PEACE ON THE PONDEROSA
Sometimes the smallest thing can solve the biggest problem, and when no
Cartwright wants to go home on Christmas Eve, there has to be something
seriously wrong...
Peace on the Ponderosa
By
Jenny Guttridge
Author’s note: This was inspired
by the comment of a reader – She’ll know who she is when she gets to the end!
The change in the weather had been neither sudden nor unexpected.
Blizzards had been raging in the
Ben Cartwright, a big built, grey-haired man with an angular, finely
chiseled face and intense, dark eyes, stepped out from the cozy warmth of the
sheriff’s office into the chillier and far less inviting environs of the
boardwalk outside. His friend of many years, Roy Coffee, the sheriff, followed
him out and quickly pulled the door shut behind him. There was no point in
letting all the carefully accumulated warmth inside escape into the street. Ben
set his hat on his head and, shivering, thrust his gloved hands deep into the
pockets of his heavy, waxed wool jacket. The boardwalk was raised well above
the level of the street to keep folks’ feet dry, and it had a roof to keep most
the rain off. It did nothing whatever to stop the bitter wind that blew
unceasing around the corner and down the whole length of
The two men stood side by side and surveyed the goings-on in the street.
It was a bleak winter scene that was devoid of all colour
but grey and white, black and brown. The constant traffic of men, mules, oxen,
carts, wagons and horseback riders that ploughed back on forth, and the
twice-weekly stagecoach, had churned the street into a dismal mash of slush and
mud that was hock deep to a horse. Behind the ornate false fronts of the
buildings, the steeply sloped roofs had thrown off the each successive fall of
snow exactly as they had been designed to do, depositing it in ever-growing
piles in the alleyways alongside. Even the people crowding the boardwalks and
picking their way through the mire of the street were drab in their dark winter
clothing.
If the street looked like a duo-tone print brought magically to life, it
sounded very different. Within earshot, a hundred voiced shouted, sung or spoke
in a dozen different languages. Drovers yelled at their teams, mules brayed and
dogs barked Down the street the meeting house bell was
ringing. A half dozen children in caps, and scarves, and gloves chased each
other in and out of the traffic with excited squeals and shouts; across the
street a group of women stood together outside the bank, hatted
and huddled in furs, singing from their hymnbooks. Six saloons belched noise
and music onto the street through their half-height doors, and there was a constant
sound of hammering from the continual building work.
Roy Coffee looked over the domain of his authority with a certain
satisfaction and an experienced eye. The sheriff was a past master at picking
out the first and faintest sign of trouble before it had the chance of
developing into anything serious. He hooked his hands into his pants belt and
leaned well back on his heels.
"Well, Ben, Reckon as I’ll be shiftin’
along to Mary-Lou’s place. Hear she’s got some right tasty liver an’ onions on
the menu today. You fancy comin’?"
Ben Cartwright laughed and shook his head - perhaps just a trifle
ruefully. "No, Roy. If I fill up at Mary-Lou’s, Hop Sing’ll
kill me for not eating dinner."
"I guess I will." Ben heaved a sigh that held a distinct hint
of reluctance.
He figured that Ben would tell him soon enough if there was a problem he
could help with.
"Just as soon as I pick up the last of my supplies," Ben added.
"Don’t suppose it’ll be long afore you’re all snowed in out
there?"
If anything, Ben’s face became longer, his expression more weary. There
was definitely something amiss out at the ranch.
"I don’t suppose it will." Ben shook himself and made a
conscious effort to break out of the mood. "Thanks for the coffee,
"Any time, Ben. And
a merry Christmas to you and the family!"
Ben pulled up short. For a moment there, he had clean forgotten that it
was Christmas. A smile finally broke across his face, transforming it.
"Why, thank you, Roy! And a happy Christmas to yourself
and to Mary!"
Touching a hand to the brim of his hat in polite farewell, Ben picked his
way across the muddy street to the General Store. The wagon stood outside with
its patiently waiting team. It was almost fully loaded with essential supplies
with which to withstand the fiercest onslaught of the winter. The sideboard of
the wagon bore Ben’s own brand burned into the wood, a stylized but
unmistakable pine tree. For perhaps the first time in his life, Ben did not
feel a glow of pride of possession at the sight of it but rather a small shiver
of apprehension.
Ben stepped up onto the boardwalk outside the General Store and kicked as
much mud as he could off of his boots. Careful as he had been, the muck had
somehow gotten onto the legs of his pants where it stuck like pine-gum. Ben was
not pleased.
He was even less pleased when a huge man in shirtsleeves, sporting a
high-crowned hat, and carrying a full sized sack of cane sugar on each shoulder
came out of the store and barged right into him, almost knocking him back into
the mud. Ben let out a bellow and grabbed hold of the porch post.
"Huh?" The big man turned, swinging with the sacks and banged
into Ben again. "Oh, howdy,
Ben teetered precariously on the edge of the step and fought a desperate
battle with gravity. Eventually, he won.
"Hoss." Ben eyed the bulk of
his second son, and the sacks, warily. If Ben was a big man, then his son,
Hoss, was a giant. Appearing almost top heavy, he had a vast barrel chest and
immensely broad shoulders above relatively narrow horseman’s hips. Even without
the hat, he stood almost a full head taller than his father. "Are you
about finished here?"
"’Reckon so." Hoss turned again, and he and Ben danced a little
jig on the boardwalk as Ben adroitly avoided a third encounter with both son
and sacks.
Hoss stepped down into the street and loaded the sacks, first one and
then the other, into the back of the wagon. He didn’t seem to mind the mud.
"I just gotta fetch out them two barrels o’ molasses, an’ that’ll be a
full load."
Ben went ahead into the store to pay the bill. Remembering again that it
was Christmas Eve, he added to the mundane list of barley flour, split peas and
salt. Mojohn Kendal smiled as he packed the extra
purchases into a box and tied it with string: a box of crystallized fruit and
another of sugar candy; a red silk petticoat and a pair of razor sharp,
stainless steel scissors, all the way from Sheffield, England. On top, Ben put
a box of cigars and a bottle of mellow brandy. He counted coins out onto the
counter while his big son loaded the molasses, one tub at a time, into the back
of the wagon.
Hoss came back into the store mopping his face on a bright green
bandanna. "I guess that’s about it, Pa, lessen you got anything
else."
Ben took a last long look ‘round. He already had gifts for his sons at
home: a finely engraved, gold pocket watch for his eldest son, Adam, a silver
mounted, ivory handled whittling knife for Hoss, a couple of fancy, imported
silk shirts with real pearl buttons for Joe, the dandy of the family. And for
the baby – well what could a man buy for a baby? Little Daniel already had all
the love a family could give him. At the thought of his beloved, infant son,
some of the smile faded from Ben Cartwright’s eyes.
"I think that’s everything."
The two Cartwrights, father and son, stepped out onto the boardwalk.
Their breath steamed in front of their faces. It was starting to snow again.
Hoss Cartwright shrugged into his coat and buttoned it up down the front. Ben
looked at the waiting wagon. "I guess we’d better start for home," he
said, without much enthusiasm.
While not a stupid man, Hoss sometimes had a little trouble converting
the emotions he felt into the much more cumbersome configuration of words. He
had that problem now. His broad featured face contorted with the effort.
"Don’t reckon as I’ll be goin’ home just yet
awhile, Pa," he said at last.
"You’re staying in town?" Ben was taken by surprise.
"Reckon so." Hoss squirmed with obvious discomfort under his
father’s glare, but he wouldn’t back down. He hunched defensively into his
coat. "Reckon I’ll get me a bite o’ lunch an’ a beer over at the Silver
Dollar, an’ then I got me some things I gotta do."
"I see." Ben said heavily. The two short words held a wealth of
meaning. Hoss was a full-grown man and quite entitled to spend time in town on
his own if he so wanted. And, no doubt he did have private matters to see to,
especially on the day before Christmas. Never the less, Ben was disappointed.
He didn’t relish the long, cold journey home on his own. It occurred to him
that Hoss has been planning his desertion all the way along; he had tied his
saddle horse to the back of the wagon before they left home that morning, and
Ben had wondered why.
Hoss caught the look his father threw him and immediately felt guilty.
Staying in town was definitely the easy option, but, right now, he just
couldn’t face going back to the ranch. Always a mild mannered, easy going man
with all the time in the world for all things small and helpless, ‘specially when they were in pain, even Hoss Cartwright had
taken just about as much as he could. "Reckon as I’ll be home in time fer supper," he said sheepishly.
On reflection, Ben couldn’t bring himself to apportion blame. He knew
that if he were a young man and fancy free, given the circumstances he might
well do the same thing himself. He climbed up the high seat of the wagon and
gathered the reins into his hands. Hoss untied his horse and walked round to
say a final goodbye to his Pa.
"You take care, now," Ben told him, with a frown. "Don’t
leave it ‘til it gets dark. If this snow starts to drift…" He didn’t have
to finish the sentence. Hoss had lived in this country almost all his life, had
grown up here. He didn’t need telling the way the weather could turn - or what
would happen to a man if he got caught out in it.
Hoss, relieved that his father wasn’t going to argue the point, gave him
his famous, gap-toothed grin. "Don’t you worry none,
Ben gave him a final glare for good measure, harrumphed, and slapped the
leather reins against the horses’ backs. Hoss stood in the street with his hand
on the nose of his horse and watched until the wagon disappeared from sight.
*******
The snow had started to fall on
the very first day of November - huge, white cotton-balls which had drifted
lazily down from a leaden, pink tinged sky. It had snowed, without fail, every day
since. Sometimes the snowfall had amounted to no more than a few, isolated
flakes floating on a light, cold wind; sometimes it had been a fine, flour like
sifting that stung the cheeks and melted instantly on contact with the warm
flesh. Occasionally it had boiled up into a wind blown snowstorm that
approached blizzard-like proportions. The end result was an all-enveloping,
irregular mantle of white that encompassed the entire landscape. Up on the high
ranges, the snow-blanket was four feet thick, and there were drifts in the
gullies deep enough to bury a man even if he sat up straight in the saddle. In
the lower pasturelands, where the cattle had been mustered for winter-feeding,
it was still thin enough for a steer, with diligence, to dig his way through to
the tough, tussocky grass underneath. Adam Cartwright, hands on hips on the
bank of the creek, eyed the steadily falling snow and concluded that that
situation wouldn’t last a whole lot longer.
Adam was easily as big a man as his father but differently proportioned.
Topping six feet, he had the long legs, lean hips and hard rump of a born
horseman. In place of his father’s barrel-stave ribs, he had a chest that was
broad and deep, wide shoulders and a powerful, muscular back. He was also
darkly handsome, highly intelligent, educated and artistic. At that exact
moment, none of the latter attributes were immediately apparent. All that could
be seen of his face between the pulled down brim of his black hat and the
yellow muffler wound around his neck were the intense, hazel eyes inherited
from his mother, and an array of perfect, white teeth. Adam’s face was screwed
into a tight squint as he tried to penetrate the snow flurries.
Here, the creek was a wide, swift flowing stream of dark water. It cut a
stark, black swathe through a field of unbroken white. Right in front of where
Adam stood it curved in a wide arc, faithfully following the, now invisible,
contours of the landscape. In the bow of the curve, where the current slackened
off and the animals went down to drink, the bank had broken away, and there was
an extensive patch of thick, deep mud. The object of Adam’s attention, barely
discernible through the swirling snow, was a large, black, curly-coated cow,
sideways on to the bank and mired up to her big belly in the mud. Adam
reflected gloomily that it seemed to be his year for hauling cows out of mud.
Turning at the waist, he swung round to look upwards, towards the top of the
bank.
"There’s a cow stuck in the creek all right, Joe. Hurry it up with
that rope, will ya?"
"Right here, brother!" Slipping and slithering down the bank,
Joe Cartwright arrived somewhat precipitately at the water’s edge.
Adam’s fist closed on the collar of his coat and hauled him back just in
time to stop him getting his feet, and a whole lot else, very wet. "Steady
there, Joe. The last thing I need, right now, is you in there with the
cow." Adam sounded weary and resigned. He already had an idea exactly how
this particular undertaking was going to end.
Joe, muffled up to the ears in scarf and coat, flashed his brother a big,
bright smile. "Gee, Adam, it’s nice to know you care!"
For a fleeting moment, Adam was sorely tempted to tip the younger,
altogether lighter man butt first into the mud. Joe could deal first hand with
the cow and be the one to get all muddied up. Then Adam did as he always did
and pulled a long, steadying breath in through his teeth. "Just give me
the rope, will you?"
Still grinning, Joe handed over the loose coil. Adam spun out a lazy loop
and dropped it neatly over the cow’s wide horns. The cow bellowed at the
indignity and shook her head violently. The Cartwright brothers had long ago
ceased to wonder why it was that the contrary animals so resented the attempts
made to rescue them from their own folly.
Joe scrambled back up the bank, paying the rope out behind him. His pinto
mare stood with her back hunched against the wind. Joe looped the free end of
the rope about his saddle horn and climbed aboard. "All set, Adam!"
"Okay!" Not knowing if Joe could see him or not, Adam made a
gesture for him to take up the slack. Joe heard and nudged the mare on. The
rope tightened, and Adam leaned on it himself, adding his not inconsiderable
strength to that of the horse. The rope shivered, and Adam’s muscles cracked with
the strain. The black cow bellowed again and pulled the other way, backing
further into the mire. Adam muttered a furious oath and resisted manfully the
childish urge to throw his hat on the ground and jump on it. He figured that
cows just had to be the most stubborn, onoury,
recalcitrant creatures ever created by the hand of God. And that it was his
misfortune to spend a great part of his life in intimate contact with them.
With short, angry movements and much to the amusement of his younger brother,
Adam started to strip off his clothes.
Coat and gunbelt, and, reluctantly, boots and
socks followed hat, gloves and scarf.
With an expression of extreme distaste, Adam lowered himself into the
mud. At first, it wasn’t as deep as he thought, coming just halfway to his
knees. The mud was semi-liquid and soaked through the thickly woven cloth of
his pants at once. It was icy-cold. Resigned, he waded toward the cow. The mud
deepened. Adam floundered. The cold seeped up his thighs to his groin. From
behind him, up on the bank, he could hear Joe chuckling with barely contained
laughter. After any number of nights of broken and disturbed sleep, Adam’s
patience, unlike the stream, was not running at full flow. He ground his teeth
and kept on going.
With murderous intent, the cow swung her head and tried to gore him in
the belly. Adam got out of her way and ended up even wetter. Joe was laughing
out loud. Adam swore and wondered why the hell he hadn’t dumped his
irrepressible, constantly irritating and frequently infuriating younger brother
into the creek when he’d had the chance. Then, at least, they would both be
wet, cold and thoroughly fed-up.
The cold was getting to him and he knew he had to hurry. He waded round
to the less-than-savory area behind the cow’s tail. It was as bad as he
expected it to be. Cows in difficulty had little control of their bodily
functions. He narrowed his eyes and squinted through the snow towards the bank.
"’You ready, Joe?"
Joe’s voice drifted down, "We’re ready!"
"Then pull!" Adam jammed his powerful shoulder under the cow’s
hipbone and shoved hard.
The cow, a big animal and heavily pregnant, weighed the
best part of a ton. She bellowed long and loud. Joe and his pinto
mare hauled on the rope. Adam was rapidly running out of patience. "Pull,
will you, Little Joe? Pull!"
Joe Cartwright, cold, tired, and already working hard himself, abruptly
lost his good humour. "Goddamn it, Adam, I am
pulling!"
"Then pull harder!"
Joe growled something his brother wasn’t intended to hear and drove his
heels hard into the mare’s sides. She snorted and leaned her full weight
against the rope. Adam, hip deep in mud and river water was already numb below
the waist. Above, he was burning hot and running with the sweat of exertion.
Determined to loose neither cow nor calf, he was getting angry. With a
gut-wrenching grunt he directed his rage into effort.
The cow yielded, finally, to persuasion. She groaned mightily as she
struggled with the sucking mud. She came loose with a loud slurp. She lunged
and got a purchase on the bank with her forelegs, levering herself out.
When the cow moved, Adam found himself in an unenviable position;
unsupported and with no firm footing, there was nothing he could do to save
himself. He fell face first into the hole she had left
in the mud. The hole filled rapidly with very cold water.
Joe whooped with triumph as he felt the rope slacken, and then the smile
died on his face. Adam’s expression, as he emerged from the mud hole, was
thunderous. He used his fingers to clear the muck from his eyes and spat it out
of his mouth. He wiped his sleeve across his face and smeared more dirt on than
he managed to get off. He despaired of cleaning any of it off the rest of him.
Resigned to the filth and to the reek of the filth, he waded wearily out of the
creek.
Seeing the warning signs in his brother’s eyes, Joe decided against
offering a helping hand and concentrated on freeing the cow. Still bellowing,
she moved off into the snow. Adam glared at his brother. It was lucky for Joe
that, right now, he didn’t have time to dump him in the river. He was soaked
through to his pink flannel underwear and beyond; he had to get himself back to
the house before he froze. He sighed. "C’mon, Joe.
Let’s go home."
Abruptly, Joe stopped sniggering. "Home?
You mean we have to go home? Right now?"
Adam snarled. "Right now!" He had
pulled on his socks and his boots and put his coat on over the mud in the hope
of retaining some body heat. He jammed his hat onto his wet head and headed for
his horse. Already, he was starting to shake.
Reluctantly, Joe bowed to the logic of the situation. His sigh, as he
coiled the rope and climbed the bank of the creek for, he was quite sure, not
the last time that winter, echoed his brother’s. Right then, home was not the
first place he would choose to be.
********
Jenny Cartwright
stationed herself strategically between the end of the elegant, French,
stripped satin sofa, a legacy left by a previous Mrs. Cartwright, and the
corner of the cruder, locally manufactured sideboard. Not an
especially large woman, she planted both hands firmly on her waist and made
herself as obstructive as she could.
"But you can’t go! Not now! Not today!"
It was an argument that had been going on, in fits and starts, for most
of the day, and Jenny had an uncomfortable, sinking feeling that she was not
going to win. She had long since run out of constructive reasoning. She had, by
turns: pleaded, cajoled, bullied and threatened, all to no avail. The Chinese
cook, mainstay of the Cartwright household for a great deal longer than Jenny
had been a part of it, was quite implacable. He would not stay in the house
another day, another hour, not even another minute!
Hop Sing already had on his coat, scarf, gloves, and his stovepipe
traveling hat. In his hands he clutched his venerable carpetbag, well stuffed
with all the necessities for a long journey. Hop Sing was planning a lengthy
trip: visits to distant friends, an extended stay with relatives, the way he felt right now, he might never come back!
The Oriental had planned well and timed his escape to perfection. The
Cartwright men were out. The only obstacle between him and the freedom he
desired was this voluble woman, no taller than he was, with the long dark hair
and the furious, frantic, sea green eyes. He had no intentions of being
thwarted now. For the first time in an hour, Hop Sing reverted to an
approximation of American English. "Missy Jenny in Hop Sing’s way. You move now! Hop Sing go!"
"But Hop Sing, where will you go? It’s Christmas!" Jenny had visions
of the huge stuffed goose sitting on the pantry shelf, and of a house full of
hungry Cartwright men all expecting to be fed Christmas dinner.
Hop Sing put his head on one side. "Chinese people not have
Christmas. Hop Sing got lotsa relatives in Virgin’a City. It quiet in Virgin’a
City." He nodded furiously to emphasise his
point.
Jenny forgot about blocking the way to the door. Instead, she wrung her
hands together. "Hop Sing, please stay. Just ‘til after
Christmas. I’ll make it quiet! I promise I’ll make it quiet!"
As if to belie her words, a thin but penetrating howl drifted down from
the upper reaches of the house. Both Jenny and the ex-cook turned and looked
towards the staircase with varying degrees of alarm and resignation. Hop Sing
heaved a great sigh. "It not quiet in this house no more! Hop Sing not
stand noise! Hop Sing go now!"
Jenny hesitated and, in the moment of her hesitation, was lost. Hop Sing
took advantage of her distraction to dodge past her and make a bolt for the
door. He flung it wide determined to make good his longed for escape. The wind,
blowing outside in earnest now, chose that exact moment to gust and threw a
flurry of freshly fallen snow full in his face. The door slammed back, and a
huge draft of cold air blasted into the room. Hop Sing staggered as the force
of it all but threw him off his feet. The flames in the hearth leapt as the
chill gale swept up the chimney. Hop Sing grabbed the door and slammed it shut
in the teeth of the wind. It was quite clear that, for a good long while yet,
he wasn’t going anywhere!
For the moment at least, the weather had won Jenny’s argument for her.
Letting out a long, relieved breath, she hastened towards the staircase. She
had a promise to make good. Hop Sing took off his hat and made his way back to
the relative tranquillity of the kitchen with an air
of injured resignation.
********
Hoss consoled himself that it was
through no fault of his own that he was late home for supper. Admittedly, he
had left it to the last possible moment before leaving behind the boisterous
and celebratory atmosphere of the Silver Dollar. By then, the light had been
fading, and it was snowing hard. Recalling his father’s cautionary words, Hoss
had screwed up his face and decided that another beer and, perhaps, a thick,
belly-pork sandwich should be the order of the day, while he waited for the
weather to clear. After all, he figured, a man needed his nourishment before he
went out in the cold. Time enough then to risk the perils of the journey home.
Consequently, it was quite dark when he finally stepped into the saddle, and he
turned his black gelding’s head towards the west.
And, of course, he made no attempt at all to hurry. The snow had stopped
falling and, except for a few, last, wind-borne flakes, the night was fine and
dry. Only a few, high tatters of cloud remained; the rest were being swept away
by the winds that streamed straight off the mountains. Pale and almost full,
the moon rode high over the hills; as the stars came out, one by one, a halo of
light formed around her fair face. She cast an ethereal and silver glow over an
all but silent land.
Hoss sat back in the saddle and let the gelding pick his own, easy pace.
The only sounds were the muffled footfalls of his horse and the huff of his
breathing. The breath steamed from the animal’s nostrils. Before long both
horse and rider were encompassed in a misty cloud. The woodlands were magical:
the landscape enchanted. The snow had covered the open range with a fresh and
glistening coverlet of purest white. Starkly black and sentinel, individual
trees cast faint, blue shadows.
Nestled in among its sheltering pine and scrub-oak, the ranch house
glowed like a beacon, shining in the night. Lamps had been lighted in every
window, and warm, yellow light spilled into the yard. It gave Hoss a
comfortable feeling inside that contrasted oddly with his chilly cheeks. He put
his horse up in the barn, and then stood outside for a long, precious moment,
puffing steamy breath into the air and gazing with sentimental affection at the
impressive, log-built structure. He was content that this was his place in the
world, the only home that he could ever remember having, a place of security,
and of…
The beatific smile faded from Hoss’s lips, and his face fell. He heaved a
Hoss sized sigh. Patting the bulge in his saddlebags that represented his
seasonal gifts to his family, he started, reluctantly, for the front door.
The evening before Christmas in the Cartwright household was always a
special occasion. Ben Cartwright, resplendent in his silver brocade waistcoat
and fine, grey wool suit, silk shirt and cravat, presided proudly over the
lordly setting. The room was bright with lighted lamps and the glow of polished
wood. A pine log fire, sweetened with apple wood and witch hazel, blazed in the
hearth. Alongside, in imitation of a tradition recently imported from
Ben turned and smiled benevolently. "You’re just in time son; come
and join us."
Dumping his gear on the sideboard and hanging up his coat and hat, Hoss
walked over to the fire, a beaming smile back on his face. Ben handed him a
tiny crystal glass and poured thick, dark liquor from a decanter. Adam and Joe,
in smart, dark suits, offered their glasses and Ben filled them, finishing with
a glassful for himself. He looked to each of his sons.
"Gentlemen, I offer you a toast." He turned with love and pride
in his eyes and raised his glass in tribute. "To the
lady of the house."
"The lady of the house!" The
young men echoed their father’s words and raised their glasses to their
stepmother. They sipped at the sweet, cherry-flavoured
drink and exchanged appreciative glances. Ben found himself overwhelmed with
demands for more.
Jenny, her hair coiled into tight, dark ringlets, flushed pink with the
pleasure of the company of four such handsome and desirable men. Her green eyes
glowed, and she sipped demurely from her own glass.
"My dear?" Ben offered her his arm, and she rose gracefully. Just for a moment, she
hesitated, throwing an anxious glance toward the staircase. All was quiet. Ben
patted her hand, and she gave him a slightly nervous
smile. Escorting her to the table, he held her chair while she settled. Fondly,
he smiled down on her dark head. Tonight, his wife looked particularly
beautiful and charming in a lace-trimmed gown of cream-coloured
silk. Her perfume was heady, the skin at the back of her neck like white satin.
He was quite overcome by a wave of affection.
Only when she was comfortably seated did he take his accustomed place at
the head of the table.
Ben looked around at the much-loved faces before him: at his dear wife,
laughing with delight at the humorous asides and outrageous compliments of his
sons, at the boys who were vying with one another in a display of verbal
chivalry and latter-day knightliness. Then there was Joe. No longer the baby of the family, no longer a boy, Joe had retained a
youthful appearance and a youthful outlook well into adulthood. His bright eyes
and his smile sparkled as he gleefully played the southern courtier.
At the far end of the table was Adam. Ben’s expression clouded just a
little. Adam looked considerably less blue than he had earlier in the
afternoon. A hot bath, and a mug of something herbal
that Hop Sing had cooked up in the kitchen had apparently worked wonders. Never
the less, Ben worried that his son’s unexpected dip in the creek and his cold
ride home afterwards could have unfortunate consequences. Then, with a smile,
he put his concerns aside. Adam was engaged in lively and enthusiastic repartee
with his brother, and Joe was coming off very much the worse. Certainly, there
were no obvious ill effects from his dunking.
Hoss, having arrived home late, was the only one not dressed for dinner. The
big man was singularly unabashed by his lack of finery. He was interested only
in the meal and was watching the arrival of the loaded plates and dishes
avidly. The only face missing from the assembly was that of Joe Drury. The
young man had returned to
Ben called the table to order and, in the sudden hush, offered thanks to
his God for all his blessings: for the food, for those gathered to share it and
for the gift of His own, only son on that most holy of night so long ago.
The meal, as it turned out, was decidedly not one of Hop Sing’s best. It gave the impression of having been thrown
together with little care and in considerable haste. Ben liked his steak rare,
but tonight’s offering was red-raw in the centre, with singed bits around the
outside. The potatoes had inexplicable, gritty lumps, and there was a strange
tang to the gravy that he couldn’t quite identify.
Thinking that, perhaps, he was the only one to notice, he cast some
surreptitious glances around the table. As usual, Hoss had piled his plate high
and was tucking in with gusto. It took a lot to put Hoss off his feed. Jenny
was nibbling at a morsel of meat; Ben suspected that the newly purchased, and
ridiculously tight, corset beneath the wasp-waisted dress was responsible for
her apparent lack of appetite. Joe was eating in fits and starts and talking
between mouthfuls, describing in embellished detail his brother’s adventure in
the creek. Ben doubted that he had noticed yet what he ate. Adam, however, in
between parrying his brother’s insults, was chewing thoughtfully and
increasingly slowly.
Feeling the weight of his father’s dark gaze, Adam raised his eyes to
meet it. He too had encountered a certain strangeness
in the texture of his food. He swallowed the mouth full half-chewed and pushed
the plate away. It was a gesture that encompassed a whole wealth of meaning.
Ben looked at his wife. Jenny had also stopped eating. She lay down her knife
and fork and gave him a weak smile.
Joe’s jaws worked to a stop, and his face took
on a curious expression of distaste. Hoss, who preferred his meat cooked right
through, was eyeing a dripping forkful with obvious disgust. Into the silence
that settled around the table, a wail of anguish drifted down from above.
Hop Sing bustled in from the kitchen. He saw the platefuls of uneaten
food. He looked from face to face, reading the various expressions. He threw up
his hands. "How you expect Hop Sing to cook good?
No quiet in this house no more! Baby cry all a-time!
Hop Sing go now, live someplace else!" The tirade
degenerated into Chinese as the – again – ex-cook went looking for his
carpetbag.
Ben came to his feet with a roar. "Hop Sing!"
Upstairs, Daniel Cartwright howled.
Jenny gathered her skirts and started for the stairs at a run. By now,
all the men were on their feet.
The front door burst open, and one the hands dashed in accompanied by a
blast of cold air and shedding snow. "Mister Cartwright, you’d better come
quick! The snow’s brought a tree down across the fence
in the lower pasture. We got Mizz Cartwright’s sheep
spread all across the north range!"
Ben bellowed. Daniel bawled. Confusion became chaos as the men-folk
abandoned the table for the door and their horses.
********
It was three long, bitterly cold
hours before all the sheep were gathered up and penned. And
longer before Ben was satisfied that they had all been accounted for. By
the time the Cartwright men returned to the house they were tired and dirty and
chilled to the bone. Their finery was considerably disheveled. The evening
should have been spent in singing, story-telling and polite reminiscence.
Instead, it had been spent in a snowdrift wrestling with sheep.
Jenny, still in her long silken gown, was pacing back and forth before
the hearth with the baby in her arms. Little Daniel Cartwright lay with his
head against his mother’s shoulder. His eyes were closed in sleep but there
were fresh tears glistening in his dark eyelashes. His face was tearstained,
and his cheeks were a fiery red.
Jenny and Ben exchanged looks that were infinitely weary. Ben walked over
and held out his arms for the sleeping baby. "Give him to me."
At nine months old, Daniel Cartwright showed every indication of growing
into a sturdy, thickset little boy and, eventually, into a tall, strong man. He hiccuped a sob against his father’s
shoulder as he was carried up the stairs.
********
Adam Cartwright sat bolt upright
in bed and shivered. Despite the warmth of the wall it shared with the chimney
stack, his room was cold. At first, as always, he couldn’t make out what had
awakened him. Then it came again, a long drawn out wail of agony that ended in
several sobs. In the silence that followed, Adam imagined the long, indrawn
breath and braced himself for the next onslaught. It was the sound of the baby
crying - yet again!
Adam lay back against his pillows and threw his arm across his face. This
was the eighth – or was it the ninth - night in a row that his little brother
had woken the household with his weeping. He knew from experience that, despite
the best efforts of his stepmother and his father, the disturbance was likely
to go on for hours. It seemed like half of forever since he had last got a
decent night’s sleep. It was no wonder that everyone was tired and quarrelsome
and generally out of sorts. He lay and listened for the familiar opening and
closing of doors, the sound of footfalls out in the passage, perhaps a murmur
of voices as Jenny, or perhaps his Pa, went to see to the child.
He heard nothing. Daniel’s crying went on and on, sounding forlorn and
lonely in the night. Adam decided, at last, that there was no help for it – it
was time for big brother to take a hand. He threw back the blankets and reached
for his pants.
Outside, beyond his bedroom window, the moon had set and the night was
very dark. It was snowing again - fine, feather-light flakes falling silently
out of a clear sky. The barn and the ranch buildings were draped in white, and
there was a fresh, white carpet spread out on the ground.
In the faint light from the window, Adam rummaged in the bottom of a
drawer. It was a moment or two before he found what he was looking for - a
Christmas present for the littlest Cartwright of all. Not needing a light to
find his way, he stepped out into the long passageway and closed the door
quietly behind him.
Ben Cartwright stirred and turned onto his back. His eyes opened, and he
stared intensely into the darkness, listening hard. A couple of times he
thought he heard the sounds again, faint and far off - the rising and falling
of an ancient, gentle melody. Strain his ears as he might, he couldn’t be sure.
Beside him, Jenny stirred, only half waking. "What is it, Ben? The baby?"
Now there was nothing - no sound at all. "I thought I heard someone
singing," he said.
Jenny sighed and snuggled up against him, appreciative of his warmth,
glad that she didn’t have to get up. "Perhaps it was an angel."
Smiling, Ben drew her closer. "Perhaps it was." As he drifted
back into sleep, his last thought was that he would never have expected an
angel’s voice to be a rich, deep baritone.
Christmas morning dawned bright and clear. When Ben woke up, the sun was
already shining in through the bedroom window. He realized that he had overslept.
In fact, it seemed as if the entire ranch had overslept! Outside there was a
fresh blanket of snow over everything. Nothing was moving. Inside the house it
was utterly quiet. Much too quiet! Ben got out of bed and put on his robe.
Jenny sat up, still sleepy. She saw the expression on his face.
"What’s the matter?"
"Daniel," he said anxiously, "He’s too quiet."
As Jenny got up, Ben was already headed for the child’s room.
The baby’s bed was empty.
Ben and Jenny exchanged looks. Ben started for the stairs. On the halfway
landing, he pulled up short. Jenny, just one step behind him, stopped and
looked.
The fire in the hearth had been built up and was burning steadily. The
big room was cosily warm. On the far side of the
fireplace, in the red leather armchair, Adam Cartwright was fast asleep. He was
dressed in his most comfortable old clothes, and his long, lean legs were
stretched out towards the flames. Lying across his broad chest, face down and with his head turned to the side, was Daniel
Cartwright. The baby’s dark head was close against his brother’s cheek. He was
sleeping as well. His so-sore little jaws were clamped hard on his brother’s
Christmas gift. Left to Adam by his mother, given to her by her grandmother,
mounted in silver and yellowed with age, it was an ivory, Georgian teething
ring, and it had brought peace to all their lives at Christmas.
Potters Bar 2000.