"Mister Cartwright! Mister Cartwright!" the young boy hollered, weaving and dancing among the other people on the sidewalks of Virginia City. Finally the man in the green jacket slowed and turned and he was able to catch him. Panting, he extended the envelope and stood bouncing on the balls of his feet, expectantly.

            Joe Cartwright frowned slightly, looking at his name neatly printed on the front of the telegram envelope. He flicked the envelope open and pulled out the thin sheet before he remembered the youngster in front of him. He dug into his inner jacket pocket and found a nickel there that he handed to him. The young boy disappeared into the crowd. Joe thumbed his hat back and flicked open the thin parchment to read. After he read it, for several long moments he just stood thinking on the walkway, letting the throng of people wash around him like a boulder in a creek. He took a deep breath and, giving his head a half shake, headed down the street at a good clip.

            The sign that was suspended over the walk swung in the light breeze. 'U.S. Marshal' was all it said. The door, its windows grimy with accumulated dirt, opened with a groan as Joe pushed in. The small office space beyond the door matched the condition of the windows: dirty and cluttered. It had once been some small shop but to make room for the new tenants, the counters had only been shoved to the side. In the center of the room sat a large desk, its top overflowing with papers, dirty coffee cups, and broken pencils. The edge closest to the chair showed signs of rough treatment as well, probably from boot heels propped there. Behind the desk a battered chair with slats missing from the back sat at a canted angle.

            Finding the office empty, Joe swore to himself and was about to turn and leave when a gravelly voice called from the back. "Be there in a second!" it said, halting Joe in his tracks.

            Whisking aside the ratty, faded curtain, the other man stepped into the room. In the gloom and confinement of the room, he seemed to take away all the available space and air just with his presence. His name was Riley. Never gave another name, just Riley… Marshal Riley. He was a tall man, better than six feet, with a head of thick brown hair. His face was deeply tanned and looked as though it had been chiseled from the stone of the Texas hill country he had come from a few years earlier. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad, his hands massive. The buttons on his shirt had trouble holding closed the thin fabric; the sleeves, perennially too short, he rolled back exposing muscular forearms. Like many a man born to the horse way of life, he was thin hipped and his legs muscular beneath the form-fitting buckskin trousers he wore. What little history could be gleaned of the man's past was from the beaded Indian belt he wore with a Bowie knife tucked into a sheath at his side. It had been said, with no corroborative evidence, that he had once been a Texas Ranger. He never admitted nor denied that fact, but drank alone, ate alone, lived alone, keeping no one's company but his own. Besides the fact that he obviously spent time with some Indian tribe and had lived outdoors most of his adult life, no one knew anything else about him and in the two years that he had been in Virginia City, he had volunteered nothing about himself. He was there, he told everyone, to help keep the peace in northwest Nevada; not to make friends.

            Joe Cartwright pulled his hand back from the doorknob and turned, that hand just brushing the Colt he wore in a tied down holster. With the mere motion the marshal dropped his own hand to rest on the butt of his revolver and his face tightened warily.

            "My name is Joe Cartwright," he said by way of introduction, but the marshal needed no such introduction. He knew of the man before him. He was paid to know the people he was charged with protecting, even if he didn't know them personally.

            Riley studied the man. He knew he was a lot younger than his gray hair would lead someone to believe but had a tad more years than he did. And the Cartwrights' home ranch was the Ponderosa. That meant several things to Riley: lots of cattle, horses, timber but most of all, prestige. The family had been in the Lake Tahoe area since the beginning and most folks around thought mighty highly of the Cartwright name. But all that meant to Riley was that he would have to listen to the man in the green jacket; he didn't have to do anything, but he did have to listen.

            "I know who you are. Why you here?" he asked curtly.

            "I got a telegram from my foreman. Seems there's a problem up to Flanigan."

            Riley grunted. "Flanigan? That's up by Pyramid Lake, ain't it? Didn't think there was anything there 'sides a cantina and a lot of dirt. How can there be a problem up there? There ain't anyone there to have a problem!"

            Joe was tempted to toss the telegram down on the cluttered desk that Riley stood behind but instead he held it limply in his hands. "My foreman says there's a problem and I believe him. Come on, let's go."

            "Wait a dog-gone minute!" Riley spat out, his tone making it clear that he didn't like taking orders. "First of all it’s a hard two days to Flanigan-"

            "Which means we need to get started now!"

            "You don't seem to get the picture here, Cartwright," Riley hissed, leaning down, his knuckles white on the desktop. He settled his face into a hard mask. "I ain't goin' traipsin' all over the damn state just 'cause you say -"

            Across the desk, Joe Cartwright mimicked the marshal's movements, planting his black-gloved hands on the desk with a smack that sounded like a shot in the small office. "No, you don't seem to get the picture, Marshal. If Candy says that there's a problem, and he mentions in this telegram that I should bring you with me, that means you're going. Now get your gear together. We'll leave in an hour."

            Riley reared back and crossed his massive arms over his chest. His demeanor was menacing, threatening.

            "Marshal," the other man said softly, yet his words were clipped and sure. "Even if I have to tie you belly down across the saddle, you are going with me to Flanigan. You can look at me just as mean as you want, but you're going. Got that?"

            The lawman took a breath and spread his feet shoulder width apart, preparing himself if the slender man launched himself across the desk. Riley remained silent, his lips now tightening into a thin line across his chiseled features. Then he spoke, sure of his own words. "You're mighty damn sure of yourself, Cartwright. There's laws against-"

            The other man raised his head and let his eyes bore into the marshal. "Marshal, I assume you know the law pretty good. Tell me something. What's the penalty for kidnapping a U.S. Marshal?"

            "Probably about six years. You that sure of yourself?" Riley answered but he already knew the answer the man would give since it was plainly written on his face. Joe Cartwright was one determined son of a bitch and while Riley doubted that the man could actually manage to get him face down over the saddle to haul him out of town, there would be one hell of a fight in proving him wrong.

            "Candy wouldn't have sent this, wouldn't have worded it the way he did, if there wasn't bad trouble."

            Riley chewed the corner of his lip. He'd run across the Cartwright foreman and liked the man. And Cartwright was right. Canaday wasn't one to ask for help unless it was necessary. He didn't cry "wolf" unless it was gnawing on his own leg. Candy's bent nose was testimony to the fact that the man was a scrapper in his own right as well and Riley had respect for a man who fought his own battles.

            "I'll get my horse. You get us grub for the trail."

              Riley wanted to chuckle. It was a hard pace that Cartwright had set that day, and he swung stiffly down off the pinto. But then the marshal was a bit stiff as well. Without comment or any sort of discussion, the two of them made camp, each tending to his own horse with Riley gathering wood for a fire and Cartwright doing the cooking. Settled back into his upturned saddle, Riley commented that tomorrow, he would do the cooking. He figured that way it would be edible at least.

            "You got something against my cooking?" the cattleman joked, squinting through the campfire smoke.

            "Nope, just the taste of it. Okay, so tell me 'bout this telegram that's got you so worked up," the lawman spun the words out slowly as he laid his plate aside.

            Joe told him, his words and phrases clipped as though to add anything more to his story would detract from it. Six weeks ago, his father, Candy and some of their men had taken a small herd of beef cattle north to the Army fort just over the California line. From there, his father had been headed to visit an old friend, a Jedediah Millbanks, over towards Red Bluff. By now, Joe figured, they would have been headed home.

            "So?" Riley prodded when Cartwright stopped talking. "Maybe your pa just decided to spend some more time with his friend."

            "The telegram came from Candy, not my father. No, Marshal, something's wrong. Bad wrong. And whatever it is, it has something to do with the law since Candy specifically said 'bring Riley'. You are the only Riley any of us knows."

            The marshal's brow twitched. He leaned back into his saddle's crease and tilted his hat down across his eyes. Cartwright was right, he thought but he still didn't like the idea of riding blind into a problem. He twisted his shoulders, trying to make them fit more comfortably into his campsite bed.

            "Marshal," the other man's voice came softly across the flames and Riley grunted that he was listening. "Thanks for coming with me."

            His lips twisting into a wry smile, Riley chuckled shortly then said, "No problem. I'd of hated to mess up one of Virginia City's fine citizens seein's how he was gonna try throwin' me 'cross the saddle."

            "You don't think I could have done it?" came the soft retort back.

            "I'd like to see you try, cowboy."

            Now it was Joe's turn to chuckle. He knew a challenge when he heard one, for certain, but there were other things more important now. "When this is over," was his reply as he also settled into his bedroll.

            Riley smiled, his even white teeth in sharp contrast to his deeply tanned face. "Yep," he whispered to his hatbrim, "when this is over."

            There wasn't much to Flanigan Nevada. There was a cantina; a mercantile that was closed most of the time, a livery stable and a couple dilapidated houses. But it also had a telegraph office in the corner of the mercantile. In his headlong flight across the flatlands, Griff had followed that silver wire, knowing that at some point in time, he would find a keypad and operator. He stopped at the first place he found one: Flanigan Nevada. That morning he had been the sole person stirring in the town as he had banged on the closed door, rousting the operator eventually. Still out of breath, he dictated the message he and Candy had worked out, even to the point of signing it with Candy's name. He stood by and waited while the telegrapher sent the message then waited longer for a reply.

            "The message got through okay," the wrinkled little man told Griff. "Might be a while 'fore you get any answer, ya know." There was a hopeful sound to the man's voice as though he wished the younger man to disappear back into wherever it was he had sprung from.

            "I'll wait," Griff replied. After all, he knew what the stakes were.

            Sure enough, forty minutes after the last click had carried his message out, the mechanism sprang to life again.

            "To Canaday, Flanigan Nevada. Stop. From J Cartwright, Virginia City Nevada. Stop." The operator spoke aloud, taking down the letters one at a time, slowly spelling out the message. Griff, behind him, willed it to work faster, the muscles along his jaw taut lines as he gritted his teeth. "Stay put. Stop. Riley and me coming. Stop. Arrive noon Tuesday. Stop. Joe. All stop."

            Griff let go the breath he had been holding and grimaced as he figured the time between then and noon on Tuesday.

            "Anything else, Mister Canaday?" the operator asked. "Any reply to that one or can I go get my breakfast?" His tone showed how displeased he was with having his routine disrupted.

            "No, thanks," Griff smiled for the man then changed his mind. He would have to stay there and the mere mention of breakfast had his stomach reminding him of how long it had been since he'd eaten. "Where can I get a hot meal?"

            He took his first hot meal in days at the cantina then, without a room for rent anywhere in the town, he stretched out in the livery right beside the horse he had ridden in on. Exhausted, he slept soundly for hours, the booming rainstorm outside the stables unheard.

            When he awoke, the rain's steady drip just outside the doorway caught his attention. Sitting up in the straw he had used for a bed, he looked out over the gray countryside. The rain, he thought, would it slow Joe and that marshal? He hoped not. There was too much riding on it.

            His stomach grumbled and Griff rubbed his hand across it. He calculated the money he had in his pocket. If he had to send another telegram, he wouldn't have enough to eat and pay the bill here at the livery. He looked over at the long-legged bay he had ridden into town, knowing that if he had to, he could sell the horse. After all, it was Candy's horse and it would be no skin off his back to part with the gelding. On second thought, he would have to face Candy at sometime in the future. And he certainly didn't want to tell the man that he had sold his horse for supper money. He flopped back into the straw.

            "No," he spoke aloud to only himself. "Joe can pay the feed bill." Determined, he got to his feet and, hitching his pants a little higher, swiped the straw from his hair and arms and headed for the cantina and another hot meal.

            As he chewed his way through the tough steak, he thought back over the trail he had ridden and why. Three days ago, he and Candy had waited in the little town of Wendel on the California-Nevada border. Mr. Cartwright had told them that he would meet them there but when one day of waiting had stretched into two, Candy had become concerned. Griff'd figured that to a man like Ben Cartwright, the time his help spent lolly gagging around in some two-bit town didn't mean anything. Candy set him straight.

            "Get it through your head, boy," he'd said sharply. "Ben Cartwright ain't like that. If he tells you he's gonna be some place at noon on Monday, that's where you'll find the man."

            "If that's the case, then where is he?" Griff argued back.

            Candy rubbed a hand over his jaw and studied the street outside the saloon door before he answered. "Dunno but we're gonna go find out."

            They had backtracked only as far as the next town, Litchfield, when they found old man Cartwright and when they did, both of them wished they hadn't waited one minute beyond when Ben had told them he would meet them.

As Griff scooped up another forkful of potatoes in the cantina in Flanigan, his hand shook with the memory of what they had found.

            The second morning on the trail north of Reno, Joe Cartwright and Marshal Riley found themselves slogging through mud ankle deep on their horses. It slowed their progress down to a crawl. Riley could tell just by watching the cattleman that it irritated the hell out of him but there was no way around the problem. It had to be endured, that was all. Breakfast had been cold coffee and jerky and while they had planned to be in Flanigan by noon, it was plain that wasn't going to be the case.

            "Cartwright!" Riley shouted to be heard above the storm's fury. "We need to pull up for a while. Let this storm pass."

            Joe pulled his horse to a stop and looked over his shoulder at the marshal. Like Riley, he was soaked to the skin and cold. "Listen, Marshal. I grew up in Nevada Territory. Rain like this doesn't just pass. It hangs around for a couple of days. No, we push on."

            Riley looked into the overcast sky. He knew that Cartwright was right but he had hoped to at least get that small a concession from the man. Something was driving the man and it was something that Riley had an understanding of. He'd finally seen it plain on the other's face over the tin cup of coffee that morning. Fear. Some men, Riley knew, were paralyzed by fear. Other men, and this Cartwright fella seemed to be one of them, used it as a springboard to action. While Riley'd had his fair share of the feeling, he kept it from showing on his face the way he saw it on Cartwright's, but he would use it the same way. So while he didn't like riding in the rain, he tried to understand why they rode on.

            By mid afternoon, they were dropping down onto the flat lands and through the downpour could see the fuzzy outlines of buildings rising up like some ghostly phantoms. Riley had only ridden this way once and that had been right after he had come to Nevada. He'd been hunting cattle rustlers and they had pushed right on through headed into Oregon. He had pushed through as well. But now on this strange errand, it seemed that they were coming to the end and Riley wanted nothing more than a hot meal and an explanation.

            They rode into town side by side, the marshal making a towering presence on his buckskin horse. As they drew up to the open doorway of the livery stable, a fat little man stood there just beyond the rain's reach.

            "Howdy," Joe called out and the man nodded his head. When he and Riley had both dismounted, they led their tired horses into the barn. Joe looked around, checking out the other horses. There was no familiar buckskin with a pine tree brand. His stomach turned over. The only horse he recognized was Candy's bay. "Fella who rode in on this horse, know where he's at?" Joe asked.

            The livery owner sized up the newcomers quickly. They spoke trouble to him and he wanted no part of it. But then the taller man flicked open his rain slicker just long enough for the fat man to get a glimpse of a star pinned to his shirt. "Over in the cantina." The one dressed in the green jacket smiled at him, paid him in advance for the care of the horses and tipping his hat, left the barn.               

            "Griff?" Joe shouted, his voice ringing through the quiet of the cantina. His lack of comprehension made his voice louder than he had intended it to be. He had expected Candy to greet them.

            The slight young man turned and looked across to the doorway. There stood Joe Cartwright, all right, and behind him, looming like some giant, stood the lawman Griff had studiously avoided since he had come to live at the Ponderosa. It was everything the young man could do to not bolt for the door. But before he could even decide to do that, Joe was pulling a chair up to the same table.

           "You sure of this?" Riley asked softly of the blue-eyed boy across the table. He ignored the impatience rolling off his trail partner to his left.

            "Riley, the horses are rested enough. Come on," Joe ordered, standing and already moving for the door. He would have made it but the marshal's hand grabbed his arm and hauled him up short.

            "Listen to me, Cartwright," Riley demanded. "If what this kid says is true, we'll be riding into the teeth of a posse for sure. Even if your daddy and Candy are holed up tight, that posse is gonna find them. We need a plan and riding off half-cocked into the night ain't gonna cut it."

            "I've got a plan!" Joe shot back, pulling his arm from the punishing grip of the lawman.

            "Lemme hear it then."

            For several long moments, the two men stood glaring at one another in the dusky lamplight of the cantina. Griff had finished his meal and tossed the last of his coins on the table for payment but he had yet to move from behind the table. The last place he wanted to be that night was between his boss and that marshal, but he figured they would butt heads half the night if he didn't step up and say something.

            "He's right, Joe," Griff said and saw both men turn to him. "We need some food, blankets, medicines and stuff. Hell, we need a doctor but there isn't one between here and there."

            "How far is it?" the marshal asked. Griff replied that it was less than twenty miles. A good horse, rested could make it before midnight on a good night. He decided not to point out that this wasn't a good night for traveling. Just one look at Joe's face and he knew he would be traveling that night whether he wanted to or not.

            "Bartender!" Joe called loudly and the barkeep stepped from his back room. "Gimme a bottle of whiskey. Griff, go over to the general store. Get us whatever they got in the way of blankets, bandages and the like. Marshal, how about you and I go check the horses?" Even while he spoke, Joe dug into pockets and handed Griff what he found there.

            With bottle in hand, Joe and Riley stepped back into the rainy night then hurried over to the livery. Once inside the door, Joe whirled on the bigger man. Riley was ready. The lawman gathered up the soggy jacket front in one huge fist and pulled the slender Joe up easily.

            "We need to get something straight, cowboy. From here on out, I run this operation. I can't have you running off half-cocked. That's sure to start lead flying and I don't know about you, but my hide don't take kindly to bullets hittin' it." Riley's voice was intimidating enough but Joe batted at the fist holding him, clearly not fazed by the size of the man nor his title.

            "No, you need to get something straight. Twelve miles west of here is the California line and over it, your authority becomes worthless because you're out of your territory." Joe's eyes blazed in the thin light of the stable but Riley could see the determination on the man's face. "And the man we're going after is my father. I ain't gonna tolerate any disrespect towards him so if you have any doubts as to his innocence, get rid of 'em now."

            Riley's lip curled into a near snarl as he stood boot toe to boot toe with the other man. He was a head taller and knew without a doubt that in an all out brawl, he could take the cowboy but from what he had seen and heard around town, he knew it wouldn't be an easy fight. Riley studied the man. Cartwright wasn't a big man but then smaller often meant more stubborn. Considering the present circumstances, he was proving to have an ample supply of the trait.

            "Then let's make us a deal, right here and now, cowboy. I take care of any posse. You take care of your daddy. Deal?" Riley's eyes narrowed, judging the effectiveness of his words.

            "Deal-- but on one condition." Joe waited until the lawman nodded just once. "You refer to my father by his name. Ben Cartwright, or Mister Cartwright. You leave your damn cutting, snide remarks right here."

            "I've found that a man who has to demand your respect usually isn't worth it."

            With lightening speed, Joe Cartwright planted his left fist into the jaw of the lawman. It rocked Riley back on his heels but otherwise had little impact. With one careful hand, the marshal rubbed at the spot but kept his eyes glued on the other.

            "If you two are finished beatin' on one another now, I think we need to get saddled up. And Joe, you owe the man at the store another five bucks for this stuff." Griff glided passed the two men as though nothing was happening.

            "We ain't finished, sonny boy, but maybe we will take a little break," the marshal drawled and skirted his opponent while he went to saddle his horse.

            The story Griff had told them made Joe Cartwright's stomach twist itself into knots. When Candy and Griff had ridden into Litchfield that afternoon, the town seemed to be in a festive mood. The Ponderosa foreman had asked the first passerby what was going on.

            She had shielded her eyes as she looked up into the sun at the man. "Why we're hangin' a horse thief. Just finished his trial and Judge Long said we shouldn't wait. Just go ahead and hang him. So we are." She hurried on towards the center of town.

            Griff snorted and made a comment about swift justice in the little burg but Candy had frozen in his tracks. The younger man stepped from behind him and scanned the gathering crowd to see what had taken Candy's attention.

            Just outside the saloon, still on the broad wooden walkway stood Ben Cartwright, his silver hair as disheveled as his clothing. That was enough to give Griff pause but what had caught Candy's attention was the fact that his boss' arms were pulled behind him and there was a rope around his neck. The man beside Ben Cartwright wore a badge on his leather vest and had the other end of the rope coiled in his hands. Neither Ponderosa hand needed to be urged forward.

            Before they reached Ben, the sheriff had propelled him onto a flatbed wagon and was throwing the loose end of the rope over the livery stable hoist. Candy reacted on gut instinct alone and pushed his way through the crowd and barreled into the lawman, heedless of any drawn guns. Griff was right behind him but turned to the crowd as Candy knocked down the lawman. The younger man reached down and snagged the gun from the loose holster the lawman wore. With the gun drawn, Griff quickly took stock of where any other guns were and was relieved to see that most of the men carried or wore no firearms. Behind him, one of the deputies was attempting to subdue Candy while another man pulled on the dangling rope. When elbowed by his attacker in the ribs, it knocked Candy into Ben and the older man fell to his knees, tightening the noose around his own throat.

            The gasp that went through the crowd told Griff that something had happened behind him. With the stolen gun still trained on the people, he looked over his shoulder. He shouted for Candy but knew he had his hands full. He didn't take the time to think, he just stepped back and pulled down on the rope, giving his boss the slack needed. Griff's hands were shaking and without his meaning it to, the gun went off over the heads of the crowd. The scuffling behind him stopped as he tried his best to look menacing to the crowd he now faced. Another quick look and he saw that Candy was helping Mr. Cartwright to stand, pulling the rope away from his throat and undoing the bindings on his wrists. Still he stood with the gun poised. He heard words and mere grunts behind him then a hand brushed his shoulders, signaling him to move.

            With Candy half-dragging, half-carrying the big rancher, they made their way down the street, Griff's gun the only deterrent they had from being rushed. The sheriff and both his deputies followed warily. At their horses, Candy had to push Ben into the saddle of his own mount then went up behind the slumping man. He pulled his rifle from its scabbard and leveled it at the chest of the sheriff while Griff sprang into his saddle.

            Hanging on for dear life, the men spurred their horses out of town, Griff laying a covering fire as they did. But Ben Cartwright was a big man and riding double on Candy's horse tired the animal quickly. They found a small stream below the edge of the dirt road and traveled in the streambed, hiding in a thicket when they heard riders above them. When the stream petered out, they struck out through the meandering gullies and dry washes. As darkness fell, they had made camp in a cave overlooking a high mesa.

            Candy had tended to Ben as Griff had gathered a small amount of wood for a fire. Even by the thin firelight, he could see that the older man was in trouble. The rope around his neck had burned it and he was having trouble breathing. His eyes were glazed; his wrists bloody from the bindings torn away. When they tried to give him water, he had difficulty swallowing. And as the sun had settled, he began to shiver with the cold. Since they dared not build the fire any higher for fear of being found, they tucked all the blankets they had around him.

            Candy, his rifle nestled in his arms, paced most of the night, his back to the campfire. He watched the mesa, scouring it with his eyes for any movement. There was none. He let his thoughts not stray beyond the immediate: a man he greatly respected lay behind him, possibly at death's door, and all he could do was keep watch.

            On the other hand, Griff spent the cool night beside the injured man. He propped him up on an overturned saddle so that his breathing might come easier. To a degree, it did but he still seemed to be fighting for every breath. The younger man used his own kerchief, dampened with canteen water, as a bandage around Ben's throat. He tore a sleeve from his spare shirt and used it to clean and bind the bloody wrists. Throughout the entire ordeal, Ben Cartwright said nothing, just watching with eyes blank and distant. Then finally he slept and Griff sat on his haunches, trying to decide what they could. There was nothing he could come up with beyond getting as far from Litchfield as they could. And this camp wasn't far enough.

            Dawn came quickly to the mesa, painting it in lovely shades of rose and deep mauve. But the beauty was lost on the desperate men. Once again, they rode but this time slower. The sun slowly climbed into the sky but before it had gone a hand's breadth from the horizon, both of the younger men knew they couldn't go on. Ben Cartwright could no longer even sit upright. His face had lost all color beyond bright spots of color on his cheeks. Behind him, his arms straining and screaming unmercifully, Candy tried to hold him but the rugged foreman was losing the battle. They spotted a cave down the side of a draw and leading his horse, Griff slipped and slid down the shale to it.

            Although the mouth of it was small, no higher than the back of one of the horses and no wider than that same horse, it widened quickly and then bent sharply. Beyond the bend, he found a wide enough space for a horse to be kept. This would be a better place to hole up than the open camp they'd had the night before, if only, Candy had said, because it was that much further from Litchfield.

            Not wanting to tempt the Fates any more that day, they made camp within the cave. Once Ben was off the horse's back, he drifted into what Candy told Griff was sleep. Both men knew different. Ben Cartwright was unconscious. He needed medical attention that neither of the other men was capable of giving.

            Asserting his position as Ponderosa foreman, Candy had given Griff his orders: take his horse, since it was the better of the two animals, and get to a telegraph office. If anyone stopped him, he was just a cowhand, headed back to the Ponderosa where he worked as a wrangler. Once he hit a telegraph office, he was to send a curt missive to Joe that they needed help and to bring Riley. There would be no mention of Ben being nearly hung as a horse thief. Candy figured once Marshal Riley was here, the whole matter could be cleared up quick enough. After all, people had a way of listening to men who wore stars pinned to their chests and the badge of a U.S. Marshal carried a lot of weight. He and Griff had no such advantage. For all those men out chasing them knew, he and Griff were outlaws and horse thieves too.

            So Griff had saddled up and ridden out. He'd spotted the silvery thread of wire snaking out across the land and followed it, never coming in contact with another living soul until he had hit Flanigan. He didn't lack for company though since he kept thinking about the man he had left behind with Candy. Ben Cartwright had treated him decent since obtaining his parole from the Nevada State Prison. Even though Griff had balked and fought the idea, he had finally settled into the routine there on the ranch. And as he did, his duties and responsibilities were echoes of how he was judged. At first he was kept close to the ranch house. He cleaned stalls, fixed the chicken house, chopped wood and did all those monotonous chores that a ranch needs doing. Finally, Ben Cartwright had trusted him enough, he figured, to give him the grand chore of mending fences in an area of the ranch away from the house. Griff had gone about the work - well, not  happily- but it got him away from the watchful eyes in the house. Next he had been given supplies, a map and a packhorse and told that certain line camps needed restocking. He had ridden out and enjoyed his freedom for a week before he returned. Only person he saw when he rode into the yard was Hop Sing, the cook. In fact, he didn't see a boss until the next morning.

            But now that same man was laid out in a cold cave, very possibly dying. Griff kept the horse moving but he memorized the trail he took because he had told himself he would return no matter what. Ben Cartwright had been decent to him. He deserved the same from Griff.

            Now as the rain pelted them, Griff scanned the countryside. It looked so different in the wet night with no moon to speak of to show him the way. He couldn't blame him when Joe reached over and grabbed Griff's arm, nearly yanking him from the saddle.

            "Is this the way or isn't it?" Joe shouted. Around them the storm pressed, the wind, unbroken by any resistance, drove the rain into their faces. The horses, nearing exhaustion stood heads down, sides heaving.

            "Back off, Cartwright!" Griff pushed at the iron grip but it was the marshal, putting his horse and his command between them that made Joe release his handhold. Dark eyes lost in the black of the night took measure of the men on either side of Riley. The expression on the younger man's face was pure anger. On Cartwright's face were lines etched by fear but yet Riley knew there was determination in the other's eyes. "We need to rest the horses, Cartwright, or we'll never get there. Over there," and he gestured with his chin, a barely visible movement in the night, "looks like a place we can hole up. How about you check it out, Griff."

            Once Griff had gone to check the depression and thinly treed shelter, Riley whirled his horse to face Joe. "You want to get to your father. I understand that but like I said, this ain't doin' us any good. Night like tonight, we could ride right by and never find him until it was too late. We can't ride these horses into the ground. They've got to have rest and frankly, so do I."

            "No you don't understand, Marshal. My father could be out there dying right now. I have to get to him!"

            "And if Griff here misses the way back to that cave, what're you gonna do? Beat the boy? If your horse falls dead away under you, what are you gonna do then? Beat the horse? I understand losing someone you care about. I understand it real good but I also know that we've got to stop. I'm giving you the option, Cartwright. You can either hold up here with us now or I won't wait to give you the beatin' you deserve. I'll haul your ass down from that saddle and whip you until you can't stand, much less ride. Which will it be?" To further emphasize his words, Riley had a bruising grip on Joe's left arm.

            Griff rode back onto the road just then. There was a small lean-to down there, he reported. It wasn't much but it was shelter for the men and the horses. He avoided commenting on what he took to be a fight about to erupt between the marshal and Joe.

            "Well, Cartwright?" Riley again asked.

            His anger the only thing keeping him warm, Joe had to relent and he gave the lawman a sharp nod. Reluctantly, he followed as Griff and Riley rode down off the road to the shelter.

            It was no bigger than a couple of stalls but it had a roof that kept off most of the rain. The tilt of the earth forced the runoff away from the dirt floor but there was nothing else there. Pulling their horses in behind them, the men loosened the saddle cinches. Griff handed out strips of jerky from his saddlebags that the men ate without enthusiasm. With their backs to the wall, Riley and Griff found themselves alone as Joe stood at the opening, his feet spread, his head hung.

            "You the Cartwright's ex-con, ain't ya?" Riley opened and felt the other man beside him flinch in the darkness.

            "Parolee," Griff ripped back correcting then sadly "yeah." The boy's soft voice barely reached the marshal's ears.

            "What were you doin' out of state? Ain't allowed as far as I know."

            "Mister Cartwright had okayed it with the Prison board. He can take me just about anywhere. Makes me feel like some damn dog or something."

            To his surprise, the marshal made no comment back to Griff about his choice of expression. Instead the other pointed out that Griff had a gun shoved into the waistband of his trousers.

            "Belongs to the sheriff of Litchfield. I expect I'll have to return it but I didn't think at the time that he really needed it." Griff snorted then chuckled, remembering the scuffle and how the gun had almost literally jumped into his hand.

            "That would be a good idea, boy," replied the marshal slowly and evenly and for a few moments there was no sound beyond that of the horses and the rain. "Cartwright there is gonna be a problem. You do remember the way back to that cave, don't you?" he whispered, the sound coming to Griff right at his ear.

            "I think so," came the admission. "Don't misunderstand me, Marshal. I'm doin' the best I can. Old man Cartwright and I have knocked heads a few times since I came to stay at the Ranch. And maybe Joe and I don't get along real great, but I --" The hand on his shoulder stopped Griff from finishing. In the thin light, they could see that Joe had half turned towards them but then he tucked his hands into the back of his gunbelt and went back to watching it rain.

            "What's drivin' him?" asked Riley.

            "Wasn't that long ago he lost his wife. And just before that, his brother. Guess he's afraid he's gonna lose his father too," Griff explained but Riley knew that. "That's a lot of losin' in a short amount of time and Joe and his pa, they've got somethin' 'tween 'em I never saw before. Sometimes it's more like they're friends than family." He took a deep breath and crossed his arms over his chest, hugging what little warmth there was to himself. "Never seen it before."

            Riley moved slightly in the dark, away from where he stood beside Griff. The emotions he felt coming off the younger man were strong. Upsetting too, if he wanted to be honest. Almost as upsetting were the memories these two men brought back to him of a way of life he'd left far behind him, he'd thought. Memories of a camaraderie based on --Riley pushed away the vision rising before his mind's eye of another man like Cartwright: easily graceful, sure of himself. He told himself that he couldn't afford to remember.

            "Is it true?" the boy was asking. Riley realized that he had been asked something and responded with a grunt. "That you were a Texas Ranger?"

            "That was a long time ago and a long ways away. Better hunker down and see if you can rest some. I'll keep Cartwright in one place as long as I can but once these horses have rested some, I 'spect he'll want to push on." As he spoke, the lawman moved towards the other side, away from Griff.

            "Was it something I said?" the cowhand muttered to himself but found himself sitting on the dirt floor, his knees pulled up under his chin, watching the rain fall.

            He stumbled and fell, his knees hitting the dry hard packed sand again. Swallowing painfully, he tried to rise but his chest ached and it seemed that he could not take in the air he needed to sustain life. With one hand, he sought to wipe away the sweat that ran down his brow and into his eyes, blinding him, but his hand wouldn't move. He looked up, seeking the sun above that hot desert floor. It wasn't there. He tried to order his thoughts. So much depended on him-- his sons needed him. The other people in the wagon train looked to him now as their leader even though he didn't know which way to lead them. All he knew was that they needed to head west. And heading west had brought them to this no-man's land of dry sand, tumbleweeds, broiling heat by day and freezing cold by night. But he couldn't lead, he couldn't be of any use to his sons if he stayed on his hands and knees. He struggled to his feet and stood swaying. A tug on the hand hanging beside him drew his eyes downward. Beside him, barely in his shadow stood his son.

            "Joseph!" he shouted, angry that the boy had not done as he was told. But even as he saw the small child he knew something was wrong with the vision. The wagons shimmered behind him in the heat then slowly disappeared. The little boy vanished as well.

He stood alone on the desert, the sun beating down relentlessly. The sweat ran down the middle of his back, plastering his shirt to him. 

"Here, drink this," the voice said beside him. A hand cupped his head and held the cup for him as he drank the lukewarm liquid. It burned down his throat, each swallow paid for with pain. He tried to push the cup away but failed. He attempted to find the person holding the cup and forcing him to drink; he had to convince them-- it was Joseph again. No longer was he a small child. Instead he stood before his father, his dark curls slicked back and a teasing smile on his face. The hat in his hands made circles that attracted Ben's attention more than the stammering apology and the promise that he wouldn't be out late again. He couldn't smile even though he wanted to, knowing that even though Joseph meant well, it was a promise that he would not be able to keep. 

A hand brushed across his face, and he began to shiver, his body now frighteningly cold. He fought to think clearly but panic continued to rise in him, the acid in his throat burning. At his feet, on Virginia City's main street, Joseph was sprawled face down, a pool of blood mingling with the dust. With trembling hands, he turned his son over and saw the bullet hole piercing the jacket, the shirt, the slender body beneath. As the frigid wind tugged at his own flesh, he cradled his son to him, calling him, pleading for him to stay alive.

"Easy now," encouraged the voice again.

Ben Cartwright opened his eyes. Above him, barely visible in the dusky light, a face hovered. He reached for it and found the stubbled jaw before the other man closed a hand over his and held it warmly.

"Give me quite a scare there, Boss," the other said. "It's me. Candy."

The rancher tried to take a deep breath and failed, his chest unwilling to accept the motion required. That pain brought him fully cognizant of his surroundings. They were in a dark hole, a cave perhaps, he thought. Just beyond Candy, a fire burned, creating dancing shadows on the uneven walls of gray rock. Behind his back, he could feel a saddle and across his body he saw a conglomeration of saddleblankets, a jacket and other pieces of clothing. He tightened his grasp on his foreman's hand.

"Joe?" he managed to get out, his voice a painful whisper, grating against pain. Against hope.

Candy shook his head. "Not yet. Griff'll get him here, don't worry. Then we'll be able to get you to a doctor." He let his words trail off. The hand he held went lax in his and the velvety dark eyes closed slowly. Candy let his hand rest gently on the big chest beside him and felt the minute rise that said the man still lived. He tucked the hand back beneath the makeshift covers and turned to throw another piece of wood on the fire behind him.

"Griff, boy, if you didn't do what I told you to, there ain't gonna be any place for you to hide from me," Candy threatened the darkness. He levered himself back to the wall across from his employer. Scrubbing at his face with one hand, he huffed, the sound alone showing his displeasure.

In the last two days, he had ventured out twice. The first time, he had gone looking for firewood. Just down from the mouth of their cave, he had found a gnarled and twisted tree that was dead, half buried in rocks and debris. At some time in the past, it had come hurtling down this draw on the crest of a flood only to find itself wedged into a pile of debris. Little by little, the debris had disappeared but the dead tree remained until Candy tore at it, hauling off chunks to feed the fire.

The second time Candy had left the cave had been at daybreak the previous morning. He didn't go far, searching for water to fill the canteen he carried. It was a good thing that a seep of fresh water was not far from their camp. He had just finished filling it when he heard horses…too many horses to be Griff and Joe. As he took a quick glance from behind what remained of his firewood tree, his blood ran cold.

Four men, dressed in slickers and riding horses that had seen too many miles were standing in the gentle rainfall not a hundred yards from the mouth of the cave. A fifth horse stood riderless. Candy's hand reached for his gun, sure that a shout would arise from the cave, telling these men that Ben had been found. Candy waited, his heart hammering hard at his chest. Five men, he thought, how could he go up against five men and walk away? Candy swallowed the lump in his throat. He couldn't. His best bet was to put his hands in the air and step out into plain sight. That way, they would pay attention to him and maybe not ever find Mr. Cartwright.

Just as he was about to make his move, the fifth man came out of the cave and got onto his horse.

"Didn't see nothing. Dark in there," the man drawled and Candy smiled, easing himself back further beside his tree. The man hadn't gone far enough into the cave, hadn't stepped probably beyond the mouth of it or he would have at least seen the low fire burning.

Candy waited until he was sure that the riders were gone. Then he waited a little longer, knowing that the rain was just as detrimental to his hearing as it was to anyone else's out there. Finally, his muscles cramping in the chill, he gathered his canteen and little more firewood and slipped up to the cave. Concealing himself just inside the mouth of it, he looked back outside. The tracks of the five horses were even then melting in the rain and as he watched, all sign disappeared except for where one shod hoof had scarred a rock.

He scurried back into their sanctuary, one hand outstretched to guide him around the bend. Even knowing that the camp was there, it was hard to see, the fire having nearly gone out. Candy prodded it back to more life and fed it a fair sized piece. Shivering from the stone-cold dampness, he checked Ben. The older man was still feverish, even to Candy's cold hand. He called to him and gently shook a shoulder but all the other did was moan.

He sat back on his heels and tried to think. The jerky that had been in Griff's saddlebag was gone. The last piece, Candy had used over and over again to make a broth the injured Ben could swallow. There was nothing else to eat and if he went out to find game now, the men just there would hear the shot and return. What could he do then? He certainly couldn't invite them in out of the rain, which would be what they would expect of him. If push came to shove, Candy would kill the horse hidden there with them but the cowboy in him hated to even consider such a thing. But if it means the difference between life and death, I'll do it and not look back.

His lips twitching, Candy thought of that not looking back. He'd lived a lot of his adult life not looking back at the bridges he had burned, the lives he had touched. When demanded by circumstance, he had gotten good with a gun and even better with his fists. He'd fought with, and against, Indians and white men alike, depending on where survival laid. He learned from old timers how and what to eat when others would have starved. And throughout it all, he had done his best to not look behind him, maybe in fear for what might have been catching up to him.

That was until a little trip through the desert had nearly cost him his life. No, Ben Cartwright and his sons hadn't saved his life then but they had been there. In the end, the old man had offered Candy a job that he decided he'd take until he moved on. A few coins jingling in his pocket might make whatever travels he took a little easier. But always he'd had the idea that he'd move on when the notion took him. Now as he edged another piece of wood into the fire, he realized he'd not had the notion to move for a couple of years.

Ben Cartwright stirred restlessly, once again muttering in his delirium the names of his sons. Using a piece of cloth soaked from the canteen, Candy wiped the older man's face, seeing the deepening smudges beneath the closed eyes. Along side of his jaw, Candy could see a bruise made by a fist and in the white hair at the temple, another discoloration. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Ben Cartwright had been beaten but even when the near-hanging was added in, Candy couldn't fathom why the man was as sick as he was. Maybe it was the combination along with the advancing years? Whatever the reason, Candy prayed that help would show up soon or he would be forced to track down the riders he had just let get away and plead for mercy.

"No, no looking back," he told himself and pulled the blanket up higher on Ben's chest.

With a start, Griff awoke. Through the legs of the horses, he could see the coming of dawn across the way. He looked around, searching for his traveling companions. In one corner, Joe Cartwright was asleep, his body pressed tight against the wooden wall, his hat pulled low over his face. But the marshal was nowhere to be seen. Griff started to rise but found his cramped legs nearly useless.

"Here, lemme help ya," the lawman offered and Griff just about jumped out of his skin. But Riley easily lifted him and held onto his arms as blood flowed back into his legs.

"Where'd you come from? Nearly scared the life outta me!" Griff protested hotly once they were outside.

Riley smiled, reminding Griff of an oily cardsharp that had cleaned him out once. "Don't matter none. You rested enough you think you can ride?"

The young man looked back into last night's shelter and saw Joe begin to move. "You think he's gonna take 'no' for an answer?"

Breakfast was a canteen of water passed around and a few strips of jerky then saddles were cinched and the reluctant horses were led into the growing daylight. Even as Riley watched in near awe, Joe Cartwright did a swing vault into the saddle and put the pinto into motion. Griff and he, stiff and with still tired muscles protesting, followed.

Once they gained the height of the road, Griff was able to navigate. The telegraph wire may have dripped rain but it still shone bright in the early morning light and they followed it eagerly. An hour into the ride, Riley shouted for them to halt. Within moments, they were surrounded by five mounted men.

"Listen here, gents," Riley spoke up, his Texas drawl a little more pronounced that usual. "You done picked the wrong folks to rob." He flicked open his jacket and let them see the badge he wore.

"We're part of a posse," the oldest man spoke up. "Horse thief got away from us. Riding with two other men."

Riley heard Cartwright inhale sharply but otherwise Joe stayed quiet, keeping to the deal they had made. Riley would handle the law.

"Well, we ain't horse thieves," the lawman said evenly. "Got some business up here a ways, me and these two other gents."

One of the posse members rode closer to Griff, his eyes squinting. He studied both the horse and the rider. "This one ain't wearin' a gun, " he told the others.

"That's cause he's in my custody. I'm a U.S. marshal. That other fella," and Riley nodded in Joe's direction, "is his boss. Now, like I said, we got business to tend to on ahead. So if you gents would move aside, we'll be about it."

The five men traded uneasy glances. Finally one man, the leader, grumbled that no pinto had been among the get-away horses and they parted to let the trio pass.  Griff could feel the bead of sweat trickling down his spine as they rode away. He glanced from under his hat brim at Joe and saw the muscles bunching along his jawline. On the other side, Riley rode relaxed, his body moving with the horse. They let the horses walk for the better part of a mile before Riley drew to a halt. Joe and Griff rode on a short distance before they drew rein. Turning back, they saw Riley rise up in the stirrups, his whole big body tense.

"Griff!" he hissed. "You fellas make a fire?"

Reining back beside the marshal, Griff allowed that they did. Riley smiled and sniffed the air again, turning his head this way and that.

"But it was in a cave," Griff explained.

"Don't matter. Smoke's got to get out somewhere somehow. Come on," he ordered and, without looking back, put his horse down the slight slope and out onto the broad valley floor. The others had nothing else to do but follow.

Half a mile became a mile and still the big man led on, stopping every once in a while to sniff again at the air like a dog tracking prey. The third time he stopped, even Griff caught the scent of smoke. It was Joe who pointed out the hoof prints in the soft ground. A lot of hoof prints. From shod horses.

"Riley, wait a minute. Maybe what you smell is the campfire that posse had this morning." The lawman shook his head and, swinging his horse into the faint breeze, rode on.

Finally the three men rode up the side of the valley. Beyond the hill they sat atop, lay a confusing welter of gullies and washes.

"Any of this look familiar Griff?" Joe asked. Griff, in reply, shrugged his shoulders.

"Over there." The marshal pointed to the north and west. Both Joe and Griff looked and saw nothing. "There's a real faint haze over there. Close to the ground."

Joe saw it then. "Could be fog."

"Nope, it ain't. It's smoke. If it was fog, it wouldn't be moving with the breeze 'cause fog is heavier than smoke. Come on. We'll either find your father and Candy or a couple of wanderers like us." Again Riley put his big buckskin in motion, trusting that the other two would follow…and that he would be right.

He had drifted off to sleep but the sound at the entrance to the cave awoke Candy immediately. Snatching his gun from its holster, he knew there wasn't enough time to meet his guests so he positioned himself so that Ben was hidden behind him. He rolled his eyes and shoved the gun home when he recognized Joe's voice.

Within the space of two heartbeats, the cave was too full of people and motion for Riley's likes. He stepped back into the draw, pulling Griff with him. "Give them a minute," he advised and saw Candy also exit the cave. "The old man still alive?"

Candy nodded, squinting into the light. "Yeah but not by much. Havin' trouble breathin," he explained, his palms suddenly sweaty so he rubbed them down the sides of his pants. "Glad you could join us, Marshal." He extended his hand.

Riley's mouth twisted in an ironic grin. "Didn't have much choice in the matter." He ignored the outstretched hand.

Inside the cave, it was all Joe could do to keep from throwing himself onto his father's chest, his relief was so great. Instead, his shaking hands sought his father's pulse. Weak and unsteady. He brushed the back of one hand down his father's haggard face and felt the blaze of fever. He pulled gently at the bandanna that surrounded his father's throat and strangled his own gasp of shock when the rope's path became evident. Gently over and over, he called to his father, hoping to get a reaction but there was none beyond his own despair.

The words that called him back from his hopelessness belonged to the marshal. "Cartwright, listen. I think we need to get your father out of here as quick as possible. Get him to a doc. Candy says he and the boy spent some time in a place called Wendel."

Joe shook himself mentally then physically. Riley was right. "Yeah, Wendel is a little place. Not far from Litchfield though. But there is no way my father can set a horse, Marshal."

"Well, I got me an idea. You and Candy go to Wendel. Get us a wagon. Griff and I will get your father onto a travois. You meet us as quick as you can." While he spoke, Riley assessed the older man's condition. He didn't want to tell the man's son that he thought the old man was not going to make it any further than the cave entrance but he had to instill hope and the best way to do that was with action.

"No," the rancher insisted. "You and Candy go. Leave Griff with me."

"Listen," Riley began again but this time, it was Cartwright's fist holding the lawman's jacket, his green eyes blazing angrily.

"We had a deal. You would handle the posse. I would handle my father. Hold up your end of the deal, Marshal or, so help me God, I will take you out of here and beat you into the ground. Got it?"

The marshal eased back when the fist loosened but he kept his eye pinned to the man in the green jacket. "You talk mighty big for a little man," he said coolly.

"One of these days, you're gonna find out that I ain't so little a man that I can't take you apart. But here and now ain't it. Now either abide by your end of the deal or get out of my way."

Riley stood slowly, his wide shoulders nearly brushing both sides of the cave. He studied the man kneeling beside the old rancher. Just as slowly, Joe rose to his feet and faced the lawman.

"You're right, Cartwright," the marshal admitted, his dark gaze locked with the green eyes. "You ain't so little a man. And now ain't the time and place to find out how big you really are. Sorry. I'll hold up my end of the deal. You just make sure you do yours."

Once outside the cave, Riley had to take a moment to clear his mind. Back there, in the confinement of those rock walls, his mind had played a trick on him and he had to take the time to be sure of himself. For just that moment, the two men there, he knew them, but they weren't a man and his son. They were…

The dark memories threatened the carefully composed lawman's life he had led since coming to Nevada but he pushed them aside. "Hey, Candy. Feel like ridin' with me?"

It was mid-afternoon before Candy and Riley left for Wendel. They rode light, the food and supplies all staying at the cave. Behind them, Griff sat at the entrance, Candy's rifle balanced on his crossed legs. In the small area before the cave, the pinto and bay were now hobbled, grazing. As the two riders had cleared the top of the steep slope, Candy had turned and looked down to see Griff's hand raise in farewell. Marshal Riley only flicked his tired horse into a lope, guided by some unerring instinct towards their destination.

With Griff standing guard, Joe went to work. He built up the fire with the wood Candy and Riley had scrounged up. Some of it looked liked dressed lumber but where it came from, Joe didn't even stop to think. It burned well though, giving off both heat and light with very little smoke. From their packs, he pulled a coffeepot and proceeded to make coffee. Dried beans went into a small pot of water and then onto the fire to one side. From the bottle he had bought in Flanigan, he poured some of the whiskey into one of their two plates then tore up his spare shirt and dipped it into the alcohol. While the coffee brewed and the beans cooked, he bathed his father's face and pulled away the bloody wrappings from his wrists. These he also cleaned, praying the sting of the alcohol would make his father rouse. It didn't. Joe pulled away the bandanna from his father's neck and again had to look away, seeing the rope burns there. Finally, gulping air, he turned back and using the lightest touch he could, he began the necessary cleansing. Now his father did react but Joe, his voice gentle and soothing, endeavored to keep his father calm. Once the dried blood and accumulated excess was gone, Joe knew he had to bandage it to keep it clean. And so that he couldn't see it.

"Hey Griff!" he called, his voice ringing through the cave. "I need your help back here a minute."

Cautiously, Griff came into the circle of light. Joe looked up at him. "Help me just a minute then you can go back outside. Okay?"

"No, it's okay, Joe," the younger man said. "It was just there for a little bit…felt like these walls were closing in on me, ya know? But they don't seem so bad now." To further emphasize his point, he patted one rock wall. Earlier, it had been all he could do to stand at the bend. He'd tried to swallow his fear but it was evident to all of them there. They all understood. It was just like when he had been imprisoned… the Hellbox, they called it then…dark, damp, no air to breathe, no water, no sound, just the cold walls. And for the moment when they had all stood in the cave, he had heard the struggling, rasping breathing and had seen another old man die, just pulled from the Hellbox.

Together, they managed. Joe had held his father, pulling him up enough that Griff could unroll the bandage around Ben's neck. Then Joe eased his father back down onto the upturned saddle.

"Joe, think you can get some of that liquor down him?" Griff asked tentatively. "Might help him breathe a little easier. Cup's over there." When Joe turned to get the cup Griff had pointed to and poured in a small dollop of whiskey, Griff took the advantage of Joe's back turned. He brushed aside the top of Ben's shirt, the top buttons already opened. He saw bruised flesh.

The memory welled up in his own chest and Griff bolted from the cave. Out in the cool air of the gathering night, he bent over, vomiting, retching again and again, the dry heaves weakening him until he had to hang onto one of the horses to stand. He was sweating and shivering at the same time, lightheaded and swaying.

"It's okay," said Joe, reaching for the trembling cowhand, his voice soft and concerned as he edged up behind him. "You don't have to go back in there again. I'm sorry."

"No, you don't understand, Joe. Your pa…" Griff struggled with the emotions washing over him: the fear, the anger but most of all the remembered pain. He couldn't finish what he had wanted to say for almost a full minute. Then, "You need to lay your pa down flat, Joe. He's …hurt…real bad, he's hurt."  The mere words hurtled Griff back in time. He had just been arrested for the near beating death of his stepfather. There was no remorse in him except for the fact that he hadn't finished the job and killed the man. The sheriff in that two-bit town had decided to teach the boy a lesson in respect. Reaching through the cell bars, he had grabbed hold of the front of Griff's shirt. Then, with ever increasing violence, he had slammed Griff repeatedly into the bars. When it was over, he simply let go and the boy had fallen in a broken heap to the floor. For months afterwards, Griff couldn't take a deep breath without pain.

The remembered vision and pain cleared slowly. Once again, Griff King was on his own feet and under the clear afternoon sky of Northern California, not in the gray confines of the Nevada State Penitentiary or the bleak jail cell where he had been brutalized all in the name of respect. Taking a long look around, he headed for the cave. The man who'd had a hand helping Griff to stand under that sky needed his help now.

Together, Griff and Joe returned to the cave and pulled the saddle from behind Ben and lowered him to the ground. Griff took a set of saddlebags and slid one pocket under the silver head, raising it slightly. He had been right. Mr. Cartwright's breathing seemed easier. He looked up, ready to smile but held back when he saw Joe's face.

Joe had opened his father's shirt. The huge barrel chest of the man was mottled purple and black. His son gently laid one hand on it as though to reassure himself that what he was seeing wasn't a dream. Beneath his hand, he felt the massive chest give and he pulled his hand away as though he had been burnt.

"Easy, Joe," crooned Griff, pulling at his arm, moving the son away from the father. "Probably got busted ribs. Maybe some bruisin' inside too. That's what I meant when I said he was hurt bad." While he spoke, he pulled the shirt closed again and covered the injured man with the several blankets they had.

"How? I mean-" Joe's fragmented thoughts made his words disjointed and hollow.

Even though it pained him, recalling it again in so short a time, Griff told Joe about his own beating. It didn't surprise him in the least when he finished that Joe very plainly and very blunted stated "I'll kill the bastard who did this." There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Joe meant it. Hell, the only reason why Joe would have a crack at the culprit was that he, Griff, would respectfully wait in line for his chance. He had learned that much about respect.

The sun was reaching for the far western horizon when Griff saw them. There was a wagon rumbling towards them and he knew it was the big marshal handling the team. But out to the side came six riders when there should have been only one, Candy. He swallowed and shouted for Joe to join him with his rifle.

Riley pulled the lathered team to a halt at the edge of the slope. There was no way to get the buckboard down closer so this was the best to be done. He leapt down nimbly. The greeting he got was a shot fired into the air. Down below, at the mouth of the cave, stood Joe Cartwright and Griff King, rifles aimed and mouths set determinedly.

"Hold up, Cartwright!" the marshal shouted and stood his ground. "I told these men that you all are in my custody. I meant it! Until we can get this mess straightened out, you're mine to deal with. That includes your pa, Cartwright! These gentlemen are here to help us and to escort us back to Litchfield. The nearest help is in Litchfield. Your pa needs that doctor, Cartwright. Now, lay down your guns."

"What about them? They armed?" Joe shouted, his rifle not wavering as he jacked another round into the chamber. The noise it made seemed very loud.

Riley turned and addressed the five men who had caught up with them just outside of Wendel. They were the same posse members as they had met before and this time, with a different man in tow, his explanation fell short but they had respected the badge he wore. "You men, toss your sidearms into the wagon. Rifles too. " He watched as one young posse man glanced worriedly at an older man, clearly looking for direction.     " Just do like I say and no one'll be hurt." They obeyed. "Now, move off to the side a ways so that fella down there with the gray hair don't take a twitch the wrong way. He can hit just about anything he wants with that rifle and I've never seen him have to aim to do it."

Candy listened to the big marshal's easy words. They were calming to both sides. But he wanted to laugh aloud when Riley made the comment about Joe's shooting. Riley was right, Candy knew, but Riley had also never seen Joe Cartwright shoot- revolver, rifle or even dice!

Once the riders moved away and dismounted, Candy and Riley slipped and slid down the slope. Only then did Joe and Griff put down their weapons.

"How's your pa?" Candy asked.

"Alive," was the blunt answer Joe gave him as he turned back into the cave.

Between the four of them, they struggled getting Ben out of the confines of the cave. Each motion seemed to bring a moan from the big man. They had placed him on a blanket then lifted it, Candy and Joe at his head, Riley and Griff at his feet. Outside, they grimly looked at the steep slope they would have to climb, still carrying their injured. Joe was the one who called for a pause and they gently placed Ben on the ground. Joe knelt beside his father, brushing a hand over the silver hair. He heard the crunch of boots on skree but he didn't look around.

The five posse men positioned themselves around the blanket. Without a word of direction, once again the blanket was lifted. When Joe went to help, one of them brushed his hand away.

"You just stay there at his head. We'll do the liftin'".

In short order, Ben was placed on the straw spread in the back of the buckboard. Around him, they loaded what gear there was and spread the blankets they had over him. One of the posse members, a middle aged man with a rounded belly offered up his bedroll as well.

"One of you the sheriff of Litchfield?" Joe asked the gathered posse, glaring at the blanket offered to him. No one answered. "A deputy, maybe?"

The older man in the group seemed to be the one in charge and he replied evenly, "Nope, we're just townsfolk who the sheriff called on for posse duty. That's all. Our orders were to shoot your pa and these two others on sight but this fella," and he gestured towards the marshal, "well, we figure that he outranks our town sheriff. If he says he's takin' ya into his custody, then so be it."

Ashamed now, Joe couldn't look the other men in the eye as he thanked them. They seemed to understand and went to mount their horses without another word spoken. He was preparing to clamber into the back of the wagon when Candy stopped him.

"Joe," he said under his breath, the words barely audible. "You take care of your pa. Let Riley, Griff and I handle the rest of this. Okay?" There was concern in the tone but under it was a warning that Joe considering throwing back into Candy's face. One look at his lantern jawed friend, and Joe relented.

The main street of Litchfield was dark and deserted as the wagon and outriders came into town close to midnight that night. But they made enough noise that it set an unseen dog to barking and a light came on in the sheriff's office.

The same man who had spoken up at the tailgate of the wagon told Riley that there was no hotel, only a boarding house run by the Widow Cunningham. He led them to it and stood beside Candy as he pounded on the door to the darkened two-story house. Presently an older woman came to the door, in one hand a kerosene lamp, the other holding closed her dressing gown.

"Homer, what in tarnation is going on?" she demanded, her eyes taking in the disheveled man on her doorstep as well as the wagon at the gate.

The townsman explained, quickly glossing over the fact that the man hurt in the wagon was the man they had all tried to lynch four days before. For a moment, Candy feared she would turn them down. He smiled at her, hoping to win her over.

"How many you say? Five? Ain't got but four rooms and one of them is the big room downstairs," she muttered and ran an age-spotted hand over her gray hair.

"That'll be fine, ma'am," Candy piped up brightly. He didn't care if he had to sleep on the floor. The posseman, Homer, looked askance at him but Candy just pushed the man's awkwardness aside.

The woman opened the door all the way and stepped aside to light another lamp.

"You forget that you and that other young pup are going down to the jailhouse. The old man will be joining you once the doctor sees to him," Homer blustered, his finger all but shaking under Candy's nose.

"No, you forget that these men are in my custody," Riley butted in, shoving both men aside with one shoulder as he went into the parlor.

By the time they had Ben Cartwright laid on the bed in the largest room, the one downstairs, the doctor had been summoned and arrived, right on the heels of the town sheriff. The little half stump of a man was admitted but the sheriff couldn't get beyond the huge man at the front door.

"Understand you got one of my escaped prisoners in there. As well as the two who broke him loose. Stand aside."

Riley again flashed his U.S. Marshal's badge. "Name's Riley. I'm a U.S. Marshal and those men in there, the old man and the two younger fellas are in my custody." He conveniently left out the fact that he was well outside of his jurisdiction and had not the slightest clue what he could say he was holding them for.

The other man was hard to bluff. Riley watched as the sheriff sucked on his upper lip a moment. "Most times when a marshal comes through, he checks in with me first. Name's Carpenter. Mike Carpenter. I'm the law around here."

For a moment, Riley considered telling the other lawman what he thought of the 'law around here.' Instead he stood pat. "Well, Sheriff Carpenter, I hear that the old man in there was accused of horse stealin'. That right?" When the sheriff nodded, the marshal went on. "And that he got a fast fair trial." Again the nod but this time the eyes narrowed. "And when these other two fellows came into town, you were fixin' on hangin' the old boy and they broke him out. That right too?"

"That's the way of it. Common practice to hang a horse thief, marshal." Again the eyes narrowed. "I figure the old one ain't goin' no where but the young ones, I want to lock 'em up in my jail."

"Candy! Griff!" Riley called over his shoulder and the two called materialized within moments. Each man held a sandwich and a cup of coffee. To the sheriff, Riley asked, "These two the ones you mean?"

The sheriff nodded but looked past Riley's bulk into where the doctor was bending over the bed. There was another man there that he didn't recognize. No matter, he thought to himself, and pulling his gun from its holster, gestured towards the front door with it.

"Sheriff, these men are staying here with me."

Carpenter was about to say something when a commotion broke out behind Riley's back and the man who had been with the doctor was trying to get around Riley. There was murder in the man's green eyes as he shouted for the marshal to move so he could get to the sheriff. Riley caught and held the other man as he struggled.

"Joe! Joe!" Candy also turned and inserted himself in front of his friend and beside the massive lawman.

"Let me at him!" Joe bellowed, his fingers iron talons in Riley's arm. Riley held onto him, lifting him from the floor and finally shoving him into a wall to contain his unexpected fury.

"What the hell is this all about?" Riley demanded. He could feel Cartwright still fighting him but more wisely now, trying to pull away. He pushed the slighter man tighter to the wall.

"This is it." Griff shoved Candy out of the way and made his way into the room. He stopped beside the bed where Ben Cartwright laid, the doctor hovering, a bloody bandage in his hand. "But then the sheriff knows this, doesn't he? Seein's how he was the one that done it." Carefully and gently, Griff laid aside the linen shirt that his boss wore, exposing the heavily bruised chest.

The silence in the room was pervasive, broken only by the uneven breathing coming from the man on the bed.

"Sheriff, these men stay with me. For their own protection as well as yours. Now I suggest that you get out that door real fast or I am gonna turn this 'un loose on you," Riley warned.

Carpenter's eyes again narrowed. "Don't know how that old geezer got beat up like that. Maybe these young hoodlums-" He never finished his sentence. Griff charged across the room and would have pummeled the man except for Candy's intervention.

"Like I said, sheriff, these men are my responsibility. They're gonna stay in this house, right?" He swept his eyes around the room and hallway where the others stood. One by one, Candy then Griff and finally Joe nodded. Riley slowly released his hold on the struggling rancher and took a step away from him. "There's the door, Carpenter. Use it. I'll be in your office first thing in the morning and we'll see about getting this all straightened out."

With his gun still drawn, the sheriff reached behind him and opened the door. Taking small careful steps, he departed, never turning his back on the tableau. He wasn't sure who he was more afraid of: the big burly marshal or the man with the burning green eyes.

"He's still a dead man," Joe hissed.

Dawn's first light streaked across the floor, its long fingers finally touching Riley's face. He stood up slowly from the chair he had slept in the short night before, his long legs across the open doorway. While the mistress of the house had offered him a proper place to rest, he had chosen the chair. Anyone leaving the house would have to get around him and, notoriously a light sleeper, he'd have felt their passing. It didn't surprise him that no one had tried to leave in the darkness. Joe Cartwright had been too busy seeing to his father and Candy and Griff were just completely exhausted. The marshal was too but he had told people that these men were in his custody and he had to make it appear he was guarding them if for no other reason than that.

He stretched, shoulder muscles bunching then smoothing, joints popping. He ran one hand through his hair then scratched at his chin. He needed to shave, he thought, but more than that, he needed a good meal. Expectantly, he sniffed the air, hoping the Widow Cunningham had coffee on at the very least. Nothing came to his nose.

A slight sound from the large bedroom to his right caught his attention and he pushed the door completely open. The doctor had left in the small hours of the morning, stating plainly that there was nothing more he could do for the injured man. The doctor's words weren't much encouragement. From where he stood at the door that golden morning, Riley studied the man on the bed. He'd seen the distinctive bruises, the red lines arching away on the old man's chest. He'd heard the man trying to breathe normally and failing. While Riley had never done that to a man in his custody, he'd seen it done by someone who, up until that time, he had respected. Even then, Riley had tried to convince himself that it was necessary. After all, the man with his hands tied behind him had withheld information they needed. The beaten man had finally given up the required words but the words had been too late. But that had been a long time ago and a long ways away.

Seeing old man Cartwright staring at him brought the marshal back to the present. Riley looked around and saw Joe asleep on the small settee. One look told Riley that the younger Cartwright was just as exhausted as the rest of them had been and he would not awaken easily. He crossed the deep carpet to sit beside the rancher.

"Water?" the older man requested, his voice raspy and weak.

Riley lifted the silver head gently, the glass of cool water held to his lips. The other man took a few sips then wanted no more.

"I'm U.S. Marshal Riley. Rode up here with your son when we heard there was a problem. Can you talk, Mister Cartwright?" Riley asked softly.

"Joe?" Ben managed with a great deal of effort to get out the one word.

"He's asleep right over there," and Riley nodded in the general direction of the settee. "Wore himself, as well as the rest of us, out trying to get to you then to get you help. Determined, stubborn cuss, ain't he?" In spite of himself, Riley smiled. "But I got it figured that he takes after his old man on that score, don't he?"

Ben Cartwright ghosted a smile. He tried to shift positions but every movement, every breath even, brought pain with it. The marshal had asked him if he could talk but it was an impossibility. He moved his head weakly to the side then slowly back.

"Said they were hanging you for a horse thief. Now I got a notion that you ain't a horse thief." Riley let his hands hang between his knees as he sat, hunched over in the chair, his upper body leaning towards the man on the bed. It was a posture he often took during an investigation. It showed the person being questioned that Riley had no fear of them, perhaps even told them that he might believe their version of the truth. Sometimes they were right; most times they weren't. The only truth Riley believed any more came from his own gut.

"I mean why would a man who owns half the state of Nevada want to steal a horse?" Riley chuckled softly, rubbing his jaw, feeling again the stubble there. "But they said you had a trial, Mister Cartwright, and the jury found you guilty." His tone changed. The bantering stopped just as swiftly as it had once come. "Now a man in my position, knowing what I know, I got some powerful suspicions and a heap of questions to go with 'em. I'm gonna start with one that's got nuthin' to do with horses. This here," and he laid his hand gently on the blanket-covered chest of the old man, "This happen while you were jailed here?"

"Yes," Ben pushed out.

"Sheriff?" the marshal queried.

"No," the big rancher whispered the word then seemed to gather a little strength and continued. "Don't know. Dark. Head's fuzzy."

People on the Litchfield street turned and watched as Marshal Riley walked down the wooden planks. Over six feet tall and powerfully built, he moved with an easy grace that naturally drew attention. He tipped his hat to any female but all the men noticed that even as he did, he kept one hand close to a weapon, either the knife sheathed on his left side or the Colt holstered on his right. When he stopped an old-timer and asked directions to the sheriff's office, he thanked the man courteously. That consideration didn't go unnoticed either.

"Who's guarding the prisoners?" the town sheriff blurted out just as soon as Riley opened the door to his office and stepped into it.

"Last I saw of 'em, they were sittin' down to a fine breakfast the widow-lady had fixed up. So I guess you could say that she was!"

"Listen Marshal, I don't care for your high-handed--" began Carpenter's protest but Riley, slick as a cat pouncing on a mouse, had the sheriff's shirtfront balled into a fist and had lifted the slighter man half-way across his desk.

"And I don't care to see prisoners beaten. Not the way that man was. Gives bein' a lawman a bad reputation! What I want to know is why," Riley seethed into the other's face and for further emphasis, shook him. "You already got a man behind bars, why beat him with those same bars?"

"I didn't do it!"

"Your deputies, then?" Another shake rattled the miscellaneous items on the desk between them.

"Neither one of them got the brains to do squat without being told. Listen, Marshal Riley, you and I can work together or we can fight things out. Don't matter one way or another to me. The man over at the Widow Cunningham's was tried and convicted of bein' a horse thief. Two other men over there broke the law when they stopped us from hangin' the man. Yer suppose to uphold the law same as me but I don't think yer doin' that right now."

Judging the man's words to be true, Riley gradually let go of the other man but he kept his hand close to his holster just in case the other man just wanted free. "Why don't you start at the beginning, Sheriff, and tell me why you think a man who owns half the state of Nevada would stoop to stealing a horse."

Slowly and carefully, the sheriff told his story:

A week ago, the man known to them as Ben Cartwright rode into town late one evening on a fine looking buckskin and leading a handsome black horse. The buckskin wore the brand that looked like a pine tree but the black, a stallion, had no mark at all on him. The fellow put the two horses up in the livery then got directions to the saloon. Told the livery hand that he was going to have his dinner and a good night's sleep but that he wanted to be out on the trail real early the next morning. He instructed old Toby to double grain both animals after he'd cooled 'em down good.

Wasn't too much after that that Judge Long's son rode into town in a lather. He came straight to the sheriff's office. One of his prize stallions had been stolen right from the paddock. He described the horse: black, almost 17 hands, no distinguishing markings, and, most importantly, no brand. Seemed that the horse had been hard to deal with ever since they had bought him at auction and the opportunity to brand the animal had not come up. But someone had managed to steal the black. Toby had come over to the sheriff's office to freeload some coffee and after hearing the description, told all present about the stranger in town and the horses in the stable…

"Of course, we went and checked them out. George Long took one look at the horse and said it was their stud. I made him look real careful and he did. I know George and I know that he knows horses At the trial he even produced a bill of sale for the black that gave the animal's description and it matched the animal in the livery that night. You want me to go on?"

So the sheriff, with Toby in tow, went to the saloon. That was where Carpenter first met up with the man who called himself Ben Cartwright. Of course, Cartwright denied stealing the horse. Said he had bought it over towards Red Bluff from an old friend. When asked to produce the bill of sale, Cartwright said that he had none. His friend had been too weak, dying like he was, to sign the paper so Ben had left it there. The friend's housekeeper had said that when the old man signed it, she would mail it….

"I didn't believe the man. Story was so cockeyed it had to be a lie. He blustered around a little; told me to wire the sheriff in Virginia City like that man could corroborate his story! Even wanted me to wire his friend in Red Bluff. When I told him that this town didn't have a telegraph office and that I'd have to go to Susanville, he offered to pay for it! Now I ain't dumb, Marshal. I had it figured out by then that the old coot had a friend in Red Bluff all right and that the friend would alibi anything!"

"Well? Did you wire Red Bluff?" Riley asked, continuing his pacing as he waited and listened for an answer.

"No. I took Cartwright, if that's his name, into custody. Old man threw a fit but I tried telling him that it was for his own good. He asked me to wire his son in Virginia City too, to tell him that he would be home a little later than he had planned. The way I figured it, he was actually sending a signal down there for help to come bust him out of jail. I didn't bother wiring that message either but I didn't tell the prisoner that. Nope, instead, I turned in."