ben. “I…thought…I…was…dead…”

“Ya dang near was!” Hoss said and then chuckled nervously.

“Come on, Hoss, help me move him into the shade…” Adam ordered.

He carefully started to lift his father, but Ben grabbed his son’s arm and with what strength he could muster, squeezed.

“Joseph…” moaned Ben.

Adam glanced at Hoss and then looked back at his father, shaking his head.

“We haven’t found him, Pa…”

“Took…him…the…Indians…took…him…” Ben’s voice was weak, his speech broken as the sobs overpowered his weakened spirit.

“We know, Pa…we’ve been trailin’ em…try not to worry…we’ll find Little Joe…” Hoss assured his father.

“Hoss is right, Pa…but first, we’ve got to get you home…”

Ben’s anger seemed to be sparked by his son’s statement. He forced his eyes opened and tried to stand on his own. “NO…I’m…not wasting…time going…home. They’ll kill…him…we have…to get…to him.”

“Pa…”

“NO…just…give me a bit…to rest…then put…me on…a horse…”

His father wasn’t far from wrong. Soaring Eagle had every intention of killing his prisoner, but not at that exact moment. Instead, Joe had awaken and found himself tossed across the bare back of an Indian pony. The bottoms of his feet, ripped and torn, made it impossible for Soaring Eagle’s prisoner to walk behind so Joe had been subjected to more abuse when he’d been strapped down tightly with long strips of rawhide rope.

The horse jolted Joe’s aching body cruelly as he trotted along at the end of the long line of braves. Opening his eyes, Joe tried to glance around. His surroundings were unfamiliar to him, dry and barren…in the distance he could make out a line of trees. It appeared to be the direction Soaring Eagle and Silver Fox were heading.

For what seemed like hours, Joe was forced to endure the torment of being strapped down across the horse. Soft moans slipped from his lips as he fought not to be heard. When he could take no more, Joe allowed himself to succumb to the blackness that beckoned him.

The sun was midway in the sky by the time that the small band of Indians had reached their final destination. Joe was jarred from his safe retreat when he was hauled from the horse’s back. He struggled to free himself from the hands that pawed at his body, but weakened by his abuse, his struggle was useless. Joe felt his body being lifted from the ground and carried a short distance from where they had left the horses.

Fighting to maintain control of his senses and of the warriors who whooped and hollered in his ears, Joe’s clothes were stripped from his body, leaving him only in his long johns bottom. His body was then slammed hard against the ground. He felt the stones beneath him cutting into his back as several pairs of hands held his arms high over his head. His legs were spread apart and held in place while others tied both ankles and wrists and secured them firmly to the ground. When their job was finished, the braves parted, leaving the white man secured with tight knots of rawhide strips spread eagle on the hard packed earth. Joe tugged at his arms but soon stopped, there would be no working free of the knots the braves had made and of the stakes that had been hammered deeply into the ground.

Joe gritted his teeth as he stared into the hate filled eyes of the men who towered over him. Soaring Eagle stepped forward as the others took a step back to allow him admittance. The warrior squatted down and stared darkly into the face of his enemy. For several moments Joe met the stare with eyes as filled with loathing as the ones that looked back at him.

Suddenly without warning, Soaring Eagle spat in Joe’s face. Joe’s eyes closed tightly as the saliva ran down his cheeks. He heard the Indian laugh and knew when the man stood to his full height. Slowly he opened his eyes. The sun that shone brightly in Joe’s eyes masked the tall, slender warrior’s face; but the tone of voice the Indian used was unmistakable.

Soaring Eagle mumbled something that Joe could not understand. Two braves slipped away from the group but returned minutes later to stand on either side of Joe’s captor. He saw Soaring Eagle look at the objects that the pair held out to him. The Indian laughed as he squatted back down. Nervously, Joe glanced around at the group who had circled him. The other two braves squatted down next to Soaring Eagle. Joe’s senses picked up an odd scent. It emitted from the small wooden bowl that one brave held in his hand.

Soaring Eagle spoke in low tones to the pair. One Indian handed the bowl to Soaring Eagle and then with the help of the other, one grabbed Joe by the hair while the second brave held Joe’s chin firmly so that he was unable to move his head. Joe tried to squirm away, but there was no getting free.

Soaring Eagle laughed at the sudden fear that sparked his prisoner’s eyes. Joe watched as his captor dipped a small ladle into the thick hot substance that was in the bowl. Soaring Eagle moved his hand with the ladle over the front of Joe’s face. Joe’s breathing was labored. His chest rose and fell as he sucked in deep breaths trying to ward off his escalating fear.

“This is the last face you will ever see,” muttered Soaring Eagle as he pointed to his own face. “But you will come to know the sound of my voice, and your hate for me will soon grow and you will wish me dead. But it is not I that will die…it is you…but for now my voice is your only link between life and death…”

Slowly Soaring Eagle tipped the ladle. The warm sticky substance began to drip onto Joe’s face. He closed his eyes as the thick liquid spread over his eyelids. His face felt as if it were on fire, causing him to scream…giving him cause to hate himself for the terror and the sick feeling that gnawed at his gut and had suddenly become so loud and vocal. Soon the warm mixture thickened and hardened as it cooled, sealing Joe’s eyes shut and blinding his vision from the faces that hovered above him. Soaring Eagle’s dark expressive eyes loomed in his mind, searing the image into Joe’s memory forever.

When the hands freed his hair, Joe tossed his head back and forth, trying desperately to open his eyes. The sound of his voice resounded in his own ears as he screamed his hatred at his tormentors. The laughter that rang about him sounded muted as if it were far away. Joe was drifting in and out of consciousness; his spirit begged for relief but his will was not quite ready to give up. He listened for the hushed whispers but minutes later he was alone with his misery. Joe knew that the Indians had gone, leaving him to his pain and desperation. He felt the tears forming behind his close eyes, though none escaped through the hardened substance that had sealed his eyes to the world around him.

Sickened and frightened, Joe’s whimpering went unobserved by anyone other than to the God to whom he prayed. Even before his first prayer had ended, his battle to stay alert had ended and Joe was temporarily lost in a sea of black forgetfulness, his refuge from the suffering and pain he was forced to endure as he teetered between life and death.

It was hours later before Soaring Eagle returned to check on his prisoner. For several long moments he stood in silence, observing the white man and listening to the soft murmurs that escaped past the dried and cracked flesh of his captive’s bruised and swollen lips. The white man was still alive though he laid deathly still. Soaring Eagle wondered if the man’s senses were still vital enough that he could sense his presence.

The red man kicked out with his toe and jabbed it into Joe’s side. Joe flinched. Through gritted teeth, he spoke.

“I know you’re there,” he muttered in a broken, muted tone. “You stink…I smelled you before you got ten feet from me,” he spat.

Soaring Eagle, his dark expressive eyes dancing with anger knelt down next to his prisoner. His voice was low and threatening.

“When you die, your body will rot in the sun…and then it will be you that stinks. Already the buzzards fly overhead…waiting…soon they will swoosh down and pluck out your eyes…some will chip away at the covering that has hardened…others will pick at your flesh…”

The Indian watched the expression of fear seep into the fine, tired lines that creased Joe’s face. The warrior continued with his verbal assault.

“Your fingers are no longer white…your feet are blue as well. The rawhide is shrinking and the blood has almost stopped flowing into your limbs. Your skin will soon be ready for the vultures to pluck from your bones…”

“You…bastard…” spat Joe.

Inside, he was trembling. He could feel the rush of fear surging throughout his body mingling with the pain his captor had described. He was dying…slowly, from the outside in…it was painful…yet the inner self…his soul, was not yet ready to give in to the abuse, nor to allow death to walk away with his spirit. But the red man’s voice haunted him…his cruel cutting words were like a spear in his side…a knife to his heart…

It was almost morning before Joe stirred about on the hard ground. He could feel the warm sun on his already baked body, yet the heat was welcomed for the night had been chilly and he had shivered endlessly with the cold. His throat was dried and parched, his stomach rumbled with hunger and every muscle in his body vibrated with relentless pain and stiffness.

Joe was unaware that he was no longer alone. It was only when he felt a sharp intense pain in his side that caused him to cry aloud did he realize that his tormentor had returned.

“I have come to hasten your death…to make you cry for mercy,” laughed Soaring Eagle.

With that he jabbed another of the long thin cactus needles into Joe’s other side. Joe screeched loudly as the needle embedded deeply into his flesh. The same burning sensation similar to the first radiated from his side. Thus began the agonizing, almost paralyzing decline that Joe had fought so hard not to lose.

It seemed that every half hour or less, Soaring Eagle returned, muttered some degrading comment into his ear and then jabbed half a dozen cacti needles into various spots on Joe’s body. Time after time Joe gritted his teeth, clamped his jaw firmly shut and willed himself not to satisfy his tormentor by crying out. But each horrific time the sharp needles pierced deeper into his flesh, until unable to withstand the agony, Joe screamed aloud.

Joe had soon come to dread the sound of Soaring Eagle’s voice, just as the fiend had predicted he would. The evil, over-powering red man would began speaking even before he stood directly over his white captive. It was as if Joe’s mind had closed down to all other sounds around him and had focused in on the one sound that he most dreaded to hear, for he knew that along with Soaring Eagle’s voice, came more of the vicious torture. The red man appeared to be in no hurry to kill his foe, but was instead just as satisfied to watch the man suffer and to play a part in the insidious treatment that Joe was subjected to.

The sun had moved more than halfway across the sky and still Joe teetered between life and death. His senses had long since become dulled to the sadistic punishment that Soaring Eagle rendered to his body. The needles now covered more than half of Joe’s upper body, going as high as having been jabbed into the more tender parts of his neck and chin. Blood had dripped profusely for hours but with the rising temperature, had begun to congeal and dry around the points of entry, leaving the Cholla needles lodged as permanent fixtures in his flesh. Every pore in the young man’s body seemed to be filled with a tenseness that emitted the terror that had consumed him. Five of his senses had shut down, leaving only his hearing and even at that, the one sound that he dreaded most was the voice of doom…Soaring Eagle.

“You are not dead yet?” the voice whispered in his ear. “You should be…your blood has splattered all about you…even the ants have come to feast…”

Soaring Eagle glanced up at the trees and then down at the dying man.

“The buzzards are becoming restless…they grow tired of waiting for death to claim your soul.”

Joe’s body stiffened slightly as he inhaled. It was painful, his body was on fire; his insides ached fiercely, yet he refused to die. He had no way of knowing, no means by which to look into the eyes of the one he considered the devil, but had Joe been able, he might have been surprised to see the spark of admiration in the red man’s ebony eyes. Soaring Eagle would not admit such to his captive, but he admired the young white man’s bravery. A lesser man would have succumbed to his brutal torture long before now. A part of Soaring Eagle secretly wished that instead of being his prisoner, his white enemy, Joe had instead been his red skinned brother, for among his people such bravery was something to be admired, honored…desired. Few red brothers had shown as much courage as this one white man. Soaring Eagle shook his head in remorse and then stood to his full height.

The screeching of the vultures hurt his ears. He glanced around at the birds; they were becoming braver, coming closer each time that they swooshed down. There was no denying the fact, soon the birds would be deterred no longer; they would converge on the white man’s body and begin feasting. It mattered not to them whether the man was dead or nearly dead, hunger would drive them to do what they were placed here to do. Soaring Eagle determined that by nightfall, nothing more of the white man would remain other than his bones, and even then scavengers would lurk in the background and once the birds had eaten their fill, they would then slip forward and carry off any remains until nothing more would be left.

“I leave you now…you will hear my voice no more…only the voices of the vultures remain. Listen closely…it will be the last sounds that you hear…except your own cries once they begin to eat away at your flesh…”

Soaring Eagle saw Joe shudder and then he turned and walked away, never looking back, for in his hardened heart, he felt a strange and unfamiliar feeling for the white man…could it have been pity? Perhaps, the warrior decided, it was a shame to watch such a brave man die…especially knowing that the man’s death was on his own hands.

For several moments all was quiet. The only sound Joe heard as he strained to listen was the loud pounding of his heart as his terror rose in tempo to it’s beating. He never imagined through all his suffering that he’d so soon come to long for the sound of his antagonist’s voice…but it was not to be. Suddenly a strange, frightening sound seemed to hover over his head. He felt a light whisp of air breeze by his head and then another and another and then he heard the sound of his voice as he screamed and screamed and screamed…and then all was silent again…the birds had made their final descent.

“Listen…”

“What is that racket?”

“Sounds like someone screaming…come on, this way!” Ben ordered as he kicked sharply at his horse’s sides.

All three took off at a run and almost as if perfectly timed, reined in their mounts as soon as they rounded the bend and saw the horrid sight before them. Instantly, Adam and Hoss pulled their guns from their holsters and began shooting into the air, shouting in an effort to scare the large birds from their prey.

Ben, still weak from his ordeal, slid from his horse and stumbling, made his way to the lifeless form on the ground. His eyes were huge by the time he reached his son, disbelieving of what he saw.

“JOSEPH!” shouted Ben.

Adam and Hoss froze, turned and stared in shock. They’d had no idea that what the birds appeared about to feast upon was the body of their younger brother. Adam holstered his gun and hurried to his father. Ben had dropped to ground next to Joe. His heart wrenching sobs tore at his oldest son’s heart. Hoss stepped across the still form and quickly pulled his knife from his boot where he kept it and slashed through the shrunken rawhide strips. Joe made no sound as his father quickly gathered the boy into his arms and held him. Joe’s head was pressed against his father’s heaving chest; Ben rocked back and forth, weakly whispering his son’s name.

Adam swallowed the knot in his throat and searched his younger brother’s neck for a pulse. As he sought to find a spark of life left, his eyes scanned the boy’s body; it was atrocious what the Indians had done to his brother. Adam felt sick, like he was going to heave, but he willed himself to remain calm.

“Is he alive?” Hoss muttered as he began gently removing the long cactus needles.

“Barely,” Adam whispered. “Pa…” he said, squeezing his father’s shoulder. “He’s alive…barely, but he’s alive.”

Ben raised his head to stare blankly into Adam’s eyes. “They killed him…”

“No, Pa…Little Joe’s not dead…” Adam stated more forcibly. “Pa…listen to me…we have to get out of here. Those Indians might come back…they’ve surely heard the shots.”

“He’s dead…” murmured Ben, refusing to relinquish his hold on his son.

Hoss had pulled most of the needles out of his brother’s upper body and had fetched a blanket in which to cover Joe. He glanced worriedly at his brother.

“Pa’s in almost as bad a way as Joe, Adam. We best get outta here quick like…that fire yonder is still warm, them Apaches ain’t been gone long.”

“Pa…” Adam said sternly, “Let me take him…” Adam slipped his arms beneath Joe’s body and practically wrenched his brother from his father’s arms, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on his father’s expression. Ben appeared to be half out of his mind surmised Adam. He glanced up at Hoss and noted the worried look in his brother’s blue eyes, sure that Hoss saw the same tiredness and confusion in his father’s expression as he saw.

“Get Pa on his horse,” Adam said to Hoss as he hurried to his own mount and placed Joe in the saddle in front of him.

Adam took the lead with Hoss following along behind, leading his father’s big buckskin and Cochise whom they had brought along with them after finding the horses the second morning out. Hoss watched carefully his father. Ben’s exhaustion had gotten the best of him and though he tried to stay alert, his success was nearing failure. He rode slumped forward over Buck’s neck and wobbled back and forth in the saddle. Hoss feared that if they did not stop soon, Ben was most certainly going to fall off his horse.

“Adam,” Hoss called, reining in his big steed. “Can’t we stop for the night, Pa’s about done in…much more of this and he’s gonna fall flat on his face…”

Adam brought his own horse to a stop as well. He glanced back at his father and then nodded his head in agreement.

“Alright…lets get behind those rocks though, they’ll provide some shelter and make a decent hide out…just in case we’re being followed,” he said as he turned Sport into the rocks.

As he dismounted, he held Joe carefully and once he had his brother firmly in his arms, he carried him over near the biggest boulder and carefully placed him on the ground. Hoss had helped his father down and had followed Adam, gently helping Ben to sit down and lean back against the boulder.

“How’s Joe?” he asked feebly.

“Not so good, Pa,” Adam said as he spread a bedroll out on the ground and then moved Joe onto it. “He’s been whimpering and he’s spiked a fever…” Adam glanced at his father and noted the anxious expression on his face. He hurried to reassure him.

“Try not to worry, Pa…I’ll look after him…you get some rest…”

“He needs…me,” Ben muttered as he brushed back Joe’s dark curls from his dirtied and battered face.

“Pa…right now, what Joe needs is tending to and something warm in his belly. Hoss and I will take care of him for you. You just sit there and try to get some sleep. If the kid wakes up, you’ll hear him…here,” said Adam as he tenderly picked up Joe’s bruised and swollen hand and placed it into his father’s bigger one. “Hold on to him…he’ll need to know you’re close by if he wakes up…” Adam said and then offered his father a smile. “I’ll get the fire going and then heat up some stew…maybe we can get a few bites into him…”

Adam built a small fire, just enough so that they could heat the leftover stew and warm some coffee. Afterwards, he dosed the flames, not wanting it to burn any longer than necessary for fear of drawing unwanted attention.

Together, neither Adam nor Ben could get Joe to take more than a couple of swallows of coffee laced with a touch of whiskey. He lay motionless on his pallet, wrapped warmly in his blanket. The only sounds that Joe made were soft whimpering sounds that sounded much like a small kitten crying. Hoss helped his older brother tend more carefully to their brother’s wounds, cleaning the punctures made by the cactus needles as best they could. They used small dabs of the whiskey to clean the area, but for the thick, crusted substance that had dried over Joe’s eyelids, they had nothing with which to remove it.

“Wonder what it is?” Hoss asked Adam after Ben, having given in to his weariness, had fallen to sleep next to Joe.

“I’m not sure. Doc Martin might have a better idea and hopefully can get it off…”

For several moments neither said anything more. Adam studied his youngest brother’s face closely, appalled by what he was seeing. Deep down within, his insides felt like jelly and his stomach ached with a pain so intense that it caused him to gasp deeply for air enough to fill his lungs.

“They sure as hell messed him up…” he said aloud.

Hoss stopped poking at the fire and turned around to look more closely at Little Joe’s face and then nodded his head.

“Ya don’t reckon they blinded him, do ya…I mean permanently?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Hoss…but I have an idea that if his eyes are permanently scared…that’s the least of his problems.”

Hoss scrunched up his face. “I don’t understand…what’cha mean by that?”

“I mean…” Adam took another deep breath. He had been studying his wounded brother intently ever since they had found him and the things he saw sickened him. What he feared most for the boy, was his state of mind…if he had any mind left at all.

“Adam?”

“I mean…they tortured him, Hoss…look at how they hurt him…badly…they’ve denied him food, water…he’s blister from the sun…he’s dirtied and smelly…God only knows what lies they’ve fed to him…what he might believe now. Those cactus needles had to hurt like hell…when they jabbed them into his flesh. He was screaming like a banshee when we found him…there’s no telling what horrors were going through his mind at the time…or what he might remember when he comes too…or what he might not remember. And the thing that eats at my gut is…he no doubt believed Pa to be dead…that must have played havoc on his thoughts…and then too, he was probably wondering where in hell we were.”

Adam lowered his head, covering his eyes with his hand. His voice was thick with emotion when he spoke again.

“He needed us, Hoss…and we let him down…I’m not sure I can forgive myself for that…and if he dies…”

“No…he ain’t gonna die, Adam…you just hush that kinda talk…ya hear?” growled Hoss.

He hadn’t said anything to either his brother or his father, but he’d been having the same disturbing thoughts as Adam had…and hearing his fears being vocalized caused him to shudder with unease. Tenderly, Hoss placed his big hand on Joe’s brow and sighed a relief that his brother’s fever seemed not to have gone any higher. He glanced at Adam who sat watching him. It was hard for the gentle man to read what he saw in his older brother’s eyes, but he sensed a dark brooding about his sibling.

“He’s gonna be alright, Adam…” Hoss glanced down at his father who was sleeping. “They both are…” he muttered softly.

By the second night, Hoss wasn’t as sure of himself, or of his younger brother’s fate, as he had been the night before. Joe’s condition seemed to worsen. All night he whimpered loudly, even fought against the gentle hands that tried to administer to his needs. Ben struggled to reassure his son that everything would be fine, but Joe had yet to realize that the deep calming voice was actually that of his father.

Joe’s wounds were beginning to fester in some areas and with his escalating fever, all three older Cartwrights worried that Joe might not be strong enough to survive his ordeal. His emotional and mental condition fared no better. That fact was proven in the wee hours before dawn when Joe woke up screaming causing Ben to bolt upright from his bedroll.

It began as a soft murmuring sound. Joe’s nightmare seemed real as he tossed his head back and forth trying helplessly to ward off his tormentor. The murmuring grew in volume as his struggling increased. Blinded to everything around him from the covering on his eyelids, his fear was on the up rise, the cries soon became screams.

“NO…NO…NO MORE!”

His father, who lay next to him, turned over in his bedroll, surprised to see his son trying to get up.

“Joseph,” Ben said as he quickly grabbed the boy’s fraying arms and forced him back down.

“DON’T…NO MORE…PLEASE…” screamed Joe.

The frightened young man fought against his father’s restraint. Adam and Hoss was also awakened and rushed to Ben’s side to help.

“Easy, son…easy…” cooed Ben.

“Don’t…hurt…me,” Joe begged.

Joe was eased back into his bedroll but continued to plead with his unseen assailants, bringing an exchange of anxious expressions to the other three’s faces.

“No one’s gonna hurt you, buddy…I promise…” Adam whispered.

Joe’s breathing was deep as he gasped for air. His body trembled with fear that was obvious to his caring family.

“I…can’t…see…”

“I know, son…but…” Ben was suddenly unsure of what to say and looked almost pleadingly at Adam for help.

“I…can’t…see….please…don’t…don’t…hurt…me…”

“Joe, no one’s going to hurt you son…you’re safe…I’m here now…”

Hoss placed his hand on Ben’s shoulder and leaned down to whisper in his father’s ear.

“Pa, remember…he thinks you’re dead…”

“Joe…listen to my voice…”

“NO!!!” screamed Joe, who in his mind only, heard no other voice but that of his captor, Soaring Eagle.

Again Joe began to struggle, trying desperately to get up. The only thing his mind could comprehend was getting away…as far away from the pain he knew would be forthcoming. He shoved at his father, not knowing whom it was that held him. As weak as he was, Joe surprised his family when he doubled his fist and struck out at whomever was nearer. Hoss’ chin caught the left hook and he tumbled backwards into the dirt.

Joe scrambled to his feet, tried to run, stumbled in his weakness and his blindness and fell. Again he attempted to get up; he pushed himself to his knees and tried to stand but Ben and Adam were there on either side of him and grabbed his arms. They had to forcibly drag him back to the campfire and lower him onto his bedroll. Totally spent, Joe surrendered, curling into a ball, blubbering incoherently as Hoss covered him with a blanket.

Near to tears himself, Ben gathered his son into his arms, pressing the boy’s head gently against his beating heart.

“Shh…Joe…you’re Pa’s here, son…and I promise…no one’s going to hurt you again. Listen to my…” Ben hesitated, not sure why his earlier words had provoked such a reaction, he feared a repeat, thus changing his words.

“Listen to the beat of my heart, Joseph…I’m alive, son…alive…and I’m taking you home…where you’ll be safe; and Doc Martin can find a way to remove that gunk from your eyes…”

Joe was still for several minutes before he dared to move. His thoughts were jumbled, his body hurt with a burning, intolerable pain. The man’s words made no sense to him. He knew his father was dead…he’d been forced to leave him behind…

“Little Joe…” he heard his name spoken again and felt a weight on his shoulder. Instinctively he pulled himself deeper into the welcoming comforts and warmth of whomever it was holding him. “Punkin…”

No…it couldn’t be…only his brother called him by his childhood nickname…and Hoss was miles from here…

“Joe…buddy…we’re all here…”

All…cried Joe’s thoughts.

“Pa…Hoss…and me, Adam…we found Pa a day or so ago…he was still alive, Buddy…”

Joe’s face was scrunched against the sweet smelling leather that the man wore. It seemed strangely familiar somehow. And the continuous beating of the heart beneath his ear…it too stirred a memory…he had heard it before…knew the sound and tempo as well as he had known the sound of his own heart rhythm…

“Pa?” he whispered in a wee voice.

Ben cast his eyes around at Hoss and Adam, a smile filtered across his face and he drew his arms a wee more tightly about his son. He sighed in relief that their words had at last struck a cord in his younger boy’s troubled thoughts and recent memories.

“I’m here, son…”

Ben felt Joe’s body become rigid and then heard the soft sounds of crying. Joe moved his face slightly upward, though he could not make out his father’s features, he raised his battered hand, still showing a tint of blue from the shrunken strips of rawhide, and brushed the tips of his fingers along the end of Ben’s chin, feeling the stubble of whiskers that had gone unshaven.

Ben grasped his son’s hand, bringing it slowly to his lips where he held it for a long moment, unable to voice the over-powering emotion he felt. At last, Ben was able to speak.

“Everything’s going to be alright now, son…”

“I…saw you…tied to the…cactus…”

“I know…they thought I was dead…for that matter, so did I…”

Still clinging to his father’s hand, his words barely audible, Joe cried.

“I…was…am…I mean…I was ready…to…give up…the…birds…” sobbed Joe as his hand fell away and he turned his face into his father’s breast. “I was…so…scared…I couldn’t…see what was…happening…all I could hear…was…was…his…voice…”

Confused by the statement, Ben searched the boy’s face.

“Voice…whose voice, Joe?”

“His…Soaring Eagle…Pa…” Joe began to whimper. “Please…get…me out of…here…”

“Oh, son…I will…I promise, in the morning…we’ll go home…”

Joe began trashing his head from side to side. It was apparent that his mind had slipped once more into the hell from which he had only a moment’s reprieve.

“No…now…now…he’s coming…back…back…when he…finds out…I’m not…dead…he’ll come…for me…hurt me…Pa…please…take me home…please…”

“Shh…I won’t let him hurt you, son…I give you my word. You still trust me, don’t you?”

Joe only responded by nodding his head. “Afraid…Pa…I can’t see…and…I’m…afraid…”

Ben felt his son’s body go slack and knew that Joe had slipped into unconsciousness. Carefully he laid Joe’s head down on the blanket and covered him up. He remained where he was, but he looked up at his Hoss and Adam.

“Get things ready to ride. I want to be far from here by the time the sun comes up.”

Nothing more needed to be said, both set about doing as their father asked and within the hour had things ready to go. A travois had been hastily put together, making Joe’s journey more comfortable in consideration of his injuries. Before the sun had crested on the far distant mountains, the Cartwrights had ridden half a dozen miles. They’d be home before dark and then Joe would have the proper care and treatment that was needed, his father would see to that.

“What is it?” Ben asked as they all stood around the bed and watched as the physician examined the blinding cover that had hardened over Joe’s eyelids.

Paul Martin was leaning down, closely for a better look. His face looked puzzled by what he saw.

“I’m not sure, Ben…but I’m thinking that it is nothing more than the sap from a pine tree…melted down and poured over his eyes. It doesn’t take long for sap to cool, and once it does, it hardens, you know that…and the devil to pick off your skin if you’re unfortunate enough to get some on you.”

“How the blazes are you going to get if off his eyes…and…Paul,” Ben said, lowering his voice to a near whisper, he grasped the doctor’s arm, “Will Joe be able to see?”

All eyes had focused on the doctor’s face, waiting for his response.

“To answer you’re last question first, Ben…if the rosin didn’t get in his eye, but only on the lids, then once I am able to remove it…I can’t see any reason why Joe shouldn’t be able to see…on the other hand, if the some did get under the eyelid…well…I just can’t say for sure, Ben.”

Ben’s lips were drawn tightly. “And how do you plan on removing it?”

For the first time since entering the sick room and having found his young patient in such an atrocious condition, appalled by what the boy had been subjected to, Doc Martin smiled.

“That shouldn’t be hard at all,” he said turning to Hop Sing who stood with the others. “Hop Sing may I borrow your lard pail…or at least some of your lard?”

“Lard?” echoed Hoss, puckering up his face.

“Yes lard,” Paul said. “The lard acts as a softener once it is spread over the resin; we’ll let it have time to absorb into the sap and then, with any luck, the sap should come right off…”

“Sounds almost too easy,” Adam muttered.

Paul’s smile disappeared somewhat as he turned around to glance at Joe’s family. “Let’s just hope it works that easily…”

Hop Sing appeared minutes later carrying his small pail of lard he used in the kitchen to cook with. He handed it to the physician.

“Ben, you and Adam hold onto to Joe…he’s still unconscious but once I start working on his eyes, he’s liable to wake up and start fighting me…and, from what you’ve told me…I don’t want to frighten him, having him think we’re trying to hurt him again.”

Adam moved quickly to one side of the bed and gently placed his hands on Joe’s shoulder and arm; Ben sat at the head of the bed and did the same thing. He gently brushed back a lock of chestnut curls that had fallen onto Joe’s brow. When he was ready, he looked up at the doctor and nodded his head.

Paul worked quickly smearing the lard over the clumps of resin that had hardened and sealed Joe’s eyes shut. At first, Joe lay perfectly still, but within minutes as the lard worked to soften the sap, he began moving his head from side to side and fighting against those he could not see.

“No…no…don’t…don’t…”

“Joe, be still son, it’s alright…Doc’s just trying to help you…” Ben assured his son.

Ben ran his fingers through the mass of thick curls, drawing his face closer to Joe’s ear.

“Pa’s right here, son…it will all be over soon, and then…you’ll be able to see…”

Joe slowly began to regain his composure and stopped twisting his head. Paul began to pry away the thick blob of resin that had for several days barred the young man’s sight.

“This might hurt a little now, Joe,” Paul said as he used his tweezers to pick at the crusty formation. “Your eyelids will most likely be very tender, so when I get this mess off of them, I’m going to bandage your eyes for a day or so…”

“No…please…I want to be able to see,” complained Joe.

“Joe, we have to do as the doctor says…”

“NO!” shouted Joe as he fought to shove the doctor’s hand away from his. “Pa…you said I’d be able to see…I want to see…” Joe gulped, “Your…face…please…”

“There…that’s off…” Paul proclaimed, instantly bringing an end to Joe’s argument.

He quickly dabbed at the tender eyelid and before Joe had a chance to try to open his eye, Paul smeared some soothing salve over the bright pink tender skin.

“Please, Little Joe…try to be patient,” he said softly. “You eyes could well be damaged if we aren’t careful…you don’t want any permanent damage, do you?” he asked.

Joe appeared to have given up his efforts. His body relaxed somewhat and he shook his head. His expression however betrayed him and his disappointment and fear was evident to all those who had gathered around his bed. Ben heard his son inhale deeply and noted the quivering chin.

“How long…do I have…to wear the bandages?” he asked in a small voice.

“Three…perhaps four days…”

Joe swallowed but said nothing more. The second glob of hardened resin took a little longer to soften and work free, but even so in the end it too was peeled from Joe’s eyelid. The physician smeared the salve over the redness and hastily applied the bandages.

When he was finished, he gently patted Joe’s arm and turned, leaving the young man alone with his father as Hoss and Adam followed him from the room.

For several minutes father and son were silent and then Joe cleared his throat.

“Pa…”

“Yes, son?”

“Are we alone?” Joe asked in a trembling voice as he struggled with his emotions.

“Yes, it’s just you and I…why, do you have something on your mind?”

Ben had not moved from his spot on the bed. He remained as he had been, sitting close to his son and lovingly running his fingers through the locks of chestnut curls. He saw Joe swallow.

“I…I thought you were…dead,” muttered Joe.

Ben sighed, nodded his head, though Joe could not see his reaction.

“I honestly thought I was too, son…”

“I…would not have left you…if I hadn’t been…forced to…”

“Oh, Joseph,” cooed Ben, realizing at last where the conversation was leading. He knew his son was feeling a measure of guilt for having been forced to leave him tied to the cactus that first awful morning after they had both been taken prisoners.

“I know you wouldn’t have…”

“I’m sorry, Pa,” Joe cried, his voice cracking somewhat.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, son…you couldn’t have helped what happened any more than I could have prevented what happened to you…please Joseph, don’t fret yourself about it…”

There was a long silence before Joe spoke again. This time, tiny droplets of tears rolled from the corner of one eye, quickly being absorbed into the fresh bandage that the doctor had wrapped about the boy’s head.

“I was…scared, Pa…I…still…am,” Joe said meekly.

He grasped his father’s hand and clung, almost desperately to it, thought Ben. Ben repositioned himself so that he could face his son. He continued to hold onto his son’s hand…or more so, allowed Joe to cling to his. Ben could plainly see the terror that lingered in his son’s expression and hurried to reassure the boy.

“There’s nothing shameful about being frightened, Joe…but there’s nothing to fear now, you’re home…and I’m here…Adam and Hoss are here…we won’t let anything or anybody hurt you again…”

Joe shook his head from side to side. It was hard for him to speak so thick with emotion was his voice.

“You…don’t understand, Pa…he’ll come looking for me…us…they were intent on killing me…that bastard won’t stop…not when he finds out…we’re both…alive…”

“No…I don’t think he will come this far west…he’ll not chance riding onto the Ponderosa…”

Joe swallowed hard. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“You’re wrong, Pa…he’ll come for us…and…I…can’t even see…”

“Then I’ll be your eyes…until Doc takes off your bandages…Adam can see that lookouts are posted around the ranch…Hoss can keep an eye on the yard…Hop Sing will guard the downstairs…and I’ll stay right here…with you, if you want me too…”

Ben watched how the worried lines seemed to vanish from his son’s face and saw how Joe relaxed. The boy even forced himself to smile.

“Promise?” he asked.

“On my honor,” Ben smiled in return. He squeezed Joe’s hand to reaffirm his promise. “Now…I want you to rest, I’m going into the hallway…no further…and explain to your brothers what I want done. I’ll be just outside the door, Joe…promise me that you’ll try to nap?”

“I promise…”

Ben released Joe’s hand and stood up, arranging the blankets about his son. He dared even to leaned down and place a quick kiss on the boy’s brow. Joe gasped with sudden surprise.

“I…love you, Joseph,” his father whispered.

Joe smiled again. Ben saw the slightest tremble that caused the boy’s chin to quiver.

“I love you too, Pa…and…thanks for understanding…”

Ben lightly petted Joe’s cheek and then disappeared into the hallway. Joe’s smile quickly faded and he swallowed deeply. He believed his father would do everything in his power to protect him, but inside, Joe wondered if it would be enough. Soaring Eagle was a man to be reckoned with, and though he had only admitted part of his fear to his father, he had not explained it totally, nor was he sure he could. Joe shivered as he snuggled into the warmth of his bed and tried to wish away the image of the last face he had seen before being temporarily blinded.

The first night, Joe slept fairly well, awaking only once when he began growing uncomfortable from the wounds made by the sharp cactus needles. Ben, always at his son’s side, quickly mixed one of the pain powders left by the doctor and offered it to Joe. Joe drank willingly and within minutes was back to sleep. By the next morning, feeling a bit better, he refused the proffered medication, stretching the time in-between to more hours than was suggested.

That night, Joe’s sleep was interrupted several times. He awoke screaming and flinging his arms wildly about in the air, seemingly to be fighting his imaginary tormentor, calling out Soaring Eagle’s name several times. Adam, who was up late heard the ruckus and burst into the room, pistol in hand expecting to find that the feared monster had somehow managed to slip unnoticed into the house and up the stairs, entering Joe’s room and thus reeking havoc.

“He’s alright now,” said Ben after several trying moments of trying to get Joe to fully wake up and realize that his fears were unfounded.

Adam slipped his gun back into its holster and crossed the room to stand over his brother. Joe’s face was ashen in color and even in the dim lighting in the room he could easily see how his brother trembled. Joe’s chest rose and fell as he lay gasping for air.

Adam sat down on the edge of the bed. “Are you alright now, buddy?” he asked his brother.

Joe nodded his head. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to wake you…”

“I wasn’t sleeping, Joe…I was reading…” Adam said and then smiled. “You go back to sleep…and try not to worry…”

“I’ll try,” muttered Joe, though deep down, he knew it would be hours before sleep would claim his troubled thoughts and calm his fears. He longed to pull the bandages from his eyes, but he had made his father a promise not to do so. Ben had taken a short break and had gone to the kitchen for coffee, when he returned he had found Joseph trying to pry the bandages up, over the eyes.

He had quickly chastised his son, forced the boy back into the bed and made Joe promise not to try again, but to wait for the doctor to remove the covering. Reluctantly, Joe had made his vow, much to the satisfaction of his father.

The next afternoon, Paul appeared in the doorway of Joe’s room. He stood for a moment and watched the inner action between his young patient and the boy’s father. It never ceased to amaze him how much love and respect there always seemed to be between the two…including Adam and Hoss as well. This family of men whom he had come to cherish still never ceased to surprise him, when most men would have given up, the Cartwrights always managed to stick together and weather whatever storm or audacities that life and fate tossed their way. He rapped lightly on the door.

“May I come in?”

Ben turned, saw the doctor and laughed.

“Of course…Joe,” he said, turning to inform his son of the doctor’s arrival. “The good doctor is here…”

“Good…you goin’ to take these blasted bandages off my eyes, Doc?” Joe said with a touch of irritation in his voice.

“Joseph…please give the man time to remove his coat…”

“Oh…sorry…”

Paul chuckled softly and handed his coat to Ben. “That’s alright, Little Joe…now, let’s see how you’re doing…”

“I’m fine…honest…tell him Pa…”

“Well,” began Ben, glancing at his son, “Joseph would like you to believe that all is well…but in fact…”

“PA!” Joe practically shouted.

“He hasn’t been sleeping all through the night…” Ben went on, ignoring Joe’s scowl.

“Nightmares?” Paul asked as he studied Joe’s stomach and chest wounds.

“No…” sputtered Joe, then changed his response slightly. “Not entirely…”

“What’s keeping you from resting, Joe?” Paul asked as he stopped what he was doing to watch the expression on his patient’s face change.

Joe fell silent but responded with a shrug of his shoulders.

“These maybe?” Paul asked, probing gently at the small puncture wounds around Joe’s throat. “Or these?” he said, pressing a finger along side one slightly infected wound in Joe’s abdomen. The physician saw his patient flinch.

“Sore?”

“Some,” admitted Joe.

“Are you taking the pain medicine I left you?” Paul asked, looking up and seeing Ben shaking his head no.

“Some,” Joe said, repeating his previous answer.

“Let’s take a look at these hands,” the doctor said.

He picked up first the right and then the left hand of his patient. “Looks better, can you flex your fingers for me?”

Joe did as requested.

“Good…now squeeze my hand…good, you’re getting the strength back into your fingers. Now,” he said, moving to the foot of the bed. “Let’s see you wiggle your toes.”

Again, Joe responded.

“Any pain…here…or here…” he asked as he probed the heel of Joe’s feet.

“No sir. Doc, about these eye bandages…”

“Son, be patient…Doc will get to those,” Ben scolded gently.

He knew how badly his son wanted the bandages off his eyes. Though nothing more had been mentioned of his son’s fears by either Joe or himself, he knew that the boy was still afraid. Frightened that somehow Soaring Eagle would return to finish the torture that was meant to have ended his son’s life.

Paul sat down on the edge of the bed and began to unwrap the bandages. He was optimistic as he slowly untwisted the white gauze from about Joe’s head. When the last round was removed and the soft cotton still in place he paused.

“Joseph, I don’t want you opening your eyes unless I say so…do you understand me?” Paul Martin directed. “I want to be sure that the lids are completely healed before you do. The skin there is thin and very susceptible to infection.

“I understand…but…I will be able to see…won’t I?” Joe asked in a near pleading voice. “I…just have to be…able to see, Doc…”

Paul purposely ignored the question and went on with his inspection of the eyelids. He was disappointed to say the least. He drew Ben’s attention to the redness that told him a slight infection had in fact began in one area where the resin had been literally glue to the eyelid. Ben frowned, knowing that Joe was not going to like having to have his eyes remain covered for a few more days and his sight withheld from him once more.

“Doc…” Joe muttered. “Pa…what’s wrong…ANSWER ME!” he shouted, giving in to his rising fear.

Quickly Ben was at the head of the bed; he rested his hand on Joe’s shoulder.

“Son…”

“Your eyelids have a small infection starting, Joe…I’m sorry, son…but I’ll have to rewrap the bandages…”

“NO!…no…please…don’t…Pa…please,” Joe moaned grabbing his father’s arm and clinging to it tightly. “Don’t let him…please?”

“Joseph,” whispered Ben, “He must…you must…otherwise your eyesight might be affected,” Ben explained.

“Your father is correct, Little Joe…if the infection should happen to spread into your irises, you could be permanently blinded…you don’t that to happen, do you?” Paul asked.

Both his father and the physician waited with baited breath until Joe, fighting back his tears, nodded in agreement.

“No sir…” he muttered in a defeated voice.

“It won’t be for long, son…I promise,” Paul said as he applied some ointment to the eyelids and then began wrapping the bandage around Joe’s head once more.

As soon as he finished, he mixed one of the pain powders and handed the glass to Joe.

“Drink this, it will help with the burning…”

Reluctantly, Joe took the glass that Paul placed in his hand.

“How’d you know it was burning?”

“I’m the doctor…remember? It’s my job to know those things,” he said, smiling.

“Oh.”

It was all Joe said before downing the mixture and holding the glass out before him. Ben took it from his hand and placed it on the table.

“Lay back and try to rest now, son, I’m going to see the doctor to the door…”

“Pa…”

“Yes, son?”

“You…will come right back…won’t you?”

“Of course…I’ll only be a minute or two, I want to speak with Paul first…”

“I’ll see you in a couple of days, Joe…do as your father tells you and stay in that bed, you are far from being better. We’ll see about those bandages when I come back out…”

Again Joe nodded his head. “Yes sir,” he called as Ben closed the door behind him.

For two more days and nights, Joe suffered through wearing his bandages. Yet he was becoming easily agitated, snapping at those who did their best to serve his needs. Even Adam had gotten his fill and made no secret of how he felt.

Slamming the book shut and causing a loud bang, Adam pushed back the chair he’d been sitting in and stood up.

“If you aren’t going to listen, I see no point in continuing with the story, Joe. Good night!” he said as he marched from the room. He made a point of closing the door loudly to stress his point.

In the hallway, he encountered his father on his way to relieve him from sitting with Joe.

“What’s wrong?” he asked Adam when he saw his eldest son standing outside Joe’s room wearing a disgusted expression.

“Him,” Adam snapped.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake Adam, I know Joe’s been grouchy, but think about all he’s been through…and is still going through…”

“I know that, Pa…and I’ve taken that into consideration. I feel sorry for the kid…I hate seeing him suffering…but that’s no excuse for rudeness. We’ve all bent over backwards trying to appease him…but he’s so ungrateful…”

“Not really, son…he’s just…frightened…I’ve explained to you and to Hoss about all that. He’s afraid that monster will come after him and not being able to see only intensifies that fear…”

Adam lowered his head and sighed deeply. “I’m sorry, Pa…I suppose if I were in his boots, I’d feel the same way, especially with all the pain and suffering that’s been inflicted on him. I’ll go back in and apologize to him…and…bite my tongue if need be,” he added and then smiled.

“Thank you, Adam, I think I’ll go get another cup of coffee while you speak to your brother,” Ben grinned as he turned back toward the stairs.

Adam watched his father walk away and then, taking a deep breath, went in to talk to Joe.

That night, Joe had a hard time resting. Several times, he cried out in his sleeping, jarring both himself and his father awake. Always, as promised, Ben was close by.

“Joe…please son, you have to try to stop worrying…”

“I’ve tried Pa,” Joe would explain, “but he’s coming back…I know he is…”

“How do you know?”

Exasperated, Joe shook his head, allowing his shoulders to slump forward in defeat.

“I don’t know how I know, Pa…I just do…”

“Joe…”

“Just forget it, Pa…just act like I didn’t say anything…” Joe turned over on his side, away from his father, thus ending the conversation.

Ben determined not to push his son too far. He walked across the room, pushed back the drapes and peered out into the night. A flickering light near the barn caught his attention. Not sure what it might have been, he watched for several moments before realizing what it was.

“DEAR GOD!” he said aloud, startling Joe who had been almost asleep.

“WHAT…WHAT’S WRONG…PA!”

Ben hurried to the bedside, clamping his hand firmly on Joe’s shoulder.

“It’s alright, son…you stay put…I’ll be back shortly…”

“PA…WAIT…WHAT’S WRONG!”

“The barn’s on fire,” Ben muttered. He had his hand on the doorknob but stopped. “You stay in that bed…do you hear me?”

“I want to help…Pa…the horses…Cochise…please…”

“NO! Stay put…I don’t need to be worrying where you are or that you might get hurt…now do as I say! I’ll see to the stock…don’t disobey me, Joseph!”

Joe lowered himself back against the pillows, disgusted that he could be of no help to his father and brothers. Out side, he could hear the men shouting. His father’s voice stood out over the rest as Ben issued orders. Meanwhile, Joe had nothing to do but sit in the darkness he’d been sentenced to and fiddle with a string his fingers had found dangling from a frayed edge of the blanket.

After what seemed like hours, Joe pushed himself to the edge of the bed. He had promised his father he’d not get out of it, but he didn’t say he wouldn’t sit on the side. Suddenly, the door opened, it squeaked softly.

“Pa?” Joe said, looking blindly toward the movement he heard in the doorway.

All was silent; he strained to hear…to pick up on a sound.

“Adam? Hoss,” he muttered as he stood to his feet, wobbling a bit unsteadily. He swallowed the knot that had risen in his throat. A sick feeling of dread washed over his entire being as his heart began to race.

“Who’s there?” he asked, reaching out wildly for the person he knew had entered the room. Joe lifted his head slightly and sniffed at the air. It was filled with an odd, unpleasant order. The scent stirred a memory, though faintly.

“Who are you…what do you want?” he demanded in a forced tone.

“I see the birds, like myself have been denied. You have refused to die…”

Joe gasped, drawing back, remembering…and then the fear resurfaced, causing him to tremble. The voice laughed wickedly.

“I see you have not forgotten the sound of my voice…” Soaring Eagle jeered. “I am glad…for now, it will be the last thing that you ever hear…”

Caught off guard, Joe felt his body hoisted into the air and slammed down hard against the floor. He groaned in pain, groping for a handhold on the Indian, Joe managed to lace his fingers amid the red man’s raven hair. Bringing his foot up and under the man, Joe pushed, sending Soaring Eagle flying over his head and shoulders to land with a loud thumb against the opposite wall. Instantly, Joe pounced to his feet, poised and ready for the brave’s attack. He listened intently but heard nothing, made the mistake of relaxing only slightly and then felt the other man’s arms grab him about his mid-section and locking his arms down to his sides.

Joe struggled to free himself by twisting and jerking, but the Indian hung on for dear life, unmercifully squeezing the breath from Joe’s lungs. Still weak from his ordeal and the long days being laid up in bed, Joe soon began to grow tired. His body started to go limp in Soaring Eagles grasp. The warrior eased up on the pressure. It was just enough that Joe was able to inhale deeply and wrench one arm free. With fingers folded tightly to form a fist, Joe swung out, hitting the Indian square on the jaw.

Soaring Eagle screamed out as he toppled over backwards. Joe jumped, flying blindly into the air. The Indian saw his enemy heading his way and rolled off to one side. Joe landed against the side of the dresser with hard thud. Pain shot upward from his rib cage. He groaned and grabbed his side, folding his body in half with the pain.

His attacker stood up, towering over Joe and began laughing. Joe moved his hand to his face and yanked the bandages from his eyes. If he were going to die, he determined, he would make the other man look directly into his eyes…he wanted the bastard to see the hate he knew would be showing there.

Soaring Eagle bent down, grabbed Joe by his nightshirt and hauled the boy to his feet.

“I see a deep burning hatred in your eyes,” sneered the Indian.

He held a knife in his hand. When he moved to bury the weapon into Joe’s gut, Joe raised his arm, causing the blade to cut a deep gash in his arm, but prevented the knife from slicing into his stomach. For several long moments the pair fought for control of the weapon. Joe’s strength was waning as they struggled. Their arms moved slowly downward until the sharp knife was between them. Death hung heavy in the air. Both men were holding their breaths, hoping to outwit the other’s move.

Suddenly Joe jerked his arm upward. The Indian appeared to freeze in motion. Joe, seeing the horror on the other man’s face, drew back against the wall, leaning against it for support. He watched in repulsion as Soaring Eagle, his hands grasping the weapon that was buried deeply into his stomach staggered backwards and then fall to the floor. Blood squirted from the wound, splattering onto the carpet and hardwood.

Joe’s body sagged downward against the wall until he had reached the floor. Breathing deeply, he attempted to crawl toward the dead man, but the darkness that swirled before his eyes, claimed the weary boy for itself. He moaned softly, trying to stay alert, but with little effort.

Footsteps resounded loudly in the hallway as three men burst into the room. Ben elbowed his way between Adam and Hoss and rushed to Joe’s side, quickly pulling the boy upright and into his arms.

“Joseph,” Ben said as he patted one cheek in an attempt to bring the boy back to consciousness. “Joe…” Ben repeated.

“The Indian’s dead,” Hoss said after making a quick examination of the intruder.

Joe moaned softly and tried to open his eyes. His family watched him struggle, not sure as to whether or not the boy would actually be able to see them. After what seemed like an eternity, Joe raised his head and appeared to be looking at his father. Suddenly a smile creased his face. His hand moved upward and he touched his father’s cheek.

“I…can see…you…Pa,” he muttered.

Ben grinned from ear to ear as tears of joy filled his eyes.

“I can see you too, Hoss,” Joe laughed lightly. “God…you’re beautiful,” he snickered. “And you, Adam…you look so serious…why don’t you try smiling more?” Joe teased.

All four Cartwrights laughed. Ben and Hoss helped Joe to his feet and led him back to bed. Joe stopped suddenly and turned to look behind him. He nodded his head at the dead Indian.

“I killed him, Pa…Soaring Eagle’s dead…”

“I see…Adam, please see that the body’s taken out of here…Joe…I’m sorry son…I shouldn’t have left you,” Ben apologized as he helped Joe back into bed.

Adam and Hoss gathered up the body and quickly removed it from their brother’s room.

“The barn…it was on fire…the horses?”

“That’s taken care of son. Seems as if your friend there and some of his braves set fire to it to distract us so Soaring Eagle could get to you…I should have listened to you, son, I’m sorry…you tried to warn me…”

“Pa,” said Joe as he allowed Ben to toy with his covers. “You had no way of knowing that they’d set fire to the barn…please…it’s over now…I’m safe…you’re safe…”

“The barn’s safe and the horses are alright,” smiled Ben.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and studied his son’s face.

“You know, Joseph, your eyes are such a…beautiful color…like green moss on the forest floor…”

“Pa please, you’re embarrassing me…promise me, you won’t let Adam and Hoss hear you talking like that…”

Ben snickered but agreed. “I won’t…but you have to promise me something in return,” Ben said.

“I do…what?”

“I want you to promise me that you will try to put all of this behind you. I know it won’t be easy…you’ve suffered more than any man I know has ever suffered. You might have been frightened, and with just cause…but to me, you are about the bravest man I’ve ever known, son and I want you to know, I’ll be here…always…for you…your brothers will be here…”

Joe stretched out his hand and rested it on his father’s arm. His voice was filled with emotion when he spoke.

“I know you will be…and I thank you that. I’m not so foolish as to think forgetting this will be a simple matter…I’ll probably never totally forget it…but I’ll do my best to learn to live with what happened to me…”

“Son, that’s all I ask…” Ben smiled.

“Will you promise me one thing too, Pa?” Joe asked.

Ben missed the sudden sparkle that sprang forth in those moss colored eyes he’d been admiring.

“Anything…just name it?” he agreed.

“Promise me Pa, the next time I suggest we take a short cut…just hit me over the head with something!”

“Oh for heaven’s sake Joseph…must you be so dramatic?” laughed Ben.

He realized that the boy was making light of all that had transpired, though it was not a laughing matter, it would not be soon forgotten. However, he knew his youngest son well enough to know that this current short cut, dangerous as it had proved to be, would not by any means be his last. Joe’s life was a roadmap of shortcuts…but it was a part of who he was; and his father did not want that to ever change…he loved his son just the way he was and if taking shortcuts through out his life, delivered the boy safely to the end of his road, that was all he could ask. He’d just have to continue praying that God would keep a legion of angels on call at all times, just for cases such as this one.

THE END
December 2005

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