“I told him that, Pa,” Slinger said. “But Clem said to bring him in and let you decide what to do with him.”
“He ain’t much older than Benjy was,” Clem said. “I figured maybe we could put him to use.”
“If he don’t die on us first.” The old man cursed. “What the hell. Lay him out on one of the beds, and let’s have a look at him. Help me with him, Clem. Slinger, you put away the horses.”
With one man taking his legs and the other his shoulders, Joe was carried through a narrow doorway and dropped onto what felt like a frame strung with rawhide strips, with a thin blanket laid on top. He moaned as pain rocketed around his ribs.
“The kid’s hurtin’ some,” Clem said.
“Looks like he might’ve fell off his horse and cracked a rib or two,” the old man said. “See how he’s tried to wrap ’em with his shirt? Leave that be for now. Get some water down him first, and then some of that soup on the fire. I’m goin’ out to see what your brother’s got to say.”
As the cool water trickled down his throat, Joe opened his eyes. His head was elevated on what felt like a rolled-up coat. Clem was holding the rim of a tin dipper to his mouth.
“Not too much,” he said, taking the dipper away. “You don’t want to heave it up again.”
“Where am I?” Joe’s eyes took in the rough walls and ceiling of a sod cabin.
“We brought you home, Slinger and me. Right now, that’s all you need to know.”
“And the other man I heard? Is that your pa?”
Clem nodded, stood, and took a chipped bowl off the plank table. A charred iron pot nestled in the coals of the fireplace. “Pa said to give you some soup.” He ladled something liquid out of the pot and into the bowl.
“I keep hearing about somebody named Benjy,” Joe said. “Who’s that?”
“Benjy was our little brother. He died of snakebite last spring. It about killed Pa. Benjy was his favorite. Ma passed away years ago, so there’s just the three of us here—and now you.” Clem sat on the edge of the bed and spooned the soup into Joe’s mouth. The broth and meat—whatever animal it had come from—had a rank, gamey taste, but the soup was warm and nourishing. Joe was still in pain, but he could feel his body stirring to life.
“What are you going to do with me?” he asked.
Clem set the bowl and spoon aside. “That’s up to Pa,” he said. “I’m thinkin’ he wants to keep you—otherwise he wouldn’t be wastin’ good vittles. But it’s up to you, too. Now that you’ve got a look at us, we can’t just turn you loose. If you want to live, you’ll have to stay and help us out.”
“And if I’ve got someplace else to go?” Joe thought about Sarah and about his vendetta with Benteen Calder.
Clem shook his head. “Try leavin’ and you’d best start sayin’ your prayers. Even if you sneak off at night, Slinger will track you down. That man can track a lizard over bare rock. And when he finds you, he’ll kill you.”
Joe took a moment to ponder what he’d just heard. Not that he was surprised. He’d heard one of the brothers mention that there was a price on their heads. If he tried to escape, he had little doubt that the threat of being tracked down and killed was real.
“You mentioned helping you out,” he said. “What is it exactly that your family does?”
“Nothin’ that hurts folks,” Clem said. “All we do is round up a few stray cows and horses that wander off from the herds. Finders keepers, right?”
“So what do you do with the stock you, uh, find?”
“There’s a man that buys ’em from us and sells ’em somewhere else. Good business. Everybody’s happy.”
“I understand,” Joe said. And he did. He understood perfectly. He had fallen in with a family of stock rustlers. And rustling, in cattle country, was a hanging offense.
* * *
Within a week’s time, Joe was healthy enough to work. Pa, whose real name was Ambrose McCracken, declared that if he wanted to live, it was time he started learning the family trade.
There was plenty to be learned. The easiest way to find “stray” animals on the prairie was after a stampede. Lightning storms, like the one that had scattered the Calder herd, made for easy pickings. Even after the drovers had