Bloodlines
Part 3

By Kathleen T. Berney

“ ‘Mornin’, Sheriff,” Joe greeted Roy Coffee with a big smile, as he sauntered into the lawman’s office the following morning.

Roy looked up from the stack of wanted posters spread out across his desk, and grinned. “ ‘Mornin’ yourself, Joe.”

As he stepped in front of the sheriff’s desk, his eyes were drawn to the grim faces pictured on the wanted posters. “Ummm um! Never saw so much ugly gathered together in one place,” he murmured, shaking his head.

“They’re a hard nosed lot, that’s for dang sure,” Roy agreed. “Say! THIS one ain’t so ugly . . . . ” He picked up one of the posters in the middle and held it out to Joe.

“I . . . I don’t believe this,” Joe said with a grin. “This guy’s the spittin’ image of Eddie Jones.”

“He that drifter your pa hired ‘bout a month or so back?”

“Yeah.”

Roy took the poster back from Joe. “THIS fella’s name’s George Edwards . . . ‘n it seems he’s wanted in several other states . . . California, Texas, Arizona . . . in addition t’ Nevada.”

“That fella sure gets around. What’d he do?”

“Seems he’s some kinda killer for hire,” Roy said grimly, “he’s wanted for three murders in Texas, one in Arizona, two out in California, ‘n one more here. Got a list o’ aliases here ‘bout a mile long.”

“Eddie Jones isn’t on there . . . is he?”

Roy silently scanned the list. “Nope. There’s an Eddie George on here ‘bout mid-way down t’ list, but no Eddie Jones. Besides all that, didn’t your pa send wires to all the places your man said he worked for?”

Joe nodded. “ . . . and Eddie’s claims all checked out,” he said.

“So . . . . ” Roy said, as he gathered the wanted posters together. “What can I do for ya, Joe? I . . . don’t think ya got yourself outta bed so early just to stop by ‘n look at m’ rouges’ gallery.”

“Pa asked me to stop by and find out whether or not you’ve gotten back any replies to the wires you sent,” Joe said, his smile fading.

“Your timin’ couldn’t be better, Joe,” Roy said, as he opened the top right hand drawer of his desk. He pulled two envelopes out of the drawer, both bearing his name, neatly printed with a pencil. “George Ellis brought ‘em over from the telegraph office a couple o’ minutes ago.”

“Hot diggity!” Joe exclaimed, as he snatched the envelopes right out of the sheriff’s hand. He quickly opened the envelope on top and pulled out the single piece of paper.

“I . . . wouldn’t get your hopes up, Joe,” Roy cautioned.

“ ‘Sheriff Coffee,’ ” Joe read the first message aloud. “ ‘Regret to inform you the Pinkerton Agency employs no agent named Zachary Hilliard.’ It’s signed T. Herbert.”

“I figured they were gonna tell me that,” Roy said. “I told your pa the Pinkerton Agency ain’t in the habit o’ givin’ out the names o’ their investigators.”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I suppose,” Joe sighed dolefully.

“I gotta friend . . . an old army buddy o’ mine,” Roy said. “He’s a retired lawman, AND he worked a few years as a Pinkerton man.”

“You think maybe he’d be willing to do some digging?” Joe asked hopefully.

“Like y’ just got through sayin’ yourself . . . nothin’ ventured, nothin’ gained,” Roy replied. “Ol’ Judd owes me a few favors, ‘n I kinda thought now’d be as good a time as any t’ call in on a couple. I’ll send that wire t’ Judd first thing.”

“Thank you, Sheriff Coffee,” Joe said gratefully. “I appreciate that very much . . . and I know Pa, Stacy, and Hoss will, too.” He stuffed the reply from the Pinkerton Agency back into its envelope, and turned his attention to the reply from New York.

“Joe . . . . ”

“Yes, Sir?” Joe queried, as he lifted the flap and removed the second message.

“The reply from the New York City Police Department’s pretty much the same as the Pinkerton Agency,” Roy said with much reluctance.

Joe’s face fell. “You mean . . . they don’t know anything about Zachary Hilliard?”

“He ain’t gotta criminal record, leastwise not in New York,” Roy explained. “The police chief went on t’ say the Hilliard family’s been a pillar o’ the community for many, many years now . . . ‘n that a lotta folks in New York have high regard for ‘em.”

“Damn,” Joe angrily muttered between clenched teeth. “That puts us right back to square one.”

“Ben told me he was gonna send you ‘n Candy over t’ Carson City t’ nose around,” Roy said. He invited Joe to sit down with a broad, sweeping gesture of his arm toward the two hard backed chairs, next to the front of his desk. “You fellas turn up anything?”

“Candy and I found out Zachary Hilliard WAS there,” Joe began, as he straddled one of the chairs backwards. “He arrived in Carson City . . . . ” he fell silent for a moment to do some mental figuring, “ . . . I guess its been three days ago now. He stayed overnight at Mrs. Gerard’s boarding house and the following morning, met with a business associate of his at the Comstock Hotel. After that, he just up and disappears right into thin air.”

“Y’ checked t’ livery stables? . . . the stagecoach depot?”

“Yeah . . . we did all that,” Joe said, exasperated. “Mrs. Gerard’s housekeeper told Candy and me that Zachary Hilliard stabled his rig at Baker’s Livery. That’s the one closest to her boarding house. When we went there, we were told they had no record of a customer by the name of Zachary Hilliard.”

“What about the business associate he met with at the Comstock Hotel?”

“He registered at the Comstock as Mister Smith,” Joe replied. “The desk clerk said he checked out in the afternoon, day before yesterday. From there, he, too, disappears into thin air.”

“Seems these two fellas are goin’ t’ whole a lotta trouble t’ cover their tracks,” Roy murmured softly.

“Pa said the same thing last night.”

“We know for fact that Zachary Hilliard rented a rig from Tony Grainger’s livery. That rig’s gotta be returned sometime. You check with him?”

“Yeah,” Joe replied. “Just before I came here. Tony said that Mister Hilliard’s not yet returned the rig. I . . . asked him to let you know the minute he does. I hope that was alright . . . . ”

Roy nodded. “Might be better if I follow up with Zachary Hilliard instead o’ you or your pa,” he said quietly.

“I was wondering if you might see your way clear to sending a wire to the sheriff over in Carson City,” Joe said. “Pa was thinking that Zachary Hilliard might have used another livery instead of Baker’s. He also thought the two of ‘em . . . Zachary Hilliard AND Mister Smith . . . may have actually stayed on in Carson City.”

Roy nodded. “It’s possible. I’ll send Amos a wire, ‘n ask him t’ nose around a li’l,” he promised. Amos Dudley was the sheriff over in Carson City, and numbered among Roy Coffee’s oldest and closest friends.

Joe rose to his feet. “Thanks again,” he said, as the sheriff also rose.

“I’ll letcha know what Judd ‘n Amos hafta say, the minute I hear,” Roy promised as they walked across the room toward the door.

“Have you been able to find out anything more about Stacy’s saddle cinch being cut?” Joe asked.

“I got a list with the names o’ the men workin’ in the corral that day,” Roy replied, “about a dozen in all. Your pa got ‘em from Hoss. I’ve questioned all but three of ‘em— ”

“ . . . and?” Joe pressed.

“They were just as surprised as you folks no doubt were, when y’ found out that cinch’d been cut deliberate,” Roy said.

“Which three haven’t you had a chance to question?”

“Tom Parsons . . . Mark O’Connor . . . ‘n Eddie Jones,” Roy rattled the names right off the top of his head. “If it’s alright with your pa, I’d like t’ come out this afternoon ‘n talk to ‘em.”

“Eddie left this morning with Dan Eberhardt and Arch Campbell to repair the fence around the northwestern side of our winter pasture,” Joe said slowly. “All the wind and rain we had last month knocked that whole section down.”

“How soon y’ expect Eddie back?”

“Three days . . . four, maybe five at the very outside,” Joe replied. “I know Pa won’t mind one bit if you come out today to question the other two men.” He smiled. “In fact . . . you COULD come out LATE this afternoon, and stay for supper.”

“Thank you, Joe. I just might take y’ up on that . . . . ”

“ . . . Hop Sing, that was without a doubt the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” Roy Coffee declared with a contented smile, as he gently patted his full stomach. “Glad t’ see you ain’t lost your touch.”

“Thank you, thank you very much,” Hop Sing said, grinning from ear to ear. “Now go in living room, sit down. Hop Sing clear table, then bring coffee.”

“Anything to keep you in a good mood,” Ben said, rising from his place at the head of the table.

“Shoo,” Hop Sing quipped, as he set himself to the task of clearing the table.

“Hey, Hoss . . . how about a game of checkers?” Stacy asked, as she fell in step along side the biggest of her three brothers.

“Hmpf!” Joe snorted in mock indignation. “You only wanna play him because you can’t beat me with a stick.”

“Fat lot YOU know, Grandpa,” Stacy retorted, without missing a beat. “The real reason I wanna play with Hoss is . . . HE doesn’t cheat.”

“I do NOT cheat,” Joe declared, favoring his young sister with the most ferocious scowl he could possibly summon. The mischief sparking in his hazel eyes wasn’t lost on Hoss or Stacy.

“Yeah, WE know, Li’l Brother,” Hoss chortled. “You don’t cheat . . . y’ just get real creative with the rules.”

“ . . . and don’t either one of you ever forget it,” Joe returned.

Roy turned and graciously offered his arm to the Cartwrights’ houseguest. “Miss McKenna, it’s good seein’ you again,” he said in a tone of voice that was polite, yet cool.

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Paris replied, accepting the proffered arm. “It’s good seeing you, too. I trust you’ve been keeping yourself well?”

“Can’t complain.” It was on the tip of Roy’s tongue to inquire after Paris’ well being. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again, upon remembering her delicate state of health.

“Apart from that terrible storm the first night I came . . . the weather’s been quite lovely,” Paris observed, after an interminably long moment of strained silence.

“Yes ’m,” Roy grunted, as he led her over to the blue chair next to the fireplace.

Joe leaned over and fished the footstool out from under the chair. “Here y’ are, Miss Paris,” he said quietly, as she half collapsed into the chair. “Something to prop up your feet.”

“Thank you,” she replied, lifting up one slippered foot, then the other.

“Can I get you a cushion?”

Paris shook her head. “I’m fine, Joe . . . thank you.”

Satisfied that he had left Paris in capable hands, Roy glanced up, making eye contact with the Cartwright clan patriarch. Ben nodded.

“Joe . . . Miss McKenna . . . I hope you’ll both excuse me,” Roy said, looking from one to the other, inwardly relieved to be free of Paris’ company, if only for a little while. He remembered how devastated Ben was . . . how devastated Hoss and Joe were, too, after she had up and left so suddenly, without a word, without so much as leaving a note to say good-bye. He had never forgiven her for that, nor did he expect he ever would. However, the intense anger he still felt toward her alarmed and surprised him.

“You’re excused, Sheriff Coffee,” Joe said, noting that his father had turned and started toward the front door. He silently hoped and prayed that the sheriff might have some news to impart.

Roy Coffee silently followed Ben out onto the front porch, closing the door behind him. “How’s Stacy doin’ with that sprained ankle?” he asked, as the two of them walked across the yard toward the corral fence next to the barn.

“Much better,” Ben replied. “The swelling’s gone down quite a bit, though she’s still walking with a slight limp. Roy . . . . ”

“Yeah, Ben?”

“Joe said you wanted to talk with Tom Parsons and Mark O’Connor.”

“ . . . ‘n Eddie Jones, too, when HE gets back,” Roy replied.

“Did you—?!”

Roy nodded. “I talked to Tom ‘n Mark. Both of ‘em denied havin’ anything t’ do with cuttin’ the cinch strap on Stacy’s saddle,” he reported. “They claimed they was over in t’ other corral, workin’ with Hank Carlson ‘n Dan Eberhardt. Since Hoss backed ‘em up, I’m inclined t’ believe ‘em . . . leastwise for now.”

A strained silence fell over both of them, as they stepped up to the corral fence.

“Sorry I can’t give ya anything more definite, Ben,” Roy murmured contritely.

“You needn’t apologize,” Ben said quietly. “I know you’re doing your best. It’s just that I was hoping to . . . well, if not have matters completely resolved, then to at least know more about this Zachary Hilliard and . . . whoever it was that cut the cinch on Stacy’s saddle.”

“Joe told me he asked Tony Grainger t’ let me know when this Hilliard fella returns the rig he borrowed a few days ago,” Roy said. “I’ve asked the owners o’ the other liveries in town t’ do the same thing, and Clem’s been checkin’ with Hiram Peabody every day, t’ see if anyone, answerin’ t’ the description Mrs. Braun gave o’ Zachary Hilliard, has come in on the stage.”

Ben nodded.

“I also sent that wire t’ Amos over in Carson City, too, Ben,” Roy continued. “He wired back ‘n told me he’d nose around . . . ask questions. I’m hopin’ to hear somethin’ back from him in t’ next couple o’ days.”

“ . . . and Joe told me that you’d wired another friend of yours and asked HIM to see if he could squeeze any information out of the Pinkerton Agency.”

“Yep.” Roy nodded his head.

“Sounds like you’ve got everything pretty much covered,” Ben sighed. “I just hope and pray something useful turns up in the next couple of days. I . . . told Stacy that I didn’t want her going out by herself until I knew more.”

“I was just gettin’ ready t’ suggest y’ do that . . . for her own protection,” Roy said. “I know that li’l gal’s well able t’ look after herself, most o’ the time. You, Hoss, ‘n Joe’ve all seen t’ that. While she can like as not give a good account o’ herself against any critter out there, who tried t’ make a meal of her . . . those TWO legged critters . . . when THEY’RE hell-bent on doin’ a body harm, they can be a lot more wily than the FOUR legged ones, if y’ get my meanin’.”

“I do indeed,” Ben replied, “and so far Stacy’s been content to abide by my restrictions the few days her ankle’s kept her out of action. However, now that she’s feeling and doing much better— ”

“She’s gonna be chompin’ at the bit t’ be out ‘n about.”

Again, Ben nodded. “Especially with the school being closed due to the teacher being ill,” he added. “Any word yet as to when classes will resume?”

“ ‘Fraid not, Ben . . . but don’t you worry none. With all the irons we still got in the fire, I’m sure somethin’ will turn up in the next couple o’ days,” Roy said with confidence. “In the meantime, you tell that li’l gal o’ yours t’ sit tight, ‘n be patient.”

“I will, Roy,” Ben murmured softly, knowing all too horribly well, that such was far easier said than done.

The woman was tall and slender, clad in darkness, her face veiled with thick impenetrable shadow. She looked away, terrified by the thought of seeing the woman’s face, or worst of all, her eyes. The woman called to her. She heard the urgency and fear in the woman’s voice. For the first time, she realized that the woman called her by another name. Though the name was not her name, or a name known to her, it’s sound, the flow of consonants and vowels into their own unique patterns of syllables, terrified her.

Stacy woke up suddenly, the remnants of a scream dying in her throat before it could issue forth. For a time, she just laid there, unmoving, with no idea as to where she was or how she had come to be there. Somewhere, off in the far distance, she heard a door close, then footsteps . . . .

“My room!” she gasped, unaware that she spoke aloud. “Dream . . . . ” She pulled her quilt up around her, shivering violently in spite of the warmth of late spring that had begun, even at this early hour, to fill her bedroom. She closed her eyes, and tried to focus on her breathing. In, out, deep, even breaths. Even with her eyelids squeezed shut, she felt the walls of the room closing in on her.

Stacy opened her eyes, and glanced at the clock, hanging on the wall next to her door. The time was a few minutes before six, plenty of time, she realized to get in a short ride on Blaze Face before breakfast. She threw aside the covers with a strength born of a desperate need to escape the claustrophobic confines of her bedroom and the house. She quickly dressed and made her way downstairs.

“Good morning,” Ben greeted her from behind his desk in the area set aside as his study, clad in nightshirt, robe, and slippers. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

He had woken up hours ago, while it was yet dark. After spending the better part of an hour restlessly tossing and turning, he had finally thrown aside his bed covers in disgust. “Maybe now’d be a good time t’ at least start reading over that lumber contract,” he mumbled very softly, under his breath, as he hauled himself up out of bed, and groped in the darkness for his robe . . . .

He had spent the better part of the last hour and a half reading and re-reading that first paragraph until the words blurred to an indecipherable mass of consonants, vowels, and punctuation, devoid of any and all meaning. The tedious process of trying to make some sense of the all too precise legal wording of the document coupled with his increasing concern about Stacy’s safety left him feeling mentally drained and on edge physically. He set the papers on the desk in front of him and massaged his temples against the beginnings of a rip-roaring headache.

Startled by the sound of her father’s voice and his presence, combined with the fear and claustrophobia left in the wake of her dream, Stacy nearly jumped right out of her skin.

Ben rose, an anxious frown knotting his brow. “Stacy, are you alright?”

She swallowed, and took a deep, ragged breath. “I . . . I will be, Pa,” she replied, her voice shaking. “I just need to get out in the open for a little while. There’s enough time for Blaze Face and me to take a short ride before breakfast— ”

“Stacy . . . the night before last, you promised me you wouldn’t go out by yourself until we could resolve this matter concerning Zachary Hilliard,” Ben said. “Remember?”

In her fright and panic, she had completely forgotten. “Pa, can you come with me?”

“Now?!”

Stacy vigorously nodded her head.

“I’m not even dressed,” Ben pointed out the obvious in a reasonable tone of voice.

“Please? It wouldn’t take you long to— ”

“Even if I went up now, by the time I finished getting washed and dressed, it would be almost time for breakfast,” Ben protested. “Tell you what! AFTER breakfast, we can saddle up, and— ”

“Pa, I can’t wait that long!” Stacy wailed. “If I stay in this house another minute I . . . I swear . . . I’m gonna run mad!”

“Stacy— ”

“What?” she rounded on him furiously.

“I think you’d better go up to your room and stay there until you calm down,” Ben said firmly.

“Pa . . . . ”

“Now.”

Stacy exhaled an audible sigh of anger and frustration, before turning heel and fleeing to the upper environs of the house. Her loud angry footfalls echoed through the house, culminating with the slamming shut of her bedroom door.

Ben picked up the document, and tried again to read it. Within less than five minutes, he threw it back down on the desk again in angry frustration. “Might as well get dressed,” he sighed, rising.

“Good morning, Ben,” Paris greeted him in the hallway, an hour later, after he had dressed and shaved.

“Good morning, Paris.” He was pleased to see that not only was she up and about, but for the first time since her arrival she had gotten dressed. Her clothing bagged loosely on her thin, emaciated frame, but Hop Sing’s good cooking would solve that problem in short order. “You’re looking very well today. How are you feeling?”

“You lie through your teeth, Ben Cartwright,” Paris returned playfully. “Truth be known, I probably look like I’ve been tied to the underside of a stagecoach and dragged the entire length and breadth of Virginia City a hundred times over. I AM feeling much better, however . . . . ” She fell silent for a moment. “Ben?”

“Yes, Paris?”

“I’m so glad you insisted on my coming to the Ponderosa.”

“My pleasure,” Ben said sincerely. Their passage toward the stairs took them past the closed door to Stacy’s room. “Paris, can you make it downstairs on your own?”

“Yes, I can,” she replied.

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” he said. “There’s somebody I have to talk to.”

“Sure, Ben,” Paris said, remembering the footsteps earlier that sounded for all the world like a cattle stampede, and the slamming door. “See you downstairs.”

Ben turned his attention to the fast closed door. He took a deep breath, and knocked. “Stacy, it’s Pa.”

“Come in,” a small, contrite voice invited from within.

Ben opened the door and walked in. Stacy stood before the window with her back to the door, head bowed and arms folded across her chest. Ben crossed the room and took his place beside her. “I’m sorry I took your head off earlier,” he said quietly, placing his arm around her shoulders. “Reading legal documents always leaves me a feeling little irritable. I had no right to take it out on you.”

“I’m sorry, too, Pa,” Stacy said, her voice unsteady.

Ben saw a single stray tear slip over her eyelid and roll down her cheek. “If you’d like, the offer is still open to go for a ride after breakfast,” he said, handing her a handkerchief.

“Thanks, Pa,” Stacy said, accepting the proffered handkerchief and olive branch. “I’d like that very much.”

“It’s settled,” Ben said. “Breakfast should be ready in a few minutes . . . . ”

“I’ll be right down.”

“I’ll see you in a few minutes downstairs in the dining room,” he said, then left her alone, satisfied that all was right between them, at least for the time being. “It’s been . . . what? Three days now? . . . and she’s already chomping at the bit,” Ben mused in uneasy silence. “I sure hope Roy turns up something soon . . . . ”

“The kid and her pa just came out of the house, Sarge. Looks like they’re headed for the barn,” Alexander Deveraux observed in a smooth, oily tone, as he lowered the telescope in hand. He was a short, portly man, with a full head of black hair slicked back with an overabundance of hair cream. His round, flabby face and eyelids almost overwhelmed his black, piercing eyes, lending him a look of stupidity. He had served in the U.S. Army during what many referred to as the War Between the States, rising to the rank of corporal. In the years since, he had become an aimless drifter, with a voracious appetite for rotgut whiskey, games of chance, and women of dubious reputation, in that order. “I have a clear shot at the girl. All YOU have to do is . . . give the word.”

“Put away your weapon, Corporal. Now!” Jeff Collier, the man addressed as Sarge, curtly rebuked his companion. “First of all, our position is too far distant--- ”

“No, it ain’t,” Alexander rudely cut the sergeant off mid-sentence. “With my rifle--- ”

“Rifle or no, it’s still too risky from our position,” Jeff countered, sparing no effort to conceal his growing annoyance with the corporal, “ . . . and even if it WASN’T too risky, we’ve been given new orders. The captain doesn’t want her killed. Not yet. He wants us to continue our surveillance of the Cartwright family, especially the girl, and take note of their comings and goings. That is ALL!”

“We’ve been out here . . . for what’s gotta be going on close to a whole solid month . . . doing nothing BUT watch the damned Cartwright family,” Alexander groused through clenched teeth.

“Two weeks and three days,” one of the younger men within their circle said in a clear, crisp tone of voice. His name was Seth Harris. He was tall, with chest and shoulders broad and well muscled, that tapered down to a trim, narrow waist. His hair, according to his indulgent mother, was the color of wild buttercups and liquid sunshine. He had cut his once thick, wavy locks, down to the nubs the day he enlisted in Mister Lincoln’s army that he might do his part in the fight to preserve the union, and had maintained it thus, ever since. His father had rather sardonically remarked that his shorn hair reminded him of a grassy pasture, after a flock of sheep had finished grazing. His mother was grief stricken.

“Two weeks ‘n three days . . . two days ‘n three hours?! Who the hell cares?!” Alexander groused. “Still SEEMS like a blamed month o’ Sundays, when a body’s been sleeping on the cold, hard, sometimes WET ground . . . sweltering under a hot sun all day . . . freezin’ his butt off all night . . . livin’ on nothin’ but cold beans, beef jerky, ‘n water so we can watch the Cartwrights doin’ the same ol’ things day after day after day . . . . ” An exasperated sigh exploded from between his lips, thinned with anger. “I’m beginnin’ t’ have a whole lotta second thoughts about my joining up with this . . . this damned chicken outfit . . . . ”

“You may entertain all the second thoughts you want, Corporal Deveraux,” Jeff Collier countered in a low, menacing tone, “just so long as you DON’T think about deserting.”

Alexander unconsciously stepped back, and raised his arms to shield his face against the cold, angry glare on the sergeant’s face, and the hard glint of cold steel in his eyes.

“No one leaves until our mission is complete.”

Alexander reluctantly placed his rifle aside, leaning it up against the boulder behind him, just to his right. “Alright, Sergeant Collier . . . how much longer are we supposed to remain here, watching the Cartwrights?”

“Until we’re told otherwise,” Jeff replied.

“ . . . and who’s the idiot that changed the orders?” he groused.

“The captain,” Jeff snapped, his scowl deepening.

Alexander blanched. “S-Sorry . . . I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“I’ll let it pass THIS time, Corporal,” Jeff said in a voice, stone cold. “In the future, however, I would strongly advise you to give thought to your words before you speak them.”

“Yes, Sir,” Alexander murmured. “Would it be outta line for me to ask why?”

“Why . . . what?” Jeff demanded.

“Why the captain changed our orders.”

“He has his reasons,” Jeff said curtly. “We’ll know what they are when and IF we need to know.”

Alexander lapsed into a sullen silence.

Jeff cast a look of disgust at his companion, then returned to his vigil, just in time to see Stacy and Ben walk out of the barn, leading their saddled horses. His thoughts drifted back to the war and the battle at Antietam Creek.

It was during the attack on the bridge, that would be known in later years as Burnsides’ Bridge, he was severely wounded, and left for dead among the dead. The attack began during the late afternoon, early evening hours of September 17, 1862. He was among the men ordered to cross and hold that bridge. The bridge was taken, but with heavy losses. Five hundred Confederates held out against nine thousand Union soldiers. They pressed forward with their attack, pushing Longstreet’s men back towards the town of Sharpsburg, Maryland. They had General Lee and his men boxed in and on the run. Had it not been for the arrival of General A. P. Hill and his men from Harper’s Ferry, AND General McClellen’s refusal to send in reinforcements, the Army of Northern Virginia would not have lived to fight another day, let alone the next two years.

The day, that might have gone down in the history books as the day the Army of Northern Virginia was crushed and the back of the Confederacy broken, instead became known as the single, bloodiest day of fighting during the course of the American Civil War. All because, for whatever reason, General McClellen refused to send in reinforcements at two critical junctures, one of them being the battle at the bridge, where Jeff Collier was wounded and almost certainly would have died along with so many others, had it not been for one John McKenna.

During the night, his commanding officer, then Lieutenant John McKenna, returned for him and carried him back to safety. McKenna was given a field promotion to captain for that act of foolhardy bravery. Furthermore, McKenna saw to it that he received the medical attention he needed. He, as a small way towards repaying the debt he owed the captain, had privately vowed his undying loyalty.

The sergeant intended to honor that vow, no matter how distasteful he might find doing so personally. The thought of killing a young woman in cold blood . . . a young woman not much more than a child, a little older perhaps than his eldest daughter, Annabelle . . . left a bitter, rancid taste in his mouth. The captain’s obsession with the girl’s demise was very troubling to say the least, but his was not to question. His duty was to obey, and trust that the captain had valid reasons for his actions. While there was no question in his own mind that he would carry out any orders issued him, he still found a measure of guilty relief in the change.

Father and daughter stood side by side, holding the reins of their horses atop a rocky promontory overlooking a panoramic vista of lake, field, and the pine trees for which Ben Cartwright had named their home. Overhead, the sky was clear, and in the distance they could see the mountains. Adam Cartwright had named this place Ponderosa Plunge the first time Ben brought him here, more years ago now than he cared to contemplate. From that time on, this spot had become Adam’s special place, as it had been a place where he and Marie enjoyed visiting together. Now, Ponderosa Plunge had become one of several favorite places for his daughter.

“Well, Stacy? Is this enough open space for you?” Ben asked, gesturing to the view below them.

“Yes hardly seems adequate,” Stacy replied. “ ‘O God, how excellent is Your Name in all the Earth . . . when I consider Your Heavens, the work of Your Fingers, the Moon and Stars which You have ordained, what is man . . . or woman . . . that You are mindful of them, or their sons and daughters that You visit them?’ ” i

“Taken from Psalm Eight,” Ben said, pleasantly surprised. Though he and Stacy occasionally sat down with the enormous, ancient family Bible that had been handed down for many generations on his mother’s side of the family, he had no idea that she had done any reading on her own.

“I stand here this day
With Earth, My Mother and Sky, My Father;
With the Moon and Sun,
My Grandmother and My Grandfather;
With My Aunts and Uncles,
The Winds, and Rains,
The Snows, and Storms;
With My Sisters and Brothers,
ALL that live, breathe, and have being
Upon Earth, Our Mother,
Under Sky, Our Father.

I stand here this day
Before My Ancestors, who came before me,
And My Descendants, who will come after me,
Shining down upon me
As Stars in the night sky.

I stand here this day
In the very center of my life;
With Earth and Sky,
With Sun and Moon,
With the Wind, Water, and Fire;
With all the plants and animals;
Between my Ancestors and Descendants;
Where North and South,
East and West together meet.

O Great Spirit,
Mother . . . Father . . . Lover . . . .
And Creator of all that is,
Help me to remember
That I am but a single strand
Of the Great Web of Life.”

“Pa, that’s beautiful!” Stacy exclaimed with delight. “Paiute?”

Ben nodded. “Chief Red Hawk, an old friend, taught me that prayer many years ago,” he said. “Interesting how the psalm and the prayer inspire awe in the beauty of nature . . . and put us humans in our place at the same time.”

Both lapsed into companionable silence as they stood contemplating a breathtaking vista they would over the course of their lifetimes always return to again and again.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“I hope and pray we humans don’t ever forget our place,” Stacy said soberly.

“Me, too,” Ben agreed. He turned and studied her for a moment. “Is everything . . . all right?” he ventured hesitantly.

“It is now, Pa,” Stacy replied.

For a quick, fleeting moment, Ben sensed that she held back on him. His mind replayed their initial argument earlier, and he realized for the first time that something had to have upset her, more than likely another dream. In the next instant, he realized with a pang of regret that he had never even asked.

“Really, Pa, I’m ok now,” she said again, looking over at him quizzically. “Sometimes when I feel like things are closing in on me, I just need to get outside in the open, you know . . . to put things in perspective.”

“Yes, I know,” Ben agreed, astonished at how she could sometimes read him so easily. He accepted her explanation at face value, realizing that he needed to allow her time and space to work things through on her own.

By unspoken agreement, they turned from the edge and began walking back toward their horses. “Can we stop by the corral?” Stacy asked. “I’d love to see that new golden stallion that just came in off the range.”

“How’s the ankle?” Ben asked, as he prepared to climb onto Buck’s back.

“Fine,” Stacy said quickly.

“Let me see you walk a few steps,” he said.

Stacy shrugged and complied. “See, Pa? All better!”

“MUCH better, perhaps . . . ALL better, no,” Ben observed wryly.

Stacy’s face fell.

“However, I think you ARE doing well enough to begin working out with that stallion,” Ben continued. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You can start as soon as we reach the corral, if your brothers have no objections.”

“Thanks, Pa,” Stacy said, as she climbed up onto the back of her own mount. “Let’s go.”

“Ben! You’re back!” Paris exclaimed, mildly surprised and thoroughly delighted, as he entered through the front door, with hat in hand. She stood over behind the desk, perusing the titles making up Ben’s personal library. The massive grandfather clock had just struck the quarter hour before eleven. “How was your ride out to Ponderosa Plunge?”

“Stacy and I enjoyed it very much. I think it did both of us a world of good to just take the morning and ride out to someplace beautiful,” Ben replied, as he placed his hat on one of the pegs beside the door, then set himself to the task of removing his gun belt.

“Where’s Stacy now?”

“I left her with Hoss and Joe at the horse corral.”

An anxious frown deepened the lines and furrows already indelibly etched into the plain of her brow. “Will she be alright?”

Ben nodded. “Her brothers and Candy will look after her.”

“Tea and cookies for Mister Cartwright and Miss Paris,” Hop Sing blithely announced, as he ambled into the great room bearing the silver tea service, with two cups and saucers, and a small plate with a half dozen sugar cookies, “fresh and hot just out of oven. Help put meat on Miss Paris’ bones.”

“Thank you, Hop Sing,” Paris said with a smile.

“Read later, Missy,” Hop Sing admonished, as set the tray down on the coffee table. “Come. Eat. You, too, Mister Cartwright. Come. Eat now, while still hot.”

“Well, I, for one am NOT going to turn down cookies, fresh and hot, right out of the oven,” Paris declared, as she moved out from behind the desk.

Ben placed his gun belt on the credenza, then walked over and offered Paris his arm.

“Thank you,” Paris murmured softly, as she slipped her small hand through the crook of his elbow. Her heart pounded with excitement and a healthy dose of trepidation, when he reached over and covered her hand with his own, and gently squeezed.

Ben gallantly steered her over in the direction of the settee, and gestured for her to sit down. Paris nodded, then seated herself primly square in the middle of the settee.

“Tea?” Ben queried, as he sat down close beside her.

“Yes, I— ” Paris, much to her chagrin, felt the hot rush of blood to her cheeks, upon hearing the nervous squeak in her voice. She took a deep ragged breath, and cleared her throat. “Thank you, Ben. I’d love some,” she replied, her voice husky, and at least two whole octaves lower.

An amused smile tugged hard at the corner of Ben’s mouth, as he poured each of them a cup of tea. “Earl Gray,” he remarked, handing her a cup and saucer.

Paris kept her eyes pointedly focused on the tea within her cup. “S-So nice of Hop Sing to remember after . . . after all these years,” she marveled.

“Cookie?” Ben asked, as he lifted the plate of cookies from the silver tea tray and held them out.

“Thank you.” Paris took a sip from her cup, then set it and saucer down on the coffee table.

“Paris?” Ben queried with an anxious frown. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, Ben. Honest. I’m just fine, really and truly,” she babbled, as she reached for one cookie, then another. She set one of the cookies down on her saucer, and took a big bite from the one in hand. “Wonderful cookies! Absolutely wonderful! Ben, you’d better grab your share quick, before I . . . before I devour the entire plateful.”

Ben laughed. “Go ahead. You’d make Hop Sing the happiest man on Earth.”

“Anything to make Hop Sing happy . . . . ” Paris murmured softly. As she sat drinking her tea, and making very short work of Hop Sing’s sugar cookies, memories of another time, long ago, when she and Ben Cartwright found themselves alone in this house together rose, unbidden. She again felt the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks.

“Paris?”

“Y-Yes, Ben?”

“A penny for your thoughts.”

“Why do I have the distinct feeling that you already know what my thoughts are?” Paris demanded. Though she turned and looked him in the face, her eyes fell just short of meeting his.

“Probably because I’m remembering that other time, too.”

Paris immediately averted her eyes to her lap. “Oh, Ben, we shouldn’t.”

“Is that what you want?”

Paris exhaled a loud sigh of exasperation, then turned and, this time, boldly met his dark eyes with her intense blue ones. “You know damned well that ISN’T what I want, Ben Cartwright. I’m . . . I’m trying to be sensible, that’s all.”

“I’m not so sure I want to be sensible, Paris,” he said gently, with all sincerity.

“If we had the common sense God gave a horse’s arse, we WOULD be sensible,” she snapped. “It’s been sixteen years, Ben . . . almost seventeen. That’s almost . . . . ” Her short burst of temper dissipated, leaving sadness, and a multitude of bitter regrets. “Almost seventeen years . . . that’s nearly half my life,” she said wistfully.

“Paris, what matters is the years that lie ahead,” Ben said, as he took the cup and saucer from her hands and placed it down on the coffee table, “not the years gone by . . . . ”

“You’re wrong, Ben,” she said, her voice breaking. “Those years DO matter . . . they m-matter a great deal. So much has happened, I . . . I can’t ever go back to being the wide-eyed innocent young girl I was then— ”

“I don’t expect you to,” Ben said, taking both of her hands in his own. “I . . . suspect . . . you’ve traveled a good deal, you’ve met a lot of people, and have been involved in different lines of work.

“Although I’ve remained here . . . on the Ponderosa, I’ve seen my eldest leave to make his own place in the world,” Ben continued. “He’s since married a lovely woman, and settled down with her and their two children. I find myself traveling to Sacramento a lot more often and staying longer.

“ . . . I’ve seen my younger boys, Hoss and Joe, grow and mature into men, I’m not only very proud to call my sons, but men I’ve come to trust and respect as my peers, as well. I’ve also adopted a daughter . . . seen her, and my sons through a lot of ups and downs . . . and I’ve learned a lot of hard lessons myself in the process. Neither one of us are the same people we were seventeen years ago, Paris.”

“N-No . . . I d-don’t suppose we are . . . . ”

“Tell you what,” Ben said, as he placed his arm around her shoulders. “How about the two of us taking things slowly? Just let unfold whatever is going to unfold at its own pace and time. Would you be willing to do that?”

Her mind raced. She wanted so much to say yes, but . . . dear God, if he EVER found out about Rose Miranda, he would despise her. A week ago, it wouldn’t have mattered, but now . . . after having spent the last few days here, falling in love with him all over again despite her best intentions . . . .

“I can’t bear the thought of him hating me, I can’t,” she lamented in silent misery.

“How CAN he find out about Rose Miranda?” a small, strident voice deep within asserted itself. “Your brother’s hardly likely to show up here on Ben Cartwright’s doorstep . . . and all the others who know about Rose Miranda are dead.”

Dared she hope?

“Ben?” she said aloud.

“Yes, Paris?”

“I . . . I AM willing to . . . to let be . . . and let happen whatever is MEANT to happen,” Paris said.

“I’m a soldier gol’ dammit, a SOLDIER!” Alexander Deveraux angrily groused under his breath. “I fought in the trenches right along side the best of ‘em. I killed MORE ‘n my share o’ Rebs . . . and what’ve they got me doing?! Playing messenger boy!”

Ok, so he had fallen asleep while on watch five days ago . . . but that was hardly his fault. Sergeant Collier was the one who had ordered him to go into town and lay in some fresh food and other supplies. While he was in the general store, trying to settle up with the crabby proprietress, he bumped into his brother-in-law, Noah Brown. Noah invited him over to the Silver Dollar Saloon for a beer and a chat . . . well, suffice it to say, it would have been very rude to refuse. He had accepted his brother-in-law’s invitation, intending to have one beer, maybe two . . . but no more!

That first beer had almost immediately led to the second when one of the locals sauntered in, bold as brass, and bought a round drinks for the house. He had no sooner finished that beer, when Noah insisted on buying him a third. In the interest of good manners, he had accepted, then bought a drink for Noah in return. Instead of beer, his brother-in-law ordered a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. In the further interest of good manners, he had accepted the second glass. He couldn’t just sit there, like a lump, and let Noah drink alone . . . .

After all . . . it was the first time he and his brother-in-law had laid eyes on each other in fifteen years. Surely THAT was worthy of a celebration . . . .

Wasn’t it?

Alexander remembered the two of them polishing off that bottle of whiskey in very short order. He and Noah had another beer after that, then another. The rest of the night was lost in a hazy, drunken blur. He was found in the livery stable by Lieutenant Hilliard and that snotty little upstart, who had served at the unit’s drummer boy, sprawled on top of a mound of straw, “snorin’ louder, ‘n more obnoxious than a thousand head o’ cattle, stuffed up with head colds . . . all lowin’ at the same time,” according to that mean ol’ coot, a little squint of a man by the name of Lafe. ii

He had tried to explain, but they wouldn’t listen . . . and THAT rankled!

Still ‘n all, Alexander Deveraux was a soldier, and a good one. As such, he was prepared to take his punishment, no matter how unjust and unfair it may be. Lieutenant Hilliard, however, had opted to make an example of Sergeant Collier instead, as a “harsh, but necessary object lesson.” After all, a leader is responsible for his subordinates. The sentence was fifty lashes from the lieutenant’s riding crop against the tender skin of the sergeant’s back. Sarge had borne it all in his usual stoic way, but afterwards, it seemed all the men in their unit hated him with a passion.

“ . . . ain’t MY fault the lieutenant ordered Sarge to take my punishment,” Alexander muttered under his breath, as he dismounted from his horse, and tethered its lead to the hitching post on the street in front of Fuhrman’s Lumber and Hardware . . . “six long blocks from where I’m s’posed to be.”

He had served under Captain John McKenna for the duration of the war. Though he admired and respected the captain for his ability, bravery, leadership, and tactical prowess, he had disagreed completely with his high notions of chivalry and honor. Now, as far as the Cartwright girl was concerned, it looked as though the captain had decided to do away with all those snooty, inconvenient, high fa-lootin’ ideals . . . and that suited Alexander Deveraux just fine.

He turned and gazed over at the Silver Dollar Saloon, directly across the street from the hardware store, contemplating. A glance at his pocket watch told him the time was six minutes before the hour of eight o’clock. His meeting with the lieutenant was scheduled for five minutes after eight, leaving him a total of eleven minutes to kill.

Alexander gazed longingly at the Silver Dollar, trying to determine whether or not he had time to run in for a quick beer. In the end, he discarded the idea. The lieutenant had issued strict orders, forbidding him to imbibe so much as “a single drop of beer, whiskey, or other ‘spirited’ drinks.”

“Is the lieutenant here?” an inner voice, sounding too close to that of his late, unlamented step-father, chided him derisively.

“No . . . . ”

“Then, who’s to know?”

“The lieutenant. He has his ways . . . and sooner or later, he’d find out. He always does.”

Alexander sighed, wondering again for the umpteenth time why he had agreed to sign on with this rag-tag chicken outfit. He hadn’t eaten a decent meal in . . . he couldn’t remember when, and though the sergeant was a decent enough cook, meal after meal after meal of beans and beef jerky for days on end, had worn thin a long time ago.

“Can’t eat . . . can’t even sit down ‘n have a lousy mug of beer . . . so help me, when this mission’s done, I’m gonna go to a real posh restaurant somewhere and order me the biggest steak they got, and a bottle of their finest champagne to wash it down,” Alexander groused, as he made his way down the street toward the Bucket of Blood Saloon.

Upon reaching his destination, Alexander stepped up to the door and peered inside. His beady, pig-like eyes moved along the line of tables up against the back wall. The object of his search had obviously arrived early, and now sat alone at the table in the corner furthest from the bar, half hidden in deep shadow. He discreetly made his way through the sparsely populated saloon toward his quarry, grateful now that he hadn’t given in to the temptation of stopping by the Silver Dollar first.

A moment later, Alexander Deveraux stood at rigid attention before the table, occupied by the man he had come to meet. “Lieutenant Hilliard,” he said stiffly, taking care to keep his voice low, “Corporal Deveraux reporting as ordered.”

The grizzled, gray haired man, seated at the table, glanced up sharply. He wore a pair of ragged flannel slacks, and a white linen shirt yellowed in the front due to age and countless exposures to the sun. “My NAME is Bill Taylor,” he said tersely, through clenched teeth, while leveling a deadly withering glare at the man standing before him. “Remember?”

“Yes, Sir,” Alexander managed politely, all the while silently bristling against the reprimand.

“At ease, Mister Deveraux, sit down,” Zachary Hilliard ordered. His eyes darted furtively over the room and the small handful of patrons. “Report.”

“The girl’s kept to the house for the last three days or so,” Alexander began.

“Why?” Zachary snapped out the question.

For a moment, Alexander stared over at Zachary with a bewildered frown.

“WHY has the Cartwright girl kept close to the house?” Zachary asked again, taking no pains to conceal impatience.

Alexander shrugged with an air of supreme indifference. “How should I know?!”

“Find out.”

“Why?”

“I gave you a direct order, Mister Deveraux,” Zachary said in a tight, angry voice. “You WILL find out why the Cartwright girl has kept to the house for the past three days.”

“I don’t see what difference it makes— ”

“It might make a big difference if she’s keeping to the house because of that botched attempt YOUR man made on her life,” Zachary replied in a wry, sardonic tone.

“I don’t see how,” Alexander whined.

“That girl may be keeping close to the house because her father’s suspicions have been aroused,” Zachary explained, in the same condescending tone of voice he might use to explain a difficult concept to a very dull witted child. “That would mean our mission has been compromised. At worst, we may end up having to abort the mission entirely. Should THAT come to pass, Mister Deveraux, I will personally turn you over to the captain’s tender mercies to answer for it. Do I make myself clear?”

Alexander blanched, and nodded his head vigorously.

“ . . . and since we’re on the subject of your man’s botched attempt on the Cartwright girl’s life,” Zachary continued, “it rudely came to my attention last night that you left a loose end dangling.”

“Loose end?!” Alexander echoed, whining. “WHAT loose end?”

“Your man himself,” Zachary replied. “I believe he calls himself Eddie Jones . . . among others?”

“What about him?”

“Mister Jones paid a visit to my lodging last night, Mister Deveraux,” Zachary replied. “That incompetent simpleton actually had the audacity to blackmail me.”

“What?!”

“You heard me. He told me straight out that if I didn’t pay him ten thousand dollars in cash by tomorrow tonight, he would go straight to the sheriff.”

“Damn!”

“You will tie up that loose end, Mister Deveraux,” Zachary ordered. “I don’t care how, but you WILL tie it up. Permanently.”

“Yes, Sir,” Alexander murmured contritely.

“Please continue with the remainder of your report.”

“The Cartwright girl . . . umm, left the house with her old man this morning,” Alexander continued. “First time she’s b-been out in the last three days.”

“I gathered that,” Zachary said in a wry tone of voice. “Where did they go?”

“I dunno. Out. Somewhere . . . a ways off, I s’pose . . . they took their horses.”

“Find out WHERE they went,” Zachary ordered, his voice filled with disdain. “I will expect that, along with the reason the girl’s kept to the house for the past three days included in your next report.”

“Y-Yes, Sir.”

“What time did they leave the house?”

“The girl and the old man?”

“Yes,” Zachary said curtly. “The girl and the old man. What time did they leave the house?”

“It was . . . well, it was this morning,” Alexander stammered.

“I did NOT ask you what time of day, Corporal. I asked you what TIME.”

“I . . . dunno.” Alexander began to squirm. “It was LATE morning . . . sometime after they ate their breakfast, and . . . and got their h-horses saddled. But I dunno what time it was . . . exactly.”

“What time did they return?”

“I dunno.”

“You will answer THOSE questions in your next report as well, Corporal Deveraux,” Zachary said curtly. “What of the girl’s regular schedule?”

“Y-You mean . . . before she . . . before she started keeping herself inside the house?”

Zachary nodded.

“So far as I could tell, she pretty much did the same things every day,” Alexander reported. “You know . . . get up . . . do chores with her brothers . . . eat breakfast . . . head off for school. Usual stuff, though . . . . ”

“What?” Zachary snapped.

“For the past week or so, she’s not been in school.”

“Why not?”

“The teacher’s been sick for the past week,” Alexander replied, vastly relieved he knew the answer to this question. “Bad cold, maybe pneumonia. There’s been talk of bringing in a substitute, but the school board’s not decided.”

Zachary nodded, satisfied with the corporal’s answer. “Continue,” he ordered.

“Well . . . with her not being in school, she’s been leaving the house after breakfast with her brother— ”

“WHICH brother?”

“The big lummox.”

“What is his NAME, Corporal?” Zachary demanded in a tone that dripped icicles.

“I dunno . . . they call him Horse, or something like that . . . . ”

An long exasperated sigh escaped through Zachary Hilliard’s thinning lips and clenched jaw. “You WILL learn the names of the entire Cartwright family,” he ordered, “and the next time you give report you will refer to them BY NAME.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Continue.”

“The girl and the big man have been going down to the corral, where the Cartwrights break and train their horses,” Alexander continued, regretting now that he hadn’t indulged himself in a beer at the Silver Dollar. “She’s been helping the big guy train ‘em, once they’ve been broke. They come back to the house for their noon meal, then they’ll either go back to the horse corral, or take care of some other chores at the house.”

“What kind of chores?” Zachary asked.

“I dunno . . . exactly,” Alexander replied. “Whatever kinds of chores they do on a farm or big ranch . . . like . . . well, they gotta muck out the stalls in the barn, I expect, and . . . their Chinese cook keeps chickens, which means someone’s gotta feed ‘em and gather the eggs, ‘n all . . . . ”

“Mister Deveraux, you have just wasted . . . . ” Zachary’s eyes darted over to the regulator clock hanging on the wall near the saloon door, “ . . . nearly an hour of MY precious time. When we meet again, three days hence, I expect a FULL and COMPLETE report. I want to know WHAT the Cartwrights, especially the girl, do and WHEN they do it. When they leave the Ponderosa I want to know WHERE they go, WHEN they go, and WHY they go. I also want names, dates, and exact times. Is that clear?”

“Y-Yes, Sir.”

“You will also deal with Eddie Jones,” Zachary continued. “If he comes to my lodging again, demanding payment, you will personally answer to the captain.”

Alexander swallowed nervously. “Y-Yes, Sir.”

“Dismissed,” Zachary said curtly. “You may return directly to your unit, AFTER you have dealt with Eddie Jones.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“ . . . and one more thing, Corporal.”

“Yes, Sir?”

“You will say nothing, and I MEAN absolutely NOTHING of this incident concerning Mister Jones to anyone,” Zachary ordered. “You will take care of that particular loose end quietly and discreetly. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir. Quite clear,” Alexander returned, laboring valiantly against his own rising anger to keep his voice calm and even.

Zachary Hilliard leaned back in his chair and watched as Alexander Deveraux beat a straight path toward the door.

“Can I get you anything else, Sir?”

Zachary glanced up and found his young aide, Private Samuel Yates, standing at his elbow. He had been working under cover here at the Bucket of Blood Saloon since first of the year. “No thank you, Young Man,” he replied as he dug into the right hand pocket of his pants. He extracted a five-dollar bill and placed it in Samuel’s hand. “That should cover the cost of the whiskey,” he said, inclining his head toward the whiskey glass on the table before him, virtually untouched. “The rest is for you.”

“S-Sir, I can’t--- ”

Zachary cut off Samuel’s protests with a curt gesture. “MY needs are minimal,” he whispered. “As I recall, Mister Yates, YOU have an elderly, infirm mother . . . . ”

It HAD been a long while since he’d last sent anything to his oldest brother toward the care of his mother . . . two, going on three months at the very least. “Thank you, Sir,” Samuel replied, accepting the money with much reluctance. “I’ll pay you back when . . . when the captain’s able to pay US.”

“Mister Yates . . . Samuel . . . I consider you a loyal soldier and . . . and trusted friend,” Zachary said earnestly. “We’re our positions reversed, I KNOW you’d be the first to dig into his pocket.”

“Thank you, Sir . . . I appreciate your generosity . . . more than you’ll know.” Samuel cast a quick, furtive glance over his shoulder, noting with satisfaction and a measure of relief that all of the patrons were clustered around the bar. “ . . . uhhh, Mister Taylor . . . permission to speak freely?” he queried in a low voice, as he returned his attention to Zachary.

“Permission granted.”

“I . . . couldn’t help but overhear the conversation between you and the corporal, Sir, and . . . frankly? I’m worried.”

“About Corporal Deveraux specifically?”

“Yes, Sir,” Samuel replied. “From the sound of things, he . . . Sir, he . . . his actions could seriously jeopardize our mission, if they’ve not done so already.”

“The thought has crossed MY mind as well, Young Man,” Zachary said. “You may rest assured, I AM well aware of the man’s ineptitude . . . and that I have the entire situation under control.”

“Y-Yes, Sir,” the young man stammered. “I . . . I’m sorry, I should have realized— ”

“No apologies necessary, Mister Yates. You’ve done nothing wrong in voicing your concerns,” Zachary said quietly. “In fact, I applaud your candor and your powers of observation.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“You would have done wrong had you NOT voiced your concerns,” Zachary added, as he rose stiffly to his feet. “I’ll see you here in three days.”

Samuel nodded curtly, then moved off.

Zachary moved out from behind the table and limped convincingly toward the door. It took every ounce of will he possessed not to grimace at what he considered to be the dilapidated, even filthy conditions of this establishment.

Early the following morning, Stacy woke to the pink-orange glow of sunrise shining in through her window. She climbed out of bed; and after throwing on the clothing she had worn the previous day, she made her way down the stairs, moving as silent as the snowfall the way Silver Moon had taught her. Upon reaching the first floor, she made a beeline dash across the room to the front door, pausing just long enough to grab her jacket and hat before stepping outside into the clean, crisp morning air, brisk almost to the point of chilly. Stacy shivered delightfully within her jacket as she crossed the yard.

Late yesterday afternoon, she, Hoss, and Joe had moved the palomino stallion, taken from the range several days ago, to the corral next to the barn. “ . . . all the better for ‘em to keep tabs on me like . . . like I’m some little kid!” she grumbled very softly, under her breath, then sighed. “I know Pa only wants to protect me, but it’s still not fair!”

Blaze Face, her horse, nickered a soft greeting as she stepped inside the barn.

“ ‘Morning, Blaze Face,” Stacy murmured softly, as she walked over to his stall. She gently, lovingly stroked his muzzle. “Sorry we haven’t been going out as often as we’re used to, what with me spraining my ankle and now, Pa won’t let us go out by ourselves because somebody cut the cinch strap on my saddle and someone else is asking folks in town questions about me . . . . ”

Blaze Face snorted.

“I don’t like it either, but I promised Pa,” Stacy sighed. She wrapped her arms loosely around his neck and buried her face against his coarse mane for a moment, before digging out a handful of the pellets from the supply she maintained in the bottom right pocket of her jacket. Stacy rubbed his neck as he ate. “I’ll see you later, Blaze Face,” she said.

Stacy let herself out of the barn and walked over to the corral to see palomino stallion she had named Sun Dancer, for his golden coat and high spirits.

The stallion, upon catching sight of her, tentatively approached, stopping in the middle of the enclosure. Stacy nickered softly, as she stepped up to the corral fence, then turned her back. She heard Sun Dancer nicker in return. He ventured closer, his steps halting and uncertain. At length, he reached the fence and gently nuzzled Stacy’s hair and neck. She reached into her pocket, and drew out a handful of the same pellets she had given Blaze Face, taking great care to keep her movements slow and even. Sun Dancer cautiously sniffed then ate greedily.

“You’re a sweet boy, Sun Dancer,” Stacy said quietly. “Yes, you are!”

The sound of the front door opening, then closing startled Sun Dancer, and sent him scurrying to the other side of the enclosed pasture. Stacy looked up and saw her brother, Hoss, still clad in nightshirt and robe, crossing the yard with a grim determined look on his face. She instinctively braced herself.

“There y’ are,” Hoss greeted her tersely. “Li’l Sister, to say you’re in a world o’ trouble right now is puttin’ it mildly.”

“Hunh?! What did I do?” Stacy demanded looking at him askance.

“All I know is, when Pa went upstairs t’ tell ya breakfast is ready, and found your bed empty and you not in the house . . . . ” The roll of Hoss’ eyes told Stacy more than she cared to know. “Better come on back inside ‘n get this over with.”

“Hoss . . . . ” Stacy had to run to keep up with him, as he made his way back to the house, “for cryin’ out loud! I was just in the barn, then by the pasture— ”

“Don’t tell me, tell Pa,” Hoss said.

Stacy scowled. “I will,” she said through clenched teeth.

“There you are, Kid,” Joe greeted her as she stepped through the door. “You’re in deep cattle crud now.”

“Get stuffed, Grandpa,” Stacy snapped, her anger rising.

Joe opened his mouth to utter the sharp retort that sprang to the tip of his tongue. Hoss placed his hand on Joe’s shoulder and shook his head.

“I think it might be a real good idea for us to g’won out to the barn right about now,” Hoss said sotto voce, as Stacy walked resolutely toward their father, standing behind his desk.

“The barn?!” Joe protested. “Are you crazy, Big Brother? We’re not even dressed.”

“It’s either that or stay in the house.”

Joe stole a furtive glance at the wrathful scowl on their father’s face and their sister’s stiffly erect posture. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I’m beginning to see your point . . . . ”

“ . . . and just where have you been, Young Woman?” Ben demanded, as Stacy came to a stop in front of his desk.

“In the barn and out by the corral,” Stacy replied, bewildered and angry.

“You promised me you wouldn’t go out on your own until we got this matter of Zachary Hilliard resolved,” Ben hastened to remind her.

“I wasn’t!” Stacy hotly defended herself. “I only went out to SEE Blaze Face . . . and Sun Dancer, too. I didn’t ride— ” She stopped abruptly mid-sentence, as the blood drained right out of her face. “Oh no!” she whispered, as she stared over at her father through eyes round with horror. “No! Pa, you didn’t mean— ”

“Yes, I DID,” Ben said sternly. “When I said you weren’t to go out on your own, I meant out of this house.”

“Pa, I was just out in the barn . . . and by the corral right in front of the house,” Stacy wailed in dismay.

“You think nothing can happen to you there?” Ben rounded on her furiously.

“But I was right out in front of the house . . . in full view of the windows!”

“I’m beginning to think you don’t understand the seriousness of this situation,” Ben said in clipped angry tones.

“Oh, yes, I do,” Stacy countered, her rising fury pushing her to the edge of tears. “I’m under house arrest for something that . . . that son-of-a-bitch Zachary Hilliard did, and it’s not fair!”

Ben’s scowl deepened. “Stacy Cartwright, your choice of words leaves a whole lot to be desired,” he reprimanded her sharply.

“I don’t care,” Stacy obstinately stood her ground. “He IS a son-of-a-bitch, and it’s still not fair!” With that, she abruptly turned heel and fled upstairs.

“Damn!” Ben swore vehemently, giving vent to his own anger, frustration, and fear for his daughter’s safety.

Breakfast was a strained affair, with Stacy Cartwright being most conspicuous by her absence. Ben sat in his place at the head of the table, scowling down at a virtually untouched plate. While Hoss and Paris ate with good appetite, Joe spent most of his time pushing around the food on his plate, congealing everything into a large, unsavory, gray lump.

“I have a good mind to make her stay in her room the rest of the day,” Ben angrily broke the uncomfortable silence that had settled over the breakfast table.

“Pa, you can’t do that,” Hoss protested, drawing a sharp glance from his father. “Stacy and I started workin’ with Sun Dancer yesterday. We gotta on keep workin’ with him, until we earn his trust. I can’t do that by myself.”

Ben let out a curt, frustrated sigh.

“Pa . . . . ” Hoss ventured hesitantly.

“What?” Ben snapped.

“It seems to me Stacy’s bein’ punished enough by the restrictions you’ve had to put on her,” Hoss pointed out in a quiet, yet firm tone.

“Are you telling me that I’M being unreasonable?” Ben demanded in an ice-cold tone that made his youngest son flinch.

“No . . . I ain’t sayin’ that at all,” Hoss countered, maintaining his ground. “Y’ did what ya did for her own protection. I know that. Deep down, Stacy knows it, too.” He paused. “But, that don’t make it any easier to live with, Pa.”

Ben sighed again, and shook his head. “I know that, Son,” he said, his anger dissipating. “I just hope and pray we get some answers within the next couple of days.”

“Ben?”

“Paris!” Ben murmured softly. He had half forgotten she was even there. “Paris, I . . . I hope you’ll accept my apologies for— ”

“You don’t need to apologize, Ben,” Paris gently cut him off. “I . . . was just thinking that . . . well, on the off chance the Zachary Hilliard you’re looking for IS the same man who served with my brother? You might send a wire to his mother. Her name is Henrietta Hilliard, and last I heard, she was living with a sister of hers in New York. It runs in my mind that Zachary and his mother were very close, and . . . I thought that she might be able to shed some light on where he is and what he’s up to.”

“Thank you, Paris,” Ben said gratefully. “I’ll see to it this morning.”

Hoss wisely waited until Ben had left for Virginia City to send that wire to Mrs. Henrietta Hilliard in New York, before going upstairs to fetch Stacy from her room. Initially, the girl was uncharacteristically quiet and subdued. Hoss could tell by her red cheeks and swollen eyelids that she had been crying. He decided, again wisely, that the less said about that now, the better.

Hoss and Stacy spent the better part of the next two hours with the wild stallion working to strengthen the tenuous bonds established the previous day. Sun Dancer began to approach them when they stood at the fence with their backs to him, with more confidence.

“Hoss?” Stacy said, her voice just above the decibel of a whisper.

“Yeah, Li’l Sister?”

“I’m going to try going into the enclosure,” Stacy said quietly, “to see if he’ll come to me when I run away from him.”

“You be careful now,” Hoss warned. “We’re makin’ good progress, but he’s still a wild one.”

Stacy nodded, then slowly climbed up over the fence, and dropped down lightly on the other side, under the watchful eyes of her big brother. The stallion immediately retreated to the far end of the corral. “It’s ok, Sun Dancer . . . . ” she crooned softly, as she made her way toward the center of the corral, keeping her pace and body movements slow and easy. “It’s ok, Boy . . . it’s ok . . . . ” She nickered softly, then turned heel and ran away from the stallion, back toward the corral fence where Hoss stood watching.

Sun Dancer watched her for a moment, then ran after her. He approached, then turned before coming within ten feet of her, always maintaining a discreet distance. Stacy repeated the exercise with Sun Dancer several more times. Although he eagerly chased after her, he continued to keep himself well away.

“We need to wind things up, Stacy,” Hoss said. “It’ll be dinner time soon. We gotta let the horses out of the barn and clean their stalls before we eat.”

Stacy nodded, then sprinted over toward the fence and climbed back over. She and Hoss once again leaned up against the fence. This time, Hoss called the stallion’s name and nickered. Sun Dancer’s ears perked up with interest. He circled the pasture, then ran immediately over to the place occupied by Stacy and Hoss, nuzzling both, before lowering his face towards the pocket holding the feed.

“He’s a smart one,” Hoss declared with a grin, as Stacy offered him a handful of pellets. “If we don’t look out, he’s gonna be the one trainin’ us.”

“Hoss?”

“Yeah, Li’l Sister?”

“What makes you so sure he’s NOT?” Stacy asked. “Training US, I mean?”

“Good question, I— ” Suddenly his entire body went rigid.

“Hoss? Hoss, what IS it?” Stacy demanded.

“Horses,” Hoss murmured in a voice barely audible. “Stacy, you g’won . . . get in t’ house. I’ll wait ‘n see who it is.”

“Why? It’s probably Pa.”

“No, it ain’t,” Hoss said tersely. “I hear TWO horses . . . maybe more. Now you git, y’ hear?”

A curt exasperated sigh exploded from between her lips. “Hoss— ”

“Don’t you stand there arguin’ with me, Gal,” Hoss turned on her, exasperated and anxious. “Now you do like I told ya.”

Stacy muttered a string of Paiute expletives under her breath, as she turned and stomped across the yard.

Hoss winced when he heard the front door slam. “I sure hope Hop Sing didn’t have nothin’ bakin’ in the oven,” he sighed. “If he did, there’s gonna be the devil t’ pay.”

“Hey, Hoss . . . why the long face?”

Hoss glanced up, just in time to see Arch Campbell and Dan Eberhardt come around the barn and enter the yard, with a packhorse in tow.

“Aww, it ain’t nothin’,” Hoss replied. Glancing over at the packhorse, a big gelding named Geraldine, he noted that, with the exception of a leather bag containing tools, the animal’s back was bare. “Looks like you fellas made short work o’ repairin’ that fence,” he observed with a satisfied, if surprised smile, “ ‘n ya got it done a couple o’ days early, t’ boot.”

“What we could of it,” Arch said, as he and Dan brought their horses to a halt. “The damage was more than we thought. We only had enough supplies to repair half of what got knocked down.”

“We came back to fetch the supplies we need to finish,” Dan added.

“Why don’t you boys g’won home t’ your wives, ‘n sit down t’ a decent meal,” Hoss said. “After y’ finish, come back ‘n get whatever y’ need, then start out again fresh tomorrow mornin’.”

“Thanks, Hoss,” Arch murmured gratefully.

“Me, too,” Dan replied with a grin.

“Say . . . what happened t’ Eddie?”

“I . . . dunno, Hoss,” Arch replied. “He just up ‘n quit.”

Hoss frowned. “He quit?!” he echoed, incredulous. “When?”

“Day before yesterday,” Arch replied, shaking his head in complete bewilderment. “When we reached the road? Eddie turned the other way . . . toward town. Dan ‘n me started joshin’ him about it, and . . . well, he got real uppity like, ‘n told me he was sick ‘n tired o’ workin’ so blamed hard. We had words, Hoss. I tried t’ keep my temper, but . . . . ” He shrugged helplessly. “The upshot of the whole thing is, Eddie finally told Dan ‘n me t’ tell your pa that he quit.”

“We was just joshin’ him, Hoss . . . about goin’ the wrong way,” Dan said, very much on the defensive. “He never got mad before. He’d either laugh it off, or say somethin’ smart back.”

“Any idea what DID set him off?” Hoss asked.

“No,” Arch glumly shook his head. “It just happened right outta the clear blue.”

“Don’t you worry none about it, Arch,” Hoss said kindly.

“You’ll tell your pa?” Arch queried.

“Yeah. I’ll tell him. Now you boys g’won home, ‘n get some decent food in ya.”

The two men nodded, then climbed back into their saddles.

Ben, meanwhile, made his way back toward the sheriff’s office, where he had left Big Buck tethered to a hitching post, with a heavy heart. A friend of Roy’s checking on the Pinkerton Agency . . . the sheriff over in Carson City asking questions at all the livery stables and places of lodging . . . and now the wire he had just dispatched to the mother of the Zachary Hilliard, Paris McKenna’s brother knew . . . he felt as if he were desperately grasping at straws.

“ . . . and very flimsy straws at that,” he groused silently.

He had just gotten through talking with Tony Grainger . . . again.

“Sorry, Mister Cartwright,” the young man said before he had a chance to ask the first question, shaking his head apologetically. “Mister Hilliard’s STILL not returned that rig, and . . . truth t’ tell? I’m gettin’ a mite worried, seein’ as t’ how it’s been four days now . . . ‘n he only told me he was gonna rent that horse ‘n buggy for ONE day.”

. . . and with poor Stacy at home, chomping impatiently at the bit, the last four days seemed like four YEARS. Not that he could entirely blame the girl . . . .

Then, for one brief, almost reckless moment, Ben allowed himself to consider the possibility that Zachary Hilliard had found the answers he sought, whatever they were, and had simply moved on. He hoped this to be the case with every fiber of his being, for the sake of the free and independent spirit he knew and loved as his daughter, Stacy. Yet, despite his desperate hopes and desires, every instinct he possessed warned him loud and clear that Zachary Hilliard remained somewhere close by, just out of sight.

“Where?” Ben silently demanded, raising his eyes upward, toward the heavens. By all appearances, the man had vanished right off the face of the Earth as if he had never been.

As he turned, with the intention of crossing the street, Ben collided with a gray haired man, with posture slightly stooped, dressed in a pair of ragged flannel slacks, and a white linen shirt now yellowed in the front, due to age and countless exposures to the sun.

“Y-You alright, Mister?” Ben asked, his dark eyes round with alarm, as he reached out to steady the man’s precarious balance.

“None t’ worse for wear,” the man mumbled.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Ben apologized. “I’m afraid I wasn’t paying real close attention to where I was going.”

“Must have a lot on your mind, Mister Cartwright.”

Ben frowned. “Do I know you, Sir?”

“We . . . ummm, ain’t met, not formal like, but I’ve heard a lot about ya. Seems most everyone ‘round here knows t’ Cartwrights.” Had the man been speaking just a tad bit faster, he would have been babbling. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and upon opening his eyes once again, he held out his hand. “M’ name’s Bill Taylor.”

Ben and the man, who had just introduced himself as Bill Taylor, shook hands. “Pleased to meet you, Mister Taylor, and again . . . please accept my apologies for nearly running you over.”

“ ‘S ok, Mister Cartwright . . . no harm done,” the gray haired man said, with an ingratiating smile, that fell very far short of reaching his eyes.

“Hey! Is dinner ready yet?” Joe Cartwright called out, as he stepped through the front door.

“Dinner ready,” Hop Sing said tersely, as he sauntered into the great room. “Mister Hoss, Miss Stacy, Miss Paris all at table. Little Joe, g’won in kitchen, wash up.”

“You don’t hafta tell ME twice,” Joe quipped as he beat a straight path toward the kitchen. “I’m about ready to keel over from starvation!”

“Joe?”

“Yeah, Kid?” Joe paused, en route toward the kitchen.

“You didn’t happen to run into Pa along the road . . . did you?” Stacy asked, her voice edged with a small measure of trepidation.

Joe frowned. “Pa’s not here?!”

“No,” Hoss replied, shaking his head. “He went into town.”

“He did?! I was under the impression he was gonna stick close to home today,” Joe said.

“It’s MY doing I’m afraid,” Paris said quietly. “This morning, after breakfast, I remembered the name of Zachary Hilliard’s mother . . . that is . . . the Zachary Hilliard my brother knows . . . . ”

“Pa went into town t’ send a wire askin’ the lady if she knows what her son’s up to these days,” Hoss explained. “I kinda thought he’d be back by now.”

“Knowing Pa, he probably figured since he was in town anyway, he might as well check with Tony about the rig Zachary Hilliard rented from him a few days ago, and Sheriff Coffee about the wires he sent to his friend, Judd Something-Or-Other, and the sheriff over in Carson City,” Joe speculated. “You know how Tony is sometimes, Hoss . . . . ”

“That li’l rascal can talk the ears right off your head, if he’s of a mind,” Hoss replied, rolling his eyes heavenward.

“After he got through talking to Tony, he probably saw that the hour was getting late, and decided to eat in town,” Joe said.

“Then you . . . you don’t think it’s . . . that it’s MY fault?” Stacy ventured, half afraid to ask that question, yet more afraid not to ask.

“YOUR fault?!” Joe echoed, incredulous.

“Now where in the world would ya get an idea like that, Li’l Sister?” Hoss gently probed.

“I guess ‘cause I . . . ummm . . . I don’t think I’ve EVER seen Pa get so mad as he did at me this morning,” Stacy said ruefully.

“I have,” Joe said with a big grin.

“You have?! Really?” Stacy queried dubiously.

“Yep,” Joe affirmed, with an emphatic nod of his head.

“What did YOU do to make Pa so mad?” Stacy asked, intrigued in the midst of her own trepidation and remorse.

“Hoss and I robbed a bank,” Joe replied.

“You’re joshin’!” Stacy accused, outraged and deeply offended that Joe would make fun of her.

“I’m NOT kidding, Stace!” Joe immediately replied, upon seeing the hurt, angry look on her face. “Honest! I’m telling you the pure, unvarnished truth. Hoss . . . . ”

“He’s tellin’ ya the pure, unvarnished truth alright, Li’l Sister,” Hoss confirmed with an agonized grimace.

“R-Really?” Stacy queried, looking over at Hoss, then back to Joe.

“Really!” Hoss replied.

“ . . . and to say that Pa was real mad at Hoss and me would be to grossly understate the case,” Joe said soberly.

“Between that wiry li’l fella ‘n Pa . . . . ” Hoss grimaced again and wryly rolled his eyes heavenward.

“ . . . neither one of us could move too well or sit down for a good month of Sundays at least . . . maybe even TWO,” Joe groaned.

“I dunno, Li’l Brother,” Hoss murmured softly. “I’m thinkin’ it was more like three or four months o’ Sundays . . . . ”

“The, ummm Mighty Ponderosa’s never been quite the same since,” Joe said, his face contorting with agony, all too well remembered.

“Mine, neither!” Hoss quipped, his own face mirroring the exquisite pain and suffering reflected with crystal clarity in Joe’s.

“Why did you guys rob the bank?” Stacy demanded, as the trepidation, guilt, and remorse she had been nursing since that angry confrontation with Pa earlier, momentarily gave way to her curious, inquisitive nature. “And who’s the wiry fella? Was he an accomplice or something?!”

“Boy! If you aren’t the nosiest--- ” Joe began, heartened to see his young sister’s mood lifting.

“Does that mean you’re not gonna tell me?!” Stacy demanded.

“Some things are best forgot, Li’l Sister,” Hoss gamely pointed out.

“Yep,” Joe immediately responded, his head slowly bobbing up and down. “Yep! Sometimes, it’s best just to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Hoss . . . Joe . . . . ”

“Yes, Miss Paris?” Joe responded.

“If you two don’t go back to the beginning of this tale right now, this very instant . . . ‘n tell it straight through to the end . . . I swear . . . by all that I hold holy, I SWEAR . . . I’m gonna tan both your hides and nail ‘em right there over the fireplace mantle,” Paris adamantly vowed.

“ . . . uhhh, Hoss?”

“Yeah, Joe?”

“I, ummm . . . think she means it.”

“She means it all right,” Stacy said very solemnly.

“Well,” Joe said, grinning from ear-to-ear. “I guess it all started the day Pa ‘n Adam had to go away on business . . . and left ME in charge of running things while they were gone . . . . ”

“ . . . which meant I ended up doin’ all the dirty work!” Hoss growled, leveling a ferocious glare over at his younger brother.

“Aww . . . come ON, Hoss . . . a few chores,” Joe immediately countered, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Just a few light, easy chores--- ”

“ . . . like puttin’ three coats . . . count ‘em, THREE! . . . o’ whitewash on t’ smoke house . . . the, ummm . . . . ” Hoss’ face suddenly turned beet red.

“I did NOT have you whitewash, ummm . . . THAT!” Joe defended himself in tones of mock outrage, his own face flushed pinker than usual as his eyes strayed over toward their houseguest.

“Oh, yes you did, Li’l Brother.”

“I did NOT!”

“I remember it just as clear as . . . as if it happened yesterday!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Then your memory’s faulty, Big Brother!” Joe declared with an emphatic nod of his head.

“You callin’ me a liar?”

“ . . . uhh . . . Boys . . . . ” Paris interjected the minute she was able to get in a word edgewise, “why don’t you begin with the bank robbery?” Though she tried hard to project a decorous prim and proper demeanor, she simply could not keep the amused smile from her lips.

“Well . . . I guess the whole thing REALLY got started when I went to the telegraph office to wire a man about a bull,” Joe once again took up the reins of the story . . . .

The boys gave their young sister and houseguest a wry, humorous account of all that had transpired the day they robbed the Virginia City Branch of Harrison’s Bank. iii

Stacy laughed until her sides ached, nearly upsetting her chair a couple of times. Every time her laughter began to diminish, Joe would burst into a fit of the giggles, setting her off once again. As the story neared its conclusion, she was nearly doubled over, with her arms wrapped tight around her sides.

“So you . . . y-you caught the men who robbed YOU . . . recovered the money, and . . . and s-saw that it was returned to the . . . the depositors . . . . ” Paris laughed, as she wiped the tears borne of her merriment from her eyes and cheeks.

“Pa and Adam actually returned the money to the bank and saw that it was returned to the depositors,” Joe confessed. “I sure wish we could’ve seen the look on ol’ man Harrison’s face though . . . . ”

“Yeah,” Hoss agreed with a wistful smile. “From what Adam told us . . . he was fit t’ be tied.”

“Why DIDN’T you guys get to see Mister Harrison’s face?” Stacy asked, as her mirth finally began to subside.

“I’m afraid there way one tiny loose end Hoss and I had to tie up,” Joe replied.

“Yeah. We had to return the mules we, ummm borrowed,” Hoss explained, wincing at the memory.

“After HE got through with us . . . we had to come home and face PA,” Joe continued. “To say HE was fit to be tied was the understatement of the century!”

“Was he . . . was he really as mad as he was this morning?” Stacy ventured hesitantly.

“No, Li’l Sister . . . he was lots madder ‘n that,” Hoss said soberly.

“Really?”

“Really,” Joe replied.

“But . . . why?” Stacy asked. A bewildered frown creased the smooth plain of her brow. “You guys kept that greedy ol’ Mister Harrison from stealing money that belonged to the folks who had it deposited in his bank. Doesn’t that kinda make you heroes?”

“Yeah, I guess maybe it does,” Hoss replied, “but the whole time Pa ‘n Adam were tryin’ t’ find us? They didn’t know WHY we did it. All THEY knew was that Joe ‘n me robbed Harrison’s Bank in Virginia City.”

“Pa ‘n Adam were worried about Hoss ‘n me, Kiddo,” Joe continued. “REAL worried.”

“Same as Pa’s worried about YOU right now, Li’l Sister,” Hoss said, “ ‘n sometimes . . . when folks get really worried ‘bout someone they love very much, and they don’t find ‘em where they’re s’posed t’ be— ”

“Like . . . me being out in the barn and . . . by the corral, instead of in the house?”

Hoss nodded. “Well . . . when that someone DOES turn up . . . alive ‘n well . . . without a scratch on ‘em . . . . ”

“ . . . or HER,” Joe added.

“ . . . a lotta times, the one doin’ the worryin’ ends up gettin’ mad,” Hoss concluded.

“They do?” Stacy queried with a puzzled frown.

“Yep.” Hoss nodded his head.

“That doesn’t make a whole lotta sense.”

“No, Kiddo, it doesn’t,” Joe agreed, “but, it’s the truth . . . and I’ll tell ya something else.”

“What’s that?” Stacy queried in a glum tone of voice.

“I’ll betcha anything Pa’s feeling every bit as bad as YOU are about that fight you two had this morning,” Joe said quietly.

“Really?”

“Yep,” Hoss replied. “Pa didn’t wanna put y’ on restriction . . . AND he hates like anything havin’ t’ keep ya on restriction . . . more, I think, than YOU hate bein’ on restriction. But, he’s doin’ it ‘cause he loves ya . . . and he doesn’t want anything bad t’ happen to ya.”

“I know, Hoss,” Stacy sighed. “That’s why I feel bad about getting so mad at him this morning.”

“Maybe t’ next time y’ feel yourself chompin’ so hard at the bit, y’ might try ‘n remember that Pa wants t’ protect ya because he DOES love ya . . . a whole lot,” Hoss suggested.

“I’ll try,” Stacy promised.

“You won’t be on restriction forever, Kid,” Joe said. “I know it’s taking us longer than we thought to get matters cleared up as far as this Zachary Hilliard’s concerned, but we’re GONNA get things resolved . . . and soon.”

“I hope so, Grandpa. I sure hope so.”

While his family and guest sat down to their noon meal at home, Ben caught sight of a dark silhouette circling overhead within his peripheral vision, a little past the halfway point between town and the Ponderosa. He brought Buck to a complete stop, and lifted his head. It was a vulture, a carrion bird. Another dark silhouette joined the first, followed by another and yet another. They seemed to be circling above the area just up over the next rise. He urged Buck to a brisk trot, and headed over toward the spot directly below the ominous circling birds.

In the field beyond the rise, lying amid the tall grass several yards from the road, was the body of a man, lying on his stomach with his wrists bound together behind his back. Ben quickly dismounted to investigate. The man had been shot once in the back, and again in the head. Ben leaned closer for a look at the man’s face, profiled against the patches of grass and soil. He was astonished to discover that the dead man was Eddie Jones, a drifter he had hired a couple of months ago.

“Mister Cartwright?”

Ben straightened upon hearing his name, turned, and glanced back toward the road. It was Candy.

“Trouble?” Candy queried, and he climbed down off of Thor’s back.

“You might say that,” Ben said wryly.

Candy silently walked through the grass, leading his horse behind him. Upon reaching Ben’s side, he stood, gazing down at the body for a long moment. “If I didn’t know better . . . I’d say that was Eddie Jones,” the junior foreman murmured softly.

“It is,” Ben replied.

“What---?!” Candy favored his employer with a puzzled frown. “H-How can that be?” he demanded. “Didn’t Eddie ride out with Arch and Dan . . . what? Day before yesterday?!”

“He was supposed to,” Ben said grimly.

“Then . . . what’s he doing HERE?”

“I’d like to know the answer to that one myself,” Ben replied. He knelt down for a closer look at the dead man.

“What happened?”

“He was shot twice,” Ben replied. “Once in the back . . . there . . . . ” He pointed to a wound to the left of the spinal column, just under the rib cage. “ . . . and again there . . . in the back if his head.”

“Think, maybe he was bushwhacked?”

“I don’t know what else it could have been,” Ben replied, as he carefully reached into the dead man’s back pocket and slipped out his billfold.

“Seems to me that whoever killed him, went out of his way to make sure he was dead,” Candy remarked, as he quietly moved in behind his employer.

Ben opened the wallet, and glanced through its contents, while Candy silently studied the dead man lying in the grass before them. He found a faded picture of a young woman and a girl, with names and a date, barely legible, inscribed on the back, along with a thick wad of paper money. “Whoever bushwhacked him wasn’t after money,” he said quietly. “There’s got to be at least a hundred dollars here . . . if not more.”

“That would more than likely be a month’s pay he won from me and a couple of the other guys in a poker game the night Joe and I got back from Carson City,” Candy said.

“If THAT’S so, I’d say Eddie Jones was remarkably lucky that night,” Ben observed wryly. “He . . . WAS . . . lucky that night?”

“If you’re asking whether or not he was cheating, the answer’s no.”

“ . . . and no one accused him of it?”

“No, Sir,” Candy replied, “not while I was around to hear anyway . . . . ”

Ben handed the billfold over to Candy, then set himself to the grim task of searching Eddie Jones’ other pockets. He found a comb, with half its teeth missing in the other back pocket, along with a quarter, two pennies, a nickel, and a lucky rabbit’s foot in the left hand pocket of his pants. “Candy,” he said, as he placed the items into his junior foreman’s large, well-muscled hands, “you’d better ride back to the Ponderosa and get the buckboard. I’ll stay here and make sure our fine-feathered friends . . . . ” He glanced upward toward the still circling vultures, “ . . . don’t make a meal of Eddie Jones’ body.”

“Mister Cartwright?”

“Yes, Candy?”

“Will you be all right here . . . by yourself?” Candy asked with an anxious frown. “The man who killed Eddie Jones may not be far off.”

Ben shook his head. “I don’t think so . . . . ” he said complacently.

“How can you be so sure?” Candy demanded.

“First off, Eddie’s been here . . . ohh, I’d say at least the better part of a day . . . maybe a day and a half,” Ben said. “Whoever killed him doesn’t have to be overly bright to realize that it’s in his best interest to head west to California or toward the south east for Arizona, Texas, or even Mexico.” He paused briefly, then added, “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” Candy queried dubiously.

“I’m sure. Now get on with ya. The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll get back here.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“What is your full name, Stacy?” Paris asked, as she sliced, with relish, into the large, tender slab of roast beef dominating the better portion of her plate.

“Stacy Cartwright.”

“No, no, no, no,” Joe said, wagging his head back and forth with each no. His eyes, deep emerald green in the natural light shining in through the dining room window, sparkled with mischief. “Miss Paris asked for your FULL name, Kiddo. Full name means first, MIDDLE, and last.”

Stacy grimaced. “Miss Paris, do I HAVE to tell you what my middle name is?”

Paris couldn’t help but smile at the farcical look of disgust on the girl’s face. “No, you don’t have to tell me,” she said. “That bad, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if STACY doesn’t tell you, Miss Paris, I sure will,” Joe threatened with a devilish grin.

“You do, and you’ll get a face full of mashed potatoes,” Stacy vowed, as she scooped up a generous portion with her spoon.

“ . . . . and YOU’LL get a face full of peas, comin’ right back atcha!”

“Dadburn it, is that how the pair of ya’s been taught to act when we have company?” Hoss growled, glaring at Joe first, then Stacy.

“HE started it!”

“ME?!”

“Yes, YOU!”

“Whoa! Back up a minute, Little Sister! As I recall, YOU were the one who threatened to hurl that spoonful of mashed potatoes in my face FIRST.”

“I don’t care which one o’ ya started it, if ya don’t knock it off, I’M gonna finish it,” Hoss declared, “in the horse trough out front.”

“Yes, PA!” Joe and Stacy chorused in unison, their eyes dancing with mischief.

Through out the exchange between Stacy and Joe, Paris laughed uproariously. “Please, Eric . . . . ” she said, as her mirth began to fade, “please, don’t hold them back on MY account.”

“I ain’t holdin’ ‘em back on YOUR account, Miss Paris,” Hoss said grimly. “I’m holdin’ ‘em back, on account o’ Hop Sing sayin’ he’d quit right on the spot if he had t’ clean up after one more food fight between the two babies o’ the family.”

“Oh dear! We certainly can’t have THAT,” Paris agreed.

Stacy sighed. “I guess I may as well tell you what my whole name is.” She reluctantly surrendered to the inevitable. “It’s Stacy Louise Cartwright.”

“I prefer to pronounce it Stacy LOO— ” Joe began.

The blood drained right out of Paris’ face taking with it what little color she had so recently regained. She stared over at Stacy through eyes round with shocked horror.

“M-Miss Paris?!” Joe stammered, half afraid the woman was going to faint right there on the spot.

“I-I’ll be alright in a moment,” Paris said, her head reeling. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to take deep, even breaths.

“I-I hope it wasn’t something I said,” Stacy murmured contritely, her face a twin mask to the horrified look on Paris’.

“Stacy . . . m-my mother’s name was also . . . Stacy . . . L-Louise,” Paris said, her voice trembling.

Stacy suddenly felt light headed, and very frightened.

“Hey, Kiddo, YOU alright?” Joe queried anxiously, noting the sudden lack of robust color in her face and cheeks.

“Yes . . . NO!” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Hoss slid his untouched glass of water over in front of his young sister. “Take a swallow o’ that, Li’l Sister,” he ordered in a gentle, yet firm tone.

Stacy seized hold of the glass tightly in both hands and raised it to her lips.

“Take it easy,” Hoss murmured quietly. “Don’t gulp. Sip . . . nice ‘n easy.”

Stacy took one more sip from the glass, then turned to face Paris. “When I . . . when I reached the tribe of Chief Soaring Eagle?” she began haltingly. “I had one thing from my life before. A small heart shaped locket on a gold chain. It was made for a-a child. My name . . . Stacy Louise . . . was etched on the front.”

Paris remembered seeing a similar locket tucked away inside a simple rough-hewn wood jewelry box, that held her mother’s meager possessions. They were treasured keepsakes of the life she had led before her marriage to Gerald McKenna and subsequent rejection, total and complete, by her family. None of the pieces had any monetary value. Their worth derived from the memories each piece invoked. Among the treasures was a heart shaped locket, with Stacy Louise, her mother’s name, engraved on its front.

“That’s the only reason anyone even knew my name,” Stacy continued. “When Silver Moon found me, I couldn’t remember anything. Who I was, where I’d come from, who my ma and pa were. I was like a slate, with the first five years of my life erased.”

“Stacy, do you still have that locket?”

Stacy nodded. “I keep it in what Silver Moon called a medicine bag up in my room,” she replied. “I also have keepsakes of my foster parents, Silver Moon and Jon Running Deer; my grandfather, Chief Soaring Eagle; and Running Antelope, my blood brother. I . . . I don’t like looking in the bag very much, though . . . . ”

Paris, seeing the girl was on the edge of tears, reached across the table and gave her hand a gentle, affectionate squeeze. “Now I’m the one who’s made YOU sad,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“ ‘S ok, Miss Paris,” Stacy said in a small, tremulous voice. “I . . . I know you didn’t mean to . . . . ”

A strained silence fell upon the four seated at the table. The sound of a single horse entering the yard, followed a few moments later by a loud, insistent pounding on the door mercifully broke the silence.

“I’ll go,” Hoss said, rising. He strode briskly toward the front door, pausing briefly at the credenza to remove his revolver from its holster. “Who is it?” he asked, as he cautiously stepped over in front of the door.

“Candy.”

Hoss opened the door and gestured for the junior foreman to enter. “What’s up?”

“Your father found Eddie Jones by the side of the road,” Candy said tersely. “He’s dead, Hoss.”

“Dead?!” Hoss echoed, incredulous.

“What in the world is he doing lying dead along the road to town?!” Joe demanded, with a bewildered frown, as he moved from the dining room into the great room. “Hoss, didn’t Eddie go with Arch and Dan— ”

“He was supposed to, but didn’t,” Hoss said grimly. “Seems he just up ‘n quit the day the three of ‘em left. Arch ‘n Dan stopped by ‘n told me just before we sat down t’ dinner.”

“He just up ‘n quit . . . like that . . . right out of the clear blue?!”

“I’ll tell ya what I know later, Joe,” Hoss said, before returning his attention back to Candy. “Where’s Eddie ‘n Pa now?”

“Out in that field ‘bout half way between here and town,” Candy replied. “Your father sent me after the buckboard.”

“I’m comin’ with ya,” Hoss decided. He turned to his younger brother, now standing at his elbow. “You stay here ‘n keep an eye on things?” His eyes momentarily darted over in Stacy’s general direction.

“Yeah,” Joe replied.

“Candy, I’ll get Mitch ‘n Bobby t’ help me with gettin’ the horses hitched to the buckboard,” Hoss said as he turned to grab his hat and gun belt. “Meantime, you g’won in the bunkhouse ‘n gather up Eddie’s things. Sheriff Coffee’ll wanna have a look at ‘em.”

Candy nodded curtly, then set off toward the bunkhouse.

Joe, meanwhile, returned to the dining room table, where Paris and Stacy still remained.

“Joe?”

“Yeah, Kid?”

“What’s going on?” Stacy asked.

“Well . . . for starters, I just found out why Pa didn’t make it home in time for dinner,” Joe replied.

“Oh yeah? Why?”

“It seems he found one of our men lying dead out in the field half way between here and town,” Joe said, as he returned to his place at the table.

“D-Dead?” Stacy echoed, her voice barely audible.

Joe nodded.

“Which one?”

“Eddie Jones,” Joe replied. “You know . . . the big guy who’s been working in the horse corral with us?”

“Oh yeah . . . . ” Stacy murmured softly, then glanced up. “Joe?”

“Yeah, Stace?”

“How’d he die . . . exactly?”

“Seems somebody bushwhacked him,” Joe replied.

“Bushwhacked him?!” Stacy echoed with a bewildered frowned. “Why?”

“I dunno, Kid. We’ll just have to wait until Pa and Hoss get home to find out.”

“ . . . then I looked up and saw vultures circling over that big meadow, half way between here and the Ponderosa,” Ben wearily recounted in the Virginia City sheriff’s office two hours later. “I thought it was an animal at first. I wanted to see whether or not it was one of ours, so I walked over to the spot below the vultures and . . . THAT’S where I found Eddie Jones’ body.”

Roy dutifully wrote down everything Ben had just told him, then turned to the ponderosa’s junior foreman. “How ‘bout YOU, Candy?”

“I had the afternoon off, so I decided to ride out to Dressler’s Pond,” Candy replied. “Sometimes I’ll get a hankerin’ for trout and go fishing, but today, I was going for the peace and quiet. I was on my way out there when I saw the vultures, then saw Mister Cartwright in the field right below them. I was just as surprised as he was to see Eddie lying there.”

Roy quickly made note of what Candy had just told him, then set his pencil aside. “Ben . . . Candy . . . ‘n you, too, Hoss!” he said curtly, glaring at each of the three men seated before him. “I gotta ask this next question . . . for the record, y’ understand, and I’d really appreciate it if’n ya wouldn’t take m’ head off.”

“All right, Roy,” Ben warily promised, speaking for his son and junior foreman as well.

“Ben . . . Candy . . . Hoss . . . did YOU kill Eddie Jones?”

“No,” Ben said evenly.

“Hoss? Candy? I need ya t’ answer for yourselves,” Roy prompted when no answers were forthcoming from the two younger men.

“No. I did NOT kill Eddie Jones,” Candy replied through clenched teeth, outraged, even though he knew the sheriff had spoken rightly about having to ask.

“No, Sir,” Hoss replied to the question, with a curt wag of his head for emphasis.

“All right . . . next obvious question . . . do the three of ya know of anyone who might’ve wanted Eddie dead?” Roy asked.

“I can’t think of anyone,” Candy replied.

“Nor can I,” Ben said.

Hoss merely shook his head.

“Ben, when I came out t’ the Ponderosa t’ question the men workin’ in the corral the day someone tampered with Stacy’s saddle, you told me Eddie’d gone out to the north pasture with a couple o’ other men t’ repair the fence that got knocked down by all the heavy snow we had last winter,” Roy said. “That right?”

“Yes . . . . ”

“It’s clear Eddie didn’t go,” Roy wryly stated the blatantly obvious. “You got any idea as t’ why?”

“No,” Ben replied. “That’s why Candy and I were so surprised to find him lying there dead. Up until then, I had no idea in the world that Eddie DIDN’T go.”

“The other two men he went with--- ”

“Arch Campbell and Dan Eberhardt,” Ben said.

“When do ya expect ‘em back?”

“They’re back,” Hoss said.

“Arch and Dan?” Ben queried, astonished.

“Yes, Sir. They came back just as we were sitting down t’ have dinner,” Hoss explained. “Seems there was more fence knocked down ‘n torn up than we thought. They fixed what they could, then came back t’ get more supplies.”

“Did THEY tell ya why Eddie Jones wasn’t with ‘em?” Roy asked, turning expectantly toward Hoss.

“Yep,” Hoss replied. “They told me he just up ‘n quit.”

“He quit?!” Ben echoed, staring over at his big middle son with a look that clearly questioned the existence of Hoss’ sanity.

“Yes, Sir,” Hoss replied.

“Why?” Ben demanded.

Hoss told his father, the junior foreman, and the sheriff about the incident that, according to Arch and Dan, had led to Eddie’s angry resignation.

“I don’t believe it!” Ben exclaimed, wagging his head back and forth slowly.

“WHAT don’t ya believe, Ben?” Roy asked.

“This business of Eddie quitting because he’s tired of workin’ so hard,” Ben replied. “He was, as ALL of ya know, a great, big, strong, healthy ox of a man, who did the work of THREE men without so much as breaking a sweat.”

“That’s true,” Hoss agreed, “ . . . ‘n more often than not, he’d pitch right in ‘n help the others after he got done what he was s’posed t’ for the day. No one ever asked him to, either.”

“How well did Eddie get along with Arch ‘n Dan?” Roy asked.

“Roy!” Ben exclaimed, surprised and outraged. “You’re not accusing THEM of---?!”

“No, Ben, I ain’t. Leastwise, not right now,” Roy replied. “But you think about it a minute. If Arch ‘n Dan AIN’T the very last men t’ see Eddie Jones alive ‘n kickin’, then they NUMBER among the very last. ‘N takin’ into account how li’l traveled that road leadin’ away from your house ‘n barn, is . . . Arch ‘n Dan had damn near all the opportunity in the world t’ kill Eddie before they reached the road, if’n they was of a mind t’.”

“Roy, first off Arch ‘n Dan had no reason t’ wanna kill Eddie,” Hoss said very quietly, “especially Arch.”

“Why ‘especially Arch,’ Hoss?”

“You remember when Arch ‘n Mary’s li’l gal died?”

Roy slowly nodded his head. “Yeah, Hoss,” he murmured somberly. “I remember.”

“ . . . it was a week or so after Eddie came t’ work for us,” Hoss continued. “Arch’d gotten Amy a li’l pony and was just startin’ t’ teach her how t’ ride.”

The darksome magic worked by Hoss’ words transported Ben away from the sheriff’s office, away from present time and place, back to the Ponderosa two months prior. Arch Campbell had given in to his daughter’s demands that she be taught how to ride, over and above the vehement protestations of his wife, Mary, who insisted the girl was too young.

Ben saw Amy Campbell again, every bit as clear and as vivid as he had seen her that day . . . .

. . . riding into the yard alongside her father on the back of her beloved pony, Flower, dressed in a pair of old dungarees that had belonged to her older brother, John, and a dark green riding coat that complimented her red hair.

“RACE YA, PAPA!” she all of a sudden cried out, her voice filled with the same wild joyful abandon he had heard many times before in the voices of his youngest son, Joe, and Marie, his late third wife and mother of that headstrong, impulsive youngest son.

Before Arch or Ben himself realized what was happening, Amy had spurred Flower, from a brisk trot to a fast gallop, the instant she and her father had come into view from around the backside of the barn. Ben remembered opening his mouth to warn Amy to slow down, but before he could give utterance to those words, the child was dead, killed instantly when Flower stepped into a deep chuckhole and stumbled, breaking his leg in three places.

The child never even had time to scream.

Arch, his face pale and eyes round and staring, shuffled woodenly across the dozen or so feet between him and his daughter. With a surprising, yet dreadful calm, he slipped his revolver from its holster and put poor Flower out of his misery, then hefted Amy’s remains gently into his arms and rode off without speaking, without stopping or looking back.

In the days that followed, Ben and his family had done all they could, were STILL doing all they could to offer what comfort and support they could to the bereaved Campbell family, but, oddly given the man’s reclusive nature, it was to Eddie Jones they turned to the most for much needed comfort and strength. He would never, not if he lived to be a hundred, forget the sight of Eddie, standing before Amy’s open grave along side her anguished parents, with tears streaming down his face.

“ . . . uhhh, Ben?”

Roy’s quiet, yet succinct prodding, brought Ben back to present time and place.

“Y’ all right, Pa?” Hoss asked, favoring his father with an anxious frown.

“Fine,” Ben replied, shaking his head as if to physically dislodge the last remnants of the odd vision that had seemingly risen up from out of nowhere and overtaken him so suddenly, and so completely. “Sorry . . . . ”

“ ‘S ok,” Ben,” Roy said. “Look. We don’t hafta to do this right now, if ya ain’t feelin’ up to it,” the sheriff kindly offered.

“Roy, I’m fine. Honest,” Ben hastened to reassure. “And if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather get this over and done . . . SOONER as opposed to later.”

Roy nodded. “Alright,” he continued, “Hoss, YOU just got through tellin’ me why Arch wouldn’t have wanted t’ kill Eddie. How ‘bout Dan?”

“Roy, you know as well as I do that Dan’s a real mellow, easy goin’ sort o’ guy,” Hoss said. An amused grin tugged hard at the corner of his mouth. “He has t’ be, with that li’l spitfire he’s married t’.”

This last remark prompted a soft “oh brother!” from Candy, accompanied by a sarcastic roll of the eyes heavenward.

“Why, I have trouble picturin’ ol’ Dan killin’ a pesky housefly, let alone a man,” Hoss continued.

“I still need t’ talk with the both of ‘em,” Roy said, as he finished writing down everything Hoss had just gotten through telling him about Arch Campbell and Dan Eberhardt. “So when the three of ya get home, YOU tell ‘em t’ stay put until I do.”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll do that.”

“Roy, when, exactly, do you plan on coming out to talk with Arch and Dan?” Ben asked.

“I’ll be out t’morrow mornin’, first thing,” Roy promised, “if’n that’s alright with YOU?”

“Tomorrow morning will be fine,” Ben assented.

Roy took a fresh piece of paper from the bottom left hand drawer of his desk, and began a list of things to do. First thing on that list was to question Arch Campbell and Dan Eberhardt. “How well’d Eddie get along with the other men workin’ for ya?” he asked, glancing over at Ben.

“He made an honest effort, I think, to get along with the other men,” Ben said slowly, “but he tended to keep to himself a great deal.”

“Shy?” Roy asked.

“Absolutely not!” It was Candy, who replied. “He had no trouble speaking up if he felt the need, but he just, plain ‘n simply, wasn’t what I’d call a social butterfly.”

“Did he have a buddy or two, perhaps? Someone he mighta played checkers or sat down to a game o’ cards with?” Roy asked. “A buddy he might’ve come into town with on a Saturday night?”

“Nope,” Candy replied. “For him it was lights out after he’d finished his supper and cleaned up.”

“Includin’ Saturday night?” Roy queried, with eyebrow slightly up raised.

“Including Saturday night,” Candy said firmly.

“Church goin’ man?”

“Nope,” Candy replied.

“Mighta been a PRAYIN’ man, though,” Hoss said quietly, drawing a surprised look from his father and an openly skeptical one from Candy.

“Why do y’ say THAT, Hoss?” Roy asked, the looks on Ben and Candy’s faces not lost on him.

“I saw him in town the Friday after Pa paid him his wages for the first time,” Hoss explained. “He was comin’ outta Saint Mary’s in the Mountains. I, uuhhh . . . . ” His cheeks flushed a slightly deeper shade of pink. “Aw, dang it all, maybe I shouldn’t have done it, but I . . . well, I couldn’t help joshin’ him a little ‘bout bein’ in church ‘n all . . . . ”

“How’d he take it?” Roy prompted when Hoss didn’t immediately resume.

“He didn’t get mad or nothin’ like that,” Hoss replied. “He told me he’d gone in t’ light a candle for someone real special.” He shrugged. “Only someone special he ever mentioned was his ma, so I kinda thought he might’ve lit the prayer candle for HER.”

“You know whether or not he went t’ St. Mary’s t’ light a prayer candle regular?”

“No, Sir,” Hoss ruefully shook his head. “I’m afraid I DON’T know.”

The second item on his list of things to do was to question the priests at Saint Mary’s in the Mountains. If Eddie Jones had made a regular practice of lighting a prayer candle at the church for “someone real special,” one of them, at the very least, had to know about it.

“Sheriff Coffee?”

“Yeah, Candy?”

“As I recall, the only time Eddie EVER went into town was the Friday after payday . . . in the morning,” Candy said slowly.

“What for?” Roy asked.

“First thing Eddie did after getting his first pay check was open a bank account,” Ben replied. “He’d go into town to do his own banking. He’d also pick up my mail and run errands.”

“He tell ya what he was savin’ his money for?” Roy asked.

“No,” Ben said ruefully.

Roy added bank to his list. “Was Eddie a drinkin’ man?”

“He kept a flask of whiskey for medicinal purposes, but . . . I’ll put it THIS way, Sheriff Coffee. Mister Cartwright spoke true when he said Eddie was a big, HEALTHY ox of a man,” Candy said. “Between now and the date Mister Cartwright and I hired him, I can count the number of times I saw Eddie ‘take his medicine’ on one hand.”

“Yep,” Hoss agreed.

“Ok, he wasn’t a drinker,” Roy said, as he made note of that fact. “How ‘bout gamblin’?”

“Gambling’s not allowed in the bunk house, of course,” Candy said very quickly, “but Eddie told me once . . . recently, in fact . . . that he’d sit in on an occasional poker game if he felt lucky.”

“Any idea as t’ how often Eddie felt lucky?”

“Only one time that I know of,” Candy said with a grimace.

“Was that the game in which your month’s wages ended up amongst the money I found in Eddie’s wallet a little while ago?” Ben asked.

“I’m afraid so, Sir,” Candy said ruefully.

“Candy . . . . ”

“Yes, Sheriff Coffee?”

“This game Ben just mentioned . . . when did ya play?”

“The night Joe and I returned home from Carson City empty handed,” Candy replied.

“You wanna tell me a li’l more ‘bout that night?” Roy asked.

“Well . . . after Joe and I got back, we went to Grainger’s Livery to get our horses,” Candy began. “We decided to stop by the Silver Dollar on the way home for a beer to wet our whistles. Eddie was there, seated at that big round table in the center of the room with a big stack of money in front of him, getting ready to deal another hand.”

“ ‘Bout what time was that?” Roy asked.

“When Joe and I got to the Silver Dollar?”

Roy nodded.

“Well . . . it was sometime after nine o’clock when Joe and I got off the stage,” Candy began. “We got our bags and walked over to Grainger’s. Joe and I settled our accounts, and Tony helped us with getting our horses saddled. All in all, I’d say that took twenty minutes, maybe a half hour at the very outside.”

“So we’re lookin’ at you boys leavin’ Grainger’s Livery somewhere between twenty minutes after nine ‘n nine thirty,” Roy said.

Candy nodded his head slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“ ‘N you said Eddie was there when you ‘n Joe arrived at t’ Silver Dollar?”

“Yes,” Candy replied. “Joe and I went to the bar, and stood each other a round. Then he got to talking with Lotus O’Toole, and I, much to my everlasting regret, ended up in that poker game with Eddie.”

“Who all was playin’?”

“Eddie Jones and me, of course,” Candy replied, “Dick Faraday from Miller’s Folly, Bill Lomax and Leo White from the Shoshone Queen, and an old man . . . I don’t recall his name.”

“Can ya remember what this ol’ man looked like?”

“He had this big mop of scraggly gray hair,” Candy replied. “He was on the tall side, but not what I’d call REAL tall . . . like Hoss here. He was more . . . I’d say about YOUR height, Mister Cartwright. His clothing was old and worn, but clean, and when he stood up to leave? He stood up real straight and tall, the way people might expect of a prince, or a king, or . . . or maybe an army general.”

“Kinda sounds like Bill Taylor,” Roy observed, as he made note of the description Candy had given of the old man.

“Bill Taylor,” Candy said the same very softly. “Bill Taylor.” Then, the light of revelation suddenly dawned. “Yeah. Taylor. I remember Eddie callin’ him Mister Taylor.”

“You ever see him BEFORE that poker game?” Roy asked.

“I . . . think I’ve seen him around town a couple o’ times,” Candy said slowly, “but I don’t recall seeing him at the Silver Dollar before that night.”

“I . . . quite literally . . . bumped into him earlier today,” Ben said. “Judging from the old clothes had on, I can’t for the life of me figure out where in the world he came by enough money to sit in on a poker game.”

“He could be one o’ those eccentric ol’ geezers, who keeps a small fortune stashed up under his mattress, all the while he’s cryin’ poor,” Roy pointed out.

“True,” Ben had to agree. “You know anything about him, Roy?”

“Not a whole lot, I’m afraid,” Roy replied, “only that he’s old . . . doesn’t get around real well . . . ‘n he’s been livin’ in one o’ the upstairs rooms at t’ Bucket o’ Blood since around t’ time o’ Miss McKenna’s arrival.” He jotted down the names of the men playing poker with Candy and Eddie Jones night before last, then once again set aside the pencil in hand. “I’m right in assumin’ Eddie was the big winner?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Candy replied, nodding his head.

“Ben, how much money’d ya find in Eddie’s wallet?”

“I didn’t count it, Roy,” Ben replied. “But, I’d say it was around a hundred dollars.”

“With six men playin’ after YOU joined the game, Candy, I’m kinda surprised there wasn’t MORE money in his wallet,” Roy said.

“Well . . . Leo had the good sense to leave the game while he still had money,” Candy explained. “Dick’s loss amounted to a bunch of I.O.U.s he won’t have to cover now, and the old man . . . Mister Taylor . . . left the game after the first couple of hands.”

“ ‘Bout what time did the game end?” Roy asked.

“For ME the game ended when I ran out of money,” Candy said with a wry grimace. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you what time that was, exactly . . . only that Joe and I left the Silver Dollar right after that.”

“Did the game go on after ya left?” Roy asked.

“Eddie, Dick, and Bill Lomax were getting ready to deal another hand, when Joe and I left the Silver Dollar,” Candy replied. “How long they played after that . . . . ” He shrugged.

“Where’d you ‘n Joe go after ya left the Silver Dollar?” Roy asked.

“Back to the Ponderosa,” Candy replied.

“What time did the two of ya get home that night?”

“I . . . . ” Candy wracked his brains, trying to remember. Finally, he looked up at the lawman and simply shrugged. “Sorry, I can’t remember.”

“Roy?”

“Yeah, Ben?”

“I’m not quite sure exactly when Joe and Candy arrived home that night,” Ben said, “but, I DO remember the clock in the great room striking the quarter hour after midnight while we were talking about their trip to Carson City.”

Roy made note of the approximate times given. “What about Eddie?” he asked. “Any idea what time HE got back that night?”

“No.” Candy shook his head. “Only thing I can tell ya for sure is . . . when I woke up the next morning, Eddie was in his bunk.”

“All right, Ben . . . what do ya know ‘bout Eddie Jones himself?” Roy continued.

“I hired him about a month after he arrived in Virginia City,” Ben replied. “He was a big, strapping man, looking for steady work, and I was shorthanded. He told me that he had spent the last year or so working on a couple of spreads in Arizona. The year before that, he worked on a spread in Texas.”

“You checked out his claims?”

“Of COURSE I did!” Ben replied, indignant and outraged that Roy would in any way suggest that he had somehow been negligent in his responsibilities.

“All right, let’s start with the name o’ those spreads,” Roy said, taking another fresh sheet of paper from the bottom drawer.

“What for?!” Ben demanded.

“ ‘Cause I’M gonna hafta check Eddie Jones’ claims, too, Ben,” Roy said sharply.

Ben sighed. “Eddie worked for the Rising Sun and the Circle K in Arizona. Both are about ten . . . fifteen miles north of Tucson,” he replied. “In Texas, he worked as top hand on a big spread called Bar None, located near a little town called Barclay Junction.”

“How well do ya know the owners?”

“I’m very well acquainted with the owners of the Circle K and Bar None,” Ben replied. “I’ve done business with the Circle K off ‘n on over the years, and the Texas cattle Adam and I bought and bred into OUR line came from Bar None.”

“When was the LAST time ya did business with Circle K ‘n Bar None?” Roy asked.

“Last year, I sold the owner of the Circle K a brood mare and two saddle broken cutting horses,” Ben replied.

“ ‘N Bar None?” Roy prompted.

“I haven’t done any business with Bar None since Elias died,” Ben said a mite sheepishly.

“Elias?” Roy echoed. “He the owner?”

“WAS the owner . . . and I considered him a good friend,” Ben replied. “Elias Tanner died . . . two, maybe three years ago. I heard that his oldest son, Jack, took over the running of the ranch, but apart from sending each other Christmas cards every year . . . . ” He shrugged.

“What did the owners o’ the Circle K, Bar None, ‘n Risin’ Sun hafta say ‘bout Eddie Jones?” Roy asked.

“All three confirmed that Eddie did, indeed, work for ‘em . . . AND they gave him glowing references,” Ben replied.

“Can ya remember anything o’ what they said?”

“Pretty much the same as Candy, Hoss, and I’ve already told you about Eddie.”

Roy added sending wires to the owners of the Bar None Ranch, Barclay Junction, Texas, and the two in Arizona. “Did Eddie ever say anything about family? Where he came from?”

“When Candy and I hired him, Eddie told us that he was born and raised in a little town somewhere in upstate New York,” Ben replied, “and that he’d been pretty much on his own since his mother died, when he was fifteen.”

“That all?”

“That’s all, unless . . . . ” Ben glanced expectantly at Hoss first, then Candy.

“He’s never told ME any more than that,” Candy replied.

“Me, either,” Hoss said.

“Anyone ever ask?”

“Sure,” Candy replied, “but he never gave a straight answer. He’d grunt, then change the subject.”

“I kinda got the feelin’ Eddie never LIKED much talkin’ ‘bout himself,” Hoss added.

“You folks said y’ collected Eddie Jones’ things from t’ bunkhouse ‘n brought ‘em with ya?” Roy asked, after making note of what little Cartwrights and Candy were able to tell him about the man.

“Yeah,” Hoss replied. He set the nearly empty duffel bag on top of the sheriff’s desk. “Eddie didn’t have much . . . . ”

“Let’s see what he had,” Roy said, as he rose and opened the bag. Inside, he found a brand new pair of work pants, two shirts, a pair of long johns, and undergarments that had long ago seen better days. Toiletries consisted of a shaving cup and brush; a razor, and a well-used bar of soap. There was also a pint bottle of whiskey, half empty. Roy carefully placed everything in the center of his desk, then peered once more into the bag. “Ben . . . . ”

“Yes, Roy?”

“There’s some envelopes lyin’ at t’ bottom o’ this bag,” Roy said, “looks like ‘bout half dozen or so.” He reached in and pulled out one. “Now THIS is damn’ peculiar,” he muttered softly, just under his breath.

“What?” Ben demanded.

“This envelope’s addressed t’ George Edwards,” Roy said.

“George Edwards?!” Ben echoed, incredulous. “Who the hell is George Edwards?”

“I dunno, Ben,” Roy replied. Though he knew beyond any doubt whatsoever that he had spoken true, the voice of intuition, his mother’s voice he called it, insisted loud and clear that if he didn’t know that name, he should. He placed the envelope in hand down on the desk before him and reached into the open duffle bag for the remaining five, all the while wracking his brains, trying to recall when or where he had heard that name.

Ben, meanwhile, picked up the envelope lying on the sheriff’s desk. “George Edwards . . . Virginia City, Nevada,” he slowly read the name and address written on the face of the envelope in bold, angular script.

“George Edwards . . . George Edwards . . . George Edwards . . . George Edwards,” Roy read aloud the name written on four or the remaining envelopes as he shuffled through them. “These’re ALSO addressed t’ Virginia City, Nevada.”

“What about THAT one?” Ben asked, pointing to the thick envelope at the very bottom of the stack Roy had just taken from Eddie’s duffle bag.

“Now THIS one’s addressed t’ a PRIVATE Edwards,” Roy said, noting that the handwriting on this envelope was in the same bold, angular script as the others. “No address . . . must’ve been hand delivered.”

“But . . . who in t’ ever lovin’ world is George Edwards?” Hoss queried, with a bewildered frown. “ . . . ‘n what’s Eddie doin’ with his mail?!”

“I don’t believe this . . . . ”

Joe’s voice.

Roy’s thoughts drifted back to the day before yesterday, when Joe had stopped by to find out whether or not there had been replies to wires sent to the New York City Police Department and the Pinkerton Agency, seeking information on Zachary Hilliard.

“This guy’s the spittin’ image of Eddie Jones . . . . ”

“Roy?!”

At the sound of Ben’s voice, anxious and insistent, the reverie vanished as quickly and as unexpectedly as it had come.

“Ben, I . . . think . . . I know who this George Edwards is after all . . . . ” Roy said slowly.

All of the butterflies that had been flitting about in the pit of Ben’s stomach since he and Candy found Eddie Jones’ body, coalesced into an ice cold lump upon seeing Roy’s sickly ashen gray complexion and trembling hands.

“Candy . . . Hoss . . . .” Roy said in as steady a voice as he could possibly muster, “would one o’ boys mind handin’ me that stack o’ papers lyin’ in m’ basket?”

“These the ones ya want?” Hoss asked, as he scooped up the half dozen wanted posters sitting on the very top.

“Yeah.” Roy nodded his thanks, as he accepted the wanted posters from Hoss. “Ben, these just come in . . . day before yesterday, a li’l bit before Joe stopped by.” He pulled a poster out of the middle of the stack and handed it to Ben.

Ben felt the blood drain right out of his face, the instant his eyes fell upon the sullen, angry face that stared out from the wanted poster. Though crudely drawn, the likeness to Eddie Jones was unmistakable. “Killer for hire . . . wanted in Nevada . . . California . . . Texas, and . . . and Arizona . . . . ” he read aloud the information in a voice barely above that of a whisper, his dark eyes round with horror. “Dear God! W-Was . . . was Eddie Jones hired to . . . to KILL my daughter?!”

End of Part 3

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