A Miscarriage of Justice.

by

Beppina

1876. Ponderosa Ranch.

It’s been three months since Joe’s release from San Quentin Prison. I watch him wrestle with every emotion. He is trying to come to terms with being incarcerated as a common criminal. My patience has worn thin during this time, my tongue held still, without comment.

His anger is palpable, cutting everyone with his vicious words and nasty temper. Other times, he is withdrawn and sullen, leaving Jamie to avoid him, and Candy to clash with him on two occasions and threaten to leave.

Joe is remorseful. He is struggling with the normality of life, but the past catches up when he least expects it. I warned him, and he apologised to Jamie and Candy. My son keeps his promises, so I hope we are through the worst. I believe that with time, Joe will find peace and acceptance of what happened. And that we can move on as a family again. It’s a challenging journey, but I have faith in Joe’s resilience and strength.

                                                                                          ~~~

1873. Ponderosa Ranch.

Three years, six months, and two weeks ago our nightmare began. Or should I correct that to say Joe’s nightmare began?

After the sudden death of Hoss, closely followed by that of Alice in the spring, Joe was as close to desperation as I have ever seen him in all his 30 years on this earth. He wanted revenge. He was prepared to kill for it. My words meant nothing to him. Grief and anger became his soulmates. The month it took to track Alice’s killers didn’t assuage his anger. Their deaths, not by his hand, had no healing effect. If anything, the hate grew within him, eating at his very being.

It was not a difficult decision to send him on a trip away from the ranch and more specifically, the family. His temperament had become unbearable, the tension palpable. Poor Jamie walked on eggshells, never knowing what to say or do to avoid the sharp words Joe would fling at him at the slightest provocation. Candy, along with many hands, refused to work alongside him, and threatened to leave if Joe couldn’t rein himself in. A business trip to San Francisco sounded like an ideal solution to a situation that was escalating rapidly out of hand.

“I need you to complete this contract,” I told him, handing over a sheaf of papers, “You remember we discussed it in depth last week?”

Joe leafed through them, “Yeah, I remember. When do you want me to go?”

“Monday’s stage. You’ve got the weekend to finish any chores, I’ll arrange a hotel and send you a wire. You can take a week vacation when the contracts done.” I was hoping the weeks away would give Joe the breathing space he needed and sweeten his temper.

                                                                           ~~~

Roy Coffee caught me as I ducked in to collect the mail. I was waiting on a letter from Joe. It was now a month since he had left for San Francisco. I’d received confirmation that the contract had been signed, sealed, and delivered. The bank draft had been cleared into the Ponderosa account. News from my son had not been forthcoming and now I was feeling a little concerned. What was Joe doing and when would he be coming home?

“Ben,” Roy puffed as he grabbed my elbow, “I need to speak to you, now. It’s Little Joe.”

Mid-step I swung away from the Post Office, “Morning, Roy. Have you heard from Joe?”

“Walk with me, Ben. It’s important, come on.”

Roy had my full attention. A chill raced up and down my spine. He rarely sounded so urgent.

“What’s happened? Is Joe alright? What have you heard?” My anxiety for my son not giving Roy chance to reply. He pushed into his office, pointed to the barrel chair by his desk, “Sit, Ben. I just had two wires from San Francisco. Your boy’s in a heap of trouble.”

I was out of that chair quicker than I sat. “Trouble, what kind of trouble?” A thousand things tumbled through my mind. Had he killed someone in a fit of temper. Had he been in a big fight. Was he severely injured? “Come on, man. What’s happened?”

“Appears Joe’s in jail for fraud and shooting a man.” Roy handed a telegram across for me to read.

“Fraud? Shooting a man? I’ve got to get down there. When’s the trial?”

“It was last week, Ben. The boy’s already been sentenced. This came just afore I saw you.” He proffered another slip of paper. I scanned it quickly.

“God help us, Joe’s been sentenced to 10 years hard labour in… in San Quentin prison. This can’t be right. He’ll never survive it. What kind of fraud is he accused of? Who did he shoot, why?”

“I’m as much in the dark as you. I’ve sent a wire for more information. You go on home. I’ll ride out when I get something. You can’t do anything today.”

I could feel my heart pounding as I blundered into the sunshine. Home, I needed to go home. Tell Candy and Jamie. Get packed for the trip to San Quentin. Would they let me see Joe? So many unanswered questions, so much to do. My boy, my poor boy, I sent him there, was this my fault?

                                                                           ~~~

1873. San Quentin Prison.

Joe’s thoughts.

San Quentin is a hell hole. Only the strongest survive. It’s overcrowded, dirty and rife with violence. There is only one law here, and that is of the ‘billy’ club. I’ve been here a week now. I’ve taken one beating from the guards because I didn’t move quick enough being booked in. I argued and asked to see the Governor. That’ll teach me to not answer back and to keep quiet when they start ordering me about. That won’t be easy, but I will beat them one way or the other.

I’ve tried to explain my innocence, but no one will listen; I didn’t defraud Harold Johnson; I’ve never even met him. My dealings in ‘Frisco were with Pa’s contract partners. They vouched for my honesty. Maybe Johnson, whoever he is, has a grudge against Pa, or me. I don’t know. I’ve never heard his name, so I don’t understand why he’s done this.

Yes, I shot that man, but he drew first. I was defending myself and aimed for his gun arm. I didn’t kill him! There were plenty of witnesses who saw it all but were never called. Why?

I wanted to send a wire to Pa and get him here with Hyram Woods. I know they’d soon get to the truth. The Sheriff said there was no reply to my wire. Pa wouldn’t leave me here to rot in jail! Christ knows I’ve been difficult to live with since Alice and Hoss, but Pa wouldn’t abandon me. I wonder if they even sent it. How the hell will I get through ten years of this? Pa and Hyram will show them they got it all wrong. They’ll get me out of here.

It’s a mad house, an asylum. There are some seriously ill men housed here, violent or warped. They fight for the food scraps every day. If you don’t eat quick enough it’s snatched from your plate. Not that the food is any good. We give our pigs on the Ponderosa better swill than they feed us. Dry bread first thing, water that looks like it’s come from the river. A thin soup made from boiled vegetable skins and leavings. I haven’t seen anything resembling meat yet.

I’ve been out on the chain gang everyday so far. I thought ranch work could be hard, but this is a whole new hard to me. I don’t think I’ve a muscle that doesn’t hurt. My hands are blistered and bloody from swinging the pickaxe or picking up the boulders to smash. My back and shoulders burn with every small movement, what I would give for a good hot bath and some of Hop Sing’s magic salve rubbed in. I’ve been issued prison uniform. I can’t compare it to my own clothes. The grey and white striped shirt is as coarse as a new feed sack. Every place it touches is rubbed red raw and bleeding. I’ve tried tying it around my waist while labouring, but the sun is so fierce I’ve got burnt and blistered. I can’t win either way. As for the pants, they are worse. They resemble a peon’s baggy white pants with a rope belt to keep them up. They can stand on their own they are that stiff! I’m fortunate, I still have my boots. I must sleep in them for fear of them being stolen overnight. Nothing is sacred here. Privacy is a thing of the past. There are cells but these are for the more violent men. The rest of us sleep in dormitories on cots with straw pallets. No matter how we try we share our beds with all manner of small creatures. Most of us are covered in bites from the ever-hungry bugs. There is but one tap for thirty men that supplies our drinking water. It’s of no surprise that we all have bad guts most of the time.

Nighttime is the worst. Primeval animal noises can be heard for most of the dark hours. Men dreaming and shouting out. Younger men crying for their mothers, or wives. Or crying because they are here. I feel that, but I will not give into it. I must appear strong although inside I am breaking.

The night is punctuated by muffled screams as another younger man is abused under the cover of darkness. No one goes to their aid. It is all a great charade; you do not hear the cry for help or the pleading for it to stop. We are afraid we may be next.

San Quentin Prison. Ben.

“Prisoner Cartwright is not permitted visitors.” The Prison Governor informed me. He sat lounged back behind his desk. A corpulent, pig featured man, with dyed black hair and a thin brush of a moustache. His eyes an insipid blue.

“Governor, I have travelled from Virginia city in Nevada to this god forsaken place. My son is being held here…” I stormed. This man would not listen to reason, or to Hyram Woods who stood at my side. His calming hand rest on my elbow preventing me from stepping closer to the obnoxious character sat before us.

“Mr Cartwright and I are here to facilitate Joseph Cartwright’s release. I’ve seen the court records for the so-called trial, and I am preparing an appeal to bring before the State Attorney.” Hyram stood his ground. He has been the Cartwright attorney for many years, and I have complete faith in him. Even as we stood arguing with the officious Governor, we had Pinkerton men out reinvestigating the whole case.

“I don’t care if you’ve got the Governor of California behind you, the prisoner is not having visitors. My instructions come from the Judge himself. Prisoner Cartwright is not permitted visitors. Now, Good day.”

“You haven’t heard the last of this,” I flung back as with a slight gesture to the uniformed guard stood behind me, we were shown the door and escorted to the main gate.

“Self-opinionated, jumped up, snotty nosed little…” I was lost for further words, my anger exploding forth as we climbed aboard the buggy to return to the city.

Hyram Woods was as good as his words. He contacted as many people in positions of power as he could. The trial papers were examined minutely. Hyram spent hours, glasses perched on his nose, going over anything that looked vaguely like an error. Copious notes made and appointments arranged to see witnesses, attorneys, and the presiding judge. I sent wires back to the ranch with instructions for Candy to keep things running smoothly and to organise the upcoming trail drive. I was torn. I wanted to go home; I had Jamie to think about. Candy and Hop Sing could deal with most things, but Jamie was missing out on my being there. How could I go back to the Ponderosa while my Joseph was incarcerated in San Quentin?

The wheels of justice are slow to turn. They turn their slowest when you are praying for results. Returning to the Ponderosa, my focus shifted to running the ranch and raising Jamie. Three months were spent in San Francisco hoping in vain to gain access to Joseph. Numerous letters have been written but returned unopened. Further visits to the prison were to no avail, as the Governor refused my entry at each attempt, and declined to confirm if my son is dead or alive. I would know if he were dead so the hope remains, he will come home. The Governor’s downfall will take time and patience while Hyram prepares his case, but fall he will, that is guaranteed!

                                                                                          ~~~

1875. Ponderosa Ranch. Ben.

It has been two years since Joe was taken from us. We believe he is still incarcerated in San Quentin prison. I have journeyed there on three occasions attempting to gain access to him. My frustration at my son being refused even one visit or post from home knows no bounds. The ranch has become a place of mourning. Hop Sing does his work and cares for us as always, but there is no happiness in his work. Jamie tries hard to be cheerful and carry on as normal, but without Joe’s guiding hand, and mischievous nature he has lost so much. Candy tries to take the big brother role with Jamie, but he misses his friend and work mate too. He rarely goes to Virginia City gatherings or to the saloons, preferring to remain at the house working or teaching Jamie new skills. I sit reading and re-reading Joe’s case notes, trying to find a link to Harold Johnson. The Pinkerton’s report comes in once a month. It is always the same, Johnson has disappeared from the face of the earth. I feel sure he has changed his name, but I still ask the question, who is behind the whole affair?

Joe’s thoughts.

I can’t believe I am still in this place. I’ve lost track of time. Men come and go, some willingly, some not so, and some in a wooden box.

My father wouldn’t recognise me now for the wretch I have become. It is a daily fight to survive. Oh, to have a good wash. The men surrounding me stink. I’m sure I smell as bad. Hot water, soap and clean clothes are a thing of the past. My boots have gone. Stolen while I was in sickbay after another beating. My only choices of footwear are some moccasins or going bare foot.

 I tried getting a letter out to Pa. The convict I asked was willing, at a price. There is only one currency in here, and it isn’t money! That led to another beating, this time with clubs and feet and two days in the sweat box.

 Two days without food or water.

I fought and lashed out as they pushed me naked into the dark, windowless, and stale room. The walls scarred from countless nails scraping at the wooden planks. That earned me another kicking as I fell on the foul, packed dirt floor. With aching ribs, I could only crouch or squat, not stand or lay in the small space. The dirt floor was damp with stale urine that clung to my bare feet and body. Humiliation being yet another means of punishment.

The smell was overpowering. The air so thick I could scarcely breathe. Every breath I took was short and gasping as I fought the urge to vomit up what little was in my guts. The heat was stifling. Sweat clung to me like a second skin, trickling like salty tears into my eyes. I could feel the roaches and insects crawling over my sticky flesh, making me claw at their bites.

Time became irrelevant. There was no way of judging night from day. Not a sound penetrated my wooden prison to mark the passing of time. The only noise that of my raspy breathing and the imagined thump of my heart filled my ears. It was a dark existence. I slept when I could. My hunger and thirst did not go away. I tried to produce some spit to dampen my tongue but was so dry. I was reduced to licking my salt laden sweat from my arms, the only places free from urine filled dirt. I tried to picture Lake Tahoe on a warm summer’s day; the cool silk like water caressing my hot skin as I swum in the shallows. There was one consolation: in the darkness I could not see the bruises now swelling on my arms and legs. My eyes were closing from the kicking I received.

 More humiliation followed. Being thrown naked under the one water source, being forced to rinse off whatever muck and filth stuck to my body in front of the worst of the inmates. Being surrounded by those laughing and jeering men I tried to avoid as they groped and grabbed at my body. For them it was sport. For their many victims it frequently led to rape. No one was exempt from this treatment, some didn’t survive. Those of us that did refused to speak of it. Our shame too great to commiserate with each other.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been thrown in the box; it won’t be the last. I don’t answer back, I don’t argue. I don’t fight. Just keep my head down and do as ordered. My compliance doesn’t buy me any favours as the beatings still come on a regular basis.

The abuse continues. Not only the younger men, but older, like me. There are some who are willing partners, they are outcasts among the remaining population.

They may think they have broken me. They haven’t!

                                                                           ~~~

There are some here I call friends. Guilt, or innocence, is of no concern now. We make the best of what we have. We look out for each other as much as we can. We have all suffered at the hands of the guards and abused by those who seek gratification. We keep sane by talking of our hopes and dreams. Of what we will do when we eventually get our freedom. We’ve made chequers and chess sets from scraps of wood and stone. It gives us some sense of normality in this place.

The tears and sobbing are forever present in the hours of darkness. I feel no shame in admitting I too have shed them.

I’ve given up hope of going home. There is nothing from Pa. Nothing from home. It’s probably for the best; I’m damaged goods now. A slur on the Cartwright name. Does he believe the lies told about me? Has he disowned me? I’m sure he has disowned me, is that why he hasn’t written or visited? The Governor delights in telling me I have no mail, no one is concerned for me. As much as it hurts me even thinking of it, when I get out of here, I will make a life for myself in another place, another town, away from the Ponderosa, and away from my family. Now I sound sorry for myself. I’m not, I am filled with an anger that doesn’t fade. I control my temper and my words. I am saving it for the day I meet Harold Johnson.

                                                                           ~~~

1876. San Quentin Prison. Ben

Finally, we have progress. The Pinkertons made a connection between Harold Johnson, the Prison Governor and me. It took some digging, but persistence paid off. Hyram drew up all the necessary documents and we began the task of getting Joe released.

It’s now three years since Joe was put into San Quentin prison. Today I am here at the prison waiting to take him home. The re-opening of the case against him took time and money, but we got there with help from the Governor of Nevada. The discovery that Barney Miller, an old competitor in the timber business, was behind the set up came as a huge surprise. It was also discovered the Prison Governor is Barney Miller’s brother-in-law and appears to have come into a substantial sum of money. This too is being investigated. Miller had commiserated at Joe’s imprisonment. He had offered his help in finding the guilty party and the whole time he knew exactly what had happened. I would find out why he did this to my son. Our dealings have always been legal and honest, Joe has rarely been involved with him. Yes, I’ve undercut him at times, as he has me. But to go to these extremes?

It’s a bright sunny day; the sun is high. I’ve rented a buggy and booked rooms in the best hotel in Frisco. I want privacy and comfort while I re-acquaint with my son. I’m certain it’s going to be difficult for Joe and for me. Three years and no contact. I hope he is ready to face the outside world. I’m anxious and excited to see my boy after this time.

Joe’s thoughts.

I’ve been summoned to the Governor’s office. What have I done now? My minds in turmoil, what surprise has he for me? A letter from home? No chance of that. I stand here in the dirty rags that are the cleanest of the clothes I possess. The look he gives me would make a lesser man shrivel in fear. I am not afraid of him. There is nothing he can do to me that hasn’t been done before. On his desk sat a small brown paper wrapped parcel. He glanced at the guard who in turn handed it to me.

“You’re free to go Cartwright.”

That’s it. I am dismissed. No explanation, no sorry for your being here. No words of goodbye or good luck. Just you’re free to go. I stand there, looking stupid and not believing my ears. I don’t move.

“You heard, Cartwright,” the guard pushed me forward, “you’re free to go. Now get out.”

I walk towards the main gate unsure if he would stop me. Armed guards step forward to open the Judas gate to freedom, then step back to allow me to pass. I stop in the doorway, look back at what had been my home for three years. Suddenly, I am gripped by my fear of the unknown. Here I am, dressed as a hobo. Smelling of every evil odour possible and without a cent to my name. Where would I go?

The sun is shining in the cloudless blue sky. The ever-present wind just a suggestion of breeze. My rags are sticking to me in the heat and the smell of body odour reaches my nose. Along with the constant smell of dirty clothes it’s not something that I’m surprised by.

Across the entry, maybe fifty feet away, there is a buggy waiting. The bay horse impatiently switching it’s tail at the hovering flies. I can’t see who is in the buggy, the sun is too bright in my eyes, and they are sat in shadow. They must be waiting for a visitor to emerge. They are certainly not for me. I shuffle forward a few steps, hesitant at which way to go. I am anxious to find a river or water source to take a bath. Anything to remove the constant smell of prison life. Will the driver know of something nearby?

I draw near to the small carriage; a tall man begins to step down. He is still in shadow, and I am still struggling to see against the strong light. I hear my name, not once but twice. Then ‘Son.’ My eyes slowly adjust. Now I can see, a tall, big man, with white hair. Oh, God! It’s Pa. He’s here. My heart races, my breathing stops for a moment. Joy then shame floods me. He cannot see me like this. To see what I am reduced to. To know what I have done to survive.

‘Please don’t come closer, Pa. No, stay by the buggy.’ I plead silently, ‘Don’t touch me, Pa. I couldn’t bear it if you touch me.’ I turn to run away but his voice calls me back. I stand looking at my feet, unable to speak or to look at my father. He reaches out, a hand raises my face to meet his. He too is speechless. I can see the shock in his eyes, the sadness in his face.

I stand, mute. I cannot speak; words stick in my throat. Not a whisper emerges. I shake my head and step back, afraid to be close to my father. What does he see, this downtrodden, filthy creature?

“Joseph,” his hands reach out to me. “It’s over. You’re coming home.”

I pull the parcel tight to my chest, a barrier between us. Anything to avoid physical contact. There are questions I must ask, I need to ask, but where do I start?

“Come on, Joe. Let’s get you to the hotel and cleaned up.”

My father was in full Pa mode, taking charge, giving orders. He moved to the buggy and indicated I climb in. For a moment I hesitated, the seats were clean, I wasn’t.

“Get up, Son. We have lots to talk about and I’d rather do it in the hotel than near this God-awful place.” Obediently, I did as he asked. Once moving I was grateful for the breeze rushing by. I hoped it carried my overpowering stench with it. Credit to my father, he didn’t mention it.

San Quentin was about an hour or so from our destination. The journey passed in an uncomfortable silence. Pa was trying to make conversation; but I could not speak. I spent the time thinking of all I wanted to say.

Has he found out who did this to me? Why didn’t he write or visit? Is he so ashamed of me? If that’s the reason, why is he here?

My mind is still in turmoil at being released without notice. Pa must have known to be here. Why wasn’t I told?

“Joe, I’ve arranged for us to enter through the back doors at the hotel. I thought you would prefer some privacy.”

We had arrived at what looked like the stable entrance. A couple of buggies waited for hire. The horses listless in the clammy afternoon heat as the flies danced from one to the other avoiding the switching tails.

Opening the hotel door, Pa ushered me in. “This way.” We reached the stairwell. “It’s the next flight, come on.”

Like a lamb to the slaughter, I follow. My eyes darting left and right expecting a guard to come and pull me back to reality and prison. It wasn’t just a room Pa had reserved; it was a two bedroomed suite. I stood at the threshold not knowing if I should step further inside or wait for his instructions. It smelled so clean, so fresh. The dappled light streaming through the window sheers creating dust motes in the air. For a moment I stand fascinated, after the darkness of the prison where the sun rarely shone through, this is like heaven.

“I’ve run you a bath, Joe. I’m sure you would like to relax and take things in.” My father broke into my thoughts, “there are plenty of clean towels and as much hot water as you want.”

Following him into another room I stopped in shock. An old, scruffy, grey-haired, bearded person stood before me. I went to speak, then caught the cry of horror as it left my mouth. It was my reflection. That derelict before my eyes was me! I knew I looked bad, but never did I dream how bad I was. Pa saw the horrified look on my face, he put a hand out to support me, but again I moved away.

“It’s okay, Joe. There’s nothing a hot bath and a trip to a barbers can’t put right.”

‘Please go, Pa.’  I silently begged. I could not remove these rags with him present. I didn’t want him to see the scars now criss-crossing my back. Or the bruises from my last encounter with the club happy guards. There were other scars he must not see that I can never share. My shame will not permit me to tell him.

I can see how frightened and confused my boy is. I want to hold him; tell him it’s going to be okay. I should get a doctor to check him over. Make sure he hasn’t any illness. It’s times like now that I wish Hoss were here. He knew better than anyone how to get through to his brother. Instead, I must stumble along as best I can.

Ah, I can hear water moving, that is one small step forward. His clothes are too large for him, I’ll send out for some new, and boots. Maybe I can get the barber to come here, shave that growth and cut that hair. I can’t believe it’s almost the same colour as mine. What horrors has he experienced? Will he talk to me?

“Joe, can I come in and talk with you?” I tap the door, respecting his privacy. I hear the water swish as he moves.

“It’s open.”

The first words he has spoken, ‘it’s open’. The bathroom is warm and steamy. The air thick with the perfume of soap. The dirty curls are now a mass of soapy bubbles as he lathers it up. The toilet pedestal is directly in front of the bath. I can sit there and talk to Joe.

“I’ve sent out for some clothes for you. Your own stuff looks too big. It should be here in an hour or so. I’m going to organise some food for later. What would you like to eat.”

“Not hungry.” Two words in response.

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry!”

“I want to talk to you.”

Green eyes, as hard and cold as diamonds met mine.

“What have we got to talk about?” Joe’s voice bitter and sharp.

“What happened…”

“What happened is I spent three years in prison. No visits, no letters, nothing. I’m innocent. You know I am innocent, but you abandoned me.”

“If you let me explain.”

He shrugged his shoulders and slid under the soapy water. I would wait him out. He needed to hear the truth now, and from me. He surfaced, water streaming down his face. His hair in soaked rat-tails clung to his neck and shoulders.

“There’s still soap in your hair, let me help you?”

Without replying, my son bent forward. His hair falling away and revealing the scarring across his shoulders and running down and across his back. Without speaking, I poured clean warm water over his head, then down his back.

“Who did this to you?”

“I did it myself.”

“Joseph.” My tone warned him against disrespecting me.

“The guards, who do you think, and the Governor. It’s one of the ways they keep you under control. The cat or the hot box, their favourite punishment.”

I ran the wash cloth across the scars. There were so many. I felt sick to my stomach at the sight. What had my son endured for these three years, and why had Miller chosen him to be the victim? As I well knew, it would take a while to bring them to justice, but Hyram had everything in motion. They would get their just desserts, and Joe would be avenged.

“Why, Pa?” My child’s question. “Why didn’t you come?”

“I did, Joe. Many times. The Governor refused me entrance every time. I wrote to you every month, but every letter was returned unopened. Jamie and Candy wrote too, but with the same result.”

“You knew I was getting out. How?”

“Hyram has been working on this for a long time. We had a break through a short time back. I admit I did wonder if we could prove everything we found. Then Governor Hayes got involved and well, here we are.”

“You know who did this to me?”

“Yes, I do now. They will be in prison by the time we get home.”

“Who is it? I want to see them. I want to see them suffer like I have.”

“Not now, Joe.” I handed a large white towel across, “The water’s getting cold. Get dried off and come and sit with me. I’ll tell you everything that I know.”

By the time Joe, wrapped in an overlarge bathrobe, came through into the sitting room I’d procured a pot of coffee, some hot soup, and sandwiches. He might proclaim he wasn’t hungry, but by observation I could see he needed to eat.

Starting from the beginning I told Joe everything Hyram had discovered. Barney Miller’s involvement in the false charges against him, and the reasons as far as we could see behind it. The shooting was part of the plan. If the fraud had gone wrong the shooting would have been attempted murder. That could have resulted in Joe hanging.

 Joe sat quietly, not commenting, or asking questions. The only sound the occasional slurp of soup as he worked his way through the bowl-full then the beef sandwich.

“The Prison Governor is related by marriage to Miller.” I added, “We think he was paid to stop me seeing you or you getting mail. He will be arrested as soon as Miller is dealt with.”

“I want to see him.”

“We can arrange that. But not yet. Joe, I want you home. Candy and Jamie are waiting for you to get back. Hop Sing hasn’t smiled since we heard you were in prison. I’ve missed you, son. We have all missed you so much.”

Joe stared into his coffee. I could see he was thinking, weighing up his answer.

“I put Cochise out with the herd. He wasn’t happy in the yard without you. Candy was going to bring him in ready for our return.”

Joe’s stern gaze met mine. The eyes that had normally sparkled and danced with vitality and life, now flat, cold even. They seem darker somehow, harder, more dagger like.

“I – I don’t know if I want to go back to the Ponderosa.” His words like a knife twisting in my heart. “I don’t know if I can go back to being who I was.”

“Who are you now? You’re still Joe Cartwright. You’re still my son. That has never changed.”

He laughed, not a joyous laugh, or his familiar cackle, but a harsh sarcasm laden snigger.

‘If only you knew. You would not say that. You’d disown me for sure.’

“I don’t know who Joe Cartwright is any more. He disappeared three years ago.” Joe turned away from me but not before I saw the pain of realisation in his eyes. He was no longer the young man I had sent away on business. Now he was a hardened, cynical, and lost individual that seemed devoid of feeling or emotion.

“Son, look at me, please. You don’t mean that. You’re still the same person. Battered and beaten, and hurting, but you’re still you.”

Joe stood, moved around the room. Stood at the window to peer between the gently fluttering sheers. He turned back to face me. In the few hours we had been together he had not touched or reached out to me once. In times past he would have been in my arms after time spent apart. This was the most tactile of my boys, always seeking reassurance from the touch of my hand on his shoulder or knee. A hug after we had been apart. Now he was avoiding me.

“You know what happens in prisons don’t you?” The question was whispered, “besides being beaten.”

“Yes, I know.” What more could I say? I knew what he was referring to without saying the words.

“Joseph…” I held my arms wide, now he must choose if he comes to me for comfort. My gesture is to prove it is all behind him now. He has left that life in the prison. He is innocent of everything that has happened in the last three years.

 ‘I can do this. I need to do this.’ I can’t speak, ‘Forgive me, Pa. Please. I do want to come home.’

He took one step towards me, then another. I have never realised how much smaller he is than I until this moment. Barefoot he is barely to my shoulder, has prison done this to him or is it I have never noticed it before?

He is in my arms! Thank you, God. I offer a silent prayer as I pull my son in closer. “It will be okay,” I tell him, “It will be okay.”

As I hold him, I feel the steady thump of his heart beating. Within seconds it beats in time with my own. My shirt becomes damp as the healing tears begin to flow. His sobs are muffled against my chest. We still have much to talk about, some of it will be painful for us both. But we will talk now. Joe’s demons will be laid to rest, and we can move forward.

We have taken that first step.

                                                                           ~~~

Epilogue.

The trial for Barney Miller and his brother-in-law were held in San Francisco. Of course, Joe was required to attend, both for his own satisfaction and from necessity as a witness. He held his temper in check for the whole proceedings and gave his evidence in a calm and accurate manner. He was noticeably quiet waiting for the verdict. I’m sure he doubted they would be convicted. Finally, the jury returned a guilty verdict and the sentences were passed. By a stroke of justice, both were consigned to San Quentin Prison. I found that a fitting end for them. The gunman they had hired had died before the trial in a shootout with peace officers while trying to rob a bank. After sentencing, the presiding Judge made a statement completely exonerating Joe of any crimes and apologised for the time he had spent in prison. The Judge also announced there would be a complete review of how San Quentin was managed and the conditions of incarceration. This outcome pleased Joe. He made one visit to see the friends he had made. Taking gifts of clean clothing, washing gear, chess, checkers, and books. Then with much happier hearts we returned to the Ponderosa and to the life that we were accustomed.

                                                                           The End.