Rating: PG 13 - Some Violence

Feedback: atolar@telepak.net 

Note: The character Chris Larabee, in this work of fiction, is based on the work of Mirisch, MGM, and Trilogy Productions, from The Magnificent Seven. The work is not intended for sale or commercial production. The story is the work and property of Anne Tolar. Comments are welcome at: atolar@cobilan.msstate.edu.

Chapter 1

"I told you it should be mighty pretty this morning. What do you think?" The eager boy, on a well-groomed sorrel gelding, reached for the hand of the girl mounted close beside him on a perky-eared Morgan. They watched together from their perch atop the hill that overlooked their "special" valley. It was going to be a beautiful Spring morning. The haze was lifting now, the sun just beginning its climb, clearing the view of the tender green growth pushing through what was left of the winter grayness.

"It's so beautiful. I'm glad you asked me to come see it with you this morning. It seems like winter would never get finished this year." She caught him stifling a yawn. "What time did you get up this morning to get to my place early enough for us to see the sunrise? And how did you ever manage to get permission to take Charlie out this early?"

"Shoot, I just didn't go to bed, least not to sleep."

"That wasn't very smart. Why not?"

"Cause I was planning on asking you to come riding this morning. Hoped your ma and pa would say yes. Hoped they could get you awake enough to come with me." He looked at her with a mock-serious expression creeping out from under his hat brim.

"Well, you really surprised Ma. You must have known I'd be awake...you've been camped outside my bedroom window often enough to know I'm a light sleeper and an early riser, too. But your riding up and coming straight in the kitchen, even before she'd had a chance to put the coffee on...you sort of scared her. Don't do this too often, okay. Pa thinks you're just fine. Those little flowers you brought me last time made him think you just might turn out to be a gentleman after all. But Ma's not real set on you, or anybody else, coming to call, and I don't want her making Pa keep you away."

"I'll be careful. The flowers weren't to impress your pa, or even your ma. You do know that, don't you?" The twinkle-eyed smile he gave her was one of the things she loved most about him...and there were lots of things she loved about him. "You know, I really didn't think about that at all, but if it makes them say yes to early morning rides like this, I'll bring some to you every week. Let me ask you something...If they had said you couldn't come, would you have agreed to sneak away with me?"

Her voice said, "You know I would." But her hazel eyes, with the long lashes he loved to watch, told him probably not. The truth was always there in her eyes. That was okay. She prided herself on being a good girl, and she had enough fiery ways to suit him, at least for now.

"We're gonna have to go back pretty quick. I promised your ma and pa we wouldn't be gone long, I've got lots of work to do today, and I'd better get Charlie back in the barn pretty fast, too."

"So you did take that horse! Is your pa gonna be mad? Are you late?"

"Let's see. Three questions...three answers. Yes, I took him...he's mine. I don't know if he'll be mad, but if he is, that's not unusual...I don't ever know if I'm in trouble until it's way too late, and no, I'm not late...not just yet...well maybe a little."

"I hope you don't have to take any hurt because of this. Well, here," she reached in the pocket of her skirt. "When you first rode up, I figured you wouldn't have time to get anything to eat when you got home. It takes so long to ride anywhere, then back to my place, and then back to yours, so when I came through the kitchen, I put a bite or two of last nights' roast in some of Ma's morning bread. Bread was still warm when we left...sorry I didn't give it to you right away. Maybe having a little bit of something will help you get through the day."

"Thanks for thinking of it. I am a little hungry. Can I bring the bandana back to you Monday at school?" She nodded as he ate the first of the food quickly, feeding her small pieces of the tasty beef. "Come on, let's walk a ways." He dismounted and walked to her side. "One of these days, I'm gonna be tall enough to just reach up and lift you down." She was soon standing by his side. He wanted to walk because from the saddle of his eternally skittish mount, he couldn't get close enough to kiss her. What was the point of loosing a full night's sleep, and risking his father's wrath, if he didn't even get to kiss her?

-------

"If he's not home in a few minutes, he'll have hell to pay from me. I can promise you that."

The boy’s mother was often his sole advocate. "He's just out for a ride. It's Saturday, John, and early yet. He needs a little time to himself to have a little fun. If you made me guess, I'd figure he's gone to see Becky."

"He knows I told him to be up and out in the fields first thing this morning. His work comes first; and this disregard for what I tell him is going to stop. He didn't ask to use that horse, either. He knows my rules well enough. And don't you go sticking up for him. He's not going to challenge me, not while he's in my house, with his feet under my table. And, if you coddle him, he'll think he can get away with anything."

"He wouldn't think to ask you about that horse. He never asks anymore. We gave it to him. Now, I'd see your point if he took one of the others, but that sorrel belongs to him, and any other day of the world you wouldn't fault him for taking it as he sees fit. Punish him for things he does, but don't go making up things just to have an excuse to hit him. He works too hard for that."

"Well, I'm going to start that field. Don't you let him stop for nothing. He's too late for breakfast, that's for sure. You tell him he'd better come straight to see me, whenever he decides to come in. He's wasted enough time this morning. I don't like this...not one bit. It's irresponsible. It's disrespectful, too, and it's something I'm not going to excuse him for."

"Would you just do something for me?"

"What do you want now?"

"I want you to forget this, for no other reason than just because I asked you to. Give him a little peace. I know he'll be here in a few minutes. He'll give you a full day's work, too...you know he always does. He's not trying to make trouble, he's just in love and he's lost hold of the time."

"Love?...Hell!...he's a fifteen-year-old hot-head. What does he know about anything. I'm trying to teach him how to be a man. Letting him just do as he pleases ain't gonna finish it."

"For me...just let him have one day without trouble...I'll add a pretty-please for sweetening." She surprised him with a smile and a quick little kiss.

His features softened, "Well, since you asked so nice, I'll just have a talk with him this time. I doubt it'll do any good, but I'll give him this little peace you want."

"Promise?"

"Yeah, Ester...I give you my word."

With that, she could rest easy...at least for today.

Chapter 2

Clara Hicks, more salt than pepper in her hair these days, watched the boy from behind her too-large wooden desk on the bright Monday afternoon. He had such a nice smile, a rakish sense of humor, such signs of talent in his work. Standing across the room, near the coat pegs, as all the children prepared to leave for home, he quietly handed a bright, neatly folded bandana to Becky Taylor, using the opportunity to hold her hand for a brief moment. If Clara hadn't been there, there would have been a kiss...or two...or maybe even three. To the teacher, they seemed ideal, him full of life and mischief, her fun loving but sensible. Where life would take them, she had no idea, but she had hopes.

"Chris, I need you to stay after school today, please." .

"What did I do?" It wasn't a belligerent response, just a surprised one, but his voice was tinged with worry and the smile disappeared much too quickly. He instantly cast back over the day. The teacher hadn't seemed upset with his work, his attitude, or anything else he could think of. He hadn't been in a fight, forgotten/avoided his homework, teased Becky, or snuck out during morning recess today or last Friday, either. It seemed, for once, he should be free and clear of the usually trouble he got himself into.

"Now, nothing's wrong. I'd like for you to stay and help me make plans for Friday's lessons for the younger children."

"But, I've got to get home...I've got lots of chores to do...and I've been late once already since Friday."

"I'll keep things short. Matt will show up soon enough, so it won't take long. You can take my notes home to finish. You just wait here until the other children are gone. I'll make it fast. Oh, and Matt wanted to know if you'd be interested in going surveying with him on Saturday. Ask you Pa if you can and let me know by Friday."

"Yes, ma'am."

"What I want you to do is take this book home. Read the story I've got marked, and be ready to tell the younger ones the story in a way they can understand."

"But..."

"It shouldn't take long for you to get ready. I'm going to need your help from time to time. There are just too many younger ones, and you know the material. You can do this...you've just got to make up your mind that you can do it. And I want you to serve as a good role model for the younger children."

His full throated laugh voiced his disbelief. "Me? You want me to be a role model for the young ones? Shoot, you sure the "old folks" are gonna back you up for proposing that one?"

"As long as you serve as a GOOD role model." She was actually asking him for help in hopes of giving him something that would take his attention away from mischief, pranks, and disappearing acts and direct his energy toward something productive. He was a notorious young rascal, but a generally kind-hearted boy, and a very good student. Even at his age Chris had already completed almost everything that was available from their resources at the school. But he still had over a year of schooling before he would finish.

He had a propensity for finding mischief. The only problem was that he too often got caught, or talked about it to someone who reported what he was up to. She hated having to report any problems with the boy to his father. Whenever she did, the boy seldom returned to school the next day. She got the distinct impression that the father exacted far too much retribution for even the smallest offenses. She determined all she could do was to help him become a leader for the others. He had the ability. The few older and many younger children liked him, and they would follow him. If he was given charge of something and shown how to do it right, he might just accept the challenge. He could be a good boy, when he tried.

She waited to call him back inside until Becky had started home, but letting the two say goodbye took quite a little time. "All right, let's get started. Here's what I want. I want you to read this story. Then I want you to decide how to tell it to the little children."

"But I never..."

"It's not that hard...won't be for you. Margaret's in the lowest grade. Just think about how you'd tell the story to her so she would understand it. Why don't you read the first paragraph, and we'll work on that part together, just so you get the idea of what I want."

They settled at the desk. Oblivious to the time while Becky was near, the boy now watched the school room clock as the hands changed positions. By the time he'd satisfied the teacher, thirty more minutes had passed, and he still had to make the ride home. She noticed his attention slip away and the worry return to his eyes.

"Okay, that's enough. If you need to ask about something else, just talk with me at recess tomorrow. I know you've got work, so you best get going."

"Yes, ma'am."

An hour later, he raced up the backyard stairs of his two-story home, heading for the inside stairs that led to his bedroom. He moved as quietly and quickly as he could, trying to change to his work clothes before encountering his father. He was neither quick nor quiet enough.

"John Christopher Larabee, I hear you. You come in here. Don't go sneaking up those stairs." It was the voice of Franklin J. Larabee, Sr., and it was an angry voice the younger man dared not ignore. It seemed of late his father's voice was always angry and, more likely than not, shouted in his direction. His younger sister Margaret heard it too from her hiding place at the top of the back hall stairs and held her breath as her brother froze.

"Shoot, Margie! What have I done now?" He said it only for her hearing talking to the dark shadowy area above his head. He never knew what it was going to be anymore. Sure, he pulled some stunts. Who didn't. But his father just called everything he did rebellious, stupid, or sin spawned by the devil himself. The older the boy got, the angrier the man became. There were few good times for the youth anymore, but he tried to hold on to those rare good ones that came his way. Today was obviously not going to be a good one.

Moving through the small interior hallway into the front entry, the man/child approached his father, an older reflection of himself. But this reflection had hotter, flame-red hair, touched only slightly by gray, and there was always the coal hot temper. The approach a tentative one, the boy sidled right to left in moving closer. He removed his hat and ducked his head slightly in deference to the man. Truth be told, he was fully alert, watching, trying to calculate how close he could come and still stay out of the reach of the man's hands. The amount of practice he'd been getting in recent years was giving him a fairly keen awareness of the man's striking range.

"Yes, sir?" He asked it low and even, not wanting to be seen as belligerent or smart-mouthed...no sir. Whatever this was about, the tone in his father's voice told him he wasn't going to like the encounter.

"You done your chores yet?"

"No sir, I was planning to go out in just a few minutes to finish up."

"What have you been doing with yourself this afternoon if you haven't gotten your work done?" They were seemingly mild questions, but John Christopher was afraid he knew where they were leading. In dealing with his father, truth was better than a lie, but sometimes not by much.

"Mrs. Hicks kept me after school...she..." Maybe the truth would save him a little trouble this time.

"Kept you after school? What did you do? If you've been causing that nice woman trouble again, I'll..."

"No, sir! Honest. " He instinctively moved backward a step or two, the larger man matching his moves. "She didn't keep me cause I was making trouble. She asked me to stay to plan on something special for the little ones on Friday."

It was the truth, at least as much of the truth as he knew.

"Why'd she ask you? It appears to me she'd need the help of one of the girls, not a boy who's got lots of chores to do. You tell her you had work?"

"Yes, sir. Told her I couldn't stay long. She wanted someone who could read a hard story for the kids and then tell it to them in a way they could understand...get em to talk about it."

"And you're the one who's got the know how to do this, eh?" His father suspected a lie.

"Guess so. She asked me, that's all I know. Said Matt wanted me to go surveying this Saturday, too. Would you be willing for me to go awhile?"

"John Christopher, you can just forget that. You were late last Saturday, you're way late today, so you're going to give me two full days' work this weekend. You tell Clara I said no. And don't think you can get out of this by bringing up Matt. I expect the truth from you. I asked you, where have you been?"

That was his name, John Christopher Larabee...he preferred Chris, so did Becky. His father used the long name often, coldly rolling his son's name off his tongue, especially when it was time to give the boy hell. The boy was stuck with it, so he made no protest, but he wasn't a liar, and he didn't like being accused of being a liar by anyone. His father's so familiar insult, as the man well knew, produced instant anger and clearly visible insolence.

He faced his father eye to eye, face crimson, as his anger flared, He knew reacting this way wasn't going to help him any, but this man knew exactly how to make him crazy. "I didn't lie to you. You know full well I am not a liar."

The older man looked his son straight in the eye. "You're not a liar? Okay then, what's this nonsense I hear about you going riding with that Taylor girl last weekend?"

"I told you I wanted to see her. Shoot, I asked you if I could go last Friday, or can't you remember?" His tone and the fire in his own eyes were reaching dangerous bounds.

"You watch your mouth. You left out the small fact that, instead of doing your work, you planned on taking her out riding, all by yourself, way across the valley. Did you do it, or not? And besides that, you were late getting to work. Leavin' something out's the same as a lie, boy, or don't you understand? You sure didn't take anyone along as chaperone."

"Chaperone? Why in hell would we need..."

He got a small slap to his left cheek for the curse and the smart-mouthed response. He shook off the sting, then tried harder to hide the attitude behind his words. "We just went riding. Shoot, I asked Mr. and Mrs. Taylor both if we could go, and we didn't stay gone long. I just wanted her to see the way the valley looked from the knob."

"Seems Taylor doesn't remember it quite that way. And, I know that you weren't at the school today as late as you say you were."

"How would you know that?" It was an anger-driven response, with no thoughts for the consequences.

The way his son asked, John still suspected a lie. "I know that, young man, because you were seen riding toward the river. What were you doing, just out raising hell, pretending to be a worthless, no-good cowboy?"

He hated that. He had heard it once too often. "I wasn't out riding, least nowhere but here. Ask Mrs. Hicks. I can prove I wasn't. Went to school, came home from school. The horse is in the barn, see for yourself."

Chris pushed at his father, moving him a small distance in the direction of the backyard stairs, toward the barn behind the house. The push came close to sealing his fate right then, but for a moment, the senior Larabee hesitated, then decided to give the boy one chance to prove himself. If the boy was lying, he'd know soon enough. "Okay, show me this horse. Which one you riding today?"

"I was on Charlie."

"Charlie, the sorrel? You weren't on the bay?"

"No sir." As they arrived at the barn in stony silence, John Christopher led his father to the stall where the sorrel whinnied and nuzzled at his hand. The horse was warm to the touch, but not lathered, had not been ridden hard, The well-groomed animal stood in a stall filled with fresh hay; a trough showing evidence of recently eaten oats; and plenty of water. The saddle had been wiped, the blankets neatly spread. The tools were in place, the bridle placed on its peg. Everything looked in order. John might have softened, but as he looked to the right, he spotted the bay, froth-covered, the saddle and bridle still girded around him, trapped in a stall that had been left filthy and empty of what the horse should have. All-in-all it was a pitiful sight. This was also the mount he'd been told his son was seen riding toward the river.

John's switch from believing in his son to believing it was all a lie was instantaneous. "I see what you've done, you young scamp! You knew your mother was going to be in the garden, other side of the house today; me in the fields, so you came sneaking in on Charlie, then took Loco. Not only did you take the horse I've forbidden you to ride, you came back here and left him in this miserable state. Then you lied about it. You didn't come home to do chores, you were out to just raise hell. You got caught is all. I can stand you being stupid or hot-headed, rebelling at everything I try to teach you; but for you to leave a poor animal in this condition is just reprehensible. Get out of my sight! You go to your room and stay there until I decide what I'm going to do."

"None of this is true! I was at school!! Who was it who told you I was out riding like that?"

"Boy, you're just making it worse for yourself. I suggest you shut your lying mouth. Your Uncle Rupert saw you this afternoon. Said you were riding like a crazy man. Said it was a thousand to one you didn't break your neck or that horse's leg. Said he talked with Pete Taylor yesterday, and Pete told him you were nothing but a thorn in his side, coming around his girl all the time. Said you actually showed up a his place before dawn last Saturday morning. You starting to rile the neighbors?"

"So this is what this is about. Second-hand nonsense from Rupert again?" Rupert Comstock, his mother's brother-in-law, was up to his tricks. "You know when he's talking about me, Uncle Rupert don't know truth from pig droppings. Why can't you see that, for some reason, he just hates me. I've never understood it. Maybe if Jesse was worth anything at all, he'd get off me."

"You don't understand? You just don't understand anything that you do wrong. But you're just not invisible, boy. Things you do get seen, and they get reported back to me."

"But with that son-of-a-bitch Rupert, it don't matter what he really sees. Damn him. He's damn sure gonna lie about me." He got another, harder slap, tasting blood on the inside of his lip, feeling a small warm trickle oozing toward his upper lip. "Stop it!! I wasn't riding Loco! You said not to, especially since he's got that cut in his hoof. I wouldn't be likely to take him out, would I. I'd never leave a horse like this, either! You know me better than that, don't you? Jesse wouldn't care about it at all. From a distance, someone might take Jesse for me; but his own father shouldn't. It's more likely Rupert knows it was Jesse on Loco. Kid's got free use of him, far as I know. You've always told him to use them as he likes, but he never takes care of them when he gets back. I take care of them, so they don't go lame or worse. If there's trouble brewing over something Jesse did, Rupert's out to make me his scapegoat." He grimaced slightly as he used the back of his hand to dab the blood from his mouth and nose.

"Boy, you always blame Jesse. He's not as talented as you, but that don't mean you can call him worthless and blame him for what you do. Just think. Why would Rupert Comstock want to lie like that, especially about you? That's one hard working man. He's good to Matilda. Anybody can see he's a real fine neighbor, and he loves those kids of his."

"Yeah, a real saint. A real saint...That son-of-a-bitch is just a piece of sh..."

The blow wasn't a slap. The fist snapped forward before he could move out of range, a powerful backhand to the right of his face, hard enough to put ringing in his ears, and pain in his eye that predicted a quickly swelling bruise. His father's voice still badgered his senses as he straightened from the blow. "That's enough! Boy, I am not going to let you turn into a worthless little fool. That's where you're heading, and I intend to put a stop to it...and I mean now! Right now! You get yourself upstairs."

He stared at the man. At an earlier age, the boy had been close to the father he used to adore. He missed the good times; couldn't understand the bad. They'd hit trouble two to three years ago, when he was about thirteen and his father decided it was time to hobble this son and his youthful rowdiness. The hobbling had been anything but easy.

He gave up. He knew he couldn't win anyway. He crossed to the house and on to the back hall stairs, climbing slowly to his room. There was nothing left to do but wait. What had he done to deserve this? "Shoot!" It wouldn't be the first time he'd taken a whipping, and it wouldn't be the last to be sure; but he was damned tired of the whippings being for things he didn't do, things that Rupert usually laid on him.

As he waited, nursing his cuts and bruises, he become aware of a little reddish-blond head, with soulful green eyes and saucy green ribbons in her hair, looking in from just outside the door frame. Her eyes were round, watching to see her brother's mood and wanting to know what would happen next.

"You in trouble again, John Chris?"

"So what's new about that, Margie?"

"Why's he after you this time."

"Some damn lie of Rupert's. He always believes that no good son-of-a..."

"Shhh---Pa'll heard you, and then you're in more trouble. You gonna git this time?" She had told him before, she dreamed of being left alone, finding out some dark morning that he'd finally decided it was time to run.

"No, Margie. I won't run from Pa, not now. He just can't see past Rupert's mess is all. Sometimes you just have to take it and shut up, even if it hurts. Trouble is I'm not smart enough to shut up too often, so I just make things worse. Don't worry about me. This'll be okay in a day or two. I'm just sitting here feeling sorry for myself."

"That's okay. Sometimes I feel sorry for you, too."

She could almost always make him laugh. He gave her a cocky little smile, but it was one that didn't quite reach his own green eyes, "Thanks, little girl, but you better git from here before he decides to warm your seat, too."

The small child disappeared at a run. Her haste made him smile again. She was in no danger at all...at least one of them was safe...but at age six, he could really make her worry. And he didn't want her to hear what was coming either. Time passed and, as he waited in his room, he began to pace, "Come on Pa. If you're gonna do this, let's just finish it."

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

"Boy, you know what's coming. But I want those pants off..." So this was what his father had decided...to mete out the punishment now, rather than make him wait until after supper. It didn't matter. No matter when the punishment arrived, the penalty would be hard enough to ensure he wouldn't be able to eat a thing. "You know what makes me doubly mad about the hell you raise, all this mess upsets your mother."

He calmed his breathing, trying to prepare. Usually, it was over quickly.

"I don't know why this upsets her so much. I survived far worse than what I give you when I was a boy. You never truly get what you've got coming. My pa never gave an inch. I don't cut you, I make allowances for what you do, and I sure don't make you do without food or water. "

The boy's head turned until his hostile gaze focused on his father and the strange justification for the pain he would inflict. "No, you haven't done that. Not yet. But Lizzie sure did it long enough."

"Shut up, or you want double! I just keep hoping that one of these days you'll wake up. You've been trouble ever since Lizzie took care of you as a little boy. You gave her nothing but worry. Just a streak of stubborn and ornery like I've never seen. You should thank me for being so lenient. I hope you'll finally come to understand responsibility and reason. But since you came of age, you just pull into that shell of yours . I don't think anything I try can make you pay attention. Don't seem to me that you even feel anything...not pain, not remorse, not even embarrassment. Well, be a hard head if you want, It'll just cost you extra."

By fourteen, the boy had learned to take his punishment, stay quiet, and keep to himself until the storms blew away. But this encounter was different. The whipping, no...if he faced the truth, this was a beating, by far the hardest and longest 'correction' the boy had ever known. Clearly, his father realized how much he hurt him, especially with the thicker leather belt he had chosen.

The only thing that marked the boy's pain was the involuntary jerk that accompanied every stroke. "You've got to realize, boy, that these wayward actions of yours are going to get you in serious trouble. Better the lesson today than a rope around your neck down the road."

The boy endured, becoming singularly quiet near the end. He stood unmoving when it was over, gripping the railing at the foot of the bed where he had taken the blows. He ignored the man who stood ramrod straight behind him, the belt dripping from his hand. He let his head fall forward. When his father left, he finally gave in to the throbbing pain along his spine and legs. He reached, with a stifled groan, toward the mattress, easing himself down until he stretched his tortured flesh across the bed.

Even when several hours had passed, Ester served an evening meal where the child stubbornly refused to come downstairs or to eat. John was becoming angry again. He called up the stairs, "Boy, if you think I'm gonna stand for this headstrong mess you've got going on, you're crazy. Get down here, now."

"Leave him alone a little while. He'll come when he's past all this. You were up there going at him a long time today. I don't know why you have to hit him so much."

"That boy knows that he did wrong. There's no excuse for sulking either."

"I peaked in when I was up there. Have you ever seen that boy completely quiet? He looked crushed, but of course he wouldn't say anything about that. That might break one of your rules. Are you sure Rupert told you the straight of this? He used to tell some whoppers when he first met Matilda. She says he don't do that anymore, but I'm not so sure he tells you the truth about the boys...his or ours."

----------

When she entered his room later, long after dark, she found him still stretched on his stomach on the bed, his head resting on his arms. It looked as if he had fallen asleep. That would explain his absence. She approached him, calling his name to awaken him. "Get up now. I've brought you a little something to eat. I know you're upset and probably hurting a little, but you need to eat something anyway. You know it's time to put this behind you. He expects you to get over it and come downstairs, and you'd best do it soon."

He stirred slowly, spoke quietly, "I heard him calling, but I can't. I tried, but I just can't."

"Of course, you can. You always get through these things. There's no reason for this to be any different. Come on, get up."

He tried to do what she asked of him. He slipped hesitantly to the edge of the mattress, half-pushing, half-pulling himself over onto his back and then up to sit on the bedding. She clearly heard the groans that escaped him as he forced himself to move. Seated where he finally settled, his head drooped forward as he tried to find relief. With immense effort, after some minutes of immobility, he gripped the mattress and willed his legs to help him stand. She had never before heard him make a sound like the outcry that escaped him.

She was instantly by him. "What in the world..."

He swayed as he locked his legs, "Couldn't you hear what was happening? You have to know how he is. Didn't he ever hit you?"

"No. No, he never did. Not me, never the girls. Frank and Mitch took some little whippings when they were around your age. Why?"

"I just wondered." He tried to move toward the window of his room. Another gasp greeted his effort. She pulled out the small chair that stood near his desk, putting the plate of food she had brought in the center of the wooden surface, then quickly turned to offer him her support.

He avoided her touch, reaching toward the frame. If he felt one bit of her sympathy, he knew he was lost. "It's getting worse, Ma. A lot worse. And it's getting worse all the time. I can't take this much more." She touched his face, sensing the fever in his body, sensing the torment. The black and blue marks and cuts to his face were nothing unusual, but there had been so many this time and, with the blood on his mouth, each appeared to have been harder than before. His body trembled as he steadied himself against the window sill.

"It's just a bad time. He was mad at you last Saturday for being late to work. He decided to just talk with you...but now..."

"Yeah, some talk."

"Did he hit you Saturday?"

"First minute I saw him, before he even said hello. One of the reins was already off the team. He was holding it, just waiting for me to come into range. Just a few "mild" strokes...to get my attention. That's what he said. Mild? Like hell."

"Now you hush that. He promised he would leave you alone last Saturday, but you were so late coming home. And you did it again today. You didn't finish your chores. You were seen out riding around, and it's only been two days since the last time. You've got to be more careful, do what you promise him you'll do."

Intense sadness echoed through his words. He understood that she didn't see what he was going through, or how bad it had become. "I can't ever promise enough or do enough to avoid this. I don't know what he wants. When I had my problems with Lizzie, I used to think I had it bad. Last year, I could count the blowups with Pa on one hand, and he never hurt me that much. Now, sometimes I wish Lizzie'd put me back in her little hell... maybe Pa'd have a little sympathy...or maybe he couldn't find me at all."

"Here, you're just tired. You sit here and eat a little of this food, then go downstairs and tell your father goodnight. That should be enough to satisfy him, and you can get some rest."

His anger shocked her. "You just don't understand." She hadn't seen any punishment make him cry since he was a very little boy, but there were clearly tears beginning to slide down his face. He ducked his head in embarrassment and turned back to stare out of the window. He softened his words, "Sorry. It hurts real bad. Thanks for the plate, but I can't eat anything right now. And I won't try to go downstairs, not for nothing...If that makes him angry..."

"If you don't go down there, you know he'll say you're just being stubborn. You'll be buying yourself more trouble before this night's out."

The words came from him, an unbidden plea. "Oh, God. Not now. I'm not trying to avoid him or downstairs. Honest. But I can't sit anywhere, standing up is worse, and I don't think I could make it down the stairs at all, no matter how hard I tried." He rested his face against the glass panes, cooling the heat that radiated from his forehead, struggling to accommodate both the sorrow and undeniable anger that mingled in his heart. He was so tired.

"Just exactly what did he do to you this time?"

"What he always does...only harder and a whole lot meaner. He's found a amazing new way to hit me...that nice, thick leather belt you gave him last Christmas. Thought he was going to break my back. Why did you have to give that thing to him? Didn't you ever stop to think where it would end up? The minute I saw it, I knew it would find my backside. That's why it disappeared after Christmas morning. I tried to hide it, but you found it for him anyway." He turned toward her. The suffering in his face touched her heart. "I don't even know what made him so mad today. Do you? I wasn't that late...there was plenty of time to get the work done. If I just could understand what I'm doing wrong, maybe I could get him to stop. He doesn't believe anything I say anymore...so it doesn't matter what I tell him, but I tell him the truth. He's listening to Rupert again...just like he did last year. Things haven't changed one bit between me and Rupert, but Pa thinks I'm guilty of every little thing Rupert blames me for. I was only late because Mrs. Hicks asked me to stay a little while to make plans for Friday." Distractedly, he pulled the notes the teacher had given him from his books on the desk, handing them to his mother. "I didn't go out riding, either. I came straight home when Mrs. Hicks was finished with me. I knew I was late again. I came as fast as I could, and I never took Loco out of the stall. I was gonna clean it with him inside. As it was, when I put Charlie up, and started into Loco's stall, the brute bit me again." He pulled the cloth sleeve on his forearm back to display a row of teeth marks. "But, you just let Rupert speak, and I'm the one who's gonna be hurting."

"Why didn't you tell your father about Mrs. Hicks?"

The tears were spent; the anger lingered. "I DID tell him...more than once...I tried and tried, but he doesn't believe anything I say anymore. I can't make him listen. I never grew up lying to him, so why does he think I'm a liar now?"

"Here, if you're not going to try to eat, at least drink a little of this milk. Maybe it will help you to sleep. "

"No thanks. It'll just make me puke."

"Well, tomorrow I want you to go to town with me, so don't plan on going to school. If you feel like it, you can go after I'm finished with you."

"No." He tried to straighten his back, pushing back from the window. The movement produced groans again as the pain resurfaced.

"What do you mean, 'No?'"

"I can't. If I miss school tomorrow, I'll be breaking another one of his rules, and I just can't take another day like this. "

"You let me handle that part, but I'm taking you to see Mort."

"NO!"

"Don't you tell me that again, young man. I want Mort to make certain you're alright."

"If Pa ever finds out..."

"I don't intend to tell your father where you're going. You're just going along to help me."

"I still don't think I'll be able to get down the stairs."

"We'll let him get to the field before we leave. Then I can help you."

"I think we're both going to regret this."

"Maybe...maybe not. I'll take the chance."

"Have I got any say in this at all?"

"No. First thing in the morning, you just get dressed. Then we'll let Mort tell us what you need to do."

Chapter 3

By morning, he had stiffened. In times past, he was always able to move when the punishment was over. He hadn't believed it was possible to hurt more than he had the night before. Now, he believed. Every fiber of his body wanted to scream in protest of every move. His legs were shaky. He had no idea what was going to happen next. He had stayed awake the night before, mostly because of the pain, partially because he was listening to the heated conversation in the rooms down the hall. He was amazed that she had felt it necessary and acceptable to lie to protect him. She was at his father again this morning.

"This hasn't got anything to do with yesterday. I just need him to help me with bundles, and I want him to drive the buggy."

"You never want anyone to drive that fancy little rig except you. Why have him drive it now? It's not like he doesn't know how. Where is he this morning? I haven't seen him or heard him touch that top stair. Are you coddling him again? If I find out he's telling you lies, trying to put you between him and me, he'll think all I gave him yesterday was a friendly little pat on the back "

"Has anything happen between you and him that you haven't told me about?"

John swore under his breath, "You see, that's him telling you lies about Saturday."

"Saturday? What about Saturday? He didn't complain about anything. You promised me you were going to let him alone...just talk to him. He's been so quiet, I was wondering if he'd done something else since we talked that made you angry enough to hit him. Saturday, was talk all there was?"

"That was all. Only thing else I did was give him a few little strokes when he got there so late. Just wanted to get his attention before we started talking."

"You promised me, John."

"I kept my promise...really, I didn't hurt him. He went right ahead and put in a full day after we finished our conversation. If I'd hurt him, I'd know it."

"Well, anyway, I need him today. He's not going to school, he's not working in the fields with you. He's coming with me."

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Mort Harper had seen her here over the years, only the one coming with her now had changed. He had been the one who patched the older boys, one by one, after they reached a certain age. One look at this boy's face was enough. He was sorry to see that the youngest boy seemed destined to inherit the same hell. Harper knew he couldn't do much to stop it, but he had made notes of every incident in his books.

The doctor drew her into the inner office, leaving the boy behind. "Okay, Ester, how many times does this make. Been hitting him about two years now hasn't he? I've seen him walking around town when I know he's been mistreated. I had hoped that this one would be allowed to go through life without learning of his father's penchant for fists and belts. I know he hits him, but I can't prove it, and this boy, like all you Larabees, isn't going to say anything to anybody about what he's going through. You forget I grew up with John. People around here pretty well knew that he took his share of suffering at his own father's hands. People told me that, even when I went to school, John's trouble lasted until his father dropped dead during that hailstorm that ruined his wheat crop. This always makes me wonder if John inherited something from his father beside that flame-red hair of his. Maybe that's where he gets this anger that makes him lash out at these boys. I thought he'd be different, especially with his own. Maybe John doesn't feel it's necessary to change his father's ways. Does he really believe his sons are doomed if he doesn't take their hide clean off their backsides I'll never know what makes him that way. I thought Mitch got it worse than Frank, but this one...he's getting it younger. Just looking at his face, John's getting mean as hell if he'll do something like this. Well, we might as well get this over with. I'll get Henry to help him."

Slowly and supported by Henry Bascom, followed by his mother, John Christopher walked lamely into the inner office. He was pale, quiet, reluctant to meet the doctor's eyes, but Mort recognized some of what he was feeling. "Ester, you wait outside. Henry, thanks. I'll call if I need you." As soon as they closed the door, he turned to observe the boy, studying the bruises on his face. "Okay, what did you get yourself into now. At least try to make it an entertaining, or at least an interesting, story this time."

The boy, under normal circumstances, would have grinned in return. He'd done stupid things before and sometimes paid a hefty price. As it was, caught in trouble not of his own making, he reluctantly answered, "I fell." From the blackened eye, the dulled expression, the cut lip, and the slightly green pallor of his skin, it was clear he had suffered a great deal, and it probably hadn't taken that long.

"Sure you did. That one's not even long enough or original enough to enjoy. Okay, just hop up here on the table. You know how this goes."

Part of determining how badly the boy was hurt was simply watching him move. Generally, that wasn't very hard to follow, but this time, he hadn't moved since Henry left him standing in the middle of the room. Before he had gone more than a step under his own power, his legs seemed to buckle beneath him. When Mort caught him and set him on his feet, a very audible cry erupting from the patient. "Easy now. Take hold here on this thing. What hurts?"

"Legs. Back. Hips. Damn near everything else, too."

"Stand real still. Don't try to move by yourself. Got a good hold?" The only answer was a nod.

"Okay, give me just a minute." The man went to his office door. "Emily, get Henry." He was back by the boy a moment later, holding him steady until the large man who assisted the physician was able to scoop him up and place him on the table. There was another stifled cry. "Seems you best turn him on his stomach."

The boy felt the pressure of the men's hands on his pain-racked body. He tried to be quiet and still, but he failed miserably. A scream split the air again as the two began to remove his clothing, preparing to examine his body. He was turned this way then that. At the last they left him face down again stopping the ordeal. The coolness of the sheets used to cover him gave the only measure of relief available.

The boy had never heard a grown man swear the way Mort Harper swore as he explored the injuries. By the time every section had been probed, he found the boy close to tears.

"It's time to put a stop to this, boy. I've seen you once or twice when somebody worked you over. I just want to know...no, I've got to know...how did you get in this shape. I want to know right now."

"I fell."

"You gonna hold to that...even when I can see with my own eyes that you've been hit hard and more than once or twice. Was it a belt, a cinch strap, something bigger? Fists? How many blows? By whom? How long ago? Come on...tell me."

"Leave me alone. I told you I just fell."

"Fell, my Aunt Fanny." He had toned down his language, realizing that he was actually scaring the normally unflappable young man, who now seemed down to his last bit of courage. Mort crossed the room purposefully and snatched open the outer door. "Ester, come in here!" His tone was neither kind nor respectful.

She had seen his face, the black eye, the cut lips, but she hadn't seen his body. When she looked at the marks he bore, tears swam in her eyes and rolled down her face. She walked around to the head of the table, seeing his languid green eyes staring out at her from an almost colorless face. As she tenderly brushed the hair from his forehead, caressing his pale, bruised cheeks, she saw clearly the depth of his pain.

His plea was barely a whisper. "Please...I can't take any more. Can I go home?"

"What you're looking at is a boy that should be close to dead by now. He's not even full grown yet. Look at him. You don't have to say one word to me about what happened to him. All I need are eyes. Beatings leave a story... every hit, every cut, every muscle stretched and torn, every bone broken. Sometimes I can put it all back in place. Sometimes I can't. And I know when he's taken more than one beating, too. How many has he taken lately? You've got to do something for this boy. It means you've got to stand up to John. John Christopher is telling you the truth. He can't take much more of this. If he's forced to keep taking it, ...and, you know John, it's bound to get worse...the boy will either die or he'll never have a life fit to live."

"What do you suggest I do. I bring him here when I can do it without telling John. When he gets home, he's expected to do his work, and I can't hold him from that. I feed him when he'll eat; I see that he gets a little time off when John's in a good mood or goes off somewhere. I try mostly to just keep him out of the man's way. But the two of them...anymore it's like two bulls in the same field."

"This is a case of one old, mean-tempered bull stomping on a month-old calf. And the calf can't begin to defend himself. I want you to see this, look at it...realize what's happening. Let's just start here." He raised the sheet to expose the boy's lower back and legs. He started at the lowest point, the backs of his legs just behind his knees, working his hands steadily up to the middle of his back. He stopped touching the bruised flesh when the boy cried out.

He covered the boy with sheets, then added a freshly warmed blanket to keep him from further shock. "At least John didn't cut him. That's the only piece of good news in this whole miserable situation. From what I see, he took the biggest part of the blows across his lower back, hips, and his legs to just below the back of his knees. We're gonna have to keep him off his feet for at least a week or so, and then ease him back real slow into doing things."

"These are bad bruises. Bad as the bruises are, the jolts to his bones and joints could be hell. They'll probably stop hurting in a few weeks, if he doesn't get any more of the same and he doesn't have to lift a lot of heavy loads. If John made his back bones shift, he could have pain forever. If he gets hit more in these places, before he's had time to heal fully, he probably won't walk right for years, and that'll be the least of his worries."

He adjusted the sheet, realizing the boy was shaking, but suspecting it was more from shock than from the temperature of the room, from the extent of the clash even more than from injury.

"Every one of these damn blue marks is from a different blow. Just how many times did he hit him? I've counted about twenty so far, but that's not all of em. They're all wide and mostly in a confined area, so they overlap each other. I'm surprised he was able to ride in the wagon or walk in here at all. The bruising of his backside is going to take time to heal, too. You hear some of these knot heads around here say that's all those are there for...taking beatings. Don't be fooled. They're meant to help him walk, and climb...shoot, they help him just stand up. Muscles, tendons, lots of parts to that area of his body. Affects everything he does. If the muscles are torn, he's going to be in a real grim situation for a long, long while, including not being able to ride or work with his horses. As bruised as he is around the back of his knees, walking is going to be even more of a problem. Considering everywhere he's been hit, and the number of times, every time he moves, he's gonna hurt like hell. You see these three big welts, here, here, and here? They're blood filled, where he was hit so hard it bled underneath, but the blood couldn't find a way out. Those I'll have to lance and probably stitch. It won't be easy on him, but at least he's strong. Those will probably heal first."

The sheet was moved again. The physician's hands sought the area of skin that covered the boys back just below his ribs, just above his kidneys. Even the gentle touch produced a strangled cry. "All this damage ... no wonder he couldn't keep moving...but it'll be like nothing if he's been hurt inside. Put your hand there." He guided her fingers around the swollen area low on his back. The boy twisted and whimpered at her touch. "Swelling here on the right had better clear up fast. If it won't, I'd bet his kidney's been damaged. On the other side, the swelling's not quite as bad. But, let's just say the right one stops working...what then? Well, he's gonna loose that kidney. We're gonna have to watch him real close for a few days, watch for any blood he might pass. He'll hopefully be okay in a few weeks, but he'll have to work hard to get there."

She shook her head. "In bed...for weeks? John won't understand. He'll suspect he's just ducking work."

"I'll keep an eye on him. Keep him down as long as he needs, and I don't give one fig what John thinks. You'll be there...you better tell him what I said. You keep him away from this boy anyway you can. I don't want him around John Christopher for at least three weeks. The boy's got to have complete rest for two weeks or longer if it takes that long to get everything healed. I don't want John to ever hit him again...you do want this boy to live, don't you."

He had succeeded. She was petrified for her child. But the boy was petrified as well. "But what can I do? I can't make him stop. How can I go two weeks without seeing him?"

"It's not a question of what can you do alone, son. It's what can you, and Doc Harper, and I do together. We've got to work on this together if he's ever going to change."

"I don't have any idea that will ever happen, not after all these years. Do you want me to talk with John for the both of you."

"No!!" The boy tried valiantly to leave the table, only to be restrained by the assistant.

"Calm down. Lie still. Here, Ester, start giving him some of this."

"You tell him I was even here, he'll just about kill me. You tell him we were talking about him, he will kill me. It's one of the rules."

"I don't care if it's carved in stone. He's got to stop this, and he's got to stop it right now. Boy, he's just warming up. You think this is hard to take, wait until he starts hitting you with his fists instead of his open hand. I suspect that's where that shiner came from. You just wait until he starts maybe using a bullwhip. I can't tell you how bad it might get. It's gotten worse with every one of you boys, but you're not in a position to make him quit. It's gonna take help. I hope, with all of us, we may be able to get through to him. If it doesn't work, you've got no other choice but to leave. Maybe not tomorrow, not next month, but sooner than you'd like. Now, drink what's in that glass...all of it. To tell the truth, it tastes like the devil, but it should help you sleep for awhile. You can use the rest, and it will give me a chance to lance those welts. Don't be surprised if you've got a bit of new pain when you wake up. I'll salve it as much as I can. Your mother and I are going to do some talking about this situation. We'll share any decisions we come up with after you're awake again. And, boy, considering your father's temper, I'm thinking of keeping you here for a little while, just to make sure everything's going right."

"I can't." He pushed up against the table.

"Be still. Yes you can. If you're here, nobody's gonna hit you or make you do anything stupid."

"I've got to help Mrs. Hicks this Friday...I promised I would, and I've got chores today. He'll ... be ... mad......again..." The bitter tonic he'd had was beginning to ease the pain, and he was close to exhausted sleep.

"Forget about that for now," his mother soothed. "I'll let Clara know and you can do that story later. I'll just have to deal with your father. Let's just try to get you well."

Chapter 4

Over the next days, as the boy's body began to mend, the storm in the Larabee household resembled a never-ending tornado. From what the doctor reported to him, the boy was frankly thankful he had missed the day when his mother and Mort first confronted John.

Harper was exercising the boy's legs. It was the third day, and he had ordered that they spend time bending his legs to help him gain movement and strength. The boy was trying to help, but he was obviously tired of the ritual already.

"That still hurt? I just bet it does. Just a few more for now...." He stopped when he saw wild fear suddenly spring into the boy's face, his eyes wide and staring past the doctor toward the door. The physician's glance followed the other's, instantly falling on John Larabee.

Fear laced with his own anger crept into the boy's face. His body began to tremble. His hands crumpled the sheets into tight balls. "You leave me alone!"

"Mort, I'm here to see my boy. You are gonna let me talk to him, aren't you."

"No," the boy whispered. "I don't want to see him."

"I don't know. Just why are you here? Can I trust you to keep your hands and anything else you may have away from him?"

"Yeah. I give you my word. I want to see him alone."

"His word's not worth warm spit. Don't leave."

"I'll just be outside. He won't hurt you with Henry and me around."

"Don't leave! Please!!"

"It's okay. He is your pa, and, as long as he doesn't hurt you, he's got a right to talk to you."

He swallowed his panic, accepting the edict. Within a minute, he was alone again with his father.

For some time they simply looked at each other. John noticed the remainder of the cuts and bruises on the boy's face. The black eye was still swollen and rimmed in pale purple. The lips were tender but healing, and the marks on his cheeks were a marvel of colors...fading black, blue, green, purple. "Boy, I'm sorry you're not feeling well." He seemed sincere enough, for now.

The boy kept his silent vigil... mute, suspicious, frightened. Hearing the man's voice was a shock, a too vivid reminder of what he had been through. He turned his head toward the nearest wall, trying to block his father's voice from his mind. "I didn't deserve this...not any of it!"

Anger. Coal-hot anger. "Still at it? Still won't take the blame for your own mischief?"

The man spent the remainder of his visit watching his voiceless son for signs of rebellion or defiance. He was only slightly content that he saw none. The boy lay quiet, no further anger or bitterness showing. He had taken his punishment like a man. John respected that. Mort had told him the boy had made no protests. It had only been his limp that made his mother seek the physician's help, only the blood-gorged welts and pain that confined him to bed. "Well, I'd best get home. I've got your chores to finish. You get back as quick as you can."

The boy said nothing, not even when John had gone. Mort was back to check on his condition. "If he thinks talking about the work load is gonna get you over this is a day or two, he's wrong. He caused it, let him pay for it. I've kept you here so you'd be as far away from the bastard as possible. I want him to listen to Ester and me, and I don't want him blaming you for what we say."

"Don't you know that he'll blame me anyway? He'll be back when he's good and ready to make my life hell again."

The father waited two days more, growing angry that he faced the boy's chores alone, giving into his impulse to confront him again. He found his son still flat on the bed in the room above Mort's examining table. Five days of recuperation had produced little change in the son's feelings about his father.

"You maybe feeling some better?"

"Yeah, I'm feeling real good." Sarcasm again...he remembered one cause of the beating. He forced himself to simply shut up.

"Yeah, Mort and your ma have been telling me how bad I've mistreated you. You think you've got a right to just do anything you want now, but you'll be in for a surprise. Just laying up, doing nothing of any use to anybody, but talking about me to anybody who'll listen. You're just making up lies, playacting that you're hurt so you'll get their sympathy. Well, you'll be coming home in a day or so, and I expect you to live up to my rules. Nothing's changed. You do your work, you mind me, you give me the respect I deserve, then you can live an easier life than you've had lately. I'm not that hard a man to please, John Christopher. I do expect you to do what I say."

"And if I can't please you? If I can't, no matter how hard I try? What happens to me then?"

"Well, Mort and Ester have asked me to hold back from hitting you. Say you're backs hurt, or something like that. Okay, I gave them my word. I'll lay off, at least until your mended some. But, boy, if you don't change your ways, we can always turn back to mine. And don't you dawdle, laying up here in a bed for folks to wait on you. I expect you home in a few days. You get my meaning?" Standing over the boy, John moved his hands until both made firm contact with his belt. He gripped the buckle, then loosened it.

The boy cringed, dreading what was about to happen, but fear kept him from calling for the physician. "You just remember who calls the shots, boy. You don't...there'll be a good dose of reminders." The man turned to go, the conversation ending without the blows the boy anticipated. When Mort returned, he found him nervous and withdrawn. "What did he say. Your ma and I'll take care of this, don't you worry."

"You won't do nothing. You'll try...I know you mean to. But this is nothing you can stop anymore than I can. It's nothing but an on-going war between me and him. It don't matter nothing if you try, he's determined to give me hell. I don't know how to fight him, or even why it's got to be a fight. I doubt I could win, but I'm damn sure through being his whipping boy. That's just how it is."

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He was home after two days more...a whole week away from his father ...ordered to bed, his body still sore and aching, but the stitches were mending quickly. After he made it back, he was aware that John watched him steadily.

His father at least seemed concerned to see the sadness, bewilderment, or anger that alternated in his son's face. He was sorry the boy had been ill, but Mort had told him pointedly that the beating was the cause of the boy's problems. "Mort, I appreciate your concern, but you're just a too-kindhearted man, and just a bit more than misguided. He didn't get one bit more than he deserved for lying to me. Shoot, I took worse than that for years, and I've done okay. Lay off him? Well, maybe just a spell until the boy's back on his feet. Then if he don't straighten up, maybe at least what he'd been through this time will remind him that being a hellion has it's consequences."

During the next week, the boy was dozing on the sofa each day when his mother finished the day's gardening. She always entered softly, bringing along her knitting. As she worked her needles, Margaret sat quietly in the chair in the corner, watching him, waiting for him to wake. Her mother had made her responsible. She was to keep him occupied enough that he didn't mind so much being pinned down. He spent the time he was awake trying to strengthen his legs and relieve his back.

By the end of the first month home, watching the boy move about the things he was allowed to do outdoors, John had to admit Ester was right. The kid was a good worker, when he had a mind... That should count for something. "John Christopher."

"Sir?" The answer was subdued, with a cautious edge. He worked some distance away from his father, alert, listening for any sound or tone of voice that would indicate trouble.

"Your Ma says we could use some fish to go with her garden tonight. What say we let this stuff go and see if we can catch us some."

John Christopher smiled a small, dispirited smile, but at least it was a start. "Yes, sir. Want me to get the poles?"

"Sure. You get em."

"You want me to finish tacking this little section of wire before I go? If you do, I'll bring you the poles, and you can head to the river. It won't take more than a few minutes. It's almost done."

"Suit yourself. That'd be a big help. Won't have to get everything back out again. I'll go get us a spot that looks likely. When you come along, just follow our usual path, whistle a little. I'll let you know where I am."

As soon as the poles were in the man's hands, the boy moved his attention quickly to the broken fence.

She watched the two from the kitchen window. Since the boy came home, and after her arguments with John had mostly passed , she realized they were all hurting. She tried in small ways to put the family right again. "Don't you two boys get lost down there by that river. You get back here as soon as you get us four good ones." Standing alone, watching them go in separate directions, the boy still obviously favoring the damaged leg, she breathed a prayer that the Lord would give her strength enough to make her husband stop, her son strength enough to endure and maybe even forgive. So tonight, with any luck, they would dine on fish.

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In the time she had to herself as she waited for them, Ester thought about her babies...the five, now four. This boy was Ester's third son...the fourth of her brood. Elizabeth, the oldest, had married five years ago to Hobart McCord. They seemed happy, but they hadn't been able to put together much of a farm or a family. To her knowledge, the only persons John Christopher came close to hating were Lizzie "Rulebook" Larabee" and possibly Rupert. The boys before John Christopher were Mitch and Frank. Mitch had left a little more than a year after Lizzie's wedding, heading for life on a river...any river. It was all that Mitch wanted. Frank had been their soldier, dead three years now after some skirmish in Mexico. He had been the one meant to till the soil.

At home, she still had John Christopher, and then there was Margaret, the six-year old. Margaret was John Christopher' shadow when he'd let her be. One of the first times Margie got into trouble, it had been when she followed her brother to his swimming hole. Before they'd gotten home good, to his dismay, little blabbermouth Margie had told her mother all about the day they'd shared. Ester knew the story well. At the swimming hole, he teased the child, offering to throw her in without her petticoat. He taught her what the phrase "skinny dipping" meant, threw her giggling into the water, then jumped in after her to have a great time.

Ester had given Margaret a scolding for getting her already-none-too-clean clothes wet. "Son, you should have known better. She's a little girl. You have to be responsible for her." She could remember his attempts to avoid punishment, "But Ma, we went in with our clothes on. We weren't really skinny dipping. I wouldn't let her get hurt. Come on, Ma, we were just having fun." It was the only time she ever delivered the punishment to this son herself. Ester had faced him down, "You know that child can't swim." John Christopher had faced her back, his most devil-may-care grin alive on his face, "Well now she can." He winked at Margie, then gave a cocky little salute to his ma. The switch was long and limber, wielded with skill, but not for long. He was glad she never told his father.

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John Christopher finished the fence...working with attention to detail, just like his father had taught him. The sadness was still there. He accepted it and thought it would probably be a long time before he felt safe or happy about anything connected to his father. He didn't understand why his father believed Rupert. Why would Mr. Taylor have given him permission to go riding with Becky and then told Rupert that John Christopher was a thorn? It just didn't make any sense.

He still hadn't figured it all out. Having so much time in the house gave him too much time to think and consider whys. Why was Loco in the barn, all lathered, if nobody had been riding him? Shoot, John Christopher hadn't been anywhere near that horse for a week, except to clean the stall. His father didn't want him on the bay stallion. Even if John Christopher was fifteen, according to John, he was too young to take on that crazy horse. Well, he had ridden the bay lots more than once. He was pretty sure the big horse couldn't pitch him off, hadn't met one that could, but he didn't brag about his ability to his parents. He wasn't that stupid. Still, the horse wasn't in any shape to be ridden. If John Christopher Larabee knew anything, he knew horses. Why would his father believe that he, who loved working with horses so much, would ever risk laming a good horse for the sake of a careless breakneck ride?

When he thought about the questions he'd asked himself over and over again for the last few weeks, and discovered again that he had no answers, he put his supplies back in the shed. At least Pa didn't seem so mad now. John Larabee couldn't be that mad anymore if he'd offered to go fishing. If he was still truly angry, he would have thought of something a lot less enjoyable. John Christopher picked up his hat, threw a clod of dirt at the fence, and started toward the river bank...whistling a tune that was brighter than he felt.

Chapter 5

Long weeks went by. The tenderness, swelling, and the limp faded, the bruises had finally vanished, the scars lightened, and the colors changed in the trees. He worked with little fear of harm from his father, returning to his usual routine within six weeks after the beating.

John Christopher loved the approaching fall. The coolness of it, the breeze, the colors...to him it was better than spring had ever been. He felt strong again, for sure. But then, this fall was special. He was now seriously in love with Becky Taylor, between fifteen and sixteen and planning for their future. She had visited him often while he mended. Long conversations built stronger attachments. Longer and longer walks brought strength to his body and happiness to his heart. And the punishments had actually stopped.

The more he fell in love with Becky, however, the closer the obstinate boy got to serious trouble for trying to see her. As fall approached, chores were late or went undone, except for the horses. Horses, sometimes with buggies, sometimes alone, disappeared from the barn, the two young loves meeting for brief moments wherever they could. School work, shoot, it was harvest time and there wasn't any. Several times, to prove how important he truly was, he'd borrowed Pa's pistol, shooting cans while Becky watched. The night of the Sweetheart Dance, he forgot all caution and brought along a small flask of his Pa's best sipping whiskey, and he shared the fiery liquid with his love.

John Christopher occasionally paid for his antics. But at least, for now, he didn't pay in blood and pain. He paid in labor...hard, exhausting labor, managing to finish even his extra chores before his father came looking for him. He wanted a good time, he was in love, and he didn't care. If he had to pay to see her, he was ready to pay. He never minded work. Now, it seemed easier to avoid his father's wrath. Trying to show his appreciation of the change in his father's rules, he had finally learned to hold his tongue. He was a much more silent young man now. He liked the silence...it gave him time to plan.

John Christopher worked hard clear through September, well into October. Harvest time dragged. He knew it wouldn't be fair if he left the load on Pa. Shoot, there were days even Margie got pressed into service doing something. He missed Becky, but asking to see her was out of the question. Pa would never approve because he needed his son as a fresh, willing farmhand, in the fields bright and early every morning. "Boy, winter'll be here soon enough...soon enough for a young rooster like you to make trouble for that little chick."

So he waited. The last Friday night of October, he decided he had waited long enough. The stitches were out long ago; his body had healed; the work had made him strong; he moved about as he wanted. He'd been allowed a little time to ride as he liked...he knew he could make the ride. Most of the fields were done. Pa'd said he needed to be ready by an hour after sunup...not before sunup, so there was time. Actually the time he chose was very early on Saturday morning.

He slipped the sorrel from the barn, determined to see her. He only wanted to wake her up, talk, laugh a little, let off some steam, get to see her a while...remind her he was special. He'd done it before, before he was sick... it was all part of his long-range plan. He was always extremely careful. He'd never been caught.

When the third pebble hit the upper right window on the second floor of the Taylor house, it echoed like a gunshot. He heard Mrs. Taylor shriek, then Pete Taylor's harassed and sleepy voice "Gertrude, stop beating on me...what's wrong with you"

"Pete, there's somebody breaking into this house. You go see!"

"I didn't hear nothing...go to sleep!"

"I bet it's that Larabee boy, he's always hanging around here. He's just a troublemaker, a no-good carouser. I think he's just after my...he's trying to hurt my baby." From where the boy watched, crouched behind their wagon, even outside he could hear her wail.

John Christopher heard something more of the escalating turmoil going on inside the house. "Hell, that'll do it." And it did.

The rest of Saturday was surprisingly quiet as he worked hard to finish his chores on time. He finally breathed easier. The sun was down, nobody came. Sunday was quiet too, that is until Pete Taylor came riding up. With his face livid with anger, Pete began to shout at his neighbor, "It's gospel true, John. That boy tried to break into my house Saturday morning, up in the early hours. And John, I'm personally ready to haul his sorry butt to jail for molesting my girl. Where's that scoundrel at?"

"Now, Pete, I'd appreciate it if you'd leave him to me. I've been trying to give him a little lenience lately, and this is the thanks I get. I knew it wasn't a good thing, but Ester was pestering me about it. You leave it to me, and I'll make him pay for this. I promise you he'll pay more from me than from anything he'll get with the sheriff."

"I'll leave it to you then, but, John, you tell him for me, he'd better not ever set foot on my property, or try to talk to my daughter, ever again."

"I thank you Pete. I promise he'll pay, and I don't ever make a promise that I won't keep."

As Taylor left, John Christopher felt cold, watching with mounting fear. He hadn't said a word about his visit to the Taylor house. Maybe he should have told them. He watched his father go in and then come out of the house, his rage obvious in his tight jaw and red-tipped ears. But, he didn't carry the belt. This time he saw the razor strop, normally kept on the bedroom wall, held in his father's powerful right hand. The boy moved backward, trying to elude the approaching demon. John said nothing, just grabbed his son by the nape of the neck, shoving him all the way to the barn. Ester followed..."John, no...you can't. Pete's wrong. He's not like this. If you hurt him again, you might kill him."

John felt different. "I ain't gonna kill him, but he just might wish I had. Woman, that many good people of this community would simply not lie about this boy. He's gotten way out of control. Quit your crying and go back inside. You're not going to get me to coddle him anymore, no sir. You and Mort got me to let up on him, and this is the thanks we get. Well it's just time he grows up, and I mean fast."

Once the two were inside the stables, the first blows to the boy's face landed instantly. Several more found his stomach or ribs. Fighting back wasn't an option. The son was terrified. He'd heard Pete Taylor. He certainly wouldn't hurt Becky...He loved her. Anyway, she was a girl who would belt him good if he tried anything stupid. She was never a bashful or fragile girl, and he liked her mettle..

But he had never seen his father this furious, not even the day of the last beating. Tired of delivering blows, John slung him across the straw-filled floor, literally ripping the shirt from his body, forcing him to strip down his pants. "John Christopher Larabee, you've done enough to disgrace this family and prove what a hellion you are. Now, I'm going to teach you what I mean about you paying for your mistakes. This is gonna be the one I've threatened you with for years. Now, you grab on to that stall there, and you best hang on. I don't think you'll forget this lesson anytime soon."

"Pa? Pa?" He was frantic to make him understand, to get loose. "I didn't, I wouldn't hurt her!" Why wouldn't his Pa listen to reason.

"You tell me the truth! For once, you tell me...were you at the Taylor house or not?"

"Yes, sir, but I didn't try to..."

And then he saw it clearly in his father's face. There would be no understanding and certainly no reprieve, "Oh, God."

Years later, the boy could remember the sound the first blow made even before it hit, he guessed he always would. After John's first strike, John Christopher held onto the stall for his life. Twisting to try to get away from the pain was absolutely useless. He managed for a time to keep his right hip and leg away from the worst of it. The razor strop was a far superior instrument of torment. The pain he had known before was the pain he recognized as it began again. He held his breath, gripped the stall, and tried for a moment to calculate how much of this new torture he could survive...maybe ten strokes? Ten...he promised himself, he would take it. But ten wasn't all. John hit him over and over again. There was no relief. John Christopher lost count somewhere after fifteen; then retched a long while later.

The boy knew he wouldn't make it much longer. He'd nearly passed out already. In his mind he could no longer focus enough to figure which response would be worse, passing out or begging. The man was inexorable. John Christopher was afraid to speak, afraid to move, afraid of anything that might encourage the man to add to the "lesson" he delivered. His skin and muscles had long since been on fire. The last stroke that landed, a powerful downward blow, cut the boy from the top of his left shoulder to the middle of his back. He gasped, then cried out, at the unexpected ripping of his flesh. His mind reeled with denial and protest. The words "Pa. No more. Please, stop..." slipped almost silently from his lips. As the trickle of blood started to flow toward his weakening legs, he lost his determination to endure it all and crumpled to his hands and knees on the barn floor.

When he saw the blood on his son's back, then watched him fall, the older man stopped. He truly hadn't meant to cut him. In what he meant as help, but his son would forever remember as only another venting of unappeasable anger, John reached over, picked up a full bottle of horse lineament, pushed the exhausted child back up against the stall, and very slowly poured the entire bottle over the raw shoulders, back and hips. The putrid stuff brought him around fast. He cried out again, struggling to put his injured body against the wall, out of the reach of the strop, away from the burning fluid. He suddenly leaned forward, holding to a post, retching the bile that was all he had left to loose. With no show of remorse, his father handed him his pants and tattered shirt, and ordered him to get inside the house.

He covered his lower body with a blanket from the stall, whimpering at the feel of the rough material against his tortured skin. Then he headed out, but there was no way he was going inside. "Go to hell, you son-of-a-bitch! I'll get you for this." The enraged words surprised even him. He stormed off, needing to be anywhere but there.

Behind John, Rupert stood watching. He must have been there long enough to hear what was happening in the barn; to see what shape the boy was in. He easily could hear the way the young man talked to John.

Rupert reached a hand toward his brother-in-law. "John, I know this has hit you hard. But it's long overdue. You've finally gotten a good bit wiser. This might finally get that boy of yours in hand. Don't know as I wouldn't have tacked on a little more, hearing that last smart mouth he gave you. If he don't come around, and do it soon, you ought to just tell him to pack up and git."

The boy literally ran, heading for the river, ignoring the pain of each move. He didn't know why he went there, but he stayed a long time. He needed quiet. Mostly, he needed to cool his temper and to ease the hurt. He lowered himself into the cold river to let the water bring ease to his body and wash away the tears. He slept, exhausted, stretched on the horse blanket on his stomach along the bank. How long he slept he could only guess. After he woke, he was more than afraid. His father would never accept an apology for what he had said, but he had simply been near insanity from what had happened. Even now, he was still more than furious at his father for believing Taylor's word and not giving him even a small chance to say anything before he started hitting.

He soaked again, at last pulling on his pants through force of will alone. He slept a short time more. When he woke, the sunset that welcomed him helped to bring back some small bit of common sense. No matter how much he'd been hurt, he was able to move. It hurt like hell, and he wasn't sure he would move tomorrow, but for now, he could take it. The cut must have been a mistake. He had to believe that. Surely, his Pa wouldn't -- would he? Could he go home? He needed to go home. Yes...his Ma was at home...he could go home. That had always been a place he could go, even when things were bad. He wasn't ready to leave.

And hours had passed and, practically thinking, he was getting hungry. At fifteen, he was always hungry anyway, and he'd lost all of his breakfast, and hadn't eaten anything else. A small bright thought came to him then. This was Sunday night. He pictured his mother in the kitchen fixing chicken and dumplings. They were something special for John and John Christopher on Sundays. That shouldn't change no matter how worn out his britches, or his back, got.

Chapter 6

It was late when he approached the two story house again...well after dark. There was still light in the kitchen, so he thought Ma was waiting there to help him get over the worst of the beating. He looked forward to her special salve that would help the ripped skin and cool the burning. He knew she would have fed his father, then put a plate on back of the stove to stay warm for her son. These were things he could count on. He needed to count on something after the misery of the day.

He walked toward the house without as much fear now. He even expected his father to want to talk things through. John wasn't always a monster, and, when his rage cooled, he often wanted to talk over their 'difference of opinion.'

John Christopher shook his head sadly as he approached his home, "Shoot, if he'd just talk before he hit me, it might not get so bad."

But today hadn't been any difference of opinion. He hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't, and he was determined to make his Pa listen. The beating was something he would not, and could not, tolerate again.

He didn't even begin to know how to start such a conversation. It had to be different this time. He was nearly a man..No, after today he was a man, and it was time he said something. If he couldn't stand up for himself, nobody could save him. He knew he might have to pay for it. If it meant he had to leave, then leave he would. But tonight, when speaking up might cost him more than he could stand, he intended to tell John Larabee not to ever hurt him like that again.

Avoiding the steeper back stairs, he went slowly up the front ones, forcing his shoulders, legs, and hips to move, surprised when he had to push open the usually well hung door. He breached the threshold and stepped into a pool of blood. Everywhere there was blood. John Larabee lay on the other side of the door, on the floor in the front hallway. He was dead, shot in the back, one hand resting against the door. The boy heard a scream. It took several moments before he realized the scream was his own. He knelt before his father for a heartbeat. Then, he ran straight toward the kitchen, yelling for his mother. Everything was too quiet.

He found her...she was in the kitchen all right...she'd been fixing a plate of chicken and dumplings. His father's and her own plates were still on the table, Margie's as well, smaller with the food barely touched. They'd both been shot. Whoever did this used one of his father's guns and left it on the floor. She too had been shot in the back.

He cradled her lifeless body, so crazy in grief he failed to realize that he was kneeling in her blood. When he finally was able to think, he remembered someone else. He searched frantically for Margaret, calling out her name, afraid of the worst. She was in a little ball, behind the door of her corner second-floor bedroom. As he drew her to him, she sobbed, "John Chris, I thought you were dead, too."

He held her; he rocked her gently, wrapping her in the comforter from her bed. It was all he knew to do. He felt his head and heart would burst. Too much...it was all just too much. He held her and let his tears mingle with hers.

As the hours of dark passed, the boy made his first mistake. He decided to take her to Rupert and Matilda. His aunt and uncle were the closest people at hand. Rupert didn't like him, but Matilda did, and neither would ever hurt Margie. He had to tell someone, and he had to make her safe. John Christopher burst into their home, bloody boots and pants startling his aunt. He carried Margie in his arms, explaining how he had found their parents. Sympathetic and seemingly reassuring, Rupert sent him back to the farm, with Matilda for support and with Margie beside her. But Rupert went for his old friend, Carter Masters, the Wheatland sheriff.

What was said between Masters and Rupert, John Christopher never knew. Yet, by the time they got to the Larabee farm, the sheriff was convinced that the hothead had carried out his threat to "get" his Pa.

The argument that ensued between Matilda and Rupert went on for an hour...her screaming at him for suggesting that her nephew had anything to do with the murder of her sister and brother-in-law. Rupert could not be swayed. "He's covered in blood...that says enough to me." Masters arrested him on the spot.

Chris tried to reason it out as he listened to the fight. What had his Ma and Pa ever done? Who would have done this? Who could hate them enough to do this? Rupert certainly wouldn't have hurt them. He just couldn't be that evil, just short sighted and more than malevolent where Chris was concerned. He may have thought Chris was a hellion, but why would he believe it to the point he thought Chris would actually murder his own parents.

While he waited, Chris tried to tell Masters what had happened, where he had been, the beating, everything, but Masters wouldn't listen. Chris could tell he was in serious trouble...but there were only a few people in town that he thought could be trusted to back him. Nobody seemed interested in thinking of him as an innocent boy, beginning with Rupert and seconded by Carter Masters. "You think anybody's gonna believe you. All you've ever done is raise hell. Rupert tried to warn your father about you. John just didn't want to hear it...and it cost him and Ester their lives. You've been a hot-head for years...you've worked hard to get your outlaw reputation. Well, I'm gonna make you a promise. You're gonna have a real short hearing and then a real quick hanging...just like an outlaw deserves."

So, shortly before daybreak, on the way to town and jail, Chris proved how right they were, how much of an outlaw he had become. A few miles from the house, he punched his uncle, kicked Masters from his saddle, wheeled his mount around, and ran. The two men weren't really hurt, just down. They'd be after him soon enough.

He didn't go far. He ran back to the now empty house. He jumped from the stolen horse, and ran to gather Charlie and Loco. His needs he gathered quickly, mainly from what he came across in the barn and then inside the house. He added a scabbard and rifle, gun and holster, a little food, bullets, blankets, shirts, extra pants, his coat. But he remembered Ma's sock, nestled in the lower left dresser drawer. He quickly climbed the stairs, opened it and found almost $200 inside. She had told him often that her savings were meant to help one of her babies...maybe to go to college. He paused, then returned half of it to the sock and tucked the sock in his left pocket. He added his share of the funds to a single silver coin in his right. Margie would need something too. None of them would use it for college, but at least it would help the last two.

The only other thing he took from his mother's dresser was a pin for Margie. A small, solid-gold broach lay there. It was the gift his father had given his mother after John Christopher's birth. Ester loved horses. The intricate design of the pin showed a stallion at full gallop, wind streaming through its luxurious mane and tail. His mother had often laughingly said the pin foretold his gift for working with the beasts. Margie had always loved touching that pin and watching it shine. It wasn't right that anyone should have it but her. She would remember what it meant to them both. Later on it bothered Chris a little that in the middle of all that hell he could think so clearly.

He made himself check the house, hoping to find anything that could prove him innocent. He noticed several missing things... things few people would have thought of since they didn't live in the house. Pa's best hunting rifle was gone, the cabinet was broken open in the rear hallway. Pa owned a few gold coins and silver dollars from long ago that he kept on the mantle...they were gone. Strangest thing missing was a little, fancy, white, carved pipe that some people had given Pa when he helped them with a broken axle. Pa really liked that pipe, wouldn't smoke it, but he liked the fancy carvings on the bowl.

Chris also found a footprint in the kitchen...a large man's boot with a cut in the heel. He wasn't his, or his father's. If there had been more time to look, he might have discovered something else, but his time was up. He heard horses. Scrambling out the back door of his home, clearing the railing in a painful leap, he sent the "borrowed" horse up the lane toward the approaching men. Maybe it would cause enough confusion to give him some time. He threw his bundle on the sorrel, swung up onto the bay, gathered the reins and fled.

He sneaked into Elizabeth's house, a visit in early-morning haze. He figured Margie must be there. Where else would they take her? He found her, asleep in a bed upstairs. He crept inside, waking her with a finger to her lips. She was a good girl. She hugged him without a sound.

"Margie, are you all right, girl?"

"Scared!" she whispered. "John Chris...where've you been? That man said you killed Ma and Pa." She stopped at that, and for a moment the look she gave him seemed filled with accusations and hate. Or maybe it was just consternation; the accusations and guilt coming from his own confused mind. Even at her age, Margie had to trust that such a thing was not possible with her John Chris. "You planning to git? You gonna let me tag along?"

"No Margie, I got to git, but you can't come. You know I wouldn't hurt them...I couldn't do that...You believe me?"

"Yes. I told them so. But Lizzie says you're growing up to be a real mean man."

So, his sister believed Rupert. "Lizzie's wrong! Margie, I didn't do this. Remember that, no matter what any of them say. But I've got to go away so I can prove it. Do you understand what they'll do to me if I stay."

"Mr. Masters and Uncle Rupert say you'll most likely...ah...hang. John Chris...what does 'hang' mean?"

"It means they plan to punish me real hard for something I haven't done."

"Like Pa did?"

"Look, Margie, Pa was mad, real mad, but he didn't hurt me so much. I'm here aren't I. Things were just crazy for a little while. I came home, Margie. But now I can't stay. I've got to leave you here, you can't follow me. But I want you to make me a promise or two..."

"Promise what, John Chris?" Tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Promise you won't tell anyone I was here. Then, you remember that I didn't do this, and that I do love you very much. I loved Ma and Pa, too. I need you to remember this for me, in case I forget it myself."

He extracted the sock from his pocket, weighing it in his hand as he showed it to the child. He placed the sock in her hand, "Margie, this is for you."

She smiled a gentle smile through her tears. He always brought her things, even now.

He shook her gently. "Margie, pay attention. This is Ma's pin. It's my horse. It's the one you like so much. You ought to have it and keep it. She would have wanted that, and this is her sock...you remember it, where she kept the little money she saved?"

"I remember."

"With Ma and Pa gone, I took it. I've got half to go with me, but the other half is for you. There's money here, Margie. It ain't a lot, but it's not small either. Don't you tell anybody you've got the pin or the money. Not even Lizzie or Aunt Matilda. You're just a kid, but you keep it safe and close. I'm planning to come back, but there may be a day before I can get back that you'll need it...and I want it to be here. You understand? It's just for you. Keep it, no matter how bad things get, no matter how much you might think Lizzie or Rupert need it. Don't use it for candy...for gewgaws...for anything. Keep it until you can't think of any possible way out except to run. You'll do it, won't you? You'll remember...even if you are a kid? It's a promise I'm asking you to make and keep. Oh, God...Margie, I've got to go."

"I promise, and I ain't no kid...Will I see you again?" The question seeped through the hiccups of a little girl who was losing too much.

Truth was better than a lie, but sometimes not by much. "Don't know, darling. I hope so. Little girl, you be smarter than me, you hear...be a good girl, stay out of trouble. Most of all, learn to think, and learn to keep your mouth shut. If there's any way in this world, I will be back."

There was one last stop. He had to see them. He was nearly crazy with grief, guilt, and panic, and he would definitely have to leave. He slid in through an upstairs window at the undertaker's, hiding the horses near the outskirts of town. The noises from the floor below made him cautious, afraid he couldn't finish his plan. The noise escalated briefly as a man came into sight through the stairwell door. Chris pulled into shadows. The man came into the sunlight. His brother was home.

"Mitch? How'd you find out?" Chris stepped from his shelter, brought up short by the scowl on his brother's face.

"Forget about me. Got a short break, was on my way home for a visit. Boy, are you a fool, or just crazy! They see you here, and you'll have a rope around your neck before the day's up."

"Mitch. Somebody's got to believe me. I didn't do this. I'm not like that, Mitch. Can't you tell them?"

"John Christopher, I believe you didn't do it, but I told you way back before I left that you'd be sorry you were such a mischief maker. Didn't think it'd go quite this far, though. I could be God Almighty himself, and it wouldn't matter one whit what I had to say right now. Ma and Pa are dead, boy. People here loved them well. They want the killing solved, done with, and the murderer hung fast. They aren't going to be patient."

"How can I prove what I didn't do? I don't know how to prove it. Not even where to start. What am I going to do?"

"You're going to leave this place right now, and you're gonna run. You've got to figure it all out yourself. You're smart enough to do it. Go, go now! You can't come back here unless you find the one. Remember what Pa taught you about living outdoors; cause you're gonna have to depend on the lessons. You're gonna do a lot of that from now on. Don't trust too many people. Keep your thoughts your own. For God's sake, think!"

The older man clasped his brother to him, aware suddenly that he caused the younger man terrible pain. "Rupert said Pa beat you pretty bad. You still hurting?" In removing his arms, he saw a line of blood seeping through his brother's shirt. When he stared into the boy's eyes, the dark circles under the green orbs clearly proved that the beating had been brutal. He remembered his own smaller one just before he announced that he was leaving to be a river boater.

Chris shook his head. "Some. Not so much anymore. "

"Thought you always said you don't lie. You're bound to hurt."

"Too numb to feel much of anything, Mitch. That's all."

"Understandable." He gently ruffled the fine hair, again resting his hand on the boy's shoulder, giving him what comfort he could, allowing him to be young for just a few minutes more. "Okay, you wait here. Mort's downstairs. I'll get him."

"No!"

"Ain't gonna argue with you...not now...you've got to ride and you can't do it like this. Mort won't tell."

"How can you be sure?"

"He ever tell Pa when Ma brought you to see him?"

"Not that I know of."

"Well, he did the same favor for Frank and me. If he didn't turn any of us in to his friend, he's not likely to tell Carter Masters anything. The man's hated Masters for years. Now we've got to get you patched up. We'll be back in a minute."

Quiet was a fearsome thing. He remained propped on something soft, deep in the shadows. Footsteps on the stairway brought him quickly to his knees, ready to fight or run.

"John Christopher? Come on out...don't hold back now. If either of us wanted you found, you'd be done for by now. Thought Mrs. Hicks would never stop talking. All she'll say to anybody is that you couldn't have done this."

He moved from his hiding place. "At least there are a few who believe me."

"Lot more than you suspect."

"Thanks, Doc."

"I hear you've got some problems, you know how this goes. Let's get that shirt off."

He withstood the hellish ministrations. No sound escaped him, even when the soiled cloth was ripped from its hold on his back. "I expected as much. I need him at my office."

"No!"

"You've got to let me stitch this. If it stays open, it's gonna get infected and cause lots of trouble. Mitch, you think you can get him over there without anyone seeing you?"

"Yeah. Town's quiet right now. He's been carrying this around for most of a day. If he didn't yell when you pulled that shirt off, the odds are he'll stay quiet."

"You too gonna stop talking like I'm not here? I'm still alive, you know."

"You're not alive by much. While you're in my office, I want to check you over good."

"No time."

"May be the last chance you get for awhile...and I want to get you in as good shape as possible."

Only one, long part of the cut required stitches. That was the good news. "You'd better rest anywhere you can for a few days. There's swelling back here again, but actually I don't think it's as bad as the last time. "

"Last time?"

"I'm sure he hasn't told you. Couple of months ago, your Ma brought him in. John had hurt him bad. Took him about six weeks to really get over it.

"What caused that? You being a hell-raiser again? Rupert said something about you getting in trouble because of Becky somebody."

He came off the table. "I didn't do nothing. Nothing!! You hear me? Ma believed me. Mrs. Hicks knew I was telling the truth. And don't you quote that son-of-a-bitch Rupert about anything when it comes to me!! This was all his doing to start with."

"You think Rupert killed them? Boy, you are crazy!"

"No, he didn't kill them, but the beating I took was sure his doing. He wants me gone, wants to control the land. The killing just gave him a chance to put a plan into place. He made damn sure the sheriff came after me."

"How did you come up with this?"

"All I could come up with. Makes sense. Gives Rupert control of the farm, because Lizzie will let him run it. Gives him space to expand his farm and still have land for Jesse. He was always telling Pa what I'd done...only I hadn't done any of it."

"Come on...you never were a saint."

"No, I'm no saint, never will be. Yeah, I'd tie a bell on a cat, or fight with any of the boys who had an itch. But Mitch, I'd never spook a herd of cattle, I wouldn't founder or lame a horse, and I damn sure wouldn't try to hurt the girl I love. Somehow, though, Rupert could convince Pa that I did all that and more."

"Sit back down a minute, I need to finish..."

"Thought you were finished."

"Just a bit more, and here, put these two bottles in your saddlebags. Brown one's a pain killer...take just a tiny sip if it gets real bad. A tiny sip. Any more you'll sleep so hard you won't know if danger comes. The green bottle's something for infection. If you get any cuts or open wounds, dab a little on it couple of times a day. It could keep it from going bad. I'm worried about your back...how you'll get the stitches out...what you'll do if it gets infected. Here." He handed him a bar of strong smelling soap. "No matter what kind of water, hot would be better if you can get it, cold will do, you soak real good every chance you get...let some soap run down your back and stay a few minutes before you rinse off. The stitches will probably fall out by themselves after a good long while."

"Okay, John Christopher. It's time we put you on a horse and get you out of here."

"I'm not leaving. Not now."

"You're a stupid fool."

"Probably. But I'm not leaving until they're buried."

"Look, John Christopher, the funeral's not until early tomorrow. You can't wait around. Look, boy, don't be sorrowful that you weren't here to put them in the ground. Don't matter none. You're their son; they know you for who you are. They'll rest easier, knowing you're free. Now, get away from here. Here, you take this...it's all the money I've got on me. But you take the money and go." The five dollars went into his pocket with his part of the sock money and the one.

"Mitch, what about Margie. Can you see to her?"

"Ain't time for you to worry about Margaret. John Christopher, ain't no way I can take her. I'm on ship most of the time. Lizzie is the one to take her."

"But Mitch, she's not like Lizzie...she'll never be like Lizzie. Shoot, this is going to be worse for Margie than for me."

"No, it won't be near about as bad on her, not by a long shot. She'll be cared for, no doubt about that. Lizzie'll treat her right. Margaret's her baby sister. She'll protect her like a cat protects her own. I promise you, I'll check in enough that I know she's okay...and remind her of what's true if she needs it. Anyhow, I don't think you have to worry too much about Margaret. You trained her. Can't you see it? When I left she was a pest. Now, even I can see she's like you...proud, stubborn, hot-headed, and ready to take on the world. With a female equal to you in the house, heaven help them all."

Chris' small chuckle held none of his usual charm. Mitch pulled his brother to him more gently, as gently as Chris had held their sister two nights before. It was a comfort, but not nearly enough. "Mitch, where are you...?"

"Huh?"

"Where are you going to put them?" Chris wiped tears from his eyes, the first he had shed since holding Margie in her room.

"Does that matter right now?"

"To me, yes. I need to know. I can't leave unless I know."

"On the high slope above the river...the spot where we used to go in the summer. Thought they'd rest easy there."

"That's fine. Now I'll know where to find them when I come home. Mark the place well, big brother. I will come home when I've proved it. They'll have to leave me free."

"If anyone can do it, you'll do it. Now, for once in your life, listen to your brother. Get out of here. Just go, get on your horse and ride."

He spent the rest of the day and another sleepless night back by the river, cold, scared, in pain, watching anyway. Could this have happened in little more than a day? The world that he knew, that had seemed so complicated, was quickly coming to an end.

He left, but not until he'd seen it. Laying hidden in grass not far away, he watched the service and said his goodbyes to his parents and his life.

Chapter 7

He was a smart young man, Mrs. Hicks had always praised his thinking, but this was different. Where to start; how to hunt; how to keep from being caught. Maybe the man hadn't gone very far.

Chris started the next day riding to towns close by. After a few weeks, he hadn't found the man he hunted, but the coins finally provided a first trail. The storekeeper at the General Mercantile in Washington still had the coins...all but one. A drifter had spent most of the money in this store more than a week before.

The storekeeper remembered because the man had not seemed to know the value of what he spent. They'd been something to look at, those coins. It wasn't a usual exchange, so the storekeeper was able to provide a description of a large man, dark haired, with pale complextion. A pleasant man, the merchant took a liking to the younger one who asked so many questions, the young man who was trying desperately to help a friend prove he hadn't committed a robbery. When the boy asked if the store owner if he would be willing to provide a letter for him, just to show that the coins came from the pocket of another man, he was happy to oblige. When he asked to buy the coins, the merchant saw the boy's meager poke and the price was right. It took almost everything Chris had, but not more than he could pay, nor more than the merchant had invested in them. The coins without the letter could get him hung. The letter with the coins could help prove there was somebody else.

The killer was gone. "Maybe if he went this way to start with, he'll go this way a while longer." One speculation at this point was as good as another. He headed north, then west, passing near Ragdale.

The bastard didn't seem to like the pipe. Chris found it in a little shop about a day's ride from home. It took him more than two months to find it, and it had been in the shop all that time. The town named Vincent where he found it was in the opposite direction from where he'd found the coins.

As he walked away from the store, another letter and the pipe in his hands, he noticed the first poster. He'd expected to see it sometime, but it was still a shock to read the word "Wanted" attached to his own name. It wasn't a good likeness, and the reward was only for $50, so maybe he wouldn't attract too many hunters for a while.

He lived lean. Winter set in early, fast, hard, and cruel. Chris made himself make do. The coins had taken most of the sock money. The pipe had taken a little more, including part of the five. He was at the point he couldn't spend anything else for himself. He had the horses, and they needed at least a little grain. He feared they would fail. The mounts fed on grass they found under the snow, or under trees, but that wasn't enough.

He tried not to steal, but he wasn't always honest. Barns he passed during his travels offered the grain his mounts desperately needed. At night, the unheated structures offered his only chance of being out of the wind and the snow. He took little for himself, mostly eggs from hens kept in the barn, or milk if a cow was quiet enough. He stole enough grain to keep the horses alive. And then there was the coat, tattered but thicker and warmer than the threadbare one he had. He hoped it wasn't someone's only coat, but he was miserably cold, and there was no way he could pay for anything anymore.

Chris lost all sense of the days. He knew Christmas had passed. At the end of the second serious snowstorm, two more months maybe, he was pale and thin. He was dirty. He was cold. He was hungry. He was terribly alone. When Mitch said he'd be living outdoors, he hadn't pictured this.

He knew he had to get help. Mitch said he shouldn't trust anyone. He knew trusting the wrong ones could be fatal, but he didn't know how to go on...how to turn what he knew, and could prove, into something that could clear his way home. He was tired, bone tired...dizzy too. He knew the dizziness meant he was weakening. He had to trust someone.

Another town, they all looked the same. The sign read "Patomka." There was another jail, with a little sign on the front that said, Ethan Collins, Sheriff, which turned out to be his first chance for help. He spotted the sheriff's office when he rode into town during another bitter cold, blowing snowstorm.

"Shoot, who would think to look for me here? At least, worse come to worse, I might get a last meal before they hang me."

He didn't so much get off his horse as he slid to the ground.

It took courage to walk into the office and stare into the cells he feared would be his new home. He found the courage.

The man at the desk was 35, maybe 40, brown hair, brown eyes, taller than the boy. When he looked up, he seemed to measure the newcomer in one level glance. "Help you, son?"

"Mr. Collins? Sheriff? Yes, sir." He said it as calmly as he could. He could barely hear his own words. The warmth of the room made him realize just how cold and wet he was.

"What kind of help you looking for?"

Chris glanced at the wall of posters behind the man. "Well, sir, you see that poster behind your head? That's one that's out on account of me. I'm Chris, John Christopher Larabee. Sorry, but would you mind if I sit in your chair for a minute?"

"Suite yourself."

Chris accepted the chair, but suddenly swayed precariously as he sat.

"How long's it been since you ate, boy?" To Collins, the situation was obvious.

"Had something today." It didn't matter that the something was water. He didn't want to be mistaken for a beggar.

"Look. It's getting mighty late. Why don't you save what you've got to say til we get us a bite?"

"Thanks, but I best just move along. I'll come back when you've got time."

"Oh, I've got plenty of time; but I've also got a wife. She's a great cook, but she's a stickler for eating on time. If I'm not dead, I'd better get there while it's hot. She always cooks too much, so she won't mind. You just tag along with me."

The boy was wary. The sheriff was used to being obeyed. "This ain't a request. We'll just get you something so you've got enough voice in you to tell me what you've done to put a price on that head of yours."

They moved across and down the street of the town, plowing through the snow. Having felt the bit of warmth the office stove offered, the boy found going even this small distance a challenge. The sheriff knew he was close to collapse and tried to steady him, without letting him know.

As they approached the small, neat home, even as tired as he felt, the boy looked at the cozy house and was suddenly aware of just how he must look. He hadn't cared in weeks. His knew Ma sure wouldn't approve.

"Sheriff, if you don't mind, I'll just sit and eat here on your porch. I know your wife won't like my bringing all this dirt and mud into her house."

"Now, don't you be worried about that. Shoot, boy, my wife's used to me bringing home strays. Tell you what, you just sit down here for a minute while I go let Martha know we've got a guest for supper."

True to his word, Ethan was only gone a minute. A woman came out with him. Pretty, not so small, not so plump, beautiful hazel eyes that bored straight into him. She didn't say hello, not welcome, nor even come in. She took one look at him, slumped against the porch post, shivering where he sat, and began to give orders.

"Ethan, my Lord, he's near dead. Don't leave him sitting out here like this! Help me get this child in the house."

They wrapped him in one blanket and brought him inside, wrapping more around him as they eased him onto a settee.

"Get me some more blankets...then you go get out the tub, and fill it with water...warm water...pour in the kettle and just add enough cold to make it bearable...make it as warm as your arms will stand. We'll ease him into it when we see what he can take. And, hon, while you're fixing the water, keep enough from the kettle to steep me a little tea from it, and add a big spoon of sugar. Oh, and you best add just a little milk. Just a tiny bit, now. His stomach won't take much."

The tea gave him a little strength. Mostly it gave him another touch of warmth. It tasted so sweet. He sipped it like he would never taste anything that good again. His boots, or what was left of them, were eased from his nearly frozen feet, which were slipped into a pan of tepid water. He jerked a foot back from the pan as the water brought him pain. With encouragement, he let them slip back in and kept them there. After a few minutes, his whole body began to shiver alarmingly.

As the wonderful tea hit his miserable stomach, he was sick. What they were doing, he didn't know; but he could tell they were busily working on him. He had nearly lost consciousness when Ethan came to stand beside him. "Come on, boy. You don't need to sleep yet. Come on. Let's see if life can't look a little better for a change."

"But, don't you want to know why I'm here?" He was still terribly cold, his head was pounding.

"Later is fine. If we don't get you fed and warm pretty soon, it won't matter no how."

When Ethan helped him to the kitchen, the smell of food made him nauseous. How long had it been? He thought he would loose the battle with his stomach again. Since winter had hit, even small game had been way too scarce, and when the bullets ran out, and trapping failed, he couldn't buy more...bullets or food.

The woman watched him closely as she prepared the table. She could see he'd been raised right. It wasn't any big announcement that told her. It was the little things. He had remembered to remove his much battered hat. He had attempted to wipe his feet as he entered the house. He even mumbled a small word of thanks. At the same time, his eyes tried to take in every corner. If she had so much as whispered at him, he would have been in the next county in no time.

She pitied him as she studied him. Feverish, exhausted, cold, scared. What had brought this one to them? Lord knew where Ethan found his strays, but his good heart never turned one away. The glance seldom failed him. He could tell. This little one needed help in the worst possible way.

Martha gently approached him, afraid any loud noise or sudden movement would startle him more. "Which is it going to be?" she smiled at him with a pretty little laugh..."I'm sorry, hon...I don't know your name."

"I'm John Christopher...I'm Chris."

"Well, Chris, do you want a bath first or food first?"

"I got a choice?"

"Of course. From the look of you, either one would be a good pick...so you do the picking."

He was embarrassed, but he liked her. Let a dirty, ragged, law-hunted troublemaker camp out on her front porch, and she'd feed him. And a bath...what would it feel like to be clean? And warm? What had he done to deserve this? He didn't wait for an answer.

"Ma'am?"

"Martha."

"Yes, ma'am. Mrs. Collins, Could I please have some more tea? Maybe a little bread, butter? Been dreaming about warm bread."

"That's easy enough...sit down before you drop."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you...but if I could just have a little taste of something to eat, I'd rather take you up on the bath. The way I look is disgusting even to me."

"Then that's how we'll get this done. And Chris, call me Martha...Martha will do just fine. That Mrs. Collins stuff gets real old."

He ate the bread as slowly as he could manage, with apple butter on the side. The tea followed after it. When he had eaten one whole slice and gained his first, fleeting, bit of energy, Ethan showed him to a small back room, steadying his stray at every step. In the room, a tub full of steaming water was already waiting along with a big bar of soap.

Chris thought it was a dream. He'd already begun to undress, with Ethan's help, when Martha fairly waltzed in. She laughed when she realized he was a boy still young enough, even half frozen, to blush bright red just because a woman saw him.

"You just be easy, hon. I've seen it all before. I just brought you some of Ethan's old clothes. I think they'll fit, though I'm afraid they'll be long on you. Still, you may have to put on a little flesh before they quit trying to fall off."

"Ma'am, you don't have to..."

"Shoot, hon. Stuff's not doing anybody any good. You might as well have the use of them. If they fit well enough, we'll burn those you're in. Heck, we'll burn those anyway. When you're done here, if I can ever get you in the tub, put them on and let me know if anything needs a tuck or a turn. Now, you best get busy in that tub or dinner's gonna be cold. I do hate a cold dinner, don't you?"

"No, ma'am...yes, ma'am...I mean, I don't hate any kind of dinner anymore.

He waited for her to leave. She didn't. The blush touched the top of his ears before he ventured, "Ma'am...Martha...no offense...but could you, I mean would you...leave ...or at least please turn around."

He was skin and bones, he was tired, he was certainly dirty, but if his pride was that strong, he wasn't so far gone. Just needed a little caring. She knew about caring. She turned for the door. She heard him groan pitifully as the water eased over his too sore body. She and her husband had a heart and left him alone. When she peeked in on him a little later, she found him scrubbing at his hair and, saints alive, even at his ears. The dirty boy she'd met was developing into a very attractive, very clean young man.

"You're not asleep in there, are you hon?"

"No, ma'am."

"Well, I think you've stayed long enough. For goodness sake, don't let that water get cold on you. You're probably gonna be puny for a few days as it is."

"Yes, ma'am."

When Chris left the tub, and he was very reluctant to leave, he felt warm for the first time in memory. He hadn't realized, until he eased into the warmth of the water, that he was in terrible physical pain. Too much wet, cold weather; too little food; never rest without fear; too many nights on the ground or on the run.

Ethan re-entered as he began to dry his back. The sheriff stopped where he stood, "Where'd that come from?"

Chris took a deep breath. "My Pa. Last time I saw him."

"From the looks of it, wasn't that long ago. You've still got one stitch hanging back here. You need anything to ease it?"

"No sir, it's alright...Happened months ago. Don't know what date this is. You'll probably notice a few older scars...they were "reminders" from him too."

"That what put you to running?"

"No, sir...well, yes sir. I mean. Shoot, I don't know anymore."

"Poster says you killed your kin."

His tired eyes found the man's. "Look. He beat me, and I was mad. I'd only taken one other beating from him that was worse than that. I said things that could have brought me another beating, then and there. But even mad, I wouldn't ever think of hurting him...much less killing him...I didn't kill him. He was my father, and he was a good man. He just believed a pack of lies about me that he shouldn't have. I ran off, just to the river near the house. I came home. I found him. I'd as soon gut myself as kill my ma."

"They both dead?"

"Yes, sir."

"Boy, look...it's late. Tomorrow you and me will sit down and do some serious talking. Where you from, anyway?"

"Indiana."

"Well, boy with no hometown, tonight you can just be from here. We're gonna go out in the other room and let you have a little something else to eat. After you get something in your stomach besides bread and water, I'll take you to the jail."

They had been moving slowly toward the table, Ethan guarding his steps, but at that remark, Chris froze. Panic showed on his too thin face.

"Whoa now, easy. I ain't putting you in jail. We just don't have a spare room here, so I thought I'd offer you a bunk at the jail. Thought even a jail cot would be better than the floor tonight. It's gonna stay real cold. I won't lock you in. It's not fancy, but we keep it clean, and it won't be hay on a cold barn floor. Martha notices these kinds of things. See over there, take those blankets with you...want you to have plenty. You will be here tomorrow, right? If you ain't, then you'll know I'm another one on your trail."

"Sheriff...I give you my word, I'll be there. I may be a lot of things, but a liar, I'm not."

"Ethan, you and that boy stop talking so much. He needs food, not words."

And he needed rest. It took a long time to get any food down him, especially since he kept nodding off. He'd eaten very little, but enough to put him on his feet for a short while.

After the woman gave her approval that he had eaten enough, scared as he was of being trapped in one of those cells, he walked back across the street with Ethan. Together they lined one of the cots with blankets, where the stray lay down fully clothed in his new hand-me-downs, and instantly fell asleep. Ethan stirred a small fire in the stove, making sure the kid would rest warm through the night, slipping off the battered boots. From his pocket, he took a cloth with two soft sweet biscuits, Martha's best treat, and put them on a little metal plate on a table near the stove. Then, he added another blanket at the boy's feet, and set out, thankful for his own warm bed.