The Hostage

By Marcella Petillo

A gust of wind blew, and Joe pulled his jacket tighter, searching for warmth.

He had been away from home for a week and was eager to get back.

His mind summoned the smell of coffee, good food, warmth…family.

Simple things, but when you’re far from home, they can mean so much.

There was a one-line cabin left to check and stock for the coming winter.

He was tired, but having the cabin in order and well supplied could mean the difference between life and death, especially in winter.

The day was drawing to a close, and before long it would be dark.

Joe decided to spend the last night in the cabin, the one closest to the ranch, and longed for hot coffee and a night’s rest.

Suddenly, he felt a distinct sensation, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up.

Nothing to do with the cold, just pure instinct sharpened over the years.

There was someone behind him, approaching slowly.

Joe guided Cochise and the pack horse off the trail. The grass muffled the sound of the hooves. Without making a sound, he slipped into the thick brush, hiding himself from anyone’s sight.

With all his senses on alert, he waited.

A man on horseback appeared on the trail, moving along unhurriedly.

The sorrel coat of his mustang stood out in the golden light of the sunset.

A good horse, Joe’s experienced eye judged.

The stranger’s skin was tanned, like a man who spent time outdoors; his hair and beard were dark with touches of gray, while his clothes looked rumpled from a long journey.

He was clearly heading for the line shack. He knew the way…and he was whistling softly as he rode along slowly.

An intruder; someone taking advantage of something that wasn’t his. Not someone in trouble, sick, or hurt, in need of temporary shelter, but one who would empty the shack’s supplies at the expense of the Ponderosa. Joe grew irritated; the worst kind!

He left the horses hidden among the trees and moved cautiously toward the shack. He knew the place by heart; he could have moved around it with his eyes closed.

The man was inside; a thin thread of smoke rose from the chimney, but he had left his horse saddled.

He would have to come back outside to tend to it and feed it.

Joe silently circled the shack and hid in the back, near the lean-to that sheltered the animal, waiting for the man to come back outside.

Sure enough, he appeared holding a bucket and two canteens to go get water. He returned shortly afterward; Joe heard him coming clearly. The man was taking no precautions; he wasn’t hiding.

He set the bucket down on the ground to water the horse, and while the animal plunged its muzzle into the bucket, the intruder loosened the saddle straps.

A voice behind him, low and tense, broke the silence,

“Put your hands where I can see them and turn around! Slowly! Don’t try anything funny or I’ll put a bullet in you!”

“Don’t shoot, I’m turning around, I’ve got no intention of getting myself killed…”

Joe saw the man smile, and it threw him off balance.

“You’re good, boy! Really good! You got me, I admit it!”

“I’m not a boy.”

The look could have burned him alive.

“You’re trespassing. This is Ponderosa property, you can’t stay here.”

The man smiled again, looked at the young man in front of him, and slowly shook his head.

“You’re Joe, Ben Cartwright’s youngest son, right? I’m not trespassing, I’m here on purpose. Let me introduce myself. Don’t shoot, I’m taking my papers out of my pocket, okay?”

Joe was shocked, but he stood still, gun aimed, while the man handed him the inspection papers.

“I’m Jared Burque, special agent. I work for the Pinkerton Agency. I’ve been after a serial killer for four months, Jack Davis, a damned son of a bitch! I know he’s here, in Virginia City, and…”

The man broke off.

“Why don’t you lower that gun, Joe? I’m not an enemy. Shall we go inside so I can explain everything?” and he gestured toward the shack door with his hand.

Joe snapped out of it, spun the gun through his fingers, and let it drop into the holster at his side, then motioned for Burque to go in first.

“Left-handed, huh? And from what I can see, skilled too. Skilled and cautious. I bet you’re a good shot, aren’t you, boy?” Burque smiled as he stepped into the shack ahead of Joe.

“I’m not a boy.” The voice was sharp, the tone flat.

He still didn’t trust him, and it was obvious.

After a few cups of boiling coffee and a supper of crisp bacon and beans, the atmosphere had relaxed, Joe had loosened up and was listening carefully to what Burque was telling him about his long pursuit,

“Joe, I’ve got reason to believe Davis has hidden himself at the Ponderosa, among your ranch hands, and is keeping a low profile so he won’t attract attention, but he’s an extremely dangerous man. He’s been on the run for months; he knows I’m on his trail. I’ve barely missed him a couple of times. That’s why I’m hiding out here, and I never meant to involve you, believe me, but you aren’t safe.”

Burque slowly ran a hand over his weathered face,

“Your family mustn’t know. If they don’t know, they’ll act normally, and they won’t alarm Davis, who’s very suspicious!

Just you and me.

You’ll be my eyes at the ranch, and I’ll keep watch from the outside. I already scoped the place out. I’ve been here for two days, and I watched you all without you noticing. I haven’t seen Davis yet, actually. Maybe you’ve got men somewhere else at the moment? Joe, it’s going to be dangerous. Are you up for it? You’ll have to be very careful not to make Davis suspicious!”

“Okay. I’ll help you catch Davis. We’ve got three men repairing fences in the north pasture. I’ll be careful, but you have to protect my family.

At all costs. You hear me, Burque? At all costs!

What will you do if Davis takes someone hostage?”

Jared Burque’s face darkened, he looked at Joe intensely, and said something the young man would remember forever,

When he arrived in front of the Silver Dollar, Joe glanced inside, but Davis was not there, so he headed toward the rougher part of town, where he thought he might find him.

Sometimes the Ponderosa hands frequented an old saloon where they lost their weekly pay gambling with ruthless professional card players, got drunk on terrible liquor, and entertained themselves with the Mexican señoritas who were all the rage in the saloon.

Joe remembered his father’s reaction when, barely a teenager, he had let Mitch convince him to go into the Conestoga…he had not tried it again until he was nineteen!

Among his fond memories was Rosita, a dark-haired beauty with skin soft as silk, amber-colored. They had had a lot of fun together, then Rosita had decided to return to Mexico, and Joe had come to terms with it.

He left Cochise before reaching the saloon, passed by an alley, and felt himself yanked inside with a jerk; Burque’s voice whispered near his ears,

“Joe…I saw him; Davis is at the Conestoga, in very good company!”

Capturing Davis in town would involve far greater risks.

Joe knew it, and so did Burque.

They had to get him out of the saloon with some excuse.

Inside, it would be too dangerous for everyone. Once outside, Joe would step aside and leave him to Burque, who positioned himself outside, hidden from view.

Davis knew him; he could not show himself directly.

Joe’s heart was pounding like mad, but he decided to try to enter the place, staggering on his legs, pretending to already be drunk.

He ordered a beer in too loud a voice, drawing the attention of everyone present. Davis was sitting at a table in the back. A pretty girl in a short, very low-cut red dress was beside him.

Taking his mug of beer, Joe turned around, leaning his back and elbows against the bar, laughed while looking at Davis, raising the mug in his direction as if for a toast, then moved unsteadily on his feet, reached the table, and collapsed into a chair.

“Hey, Martin! Steve Martin! You here? I see you’re having fun! I think I’m a little drunk…”

The man started, but put on a good face and answered in kind,

“Boss! Joe! What are YOU doing here?”

Joe laughed, drank a long swallow of beer, then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, asked,

“My family’s waiting for me for dinner at the International House, but I drank one glass too many. Could you give me a hand getting to Cochise? That way I can leave without falling flat on my face!” He laughed loudly, grabbed one of Davis’s arms, and pulled him up from the table.

The girl stood up with him, laughing in turn; she slung one of Joe’s arms over her bare shoulders and spoke to her customer,

“Come on, amigo, let’s get him outside before he passes out in here!”

Davis grabbed Joe around the waist, put the other arm over his shoulders, and they headed outside.

“Cochise is over there…” Joe mumbled thickly while scanning the outside with his eyes to figure out where Burque was.

Everything happened fast.

A movement in the darkness, the faint sound of a pistol being cocked, a rustle.

Davis’s reaction was immediate.

Joe felt him stiffen and curse under his breath while the man reacted quickly.

The girl was hindering both their movements.

Instinctively, Joe shoved her away, and she fell to the ground with a cry of surprise.

That cost him precious seconds, and when he turned to face Davis, the man was faster and drove a punch into his stomach that knocked the breath out of him.

An instant later, he was grabbed and held hard against Davis’s body, with a knife at his throat, unable to move.

“Burque, that’s you, right? You found me again, but I won’t make it easy for you!

The young Cartwright, here, you know very well what he risks!

One more or one less makes no difference to me, and you know it!

Let me go, and I’ll spare his life…maybe. I kind of like him, after all.

Maybe I won’t slit his throat after we get out of town together in one piece.

I’m not joking, Burque…you know me!”

And to give weight to his words, Davis deliberately pressed the knife against the tender skin of his prisoner’s throat.

Bright red blood began to run down his neck, staining the collar and the white silk shirt, creating a violent contrast.

The knife was razor sharp, and Joe barely felt pain when the blade cut his skin, but he felt the blood running and soaking the fabric.

He knew he was in mortal danger; Davis would not stop.

This was not how it was supposed to go!

Joe’s thoughts turned to his family, unaware, waiting for him for dinner.

There was still one thing he could try to do…

He moved his lips without making a sound and formed the words,

“Shoot the hostage…”

Burque stepped out into the open and made a gesture of refusal toward Joe, but the young man stared straight at him with wild eyes, and his lips moved again,

“Shoot the hostage!”

Two shots in rapid succession.

The first tore through Joe’s right thigh, and he crashed to the ground with a scream.

The second buried itself squarely in Davis’s chest, killing him instantly.

Burque would never forget the look of surprise, and then terror, on the face of the killer he had been chasing for four months, when his hostage slipped from his hands, falling at his feet.

There had been screams from terrified women, shouts from men.

The shooting had happened in front of an unwilling audience, then, in the silence that fell immediately afterward, a hoarse groan was heard, a broken voice,

“Hmmmmm…So this…would be your idea of…‘wound the hostage slightly’?…Burque! Damn it!… I thought you were just going to scratch me! You actually…shot me!”

Joe was curled up on the ground, his hands clenched around his wounded thigh, pale as a ghost, panting in pain.

Someone ran out of the saloon with towels to stop the bleeding; the girl who had been with Davis earlier lifted him up and supported his back, pressed against the wound on his throat, tied a towel around the one on his thigh, and asked that he be taken to the doctor.

She had realized that Joe’s action had saved her life. She could have been the killer’s hostage instead.

Jared Burque crouched down and bent over Joe; he checked the wounds, painful, sure, but not that serious. He had aimed carefully to hit only the muscle, and the bullet had gone straight through. Even the cut on the throat was superficial.

He could not have done otherwise; a scratch would not have been enough to make Joe collapse instantly and get him out of the path of the second bullet meant for Davis.

He told Joe so and added,

“You’re tough, you are, a real hard case, and you were a big help to me. Without you, he would’ve slipped away again. Thanks to you, too, it’s over! Over!”

They were interrupted by Sheriff Roy Coffee, who had come running as soon as he heard about the shooting.

What he had not expected to find was Joe, on the ground, wounded and bleeding!

“Joe! Son! Who shot you?”

Two answers in unison,

“Him!”

“I did!”

Roy’s face turned into a question mark.

Jared Burque introduced himself, showed his credentials, Davis’s arrest warrant, and asked that the body be taken somewhere safe pending completion of the required procedures.

The sheriff turned back to Joe,

“But what happened? How come you got involved in the shooting?”

Then he turned to a nearby boy, “Run to the International House, go get the Cartwrights!”

Two green eyes, clouded with pain, lifted toward Roy,

“He’ll explain it to you. In detail. Burque, don’t forget the hostage part. Now…do you think I can go to Doc Martin or do I have to bleed to death right here on the spot?”

The tone was sarcastic, but the voice trembled.

Burque and the sheriff snapped out of it.

Roy asked worriedly,

“Do you think you can walk?”

“I wouldn’t count on it…” came the reply.

Burque held out his hands to help Joe up off the ground,

“Come on, grab my hands! Come on, boy, easy now, we’ll get you to the doctor!” while Roy lifted him from behind, taking him under the arms.

Joe got to his feet, between Roy and Burque, supported by both of them. He staggered, groaning, taking his first steps.

Pale, weak, hurting, smeared with blood, his legs trembling, but untamed.

His eyes flashed,

“I’m not a boy.”

“No, you’re right, you’re not,” Burque agreed, “You’re a man, a very brave man!”

The End