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The sharp Texan wind whips past the porch of the main ranch house, carrying with it the crisp, bitter bite of a looming December freeze. When Clark Kent and Jimmy Olsen step off the dust-streaked bus onto the Comanche Joe ranch, the sheer expanse of the Lost Valley stretches out before them—a quiet, ancient territory shadowed by whispers of a terrible howl. They are met first by Comanche Joe, whose weathered face softens into a warm smile as he introduces them to a lean, bow-legged cowboy with eyes as bright and blue as a winter sky: Tumbleweed Jones.
Within minutes, the thick, heavy tension hanging over the valley dissolves over the kitchen table. Tumbleweed pulls a hot sheet of his famous, rich chocolate fudge straight from the wood-burning stove, setting it down with a boisterous laugh. Clark, leaning against the doorframe in his city clothes, watches with a quiet, affectionate smile as Jimmy’s eyes light up, the young photojournalist diving into a square of the warm confection with unbridled, youthful enthusiasm.
"Jeepers, Mr. Jones," Jimmy exclaims between bites, his voice full of giddiness, "this is swell! Best swelling thing I've tasted since leaving Metropolis!"
It doesn't take long for the trio to become fast friends. Over the next few weeks, Tumbleweed takes the city boys under his wing, patiently instructing them in the rugged ways of Texas ranching and whispering the haunting, centuries-old history of the Lost Valley as the twilight paints the mesa in shades of plum and gold. For Jimmy, who grew up without a father to guide him, Tumbleweed becomes far more than just a colorful character—he becomes a mentor, a steady anchor, treating the eager teenager as if he were his very own son. Tumbleweed teaches Jimmy how to sit tall in the saddle, how to grip the leather reins with easy confidence, and how to notch a feathered arrow into a heavy wooden bow with a steady hand.
Sensing the deep, aching void in the boy’s life, Tumbleweed even approaches Comanche Joe and the elder Silver Fox, convincing them to grant the boy a rare honor. In a solemn, firelit ceremony beneath the cold Texas stars, Jimmy is officially inducted as an honorary member of Silver Fox’s tribe. They bestow upon him the name "Laughing Squirrel"—a title that brings a broad, beaming grin to Jimmy's face, an unforgettable experience that fills his young heart with a pride he has never known.
The brief warmth of those days shatters like thin glass when their investigation into the mysterious Howling Coyote leads them too close to the truth. The dark perpetrators behind the so-called "curse"—desperate to cover up their lethal crimes—strike with sudden, vicious force. They ambush Clark, Jimmy, and Tumbleweed on a narrow ridge, intending to silence the Metropolis reporters and the old cowboy permanently. Shots ring out, echoing wildly against the canyon walls, scaring the mounts into a blind panic.
In the chaotic crossfire, Jimmy’s horse rears backward in terror. The young boy fights to keep his footing, but the leather reins slip from his gloved hands. He is thrown violently into the rocky brush, his body pitching hard over a steep embankment before coming to a agonizing, crumpled rest at the bottom. The sound of the fall cuts through Clark’s chest like a physical blade.
The weather turns viciously within the hour, dropping the temperature into a bone-chilling abyss as a blinding white blizzard descends upon the valley. In the swirling flurry, Clark purposefully "disappears" into the howling white nothingness—a move born of desperate necessity so he can hunt down the perpetrators from above without revealing the strange, superhuman truth of his existence. But Jimmy, dazed, severely injured, and clutching his shattered ribs in the snow, only knows that Clark is gone.
"Clark!" Jimmy cries out, his voice choked with desperate tears as the snow thickens around him. "Clark, where are you?!"
Tumbleweed refuses to leave the boy to die in the frost. He hoists Jimmy's weak, trembling frame onto his own trusted horse, pushing through the suffocating curtain of snow. The storm rages relentlessly, blinding and merciless.
Halfway to town, Tumbleweed’s faithful horse stumbles on an icy ledge, collapsing into the drift with a heavy, final sigh, its heart giving out against the brutal elements. Refusing to yield, Tumbleweed lifts Jimmy into his arms, staggering on foot through the knee-deep snowdrifts. His fingers grow numb; his lungs burn like fire. Slowly, agonizingly, the old cowboy’s strength fails him. With the lights of civilization still miles away, this blizzard has the two men in a vicious chokehold. Tumbleweed collapses into the soft, terrifying quiet of a snowdrift, clutching Jimmy tightly to his chest as consciousness slips away from them both.
They do not freeze to death in the wilderness. Out of the blinding gale, a blur of red and blue descends from the heavens, hovering silently over the unconscious pair. Superman moves with gentle, frantic haste, lifting Tumbleweed and Jimmy into his arms and wrapping them in a surge of heat from his own body as he cuts through the sky toward the nearest sanctuary: the small, dimly lit Comanche County Medical Center in Mason County. Superman bursts through the back clinic doors, setting the two freezing figures onto the steel examination tables. The local doctor on duty rushes forward, his face pale as he checks Jimmy’s fading pulse.
"He's barely hanging on," the doctor stammers, his voice tight with panic. "Internal bleeding, severe shock, hypothermia... he's in a near-death state! Golly, he won't make it through the hour without an emergency blood transfusion, and we don't have a matching supply in the bank!"
On the adjacent gurney, Tumbleweed stirs weakly, his breath rattling in his throat as he clutches the doctor's sleeve with trembling, frostbitten fingers. "Save the kid, Doc..." Tumbleweed wheezes, his voice dropping into a desperate plea. "Don't worry 'bout me... just save Laughing Squirrel..."
Seconds later, the old cowboy slumps back into unconsciousness, the monitor pulsing weakly beside him. Everything feels utterly grim, framed by the rhythmic, terrifying tick of the wall clock. Superman stands in the corner of the harsh clinic light, his heart hammering against his ribs. He watches the boy he loves—the brave, bright young man who has become the center of his guarded world—lying motionless, his skin a translucent, deadly shade of blue-gray. He cannot stand by any longer. He cannot watch Jimmy slip away into the dark.
"Take my blood," Superman says, stepping forward, his powerful voice cutting through the doctor's panic.
The doctor gapes at the towering, caped figure, stunned into silence. "You? But... I don't even know your blood type! And we don't have time—"
"I'm a universal donator. Do it now," Superman commands softly, his eyes fixed entirely on Jimmy's pale face.
The doctor frantically preps the glass syringe and rubber tubing, pressing the heavy steel needle against the hero's forearm. But the needle buckles and snaps against Superman's impenetrable skin, falling uselessly to the linoleum floor.
The doctor steps back in absolute shock. "It's... it's impossible! I can't pierce your skin!"
Time is running out; Jimmy’s breathing grows dangerously shallow. Superman doesn't hesitate. Reaching down, he presses the sharp edge of his own thick fingernail hard into the crook of his opposite elbow, concentrating with all his strength until he forces a small, precise tear through his outer flesh. A deep, glowing drop of crimson wells at the surface.
"Use the tube directly," Superman instructs quietly, his voice tight. "Quickly."
Hands shaking violently, the doctor attaches the rubber tubing directly to the small wound, feeding the other end into Jimmy's arm. What follows defies every law of medical science known in 1941. The moment the Kryptonian blood flows into Jimmy’s fragile, human veins, a soft, miraculous heat spreads through the boy's body. Although the blood does not grant the teenager any permanent superhuman abilities—no heat vision, no flight—its incredible, radiant regenerative properties act like a divine catalyst.
The color rushes back to Jimmy's cheeks in a sudden, vibrant wave. His shallow, ragged gasps smooth out into a deep, steady rhythm. On the monitors and gauges, his shattered vital signs stabilize, the deep internal hemorrhaging knitting together at a cellular level that leaves the country doctor staring at the instruments in utter disbelief.
"Holy cow..." the doctor whispers, pushing his glasses up his nose. "It's a miracle. The boy's body... it's recovering instantly!"
Beside them, Tumbleweed groans, slowly blinking his eyes open as the warmth of the clinic room revives him. He looks over at Jimmy, seeing the healthy rise and fall of the boy's chest, and lets out a long, shuddering breath of relief. He looks up at the looming blue figure standing over the bed.
"Thank you, stranger," Tumbleweed rasps, tears glinting in the corners of his eyes. "You saved him. But... what about the other reporter boy? What about Clark?"
Superman looks down at Tumbleweed, a flicker of profound, hidden emotion passing over his strong features. "Your friend must still be out in the storm," Superman lies softly. "I will go rescue him now."
Superman leaps into the night sky, soaring up, up, and out of the thick Texas clouds until he breaks into the silent, airless void of space. Standing in the absolute zero of the upper atmosphere, he lets the cosmic cold seep deep into his bones, intentionally chilling his body, dampening his thermal reserves until his skin is freezing to the touch.
Minutes later, a heavy thud echoes on the wooden front porch of the Comanche County Medical Center. The clinic door flies open. There stands Clark Kent—shivering violently, a thick wool blanket wrapped tightly around his trembling shoulders, his glasses frosted over with ice, his hair matted with white snow. He looks utterly exhausted, battered by the elements, a man who has barely survived the deadly blizzard.
"Jimmy..." Clark gasps out, his voice cracking with genuine, unscripted fear as he stumbles through the doorway, ignoring the doctor's startled cry.
He staggers blindly toward the examination room, his eyes sweeping past Tumbleweed until they land squarely on the young boy resting peacefully beneath the white sheets. The performative mask of the mild-mannered reporter vanishes entirely. The stoic, unyielding armor of the Man of Steel is gone. There is no audience to fool now, no persona to maintain; there is only Clark, raw and completely vulnerable, fighting for the person who holds his heart.
Clark collapses heavily onto his knees right at Jimmy’s bedside. His frozen, trembling hands reach out, wrapping tightly around Jimmy’s warm, living fingers. He buries his face into the edge of the mattress, his shoulders shaking as he lets out a shuddering sob of pure, unadulterated relief, listening to the strong, perfect beat of the boy's heart—a heart beating with a piece of his own life inside it.