Willow Bend

by

Beppina

The clock struck midnight as I leaned against the front door, listening to the wind moan around the house. I glanced towards the hearth, where the flames had burned low, casting restless shadows across the room.

Pa and Hoss should have been home hours ago.

Pa had sent word that they would arrive in Virginia City on this morning’s stage from Sacramento. Roy Coffee had called earlier to say the stage was overdue, and I’d been fighting off the growing unease ever since.

At first light, I would saddle Cochise and ride out to look for them. Until then, there was nothing to do but wait. Pulling the blanket from the stair rail, I settled on the sofa. The house seemed unusually quiet. Even the familiar creaks and groans of the house timbers were silent.

Then I noticed the cold.

I fed the flames more logs and tried to lose myself in Pa’s latest book, but the words refused to make sense. Even as the fire burned brighter, a chill crept through the room, giving me gooseflesh on my arms. The clock ticked steadily. The fire hissed and spat. And somewhere in the house, I heard a faint dripping sound. I looked up. Nothing. I listened again. There it was, drip, drip, drip.

I set the book aside and crossed to the kitchen, but the floor was dry, the pump secure, and the windows shut tight. Back in the living room, I told myself I was imagining things. I was tired and jumpy, that was all.

Then the clock struck three.

A tremendous bang sounded from the porch. The lamp outside flared brightly, then went out, plunging the doorway into darkness. I snatched my gun from the sideboard and threw open the door. The rocking chair lay on its side, its cover tangled beneath it. Wind whipped around the porch, but no one was there. I righted the chair, replaced the cover and stepped inside.

That was when I saw Hoss.

He stood before the fire, his broad shoulders hunched, his white hat clutched in his hands. Water streamed from his clothes, pooling around his boots.

“Hoss! Where did you spring from?”

He didn’t answer.

I lowered my gun, relief flooding through me. Whatever had delayed them, at least my brother was home.

“Where’s Pa? Is he outside?”

Hoss slowly raised his head. His face was bruised, his hair plastered to his forehead. Blood darkened the skin around his ear and ran down his neck.

My stomach tightened. “Hoss, what happened to you?”

He stared at me, his eyes filled with such terrible sadness that I felt the blood drain from my face.

“Where’s Pa?” I demanded.

His lips moved, but no sound came. I grabbed the blanket and held it out to him. “Here, get yourself dried off. I’ll fetch Hop Sing.” The blanket slipped from my hands and fell onto the table.

Hoss hadn’t moved. He stared past me, at the front door, as though something stood there that I couldn’t see.

“Hoss?”

The dripping grew louder. I looked down. Water spread across the boards, darkening the rug beneath his feet, and soaking the floor.

A shiver ran down my spine. “Hoss, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s happened!”

He finally spoke. “It’s too late, Joe.” His voice sounded hollow, as if it had travelled a long way to reach me.

“Too late for what?”

“It’s too late.”

“What’s too late?” I shouted.

“Little Joe! What are you shouting about?” I spun around. Hop Sing stood in the doorway, his robe pulled tightly around him, his expression a mixture of concern and bewilderment.

“Something’s happened to Pa,” I said, turning back towards the fire. “Hoss won’t tell me what.”

Hop Sing looked at the space beside the hearth.

“Mister Hoss is not here. Only you and me.”

I stared at him.

“What do you mean? He’s standing right—”

The words died on my lips.

Hoss was gone.

The fire crackled. The clock ticked. The room stood empty, save for the blanket on the table and the puddle spreading across the boards. I backed away, unable to breathe.

Then came three sharp knocks at the front door. Hop Sing gripped my arm. Neither of us moved.

The knocks came again, slower this time. Three deliberate taps. I pulled free and grabbed the handle.

“Hoss?”

The door swung open. Beyond the porch, the night lay black and silent. Near the hitching rail stood a tall, shifting figure. A white hat rested upon its head, but beneath the brim there was no face, only a swirling mist.

I stumbled backwards.

The figure raised one arm and pointed towards the distant hills.

“Willow Bend, Joe.” The voice was Hoss’s, yet it seemed to come from the wind itself. “Willow Bend. Hurry.”

“Hoss! Wait!”

The shape shimmered, and stretched thin as smoke, and vanished into the darkness. I stood frozen until Hop Sing appeared beside me.

“That wasn’t Hoss, was it?” I whispered.

He shook his head slowly. “No, Little Joe. Spirit of Mister Hoss.”

A cold hand seemed to squeeze my heart.

“Then Pa…”

“We must go,” Hop Sing said quietly. “The spirit has come to tell us.”

We had no time to waste. Within minutes, the men, horses and wagon were ready. I sent a rider into town to fetch Roy and a posse, then headed off with Hop Sing towards Willow Bend.

XOXOXO

The wind picked up. Clouds danced across the moon. Branches clawed at us as we followed the trail. More than once I thought I saw a white hat bobbing between the trees ahead. But each time I looked again, there was nothing. We reached Willow Bend just before dawn.

The river ran high and fast, swollen by the recent rains. A broken stage wheel lay half submerged near the bank. Beyond it, caught between two rocks, was a familiar brown coat.

“Pa!”

I flung myself from Cochise and scrambled down the muddy bank. Pa lay on a narrow grass shelf, one arm wrapped around a tree root. He was barely conscious, his face pale beneath the mud, but his eyes opened as I reached him.

“Joe?”

“I’m here, Pa. I’ve got you.”

He gripped my wrist with surprising strength. “Hoss?” he whispered.

I looked towards the water. There, tangled in the overhanging branches, lay my brother. His hat floated against the bank, the white crown reflecting the first grey light of morning.

“He got me clear of the stage,” Pa murmured. “The current took him before I could reach him.”

I couldn’t speak. I could only hold onto Pa and stare at the river, trying to make sense of what had happened. Then, across the water, I saw a familiar figure standing among the trees.

For one brief moment, he looked just as he always had, big, gentle, and utterly untroubled. Hoss lifted his hand in farewell and smiled at me. Wind swept through the branches, and he was gone.

Pa called my name, and as I turned to help him to the wagon, I heard my brother’s deep, familiar laughter somewhere out in the darkness.

I never heard it again.

But every Halloween when the wind rises, and the clock strikes three, I find myself listening.

Just in case.

The End

Word Count 1215

General Audience

October 2026

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