Co-Author’s note:  This final season story has a cameo appearance by a character created by Karen for her original-cast story “The Luck of the Draw” soon to be found on this site converted to a Laredo story but available in it's original Bonanza version on Writer's Round-Up
 
 

Wednesday - April 28

Two men rode steadily over the rugged terrain, carefully keeping their horses at a measured pace in the knowledge they had a long way to go before they arrived home.  Joe Cartwright ran a hand through his gray-flecked curls and stretched in the saddle.

“You know, Walt, the older I get, the harder it is to make this trip every year.” Joe smiled ruefully at his companion, a grizzled cowboy with iron gray hair and disgruntled expression.  “It’s only when I look at the zeros on the cashier’s check that I remember it’s worth it.”

“It was a good string of horses,” the other man replied.  “That stallion, in particular.  He sure gave you a run for your money, but look at the price you got for him.  Mr. Boone knows quality when he sees it.  Too bad he’s too miserly to put his hands up decently.  His bunkhouse cots put a crick in my back.  Sure will be nice to get back to the Ponderosa.”

Joe uncapped his canteen and took a long swallow.  Gazing into the distance, he squinted at the sun, and then looked speculatively at the distant hills.  They’d been trying to put in as many miles in as they could before sunset, but with three days in the saddle since leaving Boone’s ranch, he was tired, sore and more than ready for a hot bath and a good meal.  He gestured to his right with one gloved hand.  “I think there’s an old way station a couple of miles ahead.  It’ll give us a chance to sleep under a roof for a change.  Not the Ponderosa, but the best we can do. Maybe we’ll even be able to scare up a rabbit or two for supper.  I could sure use a change from those beans.”

Walt shrugged.  “Whatever you say, Joe.  You’re the boss.  Shouldn’t be more’n day till we get home.  I guess I can make it, but a cup of hot coffee and fresh meat does sound good.”

Joe’s distinctive giggle cut through the air.  He nudged his pinto, and the animal moved a little faster.  “Well, what are you waiting for?” he called back over his shoulder.  “Last man to the shack has to get supper.”

Walt grudgingly followed suit.  Joe glanced back again, a wry grin on his face.  The hand wasn’t one of the most pleasant men on the Ponderosa, but he got his job done with a minimum of fuss.  It wasn’t Walt’s fault he lacked a sparkling wit or an entertaining conversational style.  Turning away, Joe urged Cochise forward.  Supper sounded better all the time.

The pair rode toward the shack, a cloud of dust rising in their wake.

A pair of gloved hands shut the spyglass with a snap, replacing it in its leather case with a crisp movement.  With a nod of satisfaction, the man noted the pair remained unaware of his presence.  He’d been following them throughout the journey, carefully keeping just out of their range.  It wouldn’t do to reveal himself too soon.  Revenge was to be savored, not devoured.  Tomorrow would be soon enough to set his plan in motion, and he’d carefully scouted out the perfect spot weeks earlier.  He licked his lips and urged his horse forward.  It was time to circle around the pair from the Ponderosa.

Thursday - April 29

An early start the next morning with the promise of sleeping in his own bed that night put Walt in a better mood.  Joe caught the man grinning a time or two over some scrap of conversation, and he worked harder to produce that rare expression.  But as the grueling miles continued even his conversation petered out to an occasional grunt.

Familiar landmarks and the knowledge that home was just a little over an hour away brought a resurgence of Joe’s good mood, and he smiled over at the older man.  “Almost there, Walt.  I want to thank you for all your hard work on this trip.  You were a big help.”

“Just doing my job, Joe.  Don’t ever do no different,” Walt replied sourly.  “It sure gets harder every year, I’ll grant you.  I’ll flip you for first crack at the hot water when we get back.  These old bones are gonna need a soak.  Loser can put up the horses.”

They cantered through the towering pines that lined the pathway, and Joe inhaled the crisp scent eagerly.  To him, the smell meant home.  “You’ve got a deal,” he replied.

The roadway curved ahead of them and the horses dutifully swept along the gentle bend.  Then Joe pulled up sharply, a low whistle leaving his lips.  “Looks like an accident up ahead, Walt.  Guess we should stop to help.”

He motioned toward the spot where a large wagon lay on its side, obscuring half the road.  Boxes and barrels were spread around in the dust, and they could make out the figure of a man crouched over the wagon’s axle, some sort of tool gleaming in his hands.

Walt shot a sour glance at his employer.  “There ain’t any need to stop, Joe.  There’s a fella working on that wagon, and he’s most likely got it well in hand.  We’re only an hour from home; let’s ride on.  Hop Sing’s probably got a good dinner waiting for us and I sure don’t want to miss that.”

“It won’t hurt to check.  An extra pair of hands might be just what he needs to get that wagon upright again,” Joe replied patiently.  “Don’t be so grouchy, ok?”

He ignored the older man’s grumbles as they rode toward the wagon.  As they approached, the stranger straightened up, a large hammer gripped tightly in one hand.  He lifted the other to shade his eyes as he peered at the riders.  He stood in silent wariness, waiting for the others to speak first.

Joe and Walt pulled their horses to a stop as Joe touched a gloved finger to his hat brim in greeting.  “Need any help, Mister?” he said with a grin.  “Looks like you’ve got a problem.”

The man relaxed a little and let the hammer drift downwards.  “I’d appreciate it.  Can one of you grab that axle while I get this wheel back on?” he replied.  “I haven’t been able to do it by myself, the wheel keeps sliding away from me.”

Joe was already dismounting, steadfastly ignoring the steady stream of muffled curses issuing from Walt’s lips.  “Sure thing.  Walt, get on down here and let’s take a look at this thing.”  He stopped to loop Cochise’s reins over a nearby bush, making sure the horse had some grass to graze on.

Walt followed Joe’s lead, and the pair moved to examine the wagon’s damaged axle.  Joe crouched in the dusty road and scrutinized the shaft minutely.  “Looks like the axle’s okay, but it needs a bit more grease before we’re going to get that wheel back on.”  He glanced up at the stranger.  “You got any grease in this wagon?”

The man nodded.  “Yep.  But it was way up in the front.  We’d have to crawl in and dig around for it.”  He waved his hand at the wooden over-structure that had somehow managed to stay attached to the fallen vehicle.

Joe glanced at the mess, and shook his head ruefully.  “I don’t see that we have any other choice. Walt, you stay out here and help move some of these boxes out of the way.  I’ll climb in and see if I can dig out that grease.”  He ducked his head through the opening at the back of the wagon and began the painstaking crawl through the debris littering the interior.

Walt glared at Joe’s back, but he moved around to the front side of the wagon and bent to the task he’d been given.  As he stooped to lift a heavy flour sack from the roadway, he felt a sharp pain at the base of his skull.  He reached back instinctively, a question forming in his suddenly groggy mind.  Before his questing hand had risen half way to the back of his head, a second blow hit and he dropped like a stone, the pain no longer a bother as his world went black.

Inside the wagon, Joe picked his way through an assortment of barrels and boxes, intent on reaching the grease can lying just ahead of him.  Outside he heard a muffled thud and he stopped to listen.  A sense of something not quite right nagged at him.  He snatched up the grease and, moving as quickly as he could, backed out of the wagon, emerging from the same entrance he’d gone in.

“I heard a noise?  Is everything all right out there?” he called.  The words died in his throat as Joe spied the body lying on the ground behind the wagon.  “Walt?”

As he raced to kneel beside the older man’s body, his first thought was heart attack.  He ripped at his shirt to check for a heartbeat.  “What happened?” he exclaimed.  “Walt?”

He lifted the man’s head only to have his fingers come away liberally coated with blood.  He raised startled eyes toward the stranger who stood watching the scene.  Joe registered the man’s self-satisfied grin and his hand automatically reached toward his left hip.  The movement was destined to go uncompleted.  His position as he knelt by Walt delayed him for a precious half-second.  The stranger moved in fast, his hand rising in an upward arc, the glint of the hammer in his hand.  He brought the tool down hard on the back of Joe’s head, once, then twice.

Joe felt himself being slammed back onto the trail.  “Why?” he managed to croak, as the darkness overtook him.  His body fell to the dusty roadway in a boneless heap.

The stranger stood over the two bodies with a gloating smile.  “You made that too easy, Cartwright,” he said with a smirk.  “I thought I’d have a fight on my hands.”  He bent to finish his task; the grim smile never leaving his lips.

Griff sat on his horse watching as Candy made his way down the ridge trail to join the growing crowd of mourners come to pay their respects.  When he’d gestured for Candy to precede him, he’d intended to follow him down on foot, leaving his horse behind with his little border collie.   Charles would stay if he thought he was guarding Griff’s horse.  Otherwise, his attention span was only good for a few minutes and he’d be down amongst the mourners looking for someone to throw a stick for him.   Charles had no sense of propriety.  There were some solemn occasions when a little disruption wasn’t such a bad thing.  This wasn’t one of them.  Griff had no intention of allowing Charles to cause a disruption when so many were hurting so badly.

There were dozens of people already gathered around the family plot overlooking the lake where the body of Joe Cartwright would shortly join that of his mother, his brother, his wife and his unborn child.  Griff could see a steady stream of people walking down the dirt road, unable to park their buggies and buckboards any closer because of the glut of mourners who’d preceded them.  Griff watched the silver-haired figure standing next to the minister, looking alone and bereft despite the crowd of friends there to comfort him.  Mostly friends, Griff thought a little cynically, plus those who had simply come out of duty or to curry favor with one of the most powerful men in Nevada.

And even here where everyone had come together to give comfort or show respect, all the black faces were in the back. Even Hiram and Jared, two of Joe’s closest friends, stayed "in their place." Hop Sing was with the representatives of the Chinese community who all stood to the far side. The Cartwrights had friends from every walk of life, but that didn’t mean these friends would tolerate each other, even on an occasion that should have brought them together.

When fresh out of prison, Griff had envied Joe and his father their power and the land and wealth that supported it.   But mostly, he’d resented their power over him.  During the year or so he’d worked there, barred by his parole conditions from leaving, he’d learned of the losses they’d both suffered.  But he’d refused to feel any pity.  Joe was young; he'd marry again and give Ben Cartwright the grandchildren he’d always wanted – the heirs to his empire.

But now that had been snatched away in the cruelest fashion.   He’d worked his whole life to leave a legacy for his sons and grandchildren and it had turned to dust in his hands.    He’d lost the two sons who had loved the land as much as he.   Griff had heard there was another son, somewhere in Europe now.  Perhaps he would return, but a son who claimed his heritage out of obligation would be a bitter taste in the mouth of a man who had seemed to glory in the way his youngest had been growing into his position as the head of the Cartwright holdings.

No, not the youngest.  There was Jamie.  Griff’s heart went out to the young man standing next to his adopted father.   Although they stood close together, there seemed to be no emotional connection between them.   Ben Cartwright was isolated in his grief.  Jamie must feel like a stray who’d been taken in and now was nothing more than a bitter reminder that his adopted father had no blood sons left to carry on his legacy.  Griff thought maybe he should go down to the graveside, not because his presence would give Ben Cartwright any comfort, but because Jamie badly needed someone who would remember he’d suffered a loss as well.

But as he started to dismount, he saw two figures pushing their way through the crowd toward Jamie.  Candy got there first to stand between Jamie and Ben, putting a supportive hand on Jamie’s left shoulder.  Jamie looked over at him gratefully.   Then Jared’s tall, lanky frame was positioned on Jamie’s other side.  Although the same age, Jared was a head taller than Jamie.  Jamie had to reach up to embrace him in expression of their shared sorrow.  Jared had taken the role of Joe’s little brother long before Jamie came along and with him Jamie wouldn’t have to put on a brave front.

That decided Griff.  No one needed him here.  He didn’t belong in a crowd of Joe Cartwright’s friends.   He wheeled his horse and headed nowhere in particular, lost in his thoughts.   Charles ran along ahead, looking to scare up a rabbit probably.   He never caught one.  Just loved the thrill of the chase.

Griff hadn’t even liked Joe at first.  Seemed like every time he’d given Ben any lip, and in those first few weeks there’d been plenty of those times, Joe was there with that little smirk on his face, sometimes followed by that silly giggle thing he did.  It was only when Griff had finally groused about it to Candy that he’d found out what that irritating smirk really meant.

Candy had given him a little punch on the shoulder and grinned.  “You think you’re the center of the world Griff?  Joe’s not laughing at you.  Just watch him next time his father has to deal with some mischief Jamie’s gotten into.   The way I heard it, Joe spent the first part of his life on the receiving end of those parental lectures.  He just loves watching his father going through it with someone else.  You stop acting like a sullen kid and you’ll stop providing Joe with entertainment.”

Candy’d been right.  Once he’d stopped treating Mr. Cartwright as though daring him to send him back to prison, there’d been no more confrontations and no more smirking from Joe.  At least not on Griff’s account.  Jamie was another story.   He was at an age where confrontations were inevitable.

And now Jamie was all his father had.

Ahead of him, Charles rousted a rabbit and took off full speed.   Griff decided he could use a little run himself and nudged his horse into a gallop as the little black and white dog disappeared over a hill.

Griff couldn’t tell whether the dog ran out of steam before the rabbit disappeared or if the rabbit was just too fast.  But by the time Griff had crested a second hill, Charles was there waiting, panting to beat the band and looking a little chagrined at having lost his quarry.    Griff slowed his horse and looked down at the little dog.   “That was quick.  You losin’ your drive little buddy?  Maybe we can find you a nice fat house cat next time.”

Griff turned his horse down the old stage road that lead into Virginia City, not really intending to go all the way into town, just not wanting to go back to the funeral service.   But when he found himself at what was left of the little shack, he wondered if he’d been headed there all along.

He hadn’t intended to go back, not ever.   He’d woken in a cold sweat last night thinking of Joe shackled to that cast iron stove as the shack burned to the ground around him.   Shackled so he couldn’t escape.  Shackled because he was alive.

Candy figured Joe and Walt would have come cross country onto the old stage road before turning onto the main trail toward the ranch house.  So he’d just checked the tracks often enough to make sure they indicated two riderless horses had passed that way.  When they’d reached the place where Joe and Walt had dismounted, it didn’t take them long to realize whatever had happened to Joe and Walt, it had been at the hand of man, not nature.  They hadn’t needed Charles to show them enough blood on the ground to have them fearing the worst.

Candy figured out a staged accident/robbery scenario quickly.    From there they’d tracked the wagon to an old shack outside of town.  Their hope that the robber had decided to keep Joe for ransom had been dashed in the still-smoking ruins.  They’d found Walt’s partially burned body in what had been the doorway.   His skull was crushed.  What was inside was much worse --   Joe lying face down at the base of a cast iron stove, his arms around it, shackled with heavy iron manacles.  Whoever had done this had wanted everyone to know Joe was alive before the fire destroyed his body.   Wanted everyone, or maybe only Mr. Cartwright, to have nightmares of Joe struggling to free himself, to wonder whether he had choked to death on the smoke before the flames burned his flesh.  Candy found what was left of Joe’s revolver on the left side of the body where it had fallen after the holster had been consumed by the flames.   Griff would never forget the look on Candy’s face when he turned the burned body over and found the buckle Joe won in a horse race at the last 4th of July celebration.   Griff realized Candy’d been hoping against reason that despite the fact the other body was unmistakably Walt, this one was some stranger, someone who wasn’t Candy’s friend.  Later, after Clem had taken over the investigation, he’d found the melted remains of the wedding band Joe had worn on a chain around his neck since Alice’s death.

So why had Griff ended up back here?   With Clem, they’d carefully raked through the entire shack and the area around it and come up with nothing to indicate who’d set the fire.  They’d never found old Jenks who’d taken up unofficial residence in the abandoned shack.  But he frequently disappeared for days at a time after he’d made a little money swamping out a few of the saloons.   He was just an old drunk.  No one believed him capable of this crime.  But there was some thought he might have been paid off to be absent when the fire was set.

Griff doubted the man knowingly participated in murder, or even robbery.  But he did love his whiskey and could easily have been tricked into cooperation.    Griff had developed a liking for the old alkie since the night he’d used his mop to drive off a couple of drunks who’d been making somewhat ineffectual efforts to kick Charles as he lay waiting on the board walk guarding Griff’s horse.  Griff had been inside having a beer with a few of the boys and came out in time to put a fist to one of the men when he tried to retaliate against Jenks.  Griff bought him a meal once in a while, though Jenks would always rather have a bottle of whiskey.

Griff wandered in ever widening circles around the shack.  He’d reached the woods well away from it when something shiny caught his eye.  He reached over and pulled a bone-handled knife from where it had been left stuck into a tree, half the shiny blade exposed to the sun.  When he saw the emblem and initials carved into the handle, a cold knot formed in his stomach so quickly he almost doubled over in pain.  He dropped the knife as though it was red hot.  It thudded against his boot and fell into the grass.

His breath came hard and for a few minutes he couldn’t bring himself to pick it up.   The Wolf.   The last time he’d seen those few lines forming the picture of the howling wolf it had been a tattoo on the forearm of Wolfgang Reinhardt, the most feared man in Nevada State Prison.  But he was still locked up.  He had to be.  He’d been serving a triple life sentence.  Still, Griff couldn’t stop himself from looking around to make sure he was really alone.

Finally Griff pulled the bandanna from around his neck and picked up the knife with it.  He knew he was being foolish and wouldn’t have done it if he were being observed by anyone but Charles.   That little scrap of red cloth wouldn’t protect him from whatever curse lay on that knife.  But he just couldn’t bring himself to touch it again.

A closer look at the handle only confirmed what that first glance had told him.  The howling wolf and the initials W.R. -- this knife hadn’t been left as an oversight.   Whoever left it had done so on the orders of the Wolf.  He never took revenge in secret.  He wanted Ben Cartwright to know who was responsible for killing his son.

 Sunday - May 2

A vague sense of awareness filtered through the black nothingness.  Joe forced himself to breathe, concentrating on first one breath, then another.  A sharp spasm of pain ricocheted through his head and he moaned, or tried to.  He felt the first stirrings of fear when he couldn’t make a sound.   He blinked rapidly to clear his vision to no avail; the darkness continued to enshroud him.  Fear escalated to outright panic when he tried to lift his hands to his face.  His wrists were firmly affixed to something; no matter how hard he tried, they wouldn’t budge.

I’m dead, he thought frantically. I’m dead and buried.

His heart pounded rapidly in his chest and another spasm of pain racked his head.  He calmed slightly when he acknowledged that if he were dead, he wouldn’t be feeling any pain.  And he wouldn’t be breathing.

Think, Joe.  What happened?  Where are you? Take it one step at a time.

Again he concentrated on his breathing, striving to get as much air through his nose as he could and then exhaling slowly.    Panic receded slowly, but the pain in his head continued unabated, making his thoughts muddled and sluggish.  Something was tied tightly across his mouth.   He tried to force his hands to his head to remove whatever it was, but to no avail.  He caught the clink of metal and felt a heavy weight on each wrist.

Definitely not dead.  Dead men don’t need to be shackled and they sure don’t have headaches.

He would have laughed if his situation hadn’t been so horrifying. But the simple relief of realizing that he was still alive was dizzying.  He focused his thoughts with difficulty.  What was the last thing he remembered?

Walt.  Oh, God!

The vision of Walt’s lifeless body lying in the roadway, the older man’s lifeblood spilling out over Joe’s fingertips invaded his thoughts.  Walt was dead.

But why?  Not robbery, or he’d have killed me too.  And where am I?  A coffin.  He’s buried me.

Panic rose again as Joe struggled, an urgent need to escape engulfing him.  His head swam dizzily; white sparks exploded in the darkness and he slipped back into the merciful oblivion of unconsciousness.
 
 

Griff stared at the knife in his hand for long moment, frozen into inaction by a fear he hadn’t known since he’d been thrown into that cellblock, a scared 18-year-old kid among a couple dozen hardened cons.  He soon learned there was one man to fear above all others.  Wolfgang Reinhardt.   Even the guards walked uneasily in his presence.

The Wolf was tall and lean, but not the biggest or strongest man locked in that hellhole  with them.  Yet there was something about his eyes that made even the biggest man afraid to cross him.  He combined feral intelligence with cold cruelty.  No one, inmate or guard, crossed him without paying the price.  And half the price was the agonizing wait.  The Wolf took his time.   A man would get a look that said he’d earned punishment.   The man might stay awake every night for a week.  But when he thought maybe he was in the clear or he just couldn’t maintain his watchfulness, he’d lose an ear while he slept and no one would ever see the Wolf with a shiv.

He didn’t always use a blade.   When they’d put old Hadley on kitchen detail, he’d failed to understand the Wolf got a special meal.  Two weeks later Hadley was served his own special meal - spiked with rat poison.

And he didn’t always strike directly at the person who’d crossed him.   Bob Duggan had taken his younger brother into the family business - stage robbery.   And he’d taken him along through the trial and into cellblock B.  Bob didn’t have much use for most people, but he protected his brother Matt with a fierce family loyalty.  When he’d earned the animosity of the Wolf, he’d been careful to watch his own back.  But things started happening to Matt.   A heavy door destroyed his hand.   A pot of boiling water scarred his face and ruined one eye.  When Matt was sent on a work detail without Bob, his foot was impaled with a pick.  Medical conditions in the prison being what they were, the foot had gotten infected.  By the time the doctor  arrived two days later, it had to be amputated.   Everyone knew the Wolf was responsible but he was a vengeful ghost.  Never caught.  Bob went after him directly and ended up in the Hell Box for his trouble.  When he got out, he was broken.  Matt was safe after that but Bob became the Wolf’s groveling minion.

Griff had done his best to steer clear of the Wolf.  But in the back of his mind he’d always been afraid he might do something to antagonize him.   Or worse, the Wolf would decide Griff should help him in one of his vendettas.  He’d spent his first few months under this cloud of fear.   Then the Wolf had gone too far.  He’d killed a guard, or had him killed.  No one could prove anything, but everyone knew.  He’d been transferred to solitary and from then on Griff had only to deal with ordinary thugs and bullies.

Griff shook his head as though to clear his mind of the thoughts the simple bone-handled knife had generated.  He had to do something with the knife.  It was the only link they had to the killer.  His first thought was to take it to Candy.  But Candy would just take it to Clem and it would save time if Griff did it directly.  Clem would need to send a wire to the prison to see if anyone associated with the Wolf had been released recently.

Clem didn’t have much use for Griff or Griff for him.  Griff had only spent one night on the Ponderosa before Clem tried to take him in on suspicion of burglarizing a store in town on no better evidence than that he was an ex-con.   One of the men had given him an alibi, but a couple of nights later the express office was robbed as Griff went in to pick up a package for someone.  Clem hadn’t taken it kindly when Griff used a rifle from the sheriff’s office to lock Clem in one of his own cells so he could turn tail.  Griff had been cleared when the right man was caught, but Clem hadn’t forgotten.   Still, Clem would see the importance of the knife regardless of the source.  And Clem would probably know why Reinhardt had gone for Joe.

But of course Clem wasn’t in his office.  He hadn’t gotten back from the funeral.  The deputy in charge was a fool left behind to take messages until the real law returned to town.   So Griff decided to move things along on his own.

The telegraph office was deserted except for Mr. Borden’s apprentice Henry.  Griff went in, trying to look as though he was on official business.  “Hey, Henry, Clem wants me to send a telegram to the prison.”

Young Henry looked up skeptically.  “You’re going to send a wire to the prison?  For Clem?  Why doesn’t he send it himself?”

“He’s still at the funeral.   There’s some important evidence that needs to be checked out with the prison so I came in to send the wire.  I’m not much for funerals but Clem’s a long time family friend and couldn’t leave.”

That seemed to satisfy Henry.  He handed over a form for Griff to write out his message.  Something stopped Griff from including the question that was really eating at him.  He refused to believe the Wolf had managed to buy himself a parole.  He must have used everything he had to get three life sentences when he deserved a hangman’s noose.   And besides, he was also wanted in Arizona.  If he’d managed a parole in Nevada, there were extradition papers waiting to send him there for trial.  So Griff sent a wire stating evidence had been found linking Reinhardt to the murder of Joe Cartwright.  Had anyone connected to him been paroled or otherwise released in the past few months?

Griff didn’t expect there’d be an answer before Clem got back to town.  If the prison had no information, there’d be hell to pay when Clem saw the cost of the wire on the Sheriff’s account.   Griff couldn’t cover the cost himself.  No one had gotten paid on Saturday.   And to their credit, no one had grumbled about the fact that such mundane matters had been overlooked.   Griff decided to use the time to pry Jenks out of whatever hole he’d crawled into with his bottle.

But two hours later Griff had just about run out of places to look and people to ask.  An old derelict like Jenks tended to be invisible to most respectable people.  Only the saloonkeepers who hired him to swamp out their establishments had any use for him at all.   He’d covered all the saloons and both livery stables.  Jenks hadn’t been seen by anyone for several days.  Griff was headed back to the Sheriff’s office when he ran into Barney Webster, the night bartender at the Silver Slipper.  The day man hadn’t seen Jenks, but swampers were often hired by the night men.

“Barney, got a minute?”

Barney always had a minute, or an hour.  His job made him privy to lots of town gossip and he liked nothing better than sharing it.  Of course, he preferred sharing it with paying customers. Still, he didn’t look too put out by the idea of jawing a little with Griff.  He did seem a little perplexed by Griff’s choice of topic.

“You seen Jenks around lately?  He works for you pretty regular, doesn’t he?”

Barney scowled.  “He stays sober enough most nights to do a decent job before he sucks down a bottle.  But he came ‘round Wednesday claiming he’d found someone who’d pay him twice as much for easier work.”

“What kind of work?”

“Didn’t say.  But I saw him a couple of hours later ridin’ off with some guy drivin’ a patent medicine wagon.  I thought it was a little strange ‘cause the guy never did run his sales pitch here.  Probably Clem ran him off before he had a chance.  You remember the problems we had with that last guy.”

Griff remembered.   Dr. Alonzo with his famous Herbal Remedy had been selling a beverage with a higher alcohol content than the whiskey sold in most of the saloons - especially those that watered their whiskey.   It was the saloon owners, not the local citizenry who’d prevailed on Clem to run the good “doctor” out of town.

 “What’d the guy look like?”

“Didn’t get a good look at him.  He had a dark beard and was wearing a broad -brimmed hat.  Should be easy to find though.  His wagon had a big painted sign on it.   Funny sign too.  No words, just a picture of a wolf.”

 Sunday - May 2

The darkness was unchanging and so the return to a sense of wakefulness was slow.  Only when he became aware of the rhythmic lurching did Joe realize he was awake again.  The motion lulled him, almost sending him back into a restless sleep.   He jerked himself awake, forcing himself to feel the pain in his head and the dull tingling in his arms.  Vague images of someone forcing water into his mouth flitted through his muddled mind.

Pa? Hop Sing?

No, definitely not them.  The hands were too rough and uncaring.  But who?

Stay awake!  He commanded himself. Got to think. I’m moving.  Coffins don’t move.  Where am I?  Not buried.  Good.  But where?

The thoughts were slow and confused, and Joe struggled to focus.  His mouth, uncomfortably full with a wad of cloth, felt dry and his lips cracked when he moved them.  He vaguely remembered the cloth being pulled out and put back in.  Those vague images of being forced to drink were real then.  His thoughts swirled in a dizzying confusion. He curled his fingers into his palm and clenched hard.  The pain forced his thoughts to rally.  He knew his head injury was causing some of the confusion, and the unchanging darkness only compounded his inability to think rationally.

Moving.  He strained to hear anything beyond his dark tomb.  There!  What’s that?  Hoof beats.  A horse.  Wagon.  It’s a wagon!  But so dark and small.

Joe gasped again as the wagon started moving faster.  The frantic lurching sent another jagged spear of pain lancing through his head as his whole body was bounced unmercifully.  He thought about wagons in order to distract himself from the pain.  Why would a wagon be so small and so dark?  He felt a measure of triumph as he grasped the answer.  He’d seen wagons with false bottoms; specially rigged wagons that carried contraband, or cargo that the driver wanted hidden from prying eyes.

That’s it!  Not a coffin, but a hidden compartment under the wagon bed.

Again Joe suppressed a giddy chuckle.  He realized he wasn’t thinking rationally, as his emotions crashed up and down from the keyed up happiness at being alive and aware of where he was, to the depths of despair at the image of Walt’s limp body and the fear of what his captor wanted from him.

Escape.  Need to escape.  Come on, Joe.  Think.  There’s got to be a way.

This time he felt the onset of disorientation and knew he was slipping back into the darkness. He fought the rising tide of unconsciousness, but it was no use.  Again, time ceased to have any meaning.
 
 

Sunday - May 2

It was dusk before Griff got back to the Ponderosa.   The wire from the prison had spurred Clem to put together a posse to leave at dawn the next morning.   Wolfgang Reinhardt had killed two guards and escaped from the prison a month earlier.  Clem cursed the bumbling idiots who’d failed to notify him.  The prison administrators had to be aware that Reinhardt blamed the Cartwrights for the death of his brother eight years earlier.    Heinz Reinhardt had been hung for the death of a teller in one of the bank robberies Reinhardt himself had probably masterminded.  Ben Cartwright, wounded in the robbery, had been one of the principal witnesses against him.  Hoss had been in the posse that brought him in.  Joe had helped bring in two of the others.

Clem hadn’t made too much effort to disguise his animosity for Griff but he’d trusted him to take word back to the Ponderosa.  He wanted a few of the hands for the posse but also cautioned Griff to make sure Ben and Jamie had plenty of armed men remain behind.  He figured Reinhardt wouldn’t stop with killing Joe.  He’d be after Ben too.

Griff agreed.  But the Wolf would want Joe’s father to linger over the worst of his pain.    Griff suspected he’d wait until Mr. Cartrwright started to emerge from the shroud of grief.  And then it might be Jamie who’d be the next target.  He’d save Ben for last.

And there was something else.  Something Griff wouldn’t repeat to anyone.  Something that drove him to put spurs to his horse.

Barely an hour after he handed his lathered horse over to one of the other hands to take care of, Griff had six horses ready to go, two saddled and two extras each for himself and Candy so they could ride hard in relay, taking advantage of the almost full moon.  He’d been surprised that Candy hadn’t put up much of an argument.

Candy stood in front of the big desk facing a tired old man.  Only three days earlier, Candy would have described him as a vibrant man with a personality that dominated any group he was in.  But tonight he cursed the fact that he had to argue with a man who didn’t have the energy to listen, much less put up a fight.  Ben expected him to ride with Clem’s posse and Candy had to make him understand why he wanted to ride out alone with Griff.  Trouble was Candy didn’t quite understand it himself, which made explaining all the more difficult.

There was something about Griff’s urgency and his knowledge of Wolfgang Reinhardt that drew Candy in.  But what had decided him was the naked fear Griff obviously had of the man he called the Wolf.  He tried to hide it, but it was there for anyone who knew him as well as Candy did.  Of course, there was no one else who knew Griff that well.  If Griff believed so strongly that they had to go after the man alone and he was willing to face that much fear to do it, Candy had to believe he had good reason.

So in the end, Ben folded, too drained to put up any resistance.  Candy collected a few days’ supplies from Hop Sing who was busy putting up food for the four hands who would be riding with the posse.  Hop Sing for once had nothing to say.  No grumbling about the extra work and no happy chatter.  Joe’s death had taken the heart out of the household.

Griff came into the kitchen as Candy was distributing food between the two sacks already heavy with other supplies.   Griff gestured toward the front room, “Clem’s here to talk to Mr. Cartwright.  I guess you’ll have to convince him now.”

Candy shrugged.  He hoisted one sack on his shoulder and handed the other to Griff.  He thought about just leaving through the kitchen door and taking off, but maybe Clem had some news.  He gestured for Griff to wait and headed  for the door to the dining room.

He stopped when he heard Clem speak Griff’s name.

“Ben, I don’t think its good idea to let Candy ride off with Griff.  We still don’t know much about that kid except that he’s got a hot temper and gets violent when he’s cornered.”

Candy was suddenly aware of Griff beside him in the doorway.  Candy blocked the doorway with an outstretched arm when he tried to push his way into the room.  The last thing Ben needed was a confrontation between Clem and Griff.  He was gratified to hear Ben speak up for Griff.

“Clem, Griff didn’t get violent.  He didn’t have any intention of shooting either of us.  He was wrongly accused and afraid of being sent back to prison on a trumped up charge.”

Clem started to respond and Ben cut him off.  “I know; he would have gotten a fair trial.  But how could he know that?  It doesn’t appear he got one the first time when his abusive stepfather got him sentenced to prison for doing no more than he’d been doing to Griff every time he got drunk”

But Clem wasn’t going to let it lie.  “Ben, this guy knew just where to lay that trap for Joe and Walt.  There’s a good chance he had someone on the inside here.  Griff was in prison with him.  He’s the logical one for this man to contact.  Griff has no loyalties here.”

Candy felt Griff tense up behind him.  He had to turn and put his hands on Griff’s shoulders to keep him from bursting into the main room.

Clem, Candy told me it was Griff who turned in the knife that linked this man to . . . .”  Ben couldn’t finish the thought.

“He did.  But the guy probably left the knife to make sure you’d know who’d done this.  Don’t you think it’s quite a coincidence that first Griff was with Candy when they found the . . ..”  Here Clem hesitated, clearly not wanting to use the word “bodies”.   “Burned shack,” he finished instead.  “And then he helped us look for evidence.  And when we didn’t find anything, two days later he brings the knife in.  He might’ve had the knife the whole time as a fallback in case there was nothing left in the fire.  He could be leading Candy into a trap.”

Ben didn’t bother to argue.  He responded simply, “The bottom line is Candy trusts him, so I trust him.  Nothing, I saw of him in that prison or have seen of him here makes me think Candy’s wrong.”  There was a note of finality coupled with weariness in his voice.  But Clem wouldn’t let it drop.

“Well, I’d feel a sight better if Candy stayed here.  We don’t know what this man is capable of or where he is.  Candy’s the best man you’ve got.”

Ben’s voice was surprisingly firm when he came back with, “Then he’s the best one to track down the man who murdered my son.  I’d expected him to go with the posse.  But maybe Candy’s right.  The two of them alone are less likely to be noticed.  More likely to be able to get close enough.”

Ben didn’t realize the argument was Griff’s.  Candy had just been convincing himself by repeating it to Ben.

Candy waited until Clem left before going out to the main room to take his leave of his employer and friend.  Griff had reminded him they needed bills of sale for the six horses because they’d likely need to sell or trade them somewhere along the way.  And, as Griff added almost under his breath, “I wouldn’t want to be arrested for stealing them.”

After making out the bills of sale and setting out an envelope of expense money, Ben handed Candy a badge.  “Clem left this for you.  It won’t carry any authority outside this county but Clem thought it might get you some cooperation from some of the local sheriffs.”  Ben looked over at Griff and started to say something.  Candy gave Griff a sharp look.  He could see a sarcastic remark forming - something to the effect that Clem must have forgotten to bring one for him.  To his credit, Griff stopped himself, perhaps realizing this wasn’t the time for humor, even at his own expense.

As Candy turned to leave, Griff hung back for a moment as though considering something he wanted to say.  Candy was afraid he might have given him credit too soon for holding his tongue.  He gestured impatiently for Griff to follow, but he seemed to have decided what he wanted to say, although he didn’t look too comfortable about saying it.

“Mr. Cartwright?”  Griff started with some hesitation,

Ben looked up wearily but didn’t answer.

“Where’s Jamie?”

Ben gestured vaguely upstairs.  “I think he’s in his room.”  He paused for a minute.  “Or maybe he’s out in the barn with that new horse of his.  Maybe he’s with Jared.  I’ll tell him good-by for you if you want.”

Griff shook his head.  “I know this is none of my business, but I think Jamie needs something from you right now.  He needs to know he’s a blessing not a burden.  Not an unwelcome reminder that you’ve lost your real sons.”

Ben sprang to his feet with more energy than Candy thought he had in him.  “Jamie is just as much my real son as Joseph was.”  He spoke vehemently with genuine anger but Griff didn’t back down.

“Does he know that?  Have you told him?”

“I don’t need to tell him.  He knows.”

Griff didn’t argue.  He turned and walked toward the front door with Candy.

From behind them Ben said.  “Griff.”

Griff stopped and turned toward the desk, his face impassive as Ben spoke.  “Griff” he said again, as though not sure of what to say.  Then he simply said, “Thank you.”

Griff nodded in acknowledgment and again turned to the door.

Ben walked over and clasped Candy’s hand.  “I want the man who killed my son.”  Candy started to give some kind of assurance.  He couldn’t measure his own grief against Ben’s, but he would have been empty inside but for his anger.   He wouldn’t rest until he got the man responsible for killing the man who’d become his brother.

Ben continued,  “But Candy, I want you to understand, I’d rather he get away than have you get hurt.”

Then he held out his hand to Griff and at the same time put the other hand on Griff’s shoulder as though to make it clear he meant what he saying.  “You too, Griff.  You take care.”

Joe woke again to the endless motion of the fast-moving wagon.  Instinctively he tested the bonds that held him.  Earlier, in a brief period of consciousness, he’d realized his captor had loosened the chains that held him.  Now he had more play in his arms, although no place to move them. It had been a relief to be able to flex his wrists and elbows and move his arms a bit.  He’d discovered that he could flex his bare feet, and even move his legs a little.

He tugged experimentally at the restraints on his wrists.  In the darkness, Joe figured somehow the chain was attached to the top of his prison.  He’d been working at loosening the lynch pin that held the chains to the wagon.  It was a feeble hope at best, but it helped to exercise his cramped muscles and gave the illusion he could manage to escape from the man who held him hostage.

Joe wished he knew how much time had passed.  He was sure his father would have rounded up a search party and was even now on the trail behind him.  If he could just hold out until the posse caught up with them, everything would be all right.

A trickle of sweat ran down his cheek, and he bent his head to wipe the moisture on his shirt, only to realize that he wasn’t wearing one.

Damn!  It’s hot in this box.  Not enough air for breathing.  Wonder if this was what it was like for Pa in the Hell Box at the prison?  He said it was just like being in the fires of Hell.  I’ll bet Griff knows what it was like.  He must have spent some time there too.  Not that he’s said much.  Too secretive.  After all this time, still don’t really know what to think of him.

 God, it’s so hot.

The pounding in his head had eased some, but a persistent thirst was a nagging misery.  It had been a long time since his captor had forced the water down his throat.  The unchanging darkness gave him too much time to think about long cool drinks he’d consumed in the past.  He wanted to lick his dry lips, but the hated gag was still tied tightly around his head.  Putting all thoughts of water out of his head, Joe struggled to force his mind to focus on a plan of escape.

A muffled sound overhead made him strain to listen.  It was a puzzling sound he’d heard often on the interminable trip.  It was almost as if there was a person moving around in the wagon above him.  But Joe had tried banging on the wagon, with no response.  If it was a person, he wasn’t interested in helping the man trapped in the wagon’s belly.

It was with a quick jolt of surprise that Joe realized the wagon had stopped moving.  He strained to hear what was happening.

A posse?  He couldn’t help the surge of hope that rose at the thought.

Stay calm.  Be prepared for anything, he told himself grimly.

He redoubled his efforts to squeeze a wrist through one of the cuffs.  When the pain of his efforts grew too intense, he switched to a brisk tugging in an effort to loosen whatever was holding the chain in place.  It seemed to him that there was a bit more play in the restraints since he’d started his attempts to free himself.

The jangle of keys filtered into the dark tomb and Joe flinched and grew still.  It seemed like he lay for hours while a key was selected and fitted carefully into a lock.  There was the click of the key turning, and the sharper clink of the lock being opened.

Joe felt as if every one of his nerves was screaming with each sound he heard.  The constant darkness combined with the head injury had robbed him of any semblance of his usual jaunty self-confidence.

Steady, Joe!  Don’t let him see he’s got you rattled.

He heard the cover of the wagon’s false bottom being pulled up and screwed his eyes shut at the painful intrusion of the shaft of light from a lantern.  It was all he could do to keep from crying aloud when he felt hands roughly yanking at the chains on his wrists.  The same hands quickly slipped the gag from his mouth, and Joe immediately sucked in his first deep breath of air he could remember taking since the ordeal began.

“Who are you?” he croaked, his dry throat betraying his attempt to sound calm.  “What do you want from me?”

The man didn’t answer, he merely grunted a little as he did something that allowed the chain clamping down Joe’s wrist restraints to release.  He then made sure the restraints were securely fastened to another chain wrapped around Joe’s waist.  When that was done, he moved to the pair at Joe’s ankles.

Joe felt himself being hauled up and out of the compartment and he gasped in shock as he was casually dropped to the ground outside the wagon.  The ankle chains were long enough so that he could stand and walk a pace or two, but not more.

Just like a dog on a chain.

Joe glared his defiance at his tormentor, even though the man’s features remained in the shadows of the lantern light.  The darkness outside the wagon was almost as deep as that in Joe’s prison.  The only difference was the fresh air he gulped in greedily.

A deep-throated bark followed by a fierce growl erupted from the night air, almost at Joe’s elbow.  He flinched away instinctively, turning to see a huge dog chained to the wagon bed.

Just like me.   Joe couldn’t help the thought that surged through his mind as he tried to move away from the dog, who lunged on its chain.  The chain brought the animal up short, and it strained to get at the helpless man in front of him.  In the feeble light, Joe could see the animal’s rough coat, ribs showing through.  His impression that the animal wasn’t a pet was reinforced when the stranger casually clubbed at the dog with a muffled curse.

“Back, dog!”   He rasped.  “Back I said.”

The dog whined in fear and cringed away from its master.  It sank to its haunches, and tried a tentative wag of its tail.  The man kicked out at the animal, his booted foot barely missing the dog’s broad back.  The dog jerked back out of the man’s reach in a practiced move.  He finally slunk to the shadows and lay down, his massive head resting on his front paws, his bright eyes never leaving the two men beside the wagon.

Joe levered himself to his knees, only then realizing he was clad in a dirty pair of long johns.  He eyed them questioningly.  The fit was wrong, and the raw stench of whiskey that rose from them sent a surge of bile rising in Joe’s throat.  He fought back the nausea and using the wagon as a brace, managed to get himself shakily to his feet.  The chains limited his mobility, but he stood proudly on his own two feet and stared defiantly at his captor.

“You killed Walt.  Why didn’t you kill me too?” he asked.

A cold chuckled erupted from the other man.  “You don’t feel dead, Cartwright?  I’ve got papers that say you are.”

Joe struggled to hide his confusion.  “When my father and the posse get a hold of you, they’ll see you hang.   It’d be better for you to let me go now and do your best to escape.”

“All in good time., the stranger replied calmly.  He tossed a half loaf of bread at Joe’s feet.  “Eat up, it’s all you’ll get till this time tomorrow.”

A canteen hit the ground next to the bread.  “You’ve got three minutes, Cartwright, and then it’s back in your box.  If I was you, I’d eat quick.”

Joe glared his defiance at the man, but the gnawing hunger that had been tearing at his belly demanded he accept the food, however grim it looked.  He bent to retrieve the bread and the canteen.  Forcing the stale bread into his mouth, he chewed rapidly, trying to keep from guzzling all the water immediately.  He could see the dog eyeing the food hungrily, but Joe wasn’t tempted to offer the beast anything.  He had just polished off the contents of the canteen and chewed the last morsel of the bread when the stranger casually strolled forward.

“Back to the box, Cartwright.  We got a long way to go.”  He reached out with arms like iron, and grabbed Joe to toss him back into the compartment.

Acting instinctively, Joe struck out with his elbow, attempting to drive the air from the other man’s lungs.  He gauged the success of his thrust by the sudden gasp from his tormentor.  Joe tried to follow up with an uppercut to the man’s chin, but the manacles at his wrist hampered his movements.  It was pathetically easy for the stranger to bring a heavy fist down on the back of Joe’s neck.

Joe dropped like a stone, his world going black in a fraction of second.
 
 

Thursday - May 6

Candy woke from an uneasy sleep at first light.  He’d slept in the saddle before but never four nights in a row.  They’d have to stop for a real night’s rest tonight or they wouldn’t be on top of things when they caught up with Reinhardt.

He watched Griff riding ahead, looking as weary as Candy felt, but driven to keep going by a motivation Candy couldn’t quite figure.   He was the one who’d been close to Joe, not Griff.   When they’d stopped to rest the horses at dusk the night before, Candy had insisted they camp for the night.  He’d gotten a fire started and cooked supper while Griff tended the horses.  But all Griff had done was feed them, rub them down and then switch their saddles from the horses they’d ridden most of the day to another two of the six Griff had insisted they bring along.  It had only been two hours and they were on the road again with Griff determined to take advantage of the moon to keep moving.

So far, it hadn’t been as hard as Candy had feared to track the man Griff called the Wolf.  And moving as fast as they did at Griff’s insistence, maybe they were catching up.  Candy had fully expected him to get rid of the wagon he’d used to fake the accident and transport the bodies to Jenks’ shack.  Switching to horseback would have allowed him to move faster and more anonymously. But in Carson City he’d merely traded a team of exhausted horses for a fresh team.  He must have some kind of injury that prevented him from riding.  Reinhardt had been in Carson City Friday morning, before Cochise had even made his way home.

Candy and Griff had spent Monday morning in Carson City checking the three livery stables.  The guy at the third place had remembered the wolf picture on the wagon.

“But I’d ‘ve remembered that guy anyway,” the rotund man had commented as he’d taken a moment’s respite to lean on his manure fork to talk a little.  “Had the coldest, meanest eyes I ever saw.  Tell the truth, his horses were so winded and lathered up it was hard to judge how sound they were.  I insisted  he sweeten the trade with twenty bucks.  The guy didn’t even bargain.  He just unhitched the two horses from his wagon and hitched up my two.  There was something about those eyes just kept me from chasin’ that extra twenty bucks.  He headed south movin’ fast and I was glad to see ‘im leave despite losin’ out some on the deal.”

As Candy and Griff turned to leave, Charles barked in impatience, anxious to be on his way.  That must have sparked the man’s memory.

“Funny thing.  The guy had a dog with ‘im too.  Didn’t seem like the kind of man who’d want a dog.  Saw ‘im chained in the wagon.  I recognized ‘im ‘cause there was a big ta do ‘round here a few days ago when Ike Callahan’s best milk cow got hamstrung by a dog.  He accused Rand Taylor’s mangy cur.  Said he saw ‘im scootin’ under the fence when he went out to check on the commotion.  Rand didn’t have much use for the dog hisself.  It was mean and usually kept tied up but the minute he got accused, suddenly the dog was a sweet -tempered family pet.”

The man leaned over to ruffle Charles’ fur playfully as though to say he recognized a sweet-tempered dog when confronted with one.

“Rand didn’t want ta pay for the cow I expect.  Ike was gonna get the Sheriff to shoot the dog but I guess this fella took it off his hands.  Anyone else I would’ve warned, but I figured that dog warn’t no meaner than the guy so mebbe they was a good match.”

It was barely past dawn on Thursday morning when Candy and Griff rode into the little town of Dredd’s Corner.  They quickly found the only livery in town.  It wasn’t open but when they walked around to the living quarters, they found an old man and a girl who looked to be his granddaughter eating breakfast.  The man hadn’t seen a wagon with a wolf painted on it but he was willing enough to show them two wagon horses he’d taken in trade on Tuesday.

The girl offered them some breakfast and Candy was surprised when Griff took her up on it.  It was the first time he’d seen Griff willing to dally for even a few precious minutes.  He followed the old man out to the livery stable and quickly confirmed that the two horses he was shown were the ones described by the owner of the livery in the town they’d passed through the day before.  Then he inspected the paddock where the other horses had been kept, hoping to find a distinctive footprint he could follow.  The old guy hadn’t been much help in describing the man who’d traded for the horses.  Candy guessed that despite being as thick as bottle bottoms, the spectacles he wore weren’t nearly strong enough.

Griff wasn’t exactly an expert at reading women but he could tell this girl was flirting with him.  Lizzie her grandfather called her, but she’d introduced herself to him as Elsbeth.  She probably didn’t have much chance to practice being a woman on strangers.  She was a cute little thing with bright blue eyes and shiny cornsilk braids.  Couldn’t be more than thirteen.  She’d be a pretty woman in a few years.  Griff saw no harm in encouraging her just enough to get her talking about the man who’d traded the wagon horses.  He suspected she might be more observant than her grandfather.

The little kitchen was inviting.  Griff was tempted to sit down and actually eat the breakfast Elsbeth had invited him to.  But he was afraid if he got too comfortable, he’d just fall asleep.

He stood next to her at the stove as she fried them up some eggs and put some bread in the oven to toast.  He asked her if she’d seen the man who traded the two horses on Tuesday.

“Sure did.  I mostly run that stable.  Grandpa ain’t so spry any more and I’ve got a better head for figures.”  She looked up at Griff as though wondering if he would approve of a girl who was good with numbers.  He gave her an encouraging smile and she went on.  “That man drove up in a wagon wanting to trade his horses for two we’d just gotten in trade for a ridin’ horse I trained up all by myself.”

Griff could see she was looking for approval.  “Pretty slick getting two good wagon horses for one ridin’ horse.  Did this man give you a good price?”

Elsbeth colored at the compliment but didn’t dawdle in answering Griff’s question.  “He just wanted a straight trade.  Grandpa wanted a little money extra ‘cause his horses were used so hard but the guy wouldn’t give any and I think Grandpa was a little scared of him ‘cause he looked so mean.  It turned out okay though.  Once they rested up, the horses he traded us were pretty good ones.  We didn’t lose out.”

This had to be Reinhardt.  “Your grandfather said there wasn’t any picture of a wolf on the wagon.  Do you think he might’ve missed it?”

“Naw, there wasn’t no, I mean any, picture.  It wouldn’t be right to have pictures painted on a prison wagon any how.”

Griff was startled by her description.  “A prison wagon.  What makes you think it was a prison wagon?”

“Well, the man was wearing a uniform like a guard of some kind and there was, I mean were, bars on a side window.  Nobody in it I could see ‘cept a nasty grizzled dog.   He caught me peeking in the window ‘cause the dog barked.  He said he was picking up a prisoner in Barnesville to take to the prison.”

A uniform.  Reinhardt had the nerve to wear the uniform he’d taken off a dead guard and used to aid his escape from the prison.   But where had he traded wagons?

“Did the wagon look like it was freshly painted?”  Damn, what did it mean if he’d changed wagons?

The girl was quick to see where Griff was going with his question.  “Naw, it was a beat up wagon.  I would’ve noticed fresh paint.”

She thought for a minute.  “But there was some rolled up canvas under the roof.  You know, like a window shade.  I figured it was just to shade the window if it got hot or maybe to stop people from getting too curious ‘bout the prisoner.  Could’ve been a wolf painted on it.”

Before he could ask another question, Elsbeth glanced out the window and saw Charles watching the chickens scratching around in the pen near the house.  “Mister, is your dog likely to be taking after my chickens?  I mean I’d be happy to give him an egg or two, but I wouldn’t want him scaring my chickens into not laying for a couple of days.”

Griff smiled a little, but couldn’t quite bring himself to laugh.  “Don’t you worry about Charles.  You couldn’t make him take up chicken chasing for anything.  When he was just a youngster, he squeezed into our cook’s chicken yard and was having a fine old time.  Hop Sing came out banging a big old pan at him and yelling in Chinese.  Scared him to death.”

Griff saw Charles’ look shift to a little black and white cat walking along a corral fence rail.  He hurried to the door and called him.  Griff turned to Elsbeth, “Would it be okay if he came in?  I don’t like the way he’s lookin’ at your cat.  And I guess he could use that egg you said you could spare for him.”

Elsbeth was delighted with the little dog who started begging the minute he smelled cooking going on.  She quickly made him forget whatever designs he had on her cat by filling a bowl with a few stale biscuits moistened with some milk and a couple of eggs.  As she watched Charles eat, Elsbeth asked Griff, “Why didn’t that cook teach him not to chase cats?”

Griff finally decided to sit down.  Wasn’t likely he’d fall off to sleep with this woman-child making constant conversation.  So he sat down in the rocker near the stove and stretched his legs out wearily.  “Hop Sing took Charles’ mind off the chickens by encouraging him to chase the rabbits and squirrels out of his kitchen garden.  Guess he didn’t figure he should discourage him from chasing cats.”

Elsbeth was mildly indignant.  “Cats don’t eat vegetables or tear up gardens.  Billy Sam out there just keeps the mice out of the feed.”

“Oh, it’s not that Hop Sing doesn’t like cats.”  Actually Griff wasn’t sure about this one way or the other.  “But Charles kind of tends to generalize.  Once Hop Sing put the fear of God in him about the chickens, he wouldn’t chase nothin’ with feathers.  I could be starvin’ out on the trail and that fool dog wouldn’t think of scaring up a pheasant or a turkey.  So I expect Hop Sing didn’t want to scare him off cats on the theory he might hold off on the rabbits and squirrels too.”

Elsbeth didn’t seem quite sure Griff was serious and Griff wasn’t about to tell her he just didn’t much care if Charles chased cats.  She folded her arms and looked at him closely, then changed the subject a little.  “What kind of name is Charles for a dog?  Isn’t that kind of snooty?”

Griff glanced outside to where the little black and white cat was sitting on one of the corral posts daintily licking his paw and washing his face.  “No worse than giving a little bit of a cat like that a name like Billy Sam.”

As Elsbeth took the toasted bread out of the oven and flipped the fried eggs over she answered,  “Well, Billy Sam’s got two names cause my grandpa kept calling him something that couldn’t be said in polite company.  So I just used the initials.”

She grinned when she said this and Griff couldn’t help but grin back.

“Well Charles was called a name he didn’t like either.  Girl who was tryin’ to train up him and his sister called him Charlie.  She was real good with dogs and his sister worked out fine, but she just couldn’t seem to interest Charles in workin’ for a living.  So she gave him to me.  Maybe he wanted to be a man’s dog.  Anyways, he worked fine for me and she couldn’t figure it.  So as a joke I told her it was ‘cause I treated him with respect, startin’ with calling him Charles.  So Charles he’s stayed.”

Elsbeth looked at Charles who had finished his bowl of food and was looking up expectantly at her.  “So Charles, what kind of work is it you do?”

When Charles seemed disinclined to answer, Griff answered for him.  “Right now he keeps our extra four horses from straying so we don’t have to be pulling them along.”

Elsbeth snorted a little at this information.  ‘I saw you come in.  He wasn’t doing any herding.  He was riding on top of that horse carryin’ your supplies.”

“You didn’t see any of them wandering off did you?”

Griff heard Candy and the old man step onto the back porch and took the chance to ask one last question.  “You said the guy looked mean.  What made him look mean?”  Her answer reassured him they were following the right man.

“His eyes.  He didn’t have no soul behind his eyes.”

When Griff declared he didn’t have time to eat at the table,  Elsbeth followed him outside with a couple of fried egg and bacon sandwiches.   Candy had already fed and watered the horses, but Elsbeth insisted on rubbing them down and shifting the saddles while Griff ate and gulped down a cup of coffee.

“That man’s not really a prison guard is he?”

Griff shook his head but didn’t stop chewing.  He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he took the first mouthful.

“Did he do somethin’ real bad?”

Griff nodded, but again didn’t say anything.  He didn’t want to share any of the grim details.  Not with a child like this.

A few minutes later they were on the road again, each with another sandwich in hand and a bag of oatmeal cookies.   Elsbeth had clearly been disappointed they couldn’t stay longer but she’d been able to help them with something in addition to food.

Candy complained  he hadn’t been able to check any hoof prints because the paddock had been occupied since they were traded off.  Elsbeth was pleased to be able to draw a print in the dirt.  “The red chestnut, his left front shoe is heavier and a little wider in the back.  The man had him hitched up on the right side when he left.”

Candy assured her the information would be useful and Griff figured that for Candy it might be.   Probably wouldn’t have helped him much.  His own biggest value was that he’d recognize Reinhardt when he saw him.  And he hoped to have a drawn gun when he did.

Griff looked back as they nudged their horses into a fast trot to get through the town.  Elsbeth was waving after them and he waved back.  He hoped he and Candy would both make it through this journey alive and come back through this little town.  He’d like to be able to tell that girl she’d helped bring down the man with no soul behind his eyes.

They’d stopped at the livery stable as they did in every town.  Candy paid to have their horses fed and rubbed down but when he’d started to pay for stalls for the night, Griff stopped him.  “We won’t be staying.”

Candy told the man they’d be back and dragged Griff off to the nearest saloon that offered meals.

They sat down at a back table and ordered steak and potatoes – the only thing on the menu.  The girl who’d taken their order brought over their beers first.  Griff took a big swig of the weak beer then leaned back in his chair looking exhausted.  Candy spoke quietly but firmly.  “Griff, look at yourself.  You need a decent night’s sleep as much as I do.”

Griff stayed slumped in his chair.  Candy hoped that was a sign he’d concede.  But Griff merely looked at Candy, his blue-gray eyes weary but steady and said quietly, “No. We’re catching up.  He has to stop at night, at least for a few hours.  We can’t afford to fall behind now by doing the same.  We don’t need to and we won’t.  We’ll sell off the two weakest horses and buy a couple new ones.  Looks like the guy at the livery had a couple of good head.”

Candy sighed.  He’d have to root out the source of this obstinacy.  “Griff, you’ve been keeping something about Reinhardt inside yourself since we started.  This is more to you than chasing down a killer.  I’m going to be facing him down with you.  I need to know what you’re holding back.”

Candy could see the indecision on Griff’s face as though he was struggling with something.

“You don’t have to give me any details about what Reinhardt did to you.  But I have to know what’s driving you so hard because it could cost me my life somewhere down this bad road.”

It was Griff’s turn to sigh.  “You won’t believe me.  It’s not even something I believe.  Just something I feel.”

“Try me.”  Candy wondered what terrible thing had happened to this boy in prison that he didn’t think Candy would believe.  He knew well the suffering men imprisoned together could inflict on each other.  Likely whatever Griff had to say wouldn’t be surprising at all.

But it was.

Thursday, May 6

Joe stared at the unappetizing bowl of beans.  Partially burned and the consistency of mush, they were about as enticing as eating a pair of old boots.  But the never-ending hunger made him dig his spoon into the mess.

Once they’d been traveling for a few days, the stranger apparently felt confident that stopping for a fire and a hot meal wasn’t a danger.  The tempting aroma of roasting meat wafted through the air.  Joe’s stomach growled loudly, and his mouth filled with saliva.  He knew what would happen next.  The same scenario had been repeated the last several nights.

The stranger licked each finger with a loud slurping noise and sat back with a sigh of contentment.  He looked thoughtfully at the remains of the rabbit; almost a quarter of the meat remained uneaten.

“How’re the beans, Cartwright?” he called.  “Want to finish this?”  He held up the plate of rabbit meat and waved it under Joe’s nose.

Joe averted his eyes and said nothing.   The first couple of times the stranger had played this game, his hopes for a decent meal had risen, and his stomach had answered for him.  The loud, gurgling rumbles had provided his captor with a fierce amusement.  Now he worked to suppress any reaction; his pride demanded he show no weakness.

The man turned and threw the carcass to the dog that had been whining softly from his place by the wagon.  The rabbit disappeared in a couple of mouthfuls, and the dog looked hopefully for more.

Joe kept his eyes on the bowl of beans and forced down another mouthful.  He glanced up to find the man gazing at him with knowing eyes.  Joe had the sudden feeling  this stranger could see his every thought and knew just how badly Joe wanted to beg for the meat.   He flushed with shame, and shoveled the rest of the beans in his mouth to prove to them both he couldn’t care less what he was fed.  As long as he was eating something, he’d stay alive.

Echoing his thoughts, the stranger chuckled softly.  “Still think you’re alive, Cartwright?” he asked.  “Expecting your pa and that posse any minute now, ain’t you?”

Joe returned his glance with a steady look.  “They’ll get here.  My father won’t rest until he gets me back.”

The stranger waved a handful of newspapers in Joe’s face.  “I guess you won’t be wanting to read your obituary then?”  He made a big show of scrutinizing the lead article of the paper.  “Says here you were the son of a prominent man and well known in your own right.  What’d you do that made you so well known?”

Joe looked down at his plate, unwilling to play the man’s games.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered.

Tiring of the game, the man tossed the newspapers in Joe’s lap.  “Read for yourself.  I figured it was time to let you know there won’t be any rescue.  You’re dead, Cartwright, as far as anyone knows.  You’re in my control, and there won’t be anyone looking for you.”  He turned away to build up the fire, leaving Joe with the papers.

When he was sure the man wasn’t watching, Joe scanned the headlines.  As he read, the color drained from his face.
 
 
 

Joe read in horror about the death of one of Virginia City’s leading citizens.  The mention of funeral plans brought his father’s face vividly to mind.  No longer worried about himself, he could only think of his father, still grieving for Hoss almost two years after his death.  What would this final blow do to him?  His hopes for rescue died a quick death with the words in the newspaper.  Mention of the lack of suspects caused him to shoot a quick glance at his captor who now lounged by the fire.  He knew the man was watching his every move and Joe schooled his face to blandness.

“My father won’t believe a word of this.  He’ll know it’s a put-up job.”  Joe’s voice was steady, and he held his head high.

The stranger sat up a little straighter.  “Keep believing that, Cartwright.  Your funeral was held Sunday.   I read there was quite a crowd.  Your Pa often hold funerals for men he thinks are alive?”

Joe regretted eating the beans as he fought back a sudden nausea.  Sitting silently, he continued to read, his father’s grief leaping from every word on the page.

It’s not true, Pa.  I’m still alive.  Don’t believe it.

He longed to scream and let his fists smash his captor’s smirking face into a pulp, but held down by the weight of the chains on his wrists and ankles, he could only sit and seethe in silence.

Lifting his head suddenly, he stared directly into the stranger’s cold eyes.  “I’ll find some way to kill you for what you’ve done.  I don’t know how and I don’t know when.  But you’re a marked man.”

The other man surged to his feet, his face reflecting the fierce anger that burned within him.  “Back in your hole, Cartwright.  I hold all the cards.  You stay alive only if I want you to.  If I decide you die, then you’ll die.  You can make all the threats you want.  They won’t do you any good.”

He hauled Joe up and forced him back into the hated compartment.  As the panel came down over him and sealed him into the stifling tomb, Joe felt very much like the dead man his father believed him to be.

I’ll come home, Pa.  I promise.  I’ll kill him and then come home.

Griff leaned forward on the table, locking his eyes on Candy’s, looking for the words to answer his question.

"I think maybe Joe’s still alive.”

 Once started, Griff’s words tumbled out as though kept  suppressed too long.

“His body was identified by the metal items left with it.  And ‘cause Walt was dead there with him.  But where’s Jenks?  He was seen with Reinhardt but no one we’ve talked to since we’ve been tailing him saw a second man.  And Jenks was about Joe’s height.  Much skinnier, but burned down to the bones, who’d know it wasn’t Joe?”

For just a moment Candy had a surge of hope -- a white hot spike melting the ice that had frozen every emotion except cold hate since the moment he’d seen his friend’s tortured body.  And just as quickly it vanished, leaving only the hate intact, some of it now directed at Griff.

He banged his fist on the table so hard his beer glass bounced off the edge.  He hardly noticed the sound of it shattering next to his chair.

“You’re a damn fool Griff.   That’s what’s been driving you so hard.   I knew it wasn’t getting justice for Joe.   Not protecting the rest of his family.  Not killing that filthy bastard for burning Joe alive in that stinking shack.   But I figured at least we shared the hate.”

He stood and reached across the table, grabbing a handful of Griff’s shirt.   He yanked the unresisting boy to his feet, pulling him forward until their faces were inches apart.   “But it’s just some kind of fool notion you could be a hero -- bring home the rich man’s son.  Get a reward, get off parole maybe.”

Candy pushed him back in his chair.   Indecision had replaced the conviction in Griff’s eyes.   Candy felt the anger drain out of him.  He sat down heavily.  Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes.  “Sorry Griff.   I’m just so damned tired.  Shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

And he shouldn’t.  Griff wasn’t much more than a kid, barely five years older then Jamie.   Prison had taken away his freedom; parole was giving it back in small pieces.  Building up some notion of rescuing Joe was his way of trying to snatch it back in one big chunk.  He couldn’t know how much dangling that futile little hope in front of Candy would hurt.    Seven days hadn’t been long enough to come to terms with the death of someone he’d spent seven years getting to know, to trust and even to love.   How could Griff know that?   He hadn’t lived free long enough to have that kind of bond with anyone.

Griff was talking again.  Candy rubbed his eyes wearily.  Why didn’t he just shut up?  Candy cut him off.   “Reinhardt blames Joe’s father for his brother’s hanging.  It’s the Cartwrights he hates.  Even if he had some reason to kill Jenks, he had no reason to torture him.  He’d ‘ve just bashed his skull in like he did Walt’s. Joe’s body was unrecognizable because burning him alive was the worst death he could think of.  He didn’t leave a ransom note.  He had no other reason to keep Joe alive.”

“That’s just it.  He did.”

Candy steeled himself against the hurt this time.  He’d let Griff talk himself dry.

“Reinhardt didn’t like quick revenge.  Sometimes men would die, but not right away.   He liked taking little pieces first -- of a man’s body, of his soul.  And a man weak enough to love something -- he’d destroy it.”

“You know all this from a few months  in the same cell block?”

He’d been there seven or eight years.  He was talked about.   Men in prison don’t have much.   Reinhardt took what they had.  One guy, he had nothin’ but a little picture of his wife.  Kept it with him all the time.  Looked at it every night.  Talked to it.  Reinhardt burned it -- a little piece at a time.”

Candy interrupted.  “Joe was what his father loved.  He took him, leaving the memory of the pain he must have suffered.  That fits his pattern.  He left the knife so everyone would know who did it.”

“But there’s something better than that.”

“Better than murdering Ben Cartwright’s son?”

“Murdering him twice.”

“What the blazes is that supposed to mean?”  Candy didn’t want to talk about Joe any more.  He just wanted Griff to shut up for the rest of this hellish trip.

“Say Jenks died in Joe’s place.  Everyone thinks it’s Joe – pain’s the same as if it was him.  Then a month or two later, a coffin gets shipped to the Ponderosa.  Joe’s body inside, fresh killed, tortured maybe.  Now Mr. Cartwright knows . . . .”

Candy stopped him.  “I see.”  He didn’t want to see.  The only thing he wanted to see was Reinhardt bleeding in the dirt.   “You’ve got nothing to support this.  Nothing but your idea of some worse thing Reinhardt could do.”

“The wagon, Candy.  The wagon.  Why didn’t he just burn Joe in the wagon?  You figured he used the wagon to stage an accident or some kind of distraction.  Why risk taking them to Jenk’s place.  There’s lots of deadfall in the woods off that old stage road.  Why not just douse the wagon with kerosene, throw on more wood and let it burn there.  And after a week, he still has the wagon.  Why something so conspicuous?  Why not just get on a horse and ride for the border?

Candy wanted to believe Griff, but it was just wishful thinking.

 But the wagon.  Why the wagon?

Candy leaned back and closed his eyes again.  Joe alive?  Did it make sense?

Griff offered only one last argument.  “Candy, I don’t have proof.  If I’d had anything but a feeling before we left, I’d have told you, even if it wasn’t enough to get Mr. Cartwright’s hopes up.  But seeing he still has the wagon, that’s enough for me.  Enough for someone who spent months in fear watching what gave the man pleasure.  I still can't prove it, but if there’s the slightest chance . . . “

And that’s what decided Candy.  That’s all he needed to justify Griff’s manic pace.  A chance his friend was alive.  He pushed back in his chair, stood up and intercepted the woman bringing their dinner.  He paid her and took the plates.  “We’ll give the boy at the livery a nickel to bring them back.  We’ve got to get movin’.”

Half an hour later they were riding two fresh horses.  With Charles keeping watch on the other four they’d kept, they were making good time.  They’d almost satisfied their hunger eating on the walk to the livery and while negotiating for the two new horses.  Charles had eaten the rest while they saddled up.  Candy suspected the dog’s belly was a lot closer to being full than theirs, but right now he was buoyed by the thought that maybe they were looking for a live man, not cold revenge.  Maybe Joe was alive.  He accepted Griff’s urgency and it drove him as well.

Candy also understood why Griff had been so adamant that they not telegraph the towns ahead for the law to be on the look-out for Reinhardt.  He’d explained the Wolf would be dangerous when cornered.  He’d kill without hesitation and the towns Reinhardt had picked for his route were much too small to have experienced lawmen, if indeed they had any lawmen at all.   That explanation had convinced Candy.  But now he realized  it was not only the lives of anyone who accosted him that were at risk.  A man as focused on revenge as Reinhardt wouldn’t leave Joe alive if he felt threatened.  Joe would be the first to die.

Friday - May 7

By morning they’d reached Banshee Wells.  By their reckoning they’d gone enough distance that Reinhardt should have bought a fresh team.  But they couldn’t find anyone in town who’d sold any horses in the past few days.  Maybe there was nothing suitable in this dry little dot on the map.  That might slow him down.

They’d been unsure of which way to head out.  The main road led south across the river into Arizona.  A side road led west a day and a half’s ride into a valley of small ranchers and farmers.  They would have gone south but for the information they’d gotten from Elsbeth.  Candy found a set of prints that matched those Elsbeth had drawn in the dirt for them.  A horse with three regular shoes and one thicker in the back.  They were headed west.  And they were fresh.  The man was close, maybe as close as a day’s ride.

Candy and Griff left their six horses in the corral attached to the ramshackle barn that passed for a livery on the south end of town.  The man who ran it was sitting in the shade smoking, a bottle by his side.  So they found a boy who seemed interested when they offered to pay him if their horses were in top shape when they got back.  The boy also told them where to find a man who could sell them a couple of fresh horses.

They carried the supplies they’d need for three or four days’ ride along with plenty of ammunition for their revolvers and rifles.  They also packed some of the medical supplies they’d brought from home but hoped they wouldn’t need.  Then they rode hell bent, stopping only occasionally to check the tracks.  If Reinhardt was headed for that little valley, it could be where he intended to stop and carry out his plans for Joe.  They had to make sure he didn’t have the chance to start.

They rode hard all day.  That afternoon they passed a farmer and his family going into town for supplies.   Early that morning the family had seen a bearded man driving a wagon that looked to them like a peddler’s wagon.  They hadn’t seen either a barred window or a picture of a wolf, but the window could have been on the other side of the wagon; and the horses were a black bay and a red chestnut just like those described by Elsbeth and her grandfather.

When darkness fell, they were forced to slow down.  But they were only two days past full moon and had enough light to pick their way in the dark.

Saturday - May 8

They rode slowly all night, stopping for no more than 15 or 20 minutes at a time every few hours to water and rest the horses.  It was two hours past first light when they saw the wagon below them on the steep road.  It was slowly winding its way down the steep road into the valley, using the switchbacks that made the road passable by wagon.  And it was drawn by a dark bay and a red chestnut.

Now was the time to take care.   Reinhardt wanted Joe to die slowly, but if he was cornered, he’d shoot him.   No way Reinhardt wouldn’t take Joe down with him.   It wasn’t in his nature to leave Ben Cartwright with anything but a second corpse to bury in his son’s grave.

Candy checked the area carefully, using his binoculars.  It looked like there was a way to go cross-country, circle around the main road and come up in front of the wagon.  Reinhardt didn’t know he was being followed.  If Griff stayed to the side, out of Reinhardt’s field of vision, he wouldn’t be recognized.  The man wouldn’t have any reason to suspect someone coming at him from the valley ranches.  They could get close enough to take him before he could do Joe any harm.  Or any further harm, Candy corrected himself.  Joe had been with the man over a week.

It took them more than two hours to get down low enough to come out on the road, well in front of the wagon.  The rocky slopes were treacherous with loose skree.  Halfway down Candy’s horse took an almost fatal misstep and fell.  Candy managed to avoid being rolled on but the horse wasn’t going to be moving fast any time soon.   Not hurt bad enough to destroy, but bad enough to be useless for a good while.  Candy and Griff looked at each other wearily.   It was the first time having a back-up horse was vital and they’d decided to travel light.  There was nothing to be done but for Candy and Griff to take turns walking the rest of the way.  Neither was rested enough to make that a welcome chore.  And now they had only one horse to take them out of the valley.  But that wouldn’t a problem if they stopped the man here.  Everything would end here, one way or another.

They came out on the road ahead of the wagon, but not by much.  Candy took Griff’s horse and placed himself so it would look like he was just another resident of the valley going to town.  He would keep his horse far to the right side of the road at an angle so the man wouldn’t see the drawn revolver in his right hand.  He’d shoot the driver if he offered any resistance.  And Candy hoped he would.  Griff would crouch behind the rocks to the left side and make himself known, rifle at ready once Candy stopped the wagon.

Everything went as planned.   Or so it seemed.  The bearded man driving the wagon halted the horses when Candy gave him the choice of stopping the wagon or stopping a bullet.

The wagon lurched to a stop.  Joe jerked himself out of the light doze he stayed in most of the time despite the rapid, bone-jarring pace of the horses pulling the wagon.  Muffled voices sounded outside and he strained to hear what was happening. He felt a giddy surge of hope.  Had a posse found him?  He wanted to shout in exultation.

I knew Pa wouldn’t believe I was dead!  Offered a big reward for my safe return.  Someone figured this guy out.

He repeatedly thumped his elbow on the side of the wooden compartment, not caring that it sent a throbbing pain all the way to his shoulder.  In the wagon above him, the dog set up a deep-voiced barking.  Joe knew that his feeble attempts to draw attention to his whereabouts would go unheard.

Doesn’t matter. As soon as they take the guy down, they’ll shut the dog up and I can bang again. I’ll be on my way home soon.

The roar of a shotgun blast filled the air and Joe tensed, his blood running cold.  It was followed rapidly by a rifle shot.  He heard a soft thud as a bullet buried itself in the wagon’s side.   The shotgun bellowed again at almost the same instant the rifle fired a second time.  Then silence.

Kill him! Kill him!

He gloried in the murderous rage that filled his thoughts.  This man had killed Walt in cold blood and put his father through Hell. He deserved to die.

The din of the dog barking again shattered the eerie silence.   Then with a sharp yelp and a last soft whine, the dog was quiet.  He heard nothing for long minutes.  With a lurch, the wagon started forward again, quickly settling into the familiar rhythm. Joe’s heart sank and he sagged in sudden fear and disappointment. What had happened?

The constant motion of the wagon taunted him, and he lay rigid in shock. When the movement stopped, he waited with his heart in his mouth. The sound of the key in the padlock and the lifting of the lid sounded overly loud to his ears.  He stared at the widening streak of dim light as the covering was pulled back.

The gloating face of his abductor appeared.  His rough hands yanked down the bandanna tied tightly around Joe’s mouth. Impatient fingers tugged the wadded-up rag from inside his mouth and a canteen was held to his lips. Joe drank deeply; knowing if he didn’t the man would just hold his nose and force the water into him anyway. He was being kept alive for some reason the stranger hadn’t seen fit to share.

Joe desperately wanted to ask what had happened.  But if his desperation showed, the man wouldn’t answer.   Better to keep his mouth shut and whatever pride he had left intact.  His captor stared down at him, a knowing smile playing on his lips. The cold eyes pierced his soul and read his every thought.  Drawing out the silence, he gloated over his helpless victim.

At long last he spoke. ”Funny thing, Cartwright. They sent a posse after all.  Seems like your Pa put up a $10,000 dollar reward for the capture of the man who killed his son.”

The man waved a ragged piece of paper in Joe’s face.  Joe squinted in the dim light, trying to make out the words, not wanting to read it, but unable to tear his eyes away.

Reinhardt chuckled mirthlessly. “I’ll have to admit they made better time than I expected.  Guess that kind of money is powerful incentive for most men.  Too bad that posse split up.  Wonder why they did that?  Maybe they didn’t want to split the reward.”

He laughed, the sound so chilling that Joe felt the skin crawl on his arms.

“Did they really think only two men could take me down,” he mused, his eyes dancing with an unholy glee.

“Couldn’t see one of them too good; rising sun got in my eyes, but that didn’t stop me from cutting him down with my shotgun.  Caught the blast full in the face so now no one will know what he looked like.  The other one had black hair and light eyes. Wore a red shirt, black leather vest, had a strong face.  Medium  height.  Know anyone like that, Cartwright?”

Joe’s heart sank, and despair filled him.   Candy!  Dead?  He killed Candy. Oh, God, who was with him?  Pa?  Did he kill my father? Steady, Joe. He’s just tormenting you.  Don’t let him get under your skin.  It couldn’t have been Pa.  He wouldn’t have left Jamie alone.  Probably wasn’t Candy.  Hold on.

He shut his eyes to block out the sight of the cruel face that leered at him. The man’s laugh sounded harsh in ears, and Joe struggled to keep a stoic face. He didn’t want the stranger to see how much the words had destroyed his confidence.

Ignore him, Joe!  Don’t let him get to you.  It wasn’t Pa.  It can’t have been.  Not Candy either.  Please not Candy.

Keeping up a steady litany of words in his head, he was able to keep his face completely without expression. At last, deprived of his fun, the stranger cursed and ruthlessly shoved the rag back in Joe’s mouth. With curt fingers, he knotted the bandanna as tightly as he could, driving the rag in even deeper. The fight to keep from choking gave Joe something to concentrate on as the lid to his prison banged shut.

He was left alone in the darkness.  When he was sure he was no longer being observed, he allowed the grief to overwhelm him. Candy dead,  maybe his father. It was too much to absorb, so Joe let his thoughts turn to revenge. He was strengthened by the hatred that swept through him in a hot flush.

I’ll kill him for you, Pa.  I’ll settle the score for you Candy.

He barely noticed when the interminable ride began again; his thoughts were swirling with dizzying force.  Reinhardt.  Where had he heard that name before?  He latched onto the question to give himself something to focus on besides his grief.  Reinhardt.

Reinhardt!  I know that name.  That bank robbery about eight years ago.  Pa was caught in the middle of it, gut shot.  Hoss and I were sure he wasn’t going to make it, even though Doc Martin swore he’d pull through.  The bank teller, Bill Phelps, was killed outright. Poor Suzy Phelps was expecting their first child.  She had the baby just after the hanging.  She went back East to live with her mother, I think.

Wasn’t that fella named Reinhardt?  The one they hung.  Hoss and I rode on the posse.  We got all of them, except for the one they figured was the leader of the whole gang.  We split the posse and Hoss rode with the boys who caught up with a man named Reinhardt and another guy.  My group caught a couple more.  They were all hard men.  No one would talk, so we weren’t sure there was anyone else.

He’d been at the trial.  That Reinhardt looked a lot like this guy, except the eyes were frightened, not cold like these.  He didn’t want to hang.   But they had to hang him because he was the one who killed the clerk.  It was Pa’s eyewitness testimony  put a noose around his neck.   This Reinhardt must be the one who got away; he’s related somehow to the man we hung in Virginia City.  He got away then, but must have gotten caught for something else.  He was in prison for something.  He hates Pa.  For his brother?  Or son?  He must have cared for the guy to carry a grudge this long.

Would a man carry a grudge that long?  Maybe.  I remember riding with that posse and wanting to kill the men we caught, because of what they did to Pa and poor Bill Phelps.  If my father had died, would I still be chasing after the gang leader?  Maybe.  Hatred warps a man’s soul, according to Pa.

It was a relief to have something different to think about. Knowing who his captor was made the man more human, less like a wild animal.  Reinhardt had cared for someone.   Were those feelings still buried in him or had prison burned all vestiges of humanity out of him?  Joe remembered the remote eyes and shuddered.  He seemed capable of anything.  And he’d focused so much hatred on his father.

Escape.  I’ve got to get out of here.  Reinhardt will go after Pa as soon as he thinks he’s taken care of me.  Or maybe Jamie.  I’ve got to get out of this somehow.  They think I’m dead.  I’m on my own for this one.  That’s it, no one but me.  Think.  Make a plan.

Joe began to work on the chains that held him with renewed strength.  He had a mission now.  He was going to escape and kill Reinhardt before the embittered man had a chance to go after his father and brother.

Saturday - May 7

Griff tried to stop his hands from shaking as he came out of hiding, rifle at ready – ready if he could hold it steady.   He kept a nervous eye on the bearded driver who brought the wagon to a quick halt at Candy’s order.  He concentrated on the man’s hands.   He’d have a gun close by.  Griff knew they would have to kill Reinhardt.  The man would never allow himself to be taken alive.  He didn’t care who fired the fatal shot.  In fact, he’d be happy to leave it to Candy.  He just wanted it to be over.  He needed to stay ready so he could fire at the slightest hint the Wolf was reaching for a gun, but keep calm enough that Candy didn’t get caught in a cross-fire.

As the driver’s hands moved, Griff’s finger tightened on the trigger.  When the man raised his hands above his head at Candy’s order, Griff wasn’t assured.  He was only trying to put them off-guard by appearing to cooperate.  The Wolf would never give up.  But when the man spoke, Griff was confused.

“Hey, mister take what ya want.  But I ain’t got no cash.   Won’t ‘til I sell this lot down the valley there.”

It wasn’t the placating words that disconcerted Griff.   He’d expected that.  It was the timbre of the voice.  It was the tremulous voice of a frightened old man.  Not a man in his fifties trying to sound older, but a weak voice that sounded all too genuine.   That could mean Reinhardt was hidden in the wagon.  Hidden where he could kill Joe if cornered.  Kill them all if given the chance.

Griff signaled to Candy.  Although he kept his gaze centered on the driver, Griff knew Candy was watching him out of the corner of his eye.  Griff pointed at the driver and shook his head.  Then he gestured toward the back of the wagon and walked that way as quietly as he could.

His hands were trembling as he reached for the latch to the little door in the back of the wagon.  He could imagine the Wolf crouching back there waiting for him.  He hoped the man’s attention would be on the dialogue between Candy and the driver.  But he couldn’t count on it.  He took a deep breath, snatched the door open and took a quick look as he spun from one side of the opening to the other.   Nothing.  Or rather too much.  The wagon was filled with boxes and barrels and he thought he saw a small bunk on the left side.

When there was no reaction to the open door, he dared take a longer look.  Still nothing obvious.  But a man could be hidden amidst the boxes somewhere.

Griff backed off and walked to the side of the wagon, keeping enough distance so he would know if anyone tried to exit from the rear.  There was a roll of canvas at the roof of the wagon, but no barred window like the one described by the girl.  And no dog.

He heard Candy asking the man where he’d gotten the horses.  The man explained that he’d planned to spend Tuesday in Banshee Wells, doing some selling and spending the night before heading for the little valley.  Just before he got into town, he’d been passed by a man using his horses hard.  The man had stopped and offered to trade horses.

“Mebbe “offered” ain’t the right word.  Somethin’ ‘bout the way the guy asked said I could’ve had a problem iffen I refused.  Turned out his horses was tired but mebbe a little better ‘en mine.  Since I was gonna give ‘em a day’s rest anyways, I guess I didn’t have nothin’ ta complain about as it turned out.  But I figger even if one of ‘em hadda been lame, I’d ’ve made the trade anyways.  He just wasn’t the kinda man ta say no ta.  I was glad when I didn’t see ‘im in town.  But I hadn’t ‘spected ta.  He was anxious ta move out.  He’d ’ve been across the river before I even pulled in.”

Griff believed him.  Once he’d had a good look at the man, he knew there was no chance this was the Wolf in disguise.  Of course, Reinhardt could be back there holding a gun on him but the guy talked like he’d had a scare, not like he was scared now.  Or at least not like he was scared of anyone but Candy, who was still had a gun leveled at his heart.

Candy was also convinced things had gone badly wrong.  But he erred on the side of caution and held his gun at ready while Griff carefully searched the wagon.  Nothing but trade goods and the man’s personal belongings.

The excitement of getting close to the end of their quest had given Candy the energy to pull off this ambush.   And now -- nothing -- nothing but pure fatigue.   No Joe, no Reinhardt.  They’d ended up at least three or four days behind when they’d been sure they were catching up.   He had Joe’s life in his hands and he’d let him down.  Part of him wanted to cuss a blue streak in frustration, but mostly he wanted to close his eyes and succumb to the overwhelming despair.   A look at Griff told him he couldn’t indulge in that luxury.

Griff had unrolled the canvas on the side of the wagon.  No pictures of any kind.  It was an awning the peddler used for shade when he set up his wagon as a temporary store.  And that’s when Griff started to unravel.  Candy could see it in his eyes and the way his body sagged.  By coming on this hunt and then participating in this ambush, Griff had faced a fear that might have overwhelmed him but for his belief that Joe might be alive.   It had taken everything he’d had to get to this confrontation; he had nothing left.  It would be up to Candy to hold him together.

That decided Candy on his next move.   They were still a few hours away from the valley ranches where he might hope to replace his injured horse.  The only other option was to use one of the wagon horses to ride back to Banshee Wells - leaving the old man stranded.  But the wagon horses were tired and Griff’s horse even more so after their 24-hour ride culminating in that scramble down the loose shale.  And like it or not, he and Griff needed some real rest to regain the strength to push on.   They couldn’t expect to make it on will alone.

He went over to where the boy sat slumped against the wagon.  He crouched down and put a hand on Griff’s shoulder until he raised his head and looked him in the eye.  “I’m going to ride into the valley with this guy and get me another horse, two if I can find them.  No point in you moving from here.  You bed down here off the side of the road.  Your horse can get some rest in case I can’t find a second one.  Let Charles watch out for trouble.  You get some sleep.”

Griff didn’t even argue.  That told Candy he’d read him right.  He was done in, physically and emotionally.  He let Candy haul him to his feet and lead him and his horse to a clearing a dozen yards off the road.  Together they unsaddled the horse and laid out Griff’s bedroll.  A backward look told him, Griff was asleep before Candy made it back to the wagon.

The peddler had agreed to drive Candy at least as far as his first stop.   He didn’t seem to be doing it out of fear either.  In fact, once he realized why they’d stopped him at gunpoint, he was sympathetic.  Apparently it had been less frightening to look down the barrel of Candy’s gun than to look into the eyes of Reinhardt the Wolf.
 
 

 Saturday - May 8

The Wolf flicked the reins impatiently, a feral gleam in his eye. The horses caught a hint of the strong emotion he radiated and picked up the pace.  He rubbed a hand over his smooth-shaven cheeks.  He missed his beard.  He hadn’t been without it since he was a stripling kid.  Oh well, there’d be plenty of time to grow it back once he reached Mexico.  It had been stiff and scratchy anyway with that dye he’d put in it before he arrived in Virginia City and began mingling with the locals.

Good thing he’d spent time in the saloons of Virginia City. The information he’d picked up there had been invaluable. He’d actually managed to drink a beer at Candy’s elbow one night after someone had mentioned the man was the Cartwrights’ foreman. His description had certainly unnerved the prisoner in the wagon. A nasty grin streaked across the Wolf’s face. It was obvious Cartwright believed his friend was dead. It was one more way to keep him off balance.

His grin faded when he thought of the two wet-behind-the-ears deputies who thought they could get away with stopping  Wolf Reinhardt. They wouldn’t make that mistake again – or any other. That second deputy hadn’t