Bloodlines
Part 4

By Kathleen T. Berney

“That makes no sense to me . . . no sense at all,” Candy said, with a puzzled frown. “Why in the world would ANYONE want to kill a girl who was orphaned before she came to you . . . with no other family . . . no other life to speak of before she was found with the Paiutes!? It doesn’t make any sense!”

“Over the years, I’ve made almost as many enemies as I have friends,” Ben said in a somber tone of voice. “Some of them would have no qualms at all about killing Stacy or my sons either, for that matter . . . to get back at ME. If . . . if Eddie Jones WAS hired to kill my daughter— ”

“Now, Ben, don’t you go jumpin’ t’ conclusions b’fore--- ”

“He was, Pa,” Hoss said very quietly, cutting off the sheriff’s stern admonition mid-sentence.

All eyes immediately turned to Hoss, seated next to his father in one of the hard backed chairs facing the sheriff’s desk. His mouth had thinned to a near straight line, his jaw was set with the hardness of granite, and his bright blue eyes burned with raw fury.

“Now, Hoss— ” Roy protested, his head reeling.

“Eddie Jones WAS hired t’ kill my li’l sister. Ain’t no question about it. It’s all right here.” Hoss angrily threw the two envelopes he had in hand down onto the center of the desk.

Ben reached out and picked up the envelope that had landed on top. He turned it over and read the return address scrawled on the flap. “This was mailed from the Comstock Hotel in Carson City . . . a . . . a f-few days before I hired Eddie Jones,” he said in a hollow voice, barely audible. “Candy, isn’t that---?!”

“Yeah,” Candy replied. “That’s the hotel where Zachary Hilliard met Mister Smith.”

“Lemme see that, Ben,” Roy said.

Ben silently handed Roy the envelope he held in his hand.

Roy slipped the single page missive out of its envelope. “ ‘Private Edwards,’ ” he slowly read aloud, “ ‘ your orders: get a job working for Ben Cartwright, as soon as possible. Await further orders.’ It’s signed Corporal Alexander Deveraux for Lieutenant Zachary Hilliard.” He paused, just long enough to slip the brief missive back into its envelope. “Hoss, this note don’t say a blessed thing about— ”

“Read the other one,” Hoss said tersely.

“Alright . . . . ” Roy placed the envelope in hand back down on his desk, and picked up the second. “This was also mailed from Carson City on . . . . ” He glanced up sharply. “ . . . the date on this looks t’ be a day or two before Miss McKenna arrived.”

“May I see that envelope, Roy?” Ben asked.

Roy nodded curtly.

Ben snatched the envelope out of Roy’s hand and looked at the postmark date. “This was mailed three days before Paris arrived,” he said grimly, before giving the envelope back to Roy.

Roy removed another single page letter from the envelope Ben had just given back to him. “ ‘Private Edwards,’ ” he again read aloud. “ ‘Enclosed is the five hundred you asked for up front. Another thousand t’ come when job’s complete. Await further orders.’ This one’s also signed by Corporal Alexander Deveraux for Lieutenant Zachary Hilliard.’ ”

As Roy read the letter, Ben’s eyes strayed over to the bulky envelope, lying on the desk beside the clothing and toiletry items taken from the duffle bag that belonged to the man he knew as Eddie Jones. He picked up the envelope and lifted the flap. Inside was a thick stack of bills, in varying denominations, all upright, facing the same way. “Roy . . . . ”

Roy Coffee cast a sharp glare over at as he slipped the letter he had just finished reading back into its envelope.

“ . . . this has to be the five hundred dollars Alexander Deveraux and Zachary Hilliard mentioned in that last letter,” Ben said grimly. His face was a few shades paler than normal, and his hands were shaking.

“We’ll find ‘em, Pa,” Hoss said in a firm, resolute tone of voice. “So help me . . . we’ll find ‘em if we gotta tear this whole blamed town apart board by board.”

“Now you just settle yourself down right now, Hoss,” Roy said sharply, as he took the envelope containing the money from Ben. He closed his eyes and took a deep, ragged breath. “Alright,” he said finally, laboring mightily to keep his voice calm. “I gotta admit that puttin’ together the instructions for Eddie . . . uhhh, George, t’ get a job workin’ for YOU, Ben . . . ‘n the cut cinch on Stacy’s saddle adds up t’ one helluva piece o’ circumstantial evidence. But, neither one o’ them letters say a thing about Stacy, nor do they say anything ‘bout doin’ her harm.”

“You sayin’ you ain’t gonna arrest ‘em?!” Hoss growled, the dark, angry scowl on his face deepening.

“I can’t . . . NOT for tryin’ t’ harm Stacy, anyway,” Roy replied. “Now, I CAN bring ‘em in ‘n question ‘em about George Edwards’ murder . . . and I will, soon as I find out where they are. But, as things stand right now, there ain’t a thing here that links Alexander Deveraux ‘n Zachary Hilliard t’ Stacy’s saddle.”

“Why ELSE would they have told Eddie . . . George . . . whoever the hell he is . . . to get a job working for me?!” Ben hotly demanded.

“ . . . and what other reason could this Zachary Hilliard’ve had for asking questions about Stacy?” Candy added. “I can half way understand why he might ask questions about the Cartwrights and the Ponderosa . . . but I was told most of his questions were about Stacy.”

“I’ve not ruled out the possibility o’ him bein’ a Pinkerton man, workin’ maybe for her blood kin,” Roy pointed out, “ ‘n I won’t, ‘til I hear somethin’ back from Judd.”

“Then why would he and this Corporal Deveraux tell Eddie to get a job working for Mister Cartwright if it wasn’t to spy on Stacy and the rest of the family?” Candy demanded.

“ ‘Cause the Ponderosa’s one o’ the biggest . . . if not THE biggest . . . spreads in t’ whole state o’ Nevada,” Roy said. “Hell! If’n I had a friend just come t’ town, ‘n I knew he was lookin’ for work . . . I’d send him t’ see Ben first. So would a lotta folks ‘round here ‘cause Ben’s a good man t’ work for . . . ‘n with the size o’ the Ponderosa, he’s mostly likely t’ have work.”

“It would also be a real good place for a man to lie low, if he’d come here with the intention of doing something illegal,” Candy added.

“It wouldn’t be t’ first time, either,” Hoss growled.

“Candy . . . Hoss . . . ‘n you, too, Ben!” Roy said sternly, glaring at each man in turn. “The three of ya jumpin’ t’ conclusions like that, before we get enough o’ the facts t’gether ain’t gonna help Stacy, ‘n it sure as hell ain’t gonna help me do what I gotta do.”

Ben immediately opened his mouth to protest.

“Hear me out, Ben,” Roy held up his hand, effectively silencing the tirade sitting at the very edge of Ben’s tongue. “What we got right now’s like pieces uva jigsaw puzzle. They show some o’ the picture . . . Alexander Deveraux ‘n Zachary Hilliard hirin’ Ed---George! t’ do a job for ‘em f’r instance, or Zachary Hilliard goin’ ‘round askin’ folks questions ‘bout Stacy, but I don’t have a damn thing here that connects any of ‘em t’ the cut cinch on Stacy’s saddle.”

“You’re WRONG, Roy,” Hoss said.

“Now you listen t’ me ‘n you listen good, Hoss Cartwright!” Roy vented, succumbing, finally, to his own rising the anger and frustration. “You ain’t gonna--- ”

“Read THIS!” Hoss said curtly. He handed the single page note in hand along with its accompanying envelope over to the sheriff. “You read that over real good, then tell me again what kinda connections we can make with everything we got right here.”

Roy took the note from Hoss with a weary sigh and read it over a couple of times, very slowly.

“Well?!” Ben prompted, sparing no energy to conceal his ever-increasing impatience. “Come ON, Roy . . . what does it say?”

“ ‘Private Edwards,’ ” Roy read aloud through clenched teeth. “ ‘The word is given. You are hereby ordered to carry out Operation Fall From Grace, at your discretion, as we agreed. Make damn sure it looks like an accident. Instructions for payment on balance due to follow, after the job is complete,’ signed yet again by this Corporal Deveraux for Lieutenant Zachary Hilliard.’ ”

“Is THAT proof enough for ya?” Ben angrily demanded.

“NO, Ben. It ain’t!” Roy returned, every bit as angry and exasperated. “I wish more ‘n anything I could say it WAS, but I can’t.”

“Roy, I may not be the smartest fella in the whole wide world, but I can still see how this so called Operation Fall From Grace has gotta mean Stacy fallin’ off a horse . . . ‘cause her saddle’d been tampered with,” Hoss argued.

“Alright, Hoss! YOU read that letter . . . then you tell me---NO! Dang it, you SHOW me where it says anything . . . anything at ALL . . . ‘bout doin’ Stacy harm,” Roy challenged, the scowl on his face deepening.

“Maybe it don’t say so in so many words--- ”

“Well it’s GOTTA say so in so many words,” Roy rounded furiously on the middle Cartwright son, “otherwise it’s their word against yours.”

Hoss lapsed into a cold, stony silence.

“Alright, Roy . . . you’ve made it quite clear what you DON’T have,” Ben said, his voice rising slightly. “How about telling us now what the hell we DO need to prove those men tried to kill my daughter?!”

“Our case would be a whole helluva lot stronger if we could turn up a witness or two who actually saw George Edwards cut the cinch strap o’ Stacy’s saddle,” Roy said bluntly. “But, everyone I talked t’ told me they didn’t even know her saddle’d been tampered with.”

“What ELSE do we need?” Ben snapped out his next question.

“Right now it ain’t a question o’ what WE need, it’s a question o’ what I need,” Roy angrily shot right back, “ ‘n what I need most right now is for the three o’ YOU t’ back off ‘n let ME do m’ job. That goes for Joe, too!”

His words, and the vehemence by which he had uttered them left a stunned silence in their wake.

“Ben,” he continued at length, in a calmer, more kindly tone of voice, “Ben, I promise ya . . . I give ya my word . . . I’m gonna do everything that’s in m’ power t’ find out who cut the cinch strap on Stacy’s saddle, ‘n whilst I’m at it, I’m gonna find out who killed Eddie Jones. But I’m gonna do it within the bounds o’ the LAW.”

“Fine, Roy . . . you DO that!” Ben growled back, as he, Hoss, and Candy slowly rose to their feet. “But you bear THIS in mind, too. I am going to do everything . . . and I do mean EVERYTHING . . . within MY power to protect my daughter.”

“Ben, I got no problem with that” Roy said quietly. “None whatsoever. As her pa, I expect ya t’ take whatever steps y’ hafta t’ keep Stacy safe. You just make damn sure y’ stay within t’ bounds of the law. If ’n you or your boys go steppin’ OVER that line . . . . ” He let his voice trail away to an ominous, strained silence. “I . . . hope we understand each other?”

“I understand perfectly,” Ben replied. “Hoss . . . Candy . . . let’s go home.”

Ben, Hoss, and Candy wearily rode into the yard between the log ranch house and the barn as the silver-gray twilight began to give way to the approaching dusk. The tops of the tallest pine trees were already lost within the darkening sky above and the murky shadows of the coming night.

“Mister Cartwright?” Candy ventured, as the three dismounted.

“Yes, Candy?”

“I’ve been kicking myself over and over for not saying something about this while we were in the sheriff’s office,” Candy said ruefully, “but . . . I didn’t even think of it until we were well on our way home.”

“I have a feeling we’re all going to be thinking of and remembering things we should have told the sheriff over the course of the next few days,” Ben said. “If whatever’s on your mind now turns out to be something important, we can ride into town and tell Roy tomorrow morning.”

“Sure thing,” Hoss agreed.

Candy sighed. “It MAY be important . . . then again it may be just a case of my overactive imagination looking for plots against you and the rest of your family behind every tree and under every rock,” he said, “but . . . try as I might, I keep coming back to the military element in all this.”

“Military element?” Hoss echoed. “Whaddya mean, Candy?”

“The way those men referred to themselves by army rank in the letters they wrote to Eddie . . . George . . . whoever he really was, for instance, and the wording of those letters---” Candy explained.

“ . . . like military orders!” Ben suddenly realized.

“Yeah,” Candy agreed, then continued, “and the way we found Ed---the body! . . . with his hands tied behind him, and the gunshot wound to the head . . . if memory serves, that’s how the Army carries out executions on the field, during the course of a battle or immediately after.” He paused briefly. “Now I could be ‘way off the mark here, but still . . . I can’t help but wonder . . . is it possible these guys are army buddies?!”

“Of course . . . . ” Ben responded softly, his voice barely above the decibel of a whisper. “Curse me for a fool, I should have realized . . . . ”

Hoss frowned. “Candy . . . Pa . . . . ” he ventured, looking from one to the other, “what makes ya think those men might be army buddies?”

“It’s not uncommon for men who have served in the army or other branches of the military, to answer to the last rank they held,” Ben explained, “though I’d always thought that applied to men who had achieved the rank of captain or higher.”

“So did I,” Candy admitted.

“Pa . . . ‘n you, too, Candy . . . had either one o’ ya ever heard o’ Eddie Jones . . . or George Edwards . . . before he came t’ Virginia City?” Hoss asked.

“No . . . . ” Ben replied, taken aback by his middle son’s question.

“Me, neither, Big Guy,” Candy replied. “Why do ya ask?”

“ . . . ‘n NONE o’ us’d ever heard o’ Alexander Deveraux or Zachary Hilliard either, ‘til now.”

“I haven’t,” Candy replied.

“Hoss . . . what’re you getting at?” Ben asked, as his thick brows came together to form a puzzled frown.

“Any way we can find out the name o’ their captain?” Hoss asked. “Could be HE’S givin’ the orders t’ this Zachary Hilliard ‘n Alexander Deveraux . . . . ”

“We COULD send a wire to the War Department in Washington, but given that it’s part of the Federal Government, it’d probably be a whole month of Sundays before we get back a reply,” Ben said slowly, “that’s assuming we get a reply at all.”

“Mister Cartwright . . . Hoss . . . I recently found out that a good friend of my father’s is stationed in Washington D.C.,” Candy said. “You probably know him, too.”

“Oh?” Ben queried.

Candy nodded. “It was a good number of years ago, but at one time, he was the commander at the fort where the two of you and Joe first met Stacy.”

“Not Major Baldwin!” Hoss exclaimed with a scowl.

“No.” Candy immediately shook his head. “Major Sean McGuinness.”

“Yes . . . I DO remember Major McGuinness,” Ben said. “I had no idea in the world that YOU know him as well.”

“He and my father were close friends from the day they first met as a couple of raw recruits until the day my father was killed in battle,” Candy explained. “His son, Dash, and I grew up together.”

“Dash?” Hoss queried. A smile tugged hard at the corner of his mouth. “Short for Dashel McGuinness?”

“Yeah,” Candy replied with a grin.

“When we met Stacy, Sergeant Dashel McGuinness was the man in charge o’ the horses,” Hoss explained.

“ . . . and the only one who was able to earn a measure of Stacy’s trust,” Ben said quietly.

“I’d forgotten about that,” Candy said softly. “At any rate, Dash’s father is now a general, with more than enough clout, I’m sure, to shake loose answers to our questions, quickly and efficiently. I’ll be more than happy to wire him. However . . . . ”

“Yes?” Ben prompted, after a long moment of silence.

“I . . . haven’t been in direct contact with him for . . . well, I’m afraid it’s been a very long time, Mister Cartwright,” Candy ruefully confessed. “But . . . out of the goodness of his heart and remembering his friendship with my father . . . . ”

“Hey, Candy, nothin’ ventured . . . nothin’ gained,” Hoss sagely observed.

“I’ll see to it first thing in the morning,” Candy promised.

“ . . . uhhh, Pa?”

“Yes, Hoss?”

“With the two men who, like as not, killed Eddie ‘n TRIED t’ hurt or kill Li’l Sister referin’ to themselves by Army rank, ‘n doin’ things the way they did ‘em when they were in the Army . . . y’ think it’s possible they’re goin’ about their business now like it was some kinda military operation?” Hoss asked.

His middle son’s query sent an ice-cold chill running down the entire length of Ben’s spine. He shuddered, as his eyes darted from one opaque shadow to the next, searching . . . .

“Pa?! Hey, Pa . . . you all right?” Hoss queried with a puzzled frown.

“Hoss . . . Candy . . . I think we’d better continue our discussion in the house,” Ben said, making a point of lowering his voice.

“Sure thing, Pa,” Hoss said. “Why don’t you g’won in? Candy ‘n me’ll be along, as soon as we take care o’ the horses.”

Ben nodded his thanks, then turned and began walking at a brisk pace toward the house.

Joe closed the book in hand and placed it down onto the coffee table, upon hearing the front door open. “Pa, I’m glad you’re back,” he said by way of greeting, as he rose from his seat in the blue chair, over next to the fireplace.

“Everything alright?” Ben asked, as he removed his hat, and set himself to the task of removing his gun belt.

“Fine,” Joe said, as he walked over toward his father. En route, he paused just long enough to cast a quick, furtive glance upstairs.

“I take it Stacy and Paris are upstairs?”

Joe nodded. “They’re in their rooms,” he said. “You want me to call them?”

“No, not just yet,” Ben replied, as he and Joe made their way over toward the furniture grouped around the massive, gray stone fireplace.

“So. What did you find out about Eddie Jones?” Joe asked, as he sat down in the middle of the settee. “Hoss told me that you and Candy found his body lying out in Potters’ Field. Wasn’t he supposed to have gone out with Arch and Dan?”

“Yes . . . . ”

“So . . . what happened? Why DIDN’T he go with them?”

“To cut right to the heart of the matter, Arch and Dan told Hoss that Eddie just up and quit, the minute they reached the road,” Ben replied.

“Y-You’re kidding!” Joe exclaimed, his eyes round as saucers.

Ben shook his head.

“Did they tell Hoss WHY Eddie just . . . up ‘n quit?”

Ben shared with Joe everything that Hoss had told Candy, Roy, and himself at the sheriff’s office that afternoon, regarding Eddie Jones’ sudden decision to quit his job on the Ponderosa.

“This business of us working Eddie too hard . . . Pa, that doesn’t make one lick o’ sense!” Joe declared, shaking his head in complete and utter disbelief. “I mean . . . for cryin’ out loud! Eddie did the work of THREE men without even blinkin’ an eye.”

“I know, Son. I have to admit it made no sense to me either . . . at first.”

“Whaddya mean it made no sense to you either . . . at first?!” Joe demanded.

Ben half sat-half fell into his favorite red leather chair, and reached for the bottle of brandy sitting in the middle of the coffee table. “His name wasn’t Eddie Jones, Son . . . it was George Edwards.”

“George Edwards . . . George Edwards . . . . ” Joe murmured softly, as he ran a hand through the tangle of thick, brown curls atop his head. “George . . . Edwards. Pa, for some reason, that name’s familiar to me.”

“His picture’s on a wanted poster, Joe . . . one that Roy had just received the day you went into town to ask if he had any replies back from wires we sent to the Pinkerton Agency and the New York City Police Department,” Ben said, as he poured himself a generous glass full of good strong brandy.

Joe felt the blood drain right out of his face. “Pa . . . Sheriff Coffee s-said this . . . this George Edwards was some kinda killer f-for hire,” he stammered in a voice barely audible.

“Yes,” Ben replied.

Joe was afraid to ask his next question, but knew he must. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and mentally braced himself. “Pa,” he began, surprised at how calm his voice sounded in his own ears, “w-was Eddie . . . I mean George . . . was he hired to kill someone?”

Ben cast a quick glance over his shoulder toward the stairs. Upon returning his attention to his youngest son, he continued, taking great care to lower his voice. “From the letters that Candy found in and among Ed—, I mean George’s things . . . I’m inclined to believe that he was hired to harm . . . perhaps even kill your sister by two men . . . one of them being this wily Zachary Hilliard who always seems to keep himself a step ahead of us.”

For a moment, Joe sat, still as a rabbit or a deer caught in the light of a fire or a hunter’s lantern. He stared over at his father, through eyes round with shocked horror, too stunned to speak or even move. “P-Pa . . . . ” he finally ventured, the minute he found his voice, “why?!”

Ben raised the brandy glass in hand to his lips and downed half its contents in a single gulp. “At this point, I don’t know, Son.”

“So how, exactly . . . did Eddie . . . I mean George Edwards . . . die?”

“He was shot,” Ben replied. “Once in the back, and once in the back of his head.”

“Bushwhacked?” Joe asked.

“I thought so . . . until I opened his wallet and found a hundred dollars inside.”

“Chiminey Christmas!” Joe whispered, shaking his head. “Any idea who killed him?”

“No,” Ben replied. “Not really. However, in my own humble opinion . . . for what it’s worth . . . if Zachary Hilliard and his accomplice, a man by the name of Alexander Deveraux, DIDN’T murder Eddie . . . George . . . or whoever he was . . . they have a real good idea who DID.”

“Even if they had nothing to do with his death, they still have plenty to answer for concerning Stacy’s saddle,” Joe said with a dark, angry scowl. “That’s MY humble opinion . . . for what its worth.”

“I agree completely, Son,” Ben said.

“Is Sheriff Coffee gonna arrest ‘em?”

“He’s going to bring ‘em both in for questioning,” Ben replied, “assuming, of course, he can find them.”

Joe silently digested everything his father had just told him. “Pa?”

“Yes, Joe?”

“I . . . think . . . maybe . . . I WILL have that glass of b-brandy after all . . . . ”

Ben poured Joe a glass of brandy, then filled him in on all the remaining details.

“Pa . . . . ” It was Hoss. He and Candy entered the house, and walked over to join Ben and Joe, after removing their own hats and gun belts. Hoss seated himself in the blue chair, while Joe made room for Candy on the settee. “Candy ‘n I got t’ horses unsaddled, ‘n gave ‘em a good brushin’. Mitch ‘n Bobby are seein’ to their food ‘n water.”

“You said you wanted to continue our discussion in here,” Candy said bluntly.

“Yes,” Ben said.

“You brought Li’l Brother here up t’ speed on things, Pa?” Hoss asked.

“Yeah . . . he did,” Joe replied. “I’m still trying to take it all in.”

“Call me paranoid if you’d like,” Ben said, continuing on with the matter utmost in all their minds, “but when Hoss pointed out that the letters, we found with Ed—with GEORGE’S things, were written in the style and manner of military orders, I . . . well, to put it bluntly, I started to wonder if those men might have us all under a surveillance of some kind.”

“Surveillance?!” Joe echoed, incredulous.

Ben nodded.

“Y-You’re giving me a real bad case of the willies, Pa,” Joe said soberly.

“I’m giving myself a real bad case of the willies, too, Son,” Ben admitted, with a shudder, “but, for the life of me, I can’t shake it.”

“It makes sense, actually,” Candy said quietly, “though with George Edwards working here, they probably didn’t have to watch all that closely. Now, that he’s gone . . . . ”

“ . . . they’re going to be paying closer attention,” Ben said grimly.

“That could work to our advantage, Mister Cartwright,” Candy pointed out.

“How so?” Ben asked.

“So far, they’ve taken great pains to cover their tracks and conceal their whereabouts,” Candy explained. “With this George Edwards now permanently out of the picture, they’re, like as not, going to be watching closer, just as you said. That’s going to increase their risk of exposure.”

“But . . . what, exactly, are they looking FOR?” Joe asked.

“Another opportunity, more ‘n likely,” Hoss said with a dark, angry scowl.

“Another opportunity to . . . to . . . . ” Joe turned and gazed up toward the upper environs of the house.

“If these men ARE watching us, I’d say they’re more than likely trespassing,” Candy ventured. “We could organize search parties— ”

“No,” Ben immediately vetoed the idea. “We do that, they’ll go deeper into hiding and bide their time. I want to put them out of business now, not later.”

“What do ya want us t’ do, Pa?” Hoss asked.

“If Zachary Hillard and Alexander Deveraux want to play at being soldiers . . . I think we should play right along with them,” Ben said slowly, his voice filled with grim resolve. “Candy . . . . ”

“Yes, Mister Cartwright?”

“After we finish talking, I want you to ride out to the foreman’s house and tell Hank I want to see him as soon as possible,” Ben said. “When he comes, I’ll bring him up to date on everything.” Hank Carlson was his senior foreman.

“Pa . . . won’t they expect us to do something like that?” Joe asked.

“Yes,” Ben replied, “but I’m figuring within the next day or so, they’ll assume I asked Hank to come here so that I might tell him about Eddie Jones’ death. In the meantime, you’re to say absolutely nothing to the other men. I want them to go about their business as usual.”

“All right, Pa . . . . ” Hoss murmured softly.

Joe and Candy silently nodded ascent.

“I want the three of YOU . . . and Hank . . . to be on the look out for strangers passing through . . . for campsites and other signs of human habitation . . . I think you get the picture,” Ben continued.

“ . . . and if we find someone trespassing or signs they’ve passed through?” Joe asked.

“For now, deal with the situation as we usually do,” Ben replied. “If Zachary Hilliard and Alexander Deveraux ARE watching us . . . and I think that very likely . . . I want to them to think we’re completely ignorant of their presence.”

Candy grinned. It was a mirthless, feral grin. “Lull them into a false sense of security, Mister Cartwright?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ben replied. “Men who feel secure more often than not forget about being careful. They grow smug and arrogant before long . . . . ”

“ . . . ‘n men that cock sure o’ themselves make mistakes,” Hoss thoughtfully finished his father’s train of thought.

“Exactly,” Ben replied.

“One of us needs to stay here,” Joe pointed out.

“For now, Hoss is the logical choice,” Ben decided, “since he and Stacy are in the midst of working with that stallion . . . . ”

“ . . . which I, for the life of me, can’t understand why,” Joe said with a puzzled frown leveled in the direction of his big brother. “I say turn him loose in the corral with our brood mares ‘n let him do what he does best. Why waste the time ‘n energy to saddle train him?”

“I . . . know we ain’t had Sun Dancer all that long, Li’l Brother,” Hoss began, “but from what I’ve seen so far, he seems to be even tempered ‘n real easy goin’.” He grinned. “He’s also taken quite a shine t’ our li’l sister.”

“Hoss . . . if you and Stacy are having thoughts of her riding that animal in the Independence Day Race . . . the two of ya’d better put ‘em out of your minds right now,” Ben said very sternly. “No daughter of mine is going to participate in a horse race and that’s THAT.”

“Yes, Pa,” Hoss replied with a doleful sigh.

“I mean it, Hoss,” Ben warned. “I’m counting on the two of ya working with Sun Dancer to lift Stacy’s morale and keep her from chomping so hard at the bit what with having to keep her so close to home right now . . . but I am NOT going to change my mind about her riding that animal in the Independence Day Race.”

“Mister Cartwright, supper ready twenty minute,” Hop Sing announced, as he ambled into the great room. “Make sure Miss Stacy and Miss Paris know.”

“I’ll tell ‘em,” Joe volunteered.

Jeff Collier, known as Sarge to friends and acquaintances, sat behind a small, round table in a dark, out of the way corner of the Bucket of Blood Saloon. He wore a pair of faded, well-worn denim jeans, a yellow-beige cotton shirt with its long sleeves rolled to three quarter length, and a brown flannel jacket. A full glass of whiskey, untouched, sat on the table before him.

Tonight, the joint was “a-leapin’ an’ a-jumpin’ like a bunch o’ big ol’ bull frogs a-goin’ after the same fly,” to quote his youngest brother, Harvey. He had heard the raucous merriment and the piano, the minute he had turned the corner a block up the street. The patrons stood around the bar three and four deep, most well pickled, despite the early hour . . . .

“ ‘Evenin’, Farmer Boy,” cooed a low, throaty voice that dripped of magnolia and mint juleps. “Buy me a drink?”

He slowly lifted his head and found Belinda Everett, one of the barmaids standing over him. Tonight she wore a satin dress of bright scarlet, with a plunging neckline and hem that reached just above her knees. The garment clung to her voluptuous, womanly figure, as if she had been heated to a liquid and poured into it. His eyes lingered appreciatively on her generous, well rounded bosom for a moment, then slowly followed the gentle, curving lines that flowed into a trim waist and nicely rounded hips, culminating in a pair of long shapely legs.

“You must have a lot on your mind, Farmer Boy,” Belinda purred, low, soft, and inviting, as she pulled out the only other chair at the table.

“Yep,” Jeff grunted.

“You wanna talk about it over a bottle of whiskey and two glasses?” she asked, placing her hand over his. “We can go up to my room ‘n talk private, if ya like.”

“Sorry . . . no,” Jeff immediately declined, as he gently, yet very pointedly lifted her hand off of his. He, then, reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a single bill. “Here y’ are, Miss. If you happen across another farm boy this evening with lots on his mind . . . buy him and yourself a beer on me.”

“Thank you kindly, Farmer Boy,” she said stiffly, as she rose, and provocatively stuffed the dollar bill between her breasts. She, then, turned heel, and strode briskly toward the bar without sparing a backward glance.

“Pretty girl.”

Jeff glanced up and saw Lieutenant Zachary Hilliard, dressed as the elderly derelict, Bill Taylor, leaning believably on his cane. He respectfully rose to his feet, but did not salute. “In her own way, I suppose. Compared to Eileen . . . well, I’ll be gentlemanly, Sir, and simply say she comes up sorely wanting.”

“Eileen was truly one of a kind, Sergeant. Beautiful, every bit as intelligent as the blue stockings from whence I came, yet with all the genteel charm and grace of a lady from the old south,” Zachary said quietly, his voice filled with great respect. “I was very sorry to learn of her death.”

“Thank you, Mister Taylor,” Jeff said quietly. “Would you care to sit down?”

“Thank you, Mister Collier,” Bill Taylor, alias for Zachary Hilliard, said crisply. He pulled out the other chair and eased himself down into it. “At ease.”

Jeff nodded curtly and sat down. “I have two copies of my report, Sir. One for you and one for the captain,” he said, producing a stuffed envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket. “It details the Cartwright Family’s movements over the past three days, including all the why’s and wherefores . . . among other things.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Zachary said crisply. He took the envelope and slipped it under his shirt.

“I want to bring two things to your immediate attention, however,” Jeff continued. “First, Mister Cartwright’s very much aware that his daughter is in danger.”

Zachary felt the blood drain right out of his face. “Oh no,” he groaned softly. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“The captain will not be pleased,” Zachary said, his eyes round with fear.

“No,” Jeff agreed somberly.

“How much does Mister Cartwright know?”

“He knows the girl’s in danger,” Jeff replied. “I know that much. I’m still working on finding out the answers to how and why.”

“That’s why he’s keeping the girl close to home?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Any idea as to what alerted Mister Cartwright to his daughter’s peril?”

“The failure of Operation Fall From Grace,” Jeff replied. “It HAS to be. The older son, the big man they call Hoss, discovered the cut cinch almost immediately.”

“Damn it!” Zachary swore, angry and frustrated, yet fearful.

“Sir . . . far be it from me to . . . well . . . to, uhhh . . . criticize your actions . . . . ” Jeff hesitantly ventured.

“Spit it out, Mister Collier,” Zachary ordered tersely.

“The Cartwrights know that a man by the name of Zachary Hilliard was in town a few days ago, asking questions about the girl,” Jeff said with reluctance.

Zachary blanched. He closed his eyes, and forced himself to take a deep breath, long, slow, even . . . .

“ . . . and hold . . . two . . . three . . . four, his voice teacher chanted once again, now exhale . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . . ”

His eyes suddenly snapped open. “Mister Collier, are you trying to tell me that Ben Cartwright and his sons can connect my discreet questions with the attempt made on the girl’s life?” Zachary demanded.

“I don’t know, Sir,” Jeff replied, “not for certain. MY guess is . . . Mister Cartwright’s suspicions have been aroused, but he’s not one hundred percent certain.”

“For making a guess, you sound very sure of yourself,” Zachary caustically observed.

“I am a soldier as you well know, Mister Taylor,” Jeff said quietly. “But I am also a father. Given the same set of circumstances . . . a saddle cinch that was deliberately cut, and a stranger in town asking questions about my family, I’d be keeping MY daughter close to home, too, if I were in Mister Cartwrights shoes . . . until I could learn more.”

“It’s imperative that we find out exactly what Mister Cartwright knows and how he came to find out about it,” Zachary said, his tone of voice terse, his syllables clipped and words over enunciated. He quickly slid his hands off the table and into his lap, that the man, seated across the table from him, not see their trembling.

“I will do my best, Sir,” Jeff dutifully promised, “but surveillance will be more difficult now with Mister Edwards’ sudden demise.”

Tiny beads of cold sweat dotted Zachary Hilliard’s brow. His stomach lurched, and for one brief, horrifying moment, he half feared he was going to loose the meager supper he had eaten less than an hour before. “You KNOW?!”

“About Mister Edwards?”

Zachary nodded.

“Yes, Sir. I know.”

“What . . . exactly . . . do you know about Mister Edwards’ sudden demise?” Zachary asked. It took every ounce of will and resolve he possessed to maintain his outward appearance of stoic calm.

“I don’t know anything regarding the circumstances of his death, Mister Taylor,” Jeff replied. “I only know that Mister Cartwright and Mister Canaday found his body lying in a field several yards from the main road between Virginia City and the Ponderosa . . . and that they and Mister Cartwright’s older son, the big one they call Hoss, took the private’s body into town, presumably to the sheriff.”

“Dammit!” Zachary swore under his breath.

“Sir?!” Jeff queried, taken aback by the lieutenant’s sudden burst of temper.

“Mister Collier, what I am about to impart is, for the time being, for YOUR ears only,” Zachary said stiffly. He fell silent for a moment to give consideration to the words he would utter next. “It . . . recently came to my attention that Mister Edwards was about to commit what amounts to being an act of high treason.”

Jeff’s jaw dropped. He stared over at Zachary Hilliard through eyes round as saucers, too stunned to utter a word.

Private George Edwards was what many contemptuously referred to as a mercenary, a soldier for hire. Lieutenant Hilliard and Corporal Deveraux had hired him to do espionage work and to carry out a special mission. Jeff knew nothing of the particulars concerning said special mission, nor was he the slightest bit curious. If his superior officers decided it was necessary for him to know, they would tell him.

Private Edwards’ espionage work, however, had been nothing short of exemplary. Though he quite literally stood head and shoulders above most, he was a quiet, unobtrusive man, with sharp ears, and an excellent memory for details. The man had also displayed an uncanny knack for remembering conversations, word for word. Jeff had come to know early on that he could trust the man to provide accurate, detailed information.

His thoughts momentarily drifted back to his very last meeting with Private Edwards . . . .

“Sergeant Collier, I’ve killed a good number o’ men over the last six or seven years,” Private Edwards wearily confessed. “So not t’ speak ill o’ the dead, I’ll just say that most of ‘em were mean, ornery sons-of-bitches, who had it comin’. I’ve never killed a woman, though I been tempted a time of two . . . ‘n I never killed any children. Never. I . . . thought . . . maybe I could, if I was paid enough . . . . ” He sighed then, and dolefully shook his head. “I was wrong.”

“ . . . uhh . . . why are you, um, telling ME this, Private?” Jeff asked.

George Edwards eyes met his own with a piercing stare that “cut clear through all the muckity muck, right straight to the heart of the matter,” to quote his sainted mother, Leah Collier. “You know damned well why I’m tellin’ YOU this, Sergeant . . . . ” he replied in a quiet, deathly calm tone of voice.

He knew.

Jeff Collier had never voiced a word of his own misgivings about this mission to anyone, least of all to a man who, for all his good work, remained a stranger to him. “How?” he silently, fearfully wondered.

Did Private Edwards possess some uncanny way of knowing?

Or were his own feelings that obvious? Jeff shuddered at the thought.

“Mister Collier.”

The sound of Lieutenant Hilliard’s voice, terse, with syllables clipped, forced Jeff from his uneasy musings with a violent start.

“That is the THIRD time I’ve called to you,” Zachary admonished the man seated with him at the table, his annoyance clearly heard.

“M-My apologies, Sir,” Jeff said, while inwardly struggling to compose himself. “Though he was not part of our unit, Mister Edwards’ work was exemplary and his conduct above reproach. I’m astonished and dismayed to learn he was on the verge of committing high treason.”

“As was I,” Zachary said, slightly mollified by Jeff’s apology and explanation. “My . . . source, however, is reliable . . . impeccably so.”

Jeff nodded. “Yes, Sir,” he quietly affirmed.

“I ordered Corporal Devereaux to resolve the matter,” Zachary continued, his anger and frustration rising. “Unfortunately, that . . . that incompetent son-of-a-bitch can’t carry out a simple assignment in a bucket. I should have realized something was amiss when the sheriff came around to see Bill Taylor this evening just before supper time.”

Jeff blanched. “Surely the sheriff d-doesn’t suspect . . . . ”

“I’m reasonably certain he doesn’t,” Zachary said curtly. “I . . . that is Bill Taylor . . . played a couple of hands of poker with Private Edwards and others, including Mister Canaday.”

Jeff Collier mulled over everything that Zachary Hilliard had just told him, with fear and trembling. He remembered the incident concerning the Cartwright girl’s saddle, and, though he had his suspicions, he had no idea that Private Edwards had been responsible.

Until now.

Frankly, Jeff was amazed Private Edwards would have left so much to chance. From what little he had been able to observe for himself, the private appeared to be very meticulous in his planning, always taking into account the unexpected.

“Sergeant Collier, I’ve killed a good number o’ men over the last six or seven years . . . . ”

George Edwards’ words once again echoed in his mind.

“ . . . I’ve never killed a woman, though I been tempted a time of two . . . ‘n I never killed any children. Never. I . . . thought . . . maybe I could, if I was paid enough . . . . I was wrong.”

“ . . . uhh . . . why are you, um, telling ME this, Private?”

“You know damned well why I’m tellin’ YOU this, Sergeant . . . . ”

“Does the captain know about any of this?” Jeff asked.

“Not yet.”

An uneasy silence fell between the two men, like a heavy pall.

“I . . . WILL . . . personally . . . see that the captain is . . . informed,” Zachary added. When he felt the time was right. He fervently hoped and prayed that some of the more zealous members of the unit, like the hero worshipping Matthews boys, didn’t beat him to the proverbial punch.

Jeff nodded, relieved and deeply, profoundly grateful the responsibility of reporting Private Edwards’ death and the circumstances surrounding it didn’t fall on his shoulders.

Zachary leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. For a moment, he sat with eyes closed, gingerly massaging his temples. “Do you have anything else to report, Mister Collier?” he asked, finally.

“Yes, Sir . . . I do,” Jeff replied. “It may be nothing of consequence, but in the interest of keeping you and the captain fully informed . . . . ”

“What is it?” Zachary demanded, mentally bracing himself.

“Mister Canaday was seen leaving the bunkhouse shortly after the noon hour, carrying a duffle bag that appeared to be half full,” Jeff replied.

Zachary felt his heart plummet to his feet like a granite millstone dropped into a very deep body of water. “Private Edwards’ things?”

“I can’t say for absolute certain . . . not without inspecting the contents of that bag myself, Sir, but I’d say it was more than likely, given that Private Edwards was the only one of Ben Cartwright’s men who traveled that light,” Jeff said grimly. “I know that Corporal Deveraux corresponded with Private Edwards several times on your behalf . . . . ”

“Are you saying that the correspondence between Corporal Deveraux and Private Edwards is in the hands of the sheriff?!” Zachary demanded, fearful and angry.

“Again . . . I can’t answer yea or nay for certain without seeing for myself,” Jeff replied. “Though I would assume that Private Edwards was ordered to destroy any and all correspondence from the corporal.”

That, of course, was standard procedure, but given the way Corporal Deveraux had botched nearly everything to which he had sent his hand ever since their arrival in Virginia City, Zachary, unfortunately couldn’t be sure that Private Edwards had been told.

Not that it mattered . . . .

Zachary Hilliard knew with dread certainty that Private Edwards had kept every last one of those damning letters, with the intention of using them as a means of blackmail.

“There’s one thing more, Sir.”

“What?” Zachary demanded, bracing himself for the worst, while wondering how things could possibly get any worse.

“Again, this may be of no consequence, Sir, but while Mister Canaday was in the bunkhouse, Hoss Cartwright and two young men were observed hitching horses to the family’s buckboard,” Jeff continued. “They appeared to be in something of a hurry.”

Zachary squeezed his eyes shut tight against an environment that, all of a sudden, began to spin with nauseating intensity before his eyes. He felt lightheaded, and the muscles of his chest seemed to have turned into lead weights, turning the simple act of drawing breath into a torturous, almost impossible ordeal.

“Timing.”

It was the voice of one of his instructors, during his time at Westpoint, a brilliant man by the name of Sinclair. Major Josiah Sinclair.

“Timing, Gentlemen, is everything,” the major continued, as he turned and began to pace very slowly, back and forth, in front of the classroom. “Timing, Gentlemen, can mean all the difference between success or failure, crushing defeat or stunning victory . . . even life or death.”

. . . life . . . or death.

There was, of course, always the outside chance that the facts just told him by the sergeant were nothing of significance. While he stubbornly hoped and prayed it would ultimately turn out to be so, he knew deep in his heart that given the timing of all things, the worst possible had occurred.

The Cartwrights and the sheriff of Virginia City had read the letters the corporal has sent to Private Edwards on his behalf. That much was a given.

“Sergeant . . . . ” Zachary queried in a hollow, wooden voice.

“Yes, Sir?”

“We have a man assigned to the sheriff’s office . . . is that correct?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jeff replied. “Jed Matthews. He was the drummer for our unit. He’s a good man, highly competent and very loyal. He was hired by the city council to clean all of the public offices a month ago, the sheriff’s office among them.”

“ . . . worse and worse!” Zachary silently groaned. He made himself a mental note to ask his aide, Private Yates, to contact Private Matthews as soon as humanly possible first to determine whether or not the sheriff was indeed in possession of the potentially incriminating letters; and second, to persuade him not to say a word of this debacle to the captain. Unlike his younger brother, David, Jed knew full well the importance of military protocol given that he had actually served with their unit in time of war. “I just hope and pray that damned fool corporal made no mention of the captain in his correspondence . . . . ” he murmured very softly, with a shudder.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Mister Collier?”

“Sorry . . . I thought perhaps YOU had just said something.”

“I, uhhh . . . was speculating . . . thinking aloud,” Zachary replied, chagrinned upon finding out he had indeed done just so, yet relieved that Jeff Collier hadn’t quite caught what he had mumbled. “I . . . hope Corporal Deveraux’s inept handling of the traitor within our midst won’t result in our having to abort our mission entirely.”

“Permission to speak freely, Mister Taylor?”

“Permission granted . . . . ” Zachary warily gave consent.

“Rather than abort the mission completely, my suggestion is that we pull back,” Jeff said, trying his utmost to ignore the sudden, indignant screaming of his conscience. “Keep them under surveillance, but do absolutely nothing.”

“Convince the Cartwrights we’ve retreated?” Zachary queried.

“Yes,” Jeff replied. “They WILL let their guard down, sooner, I think, rather than later.”

“What makes you so sure?” Zachary asked.

“Mister Cartwright’s daughter is the independent sort, who chafes mightily against the restrictions currently placed on her,” Jeff explained.

“How will that help us?”

“The inevitable strife that’s sure to result between Mister Cartwright and his daughter, if it hasn’t already . . . may very likely prompt him to lift his restrictions sooner,” Jeff replied. “Mister Cartwright values family peace and unity above all else.”

“Is this . . . observation . . . included in your written report, Mister Collier?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jeff replied, all of a sudden feeling very much on the defensive. “You and the captain did ask me to include my thoughts and opinions . . . . ”

“Yes. So we did,” Zachary reluctantly admitted. He pushed back his chair and rose stiffly to his feet. “I will see you here tomorrow evening,” he said. “Same time.” With that he turned, and left the sergeant alone at the table.

Jeff took a ginger sip from the whiskey glass in front of him, grimacing in distaste.

“You know damned well why I’m tellin’ YOU this, Sergeant . . . . ”

“Yeah,” Jeff silently responded. Like the late Private Edwards, he, also, had no qualms whatsoever about killing men, if the situation warranted, but the thought of killing a young woman . . . a teenager, not so far removed from childhood . . . went completely against his grain.

“Rest easy, Sergeant. Rest easy. We’re getting out of here . . . . ”

He heard again the voice of his captain, calm, reassuring, filled with unshakable resolve.

“Rest easy, Sergeant.

Rest easy.

We’re getting out of here . . . . ”

John McKenna’s face, as it had been at Antietam Creek, Maryland, rose to the forefront of his thoughts. Concern for his well being, fear, anger, courage, and a grim determination to see both of them reach safety before the night was out were clearly etched into the face of the man he would come to know over the years as simply captain.

“Rest easy, Sergeant.

Rest easy . . . . ”

The face of Lieutenant John McKenna at Antietam Creek faded and dissolved into the face of Captain John McKenna somewhere in Georgia, a scant two months after General William Tecumseh Sherman’s devastating march to the sea. He stood before the charred remains of what was once a magnificent antebellum mansion, his face white as a sheet, sickened by the wanton destruction surrounding him.

A young private stood facing him, smug and arrogant. Between them was the body of a young woman, lying face down in the dirt, her clothing ripped to shreds. There was a revolver in the private’s hand and two bullet wounds in the dead woman’s back.

“It was self defense, Captain,” the young private arrogantly proclaimed. “She tried to KILL me. I didn’t WANT to kill her, but if I hadn’t— ”

“You lying son-of-bitch!” an old man snarled, with tears streaming down his face. “You goddam lying son-of-a bitch.” He stood between Corporal Deveraux and another young private, his arms securely clasped in their hands. “He killed her. MURDERED her . . . ‘cause she wouldn’t give that . . . that animal what he wanted.”

“Shut-up, y’ ol’ coot!” the private spat contemptuously.

“This true, Private?”

The young man’s confidence wavered. “N-No,” he replied. “She tried to kill me, I swear it.”

“She tried to kill YOU.”

“Yes, Sir, I swear, Sir. She tried to kill me. I had no choice. No choice at all. If I hadn’t killed her, she would’ve certainly killed me . . . . ” the private babbled.

“An unarmed woman . . . half starved by the look of her . . . tried to kill you,” the captain said, his voice low and menacing, “ and you shot her in the back, not once but twice . . . in self defense.”

“No,” the private protested, shaking his head in vigorous denial. “No. It wasn’t like that, it wasn’t— ”

“I want the truth, Private . . . . ”

The young man finally told the truth. By then, he was down on his knees, sobbing. He and five others had come upon the family, what was left of the family. An old man, the dead woman, the two frightened boys peering at them from the shelter of a wild, overgrown bush, and the infant, lying in Jeff Collier’s own arms, peacefully sleeping. Since the destruction of their grand and glorious home, the old man, his daughter, and her three children had taken shelter in the small building that once housed the kitchen. The old man had been pistol whipped within an inch of his life. The private had wanted the woman and become very angry when she contemptuously spurned his unwelcome advances. In a fit of rage, he had thrown the woman down and fired two bullets into her back, while the old man, her father, watched, helpless to intervene.

“Stand up, Private,” the captain ordered, his voice deathly calm, his eyes smoldering with rage.

“Please,” the young man begged, as he rose unsteadily to his feet. “Please, h-have mercy? I don’t wanna die— ”

“I’m sure SHE didn’t want to die either,” the captain spat, as he withdrew his own gun from its holster and raised it to shoulder height.

“No, please . . . oh, God, please, don’t, please . . . FOR THE LOVE OF GOD— ”

The private’s words abruptly ended in the sound of gunfire from the captain’s weapon . . . .

With each passing day, it grew more and more difficult for Jeff to reconcile the man in Georgia, more sickened and horrified by the actions of that young private than anyone else in their unit, with the man who obsessively sought the death of a teenaged girl by the name of Stacy Cartwright.

“The captain has his reasons,” the sergeant muttered angrily to himself. “The captain HAS his reasons. Mine is NOT to question . . . but to obey.” He rose, picked up the glass of whiskey still sitting on the table before him, and downed its contents in a single gulp.

Darkness, opaque and impenetrable, surrounded and covered her like a thick black shroud. In the dark, she heard the voices, droning like locusts on a hot summer day. Two men, somewhere in the distance, argued bitterly. No words. Never any words, only voices. The profound depths of anger and bitterness, she sensed with terrible crystal clarity, frightened her more than anything. She also heard women’s voices in the dark. She couldn’t hear their words, either, only the quick, rapid fire of a morass formed by strings of vowels and consonants. She knew with horrifying certainty that they were as frightened as she was.

Her eyes caught movement in the darkness. A young girl child, with long, mussed hair, crinkled from constant braiding, slipped from the bed and made her way out of the room. The child paused, and turned meeting her eyes with an unflinching gaze. The little girl had the same startling blue eyes she, herself did. The child wanted her to follow. She saw it in her face. But, the prospect of following that little girl was frightening beyond all imagining. The thought of remaining alone in the dark, however, was even more so. She reluctantly followed the little girl from one dark place through another to a door. The girl had to stand on tiptoes to open the doorknob.

She followed the little girl hesitantly into a room, occupied by three women. Two of the women were very angry with the child for intruding into their domain. The third woman, a kindly spirit who bore striking resemblance to another she had recently come to know, took the child by the hand and led her back to her own room. She spoke to the child in kind, reassuring tones, calling her by that other name.

Footsteps, followed by slamming doors.

The three women and the child were rudely taken from their places of sleep and refuge, and herded single file down a long hallway. She forced herself to follow. The three women and little girl entered through a portal, beyond which lay a darkness far more terrifying than anything she had ever experienced in her life. She tried to follow, but her feet would not move.

A series of explosions rocked the house, shaking her entire world to bits. Suddenly, the house she was in shifted ninety degrees. She found herself clinging for dear life to the doorjamb. In the end, her hands and fingers proved too weak to hold her. She tumbled headlong into the room. There in the flickering illumination of a strange, obscene light, she at long last saw their faces, eyes round with astonishment, mouths twisted, gaping with sheer horror. An old man and woman, the mean, angry younger woman, and the kind woman were all there, dead, their bodies riddled with rifle shot. Though the child was nowhere to be seen, an evil presence yet remained in the room, threatening to suffocate her.

She heard the kind woman’s voice urging her to run, calling again her by that other name. With heart thudding hard against her throat, she ran to the window, but could not open it. The roaring sound of a mighty, horrible wind rose and grew, blotting out the sound of her screams.

“Stacy?!” Ben anxiously tried to rouse her. “Stacy, wake up, it’s Pa.”

Her eyes suddenly flew open.

The next thing Ben knew, she was in his arms, sobbing. He held her close, letting her cry, murmuring what he hoped were words of reassurance.

“Ben?” It was Paris. “I heard Stacy cry out . . . . ”

“Another nightmare,” Ben said anxiously. “This is the worst yet.”

“Anything I can do?”

Ben shook his head.

Paris entered the room and crossed to the other side of the bed. “I’m here, too, Stacy,” she said softly, as she seated herself on the edge, “if you want me.”

Though Stacy continued to hold on to Ben for dear life, she tentatively reached out and took Miss Paris’ hand. “P-Pa? Miss Paris? Would you please . . . please stay with me awhile?” she asked, as her storm of grief and fear began to subside.

Ben looked over at Paris. She nodded. “We’re here, Stacy,” he said quietly, “for as long as you want us.”

Stacy rested for a time in her father’s embrace, holding tightly to Miss Paris’ hand, gathering her own strength. It was right, somehow, that Miss Paris be here, too. “I s-saw them, Pa,” she said at length.

“The people?” Ben prompted.

Stacy nodded. “They were the people I lived with before Silver Moon and Jon Running Deer,” she continued. “I know that now.”

“Your family?” Ben prompted.

“WERE my family,” she said emphatically.

“WERE your family is right,” Ben agreed. “Do you remember their names?”

“They were . . . my grandmother . . . m-my grandfather, and two aunts.”

“No mother or father?” Paris asked.

Stacy shook her head.

“What happened the people?” Ben prompted.

“I . . . I don’t know, exactly . . . . ” Stacy’s entire body began to tremble.

“I’m here, Stacy,” Ben said softly. “I’m right here.”

“So am I,” Paris said, as she tentatively reached out and placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“They were dead, Pa,” she said, her voice unsteady. “All of ‘em. S-Someone . . . someone shot ‘em.”

“Were you able to see the person who shot them?” Paris asked.

Stacy shook her head. “There w-was . . . there was someone ELSE in the dream,” she continued, “a little girl, five . . . maybe six years old. I followed her throughout the dream.”

“Was the . . . was the little girl in with the dead people?” Paris asked, trying very hard not to think of poor Rose Miranda.

“No,” Stacy replied. “She went into that room with my grandparents and my aunts, but I didn’t see her among the dead.” She fell silent for a moment. “There was someone else in that room . . . . ” She shuddered. “An evil presence! It almost smothered me.”

Ben held her apart from him, just enough to look her in the eye. “I’m proud of you, Young Woman . . . VERY proud of you.”

“You ARE?!” Stacy queried with a puzzled frown.

“I certainly am,” Ben said quietly. “That was a very brave thing you did tonight. This is the first time you’ve ever gotten a real good look at the people.”

“Brave!?” Stacy echoed incredulously. “Pa, I was scared the whole time. The . . . the only reason I followed the child through the dream was because I was too scared to stay where I was . . . alone in the dark.”

“That makes what you did tonight all the more courageous,” Paris said softly.

“Miss Paris is absolutely right,” Ben agreed. “You made yourself look at those people tonight, and allowed yourself to remember who they were so you could name them.” He fell silent, allowing her to absorb the import of his words. “You told me something about naming things a long time ago. Something Silver Moon taught you.”

Stacy nodded. “She told me that if I could name something, I could take away its power to hurt me,” she said slowly.

“Grandmother, Grandfather, Two Aunts,” Ben repeated their names. “They can’t hurt you, not anymore . . . because YOU’VE taken away their power to hurt you.” He paused. “I want you to remember that.”

“I will,” she promised. “Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“I . . . I didn’t get a chance to tell ya after supper, but . . . I’m sorry about that fight we had this morning,” she said, her eyes glistening in the dim light of the oil lamp on the table beside her bed, its flame turned down low.

“I’m sorry, too, Stacy,” Ben murmured softly.

“I thought you meant I shouldn’t go out on Blaze Face by myself.”

“I know . . . and I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear that you’re not to venture outside the house without one of us with you,” Ben said, exceedingly grateful that a measure of peace had finally been restored; yet, at the same time, wondering how long it was going to last. “Stacy . . . . ”

“Yes, Pa?”

“I hope you know I’m not doing this to punish you in any way . . . but that I’m doing this to protect you . . . to keep you safe,” Ben said quietly. “I know that being confined to the house isn’t an easy thing for a free-spirited young woman like you to bear, and I hate having to resort to this . . . every bit as much as you hate having to live with it.”

“I know,” she said, as she wiped the tears from her cheeks on the sleeve of her nightshirt. “I . . . I k-kinda think that deep down . . . I already knew it, even before H-Hoss and Joe told me when we . . . when we sat down to dinner. Pa . . . . ”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“If you say no, it’ll be what I deserve, I s’pose . . . especially after this morning, but . . . . ”

“If you’re about to suggest a trip out to Dressler’s Pond Saturday morning to catch some trout for supper . . . I think the answer might be yes,” Ben said quietly.

Stacy slowly lifted her head and regarded her father for a moment through eyes round with surprise and awe. “Pa, I . . . h-how did you know I . . . that I--- ”

“Because I know YOU, Young Woman,” Ben replied. “Now as to what you deserve or don’t deserve, I . . . think Hoss was absolutely right when he told me at breakfast this morning that my having to keep you so close to home is sufficient punishment in and of itself.”

“Then . . . we can go?” she ventured, hardly daring to hope.

“Yes,” Ben replied, grateful to see a glimmer of hope shining once more in those great big blue eyes of hers, “we can go.”

“Thank you, Pa!” she said, her voice catching as the arms, wrapped loosely about her father’s waist tightened. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! . . . and I’ll try real hard to do better . . . . ” Her remaining words were swallowed up by a great big yawn.

“I know you will,” Ben said gently, all the while silently hoping and praying that she would find the wherewithal within her to honor those good intentions. “Looks like it’s time for you to go back to sleep.”

“Pa . . . Miss Paris,” Stacy said as she snuggled under the covers, “I-I feel like such a little kid for asking this . . . . ”

“What is it, Stacy?” Paris prompted gently.

“Can you both stay with me, just a while longer?”

“On one condition,” Ben said, as he tucked her back in. “I want you lie still and close your eyes.”

“Ok, Pa . . . . ” Stacy quickly drifted off to an easy, deep slumber in spite of herself.

“Thank you, Paris,” Ben said softly, as they quietly let themselves out of Stacy’s room. “I think you being there meant a lot to Stacy.”

Paris smiled. “You, of course, are her mainstay,” she said, “but, if my being there is in anyway helpful, it’s . . . . ” She sighed and shook her head. “It hardly seems appropriate to say it’s my pleasure.”

Ben smiled back. “I understand,” he said.

“That poor child,” Paris murmured sadly. “What inner demons torment her to inspire such nightmares?”

“They’re memories,” Ben said gravely. “I grow more convinced each time she has one of those nightmares. Something apparently happened to her when she was a young child. The memories were too horrible for the child to bear, so she relegated them as far as she could to the deep recesses of her mind. Over the years, the memories surfaced in the form of a recurring nightmare.

“She must have been having the dream on a regular basis while she lived with the Paiutes because Silver Moon gave her an escape plan,” he continued. “She also had the dream frequently when she first came to live with us here, but over time it faded. We thought the dreams were through with her for good, it’s been so long.”

“When did they start up again?”

“The night you arrived,” Ben said thoughtfully, realizing the connection for the first time. “They returned almost with a vengeance.”

She gazed up at him with eyes round as saucers.

“I’m sorry, Paris,” he said quickly, “I didn’t mean to imply that you’re in any way to blame.”

“I probably still served as a catalyst, however,” Paris said ruefully. Seeing the hurt, stricken look on his face, she continued, “No, Ben, please, I don’t mean me personally. Stacy’s old enough now to face what ever it is that happened, and come to terms with it. I served as a catalyst because I’m a stranger to her and an unexpected guest. But, if I hadn’t come along, something or perhaps someONE else would have triggered the dreams again.”

“I’ve tried to encourage her to stop running from whatever’s chasing her in those nightmares, and face it,” Ben said somberly, “but, after tonight, I wonder if I did the right thing.”

“Yes, Ben, absolutely,” Paris said with quiet conviction. “I worked as a practical nurse for a time, and dealt with a fair number of patients in the same boat as Stacy is right now. I learned very quickly that it’s better all around if the person faces up to whatever happened, sooner as opposed to later.”

“I can see the wisdom of that,” Ben said, “but it’s heart wrenching to watch her go through it, and not really being able to help.”

“You help far more than you can possibly realize by just being there, with an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on,” Paris said with a smile, “and from the things you told her tonight, I’d say you have a lot more wisdom than you give yourself credit for.”

“Thank you, Paris, for the vote of confidence,” he said gratefully.

A companionable silence descended upon them as they continued down the hallway together. As they came to a stop before the open door to the guest room, Paris turned slowly. Ben unconsciously reached out and slipped his arms loosely around her waist. Paris allowed him to pull her close. With a soft, contented sigh, her head dropped down and came to rest against his chest, in much the same way Stacy’s had just moments before.

Ben gazed down at the fragile woman in his arms lovingly. At length, she raised her head again and looked up. Their eyes met first, followed closely by their lips in the merest caress of a kiss.

“Paris, I . . . . ”

Paris reached up and gently covered his mouth with her fingertips. “No, Ben,” she pleaded softly. “Please . . . n-not yet.”

Saturday morning dawned with heavy lead gray skies, and a deluge of rain that would continue over the course of the next three or four days. Stacy stood before the window in her bedroom, still clad in the oversized nightshirt she always wore to bed, gazing out at the dreary weather, her face and eyes filled with dismay. “Dadburn it,” she whispered softly.

“What was that, Kid?”

She turned and found Joe standing framed in the open door to her bedroom. He wore a pair of pajama bottoms and shirt, the latter donned in haste. It hung unbuttoned from his lean, muscular frame. “I’m wishing for one minute I COULD be a little kid again,” she groused, as she folded her arms across her chest, and turned back toward the window.

“Oh?” Joe queried in mild surprise, as he stepped into the room. “Why is that?”

“So I could scream, cry, and stamp my feet without . . . well . . . without feeling like some dumb little kid,” she replied, wincing against the sudden stinging of tears in her eyes.

“I know how ya feel, Stace,” Joe said with genuine heartfelt sympathy. “I also know how much you were really looking forward to spending the day fishing with Pa. I’m sorry the rain had to scuttle it.”

“Me, too,” she sighed, then brightened. “Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“You think maybe . . . just maybe . . . the rain’ll clear out by this afternoon?” she asked, clinging desperately to that tiny glimmer of hope.

Joe shook his head. “You know the answer to that as well as I do.”

“I was hoping I was wrong.”

“Maybe you and Pa can go when the weather clears,” Joe suggested, as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Hmpf! With MY kinda luck lately . . . by the time the weather clears, Miss Ashcroft’ll be over her cold . . . flu . . . or whatever it is she’s got, and I’ll be back in school,” Stacy said with a melancholy sigh.

“I’ve got an idea . . . . ”

“What?”

“After breakfast, why don’t we g’won up to the attic and root around?” Joe suggested. “We’ve always had fun doing that on rainy days, and it’s been awhile— ”

“No thanks,” Stacy sadly shook her head. “Sorry, I’m being such a wet blanket— ”

Joe smiled at her choice of words, unable to help himself.

“It’s NOT funny!” she said, favoring the youngest of her three older brothers with a dark scowl.

“I know, Kiddo . . . and I’m sorry,” Joe said, as he endeavored to wipe the smile off his face.

“I was really looking forward to getting OUTSIDE today . . . . ” All of a sudden, her face brightened. “You . . . think maybe you could come out to the barn with me and watch while I muck out the stalls or something?!”

“Tell ya what, Stace . . . how about I give you a hand with mucking out the stalls?” Joe offered. “That’ll give us time to give Cooch and Blaze Face a good brushing.”

“Sounds good to me, Grandpa,” Stacy declared, as a big bright smile cleared away all traces of the keen disappointment, so evident a moment before.

Joe grinned. “Last one out to the barn’s a rotten egg,” he declared.

“Hey! I’m not even dressed yet!” Stacy protested.

“Neither am I! See ya!” Joe tore across the room, beating a straight path toward the door.

Stacy slammed the door shut behind her brother, then bolted across the room toward her dresser, pulling off her nightshirt as she ran. A few moments later, Joe and Stacy burst from their bedrooms into the hall running as fast as their legs could carry them. The former labored valiantly to button his shirt as he ran, while the latter furiously tucked her shirt into her denim pants.

“Hey! You’re not finished getting dressed,” Joe protested, as he buttoned the last two buttons.

“If I’M not, YOU’RE not,” Stacy countered, as she finished tucking in her shirt.

“Cheater!”

“I am NOT!”

“Y’ are so!”

“Am not!”

Paris opened the door of her room, as Joe and Stacy raced by in their mad, desperate bid to reach the top of the stairs first. “What . . . in the world . . . . ?!” she murmured softly.

Joe and Stacy, meanwhile, plunged headlong down the steps. Upon reaching the landing where the staircase turned, Stacy darted in front of Joe, grabbing the inside track.

“Hey!” Joe immediately protested. “No fair!”

“ALL’S fair, Grandpa,” Stacy smugly returned, as she continued down the stairs.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Well, we’ll just see about that, Little Sister,” Joe declared, as he leapt over the remaining four steps with all the power and grace of a cat springing upon its prey. He literally hit the floor running a few feet in front of his sister.

“HEY! NO FAIR!” Stacy cried out, astonished and outraged, as she jumped over the last two steps.

“YOU’RE the one who said all’s fair, Kid,” Joe laughed, as he sprinted across the short distance that remained between the spot where he had landed and the front door.

Stacy gritted her teeth and poured on the speed.

“Forget it, Stace! I’ve as good as got this race all sewn up,” Joe taunted, as his sister began to close the gap.

“You haven’t won yet, Grandpa.”

“What th---?!” Ben murmured softly, his eyes round with amazement, as he entered from the dining room with coffee cup in hand.

Joe, upon reaching the front door half a dozen steps ahead of Stacy, grabbed hold of the latch and threw it open. He ran out onto the front porch with his sister following right at his heels. At the edge of the porch, both of them leapt, and within less than the space of a heartbeat, found themselves slamming hard into what felt like the side of a great big mountain.

“HEY!” the mountain bellowed, as Joe and Stacy barreled into him with force sufficient to literally knock him right off his feet. The three of them landed with a sickening splat in the middle of the wet, muddy yard.

Joe slowly rolled over from his stomach onto his side. “Big Brother . . . y’ know . . . you really ought to watch where WE’RE going,” he chastised Hoss in tones of mock outrage.

Hoss groaned. Then, as Joe’s words began to sink in, his eyes snapped wide open. “Now just a dadburned cotton pickin’ minute there, Li’l Brother . . . just what, exactly, do y’ mean by I gotta watch where you ‘n Li’l Sister here are goin’?!”

“Didn’t you see us jumping off the porch?!” Joe demanded.

“No,” Hoss said curtly, “ ‘cause I just got through workin’ me up a big appetite, ‘n all I could think of is divin’ right into a great big breakfast o’ scrambled eggs ‘n sausage as only Hop Sing can fix it.”

“What did you do to work up such a big appetite?” Stacy asked, as she rolled over onto her side, then sat up.

“Aww . . . it doesn’t take much for HIM to work up a big appetite,” Joe teased. “All HE’S gotta do is open his eyes in the morning and sit up.”

“Very funny, Li’l Brother,” Hoss growled, as he raised himself up onto his elbows. “Where were t’ pair o’ you rushin’ off to in such an all fired hurry anyhow?”

“We were going out to the barn to muck out the stalls and— ” Stacy began.

“You mean t’ tell me that the two o’ YOU were racin’ t’ beat all . . . just so you could do barn chores?!” Hoss demanded, scowling over at his brother first, then at his sister.

“Yeah,” Joe replied, feeling oddly on the defensive. “Anything WRONG with that?!”

Hoss threw back his head and roared, drawing bewildered looks from his younger siblings. Joe and Stacy looked over at each other, anxiously at first. Joe felt the hard tug of a smile pulling at the edge of his mouth, and glancing over at his sister, saw her smiling and shaking her head. He shook his head, too, and began to laugh. Upon hearing Joe’s high pitched, rapid fire giggles, rising up over Hoss’ deep, basso profundo guffaws like a descant over the melody of a song, Stacy allowed herself to be drawn in. It felt so good to just let go and laugh, it mattered not one little bit that she had no idea what the joke was.

“I . . . I n-never . . . not in all m’ b-born days . . . EVER . . . thought I’d s-see the day when t’ two o’ YOU’D b-be s-so . . . so dad blamed anxious t’ . . . t’ . . . t’ d-do barn chores so early in t’ mornin’,” Hoss said, wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes as his laughter, at long last, finally began to subside.

This pronouncement brought a fresh round of laughter from Joe and Stacy.

“Hop Sing just live long enough to see great miracle,” Hop Sing declared, shaking his head. He stood framed square in the middle of the open door, watching, bemused and anxious while the three younger Cartwright offspring rolled around in the mud and the pouring rain, laughing themselves silly.

“What miracle is that, Hop Sing?” Paris asked, as she stepped down off the last step, with Ben’s help.

“Hop Sing know . . . for very long time . . . day when Mister Hoss, Little Joe, and Missy Stacy fight over who muck horse stall first . . . same day hot afterlife turn very, very cold,” the Chinese man declared with a broad grin. “Today, it finally happen.”

Paris laughed out loud.

“I’d better get out there and drag the lot of ‘em in before they end up catching their death,” Ben grumbled, as he turned and strode briskly toward the door.

“Hop Sing get Miss Paris coffee, then boil water for hot bath,” Hop Sing said, then turned, and started out toward the kitchen, his dark brown, almost black eyes twinkling with amusement . . . .

“Sorry that fishin’ trip you ‘n Pa planned got rained on,” Hoss said quietly, as he reached for the bowl of steaming hot scrambled eggs, when the family and their guest sat down to a late breakfast an hour and a half later.

“Yeah . . . me, too,” Stacy murmured with a glum sigh, as she cast a disparaging glare over in the direction of the window.

“Maybe things will clear up by this afternoon,” Paris suggested with a hopeful smile, as she took the bowl of eggs from Hoss.

Stacy shook her head. “It won’t,” she said. “From the looks of things . . . that rain won’t stop until sometime Monday or Tuesday.”

“How can you be so sure?” Paris asked.

“I just know.”

“I’m afraid The Kid’s right,” Joe said, as he and Hoss reached for the meat platter, generously piled with fried ham and sausage. “That rain’s definitely gonna go on for the next two or three days.” He looked over and caught Stacy’s eye. “We can still go up to the attic and root around it you want.”

“AFTER the two of ya get through with the laundry,” Ben said firmly, casting a sharp glance over at Joe first, then at Stacy.”

“Yes, Sir,” Stacy said, trying hard not to smile as she remembered again the fracas a short while ago in the rain and the mud.

“Sure thing, Pa,” Joe replied.

“Pa . . . . ”

“Yes, Hoss?”

“Now I can understand you thinkin’ it ain’t fair for Hop Sing t’ be havin’ t’ wash all our muddy clothes,” Hoss protested, as he helped himself to sausage and bacon from the meat platter. “But I don’t think it’s fair to make Joe ‘n Stacy wash MY clothes, too. What happened was an accident, Pa . . . pure ‘n simple.”

“True. What happened WAS an accident, Son,” Ben readily agreed, “HOWEVER, it was an accident that wouldn’t have happened, if your younger brother and sister hadn’t been in too much of a hurry to watch where they were going.”

“Aww, I know that, but . . . . ”

“No buts,” Ben said firmly. “We ALL know the house rules, Hoss . . . and the FIRST of those rules is . . . you MESS it up . . . you CLEAN it up.” He turned to his two younger children. “Right?”

“That’s right, Pa,” Joe replied, with a mouth full of scrambled eggs and toast.

Stacy nodded.

“ . . . I WAS going to ask if it might be possible for me to attend church tomorrow, but . . . from what Joe and Stacy tell me, it’s going to be raining until at least Monday or Tuesday,” Paris said quietly, as her eyes drifted over toward the window.

“More ‘n likely,” Ben agreed. “Paris . . . . ”

“Yes, Ben?”

“If you really have your heart set on going to church tomorrow, we’ll see that you get there, but to be up front and honest, if the weather tomorrow IS the same as now, I don’t think your venturing out would be a very good idea,” Ben said candidly.

“You’re right,” Paris reluctantly admitted.

“Saint Mary’s has a Mass on Wednesday mornin’s, Miss Paris,” Hoss said, as he eagerly dug into the big breakfast on the plate set before him. “This rain oughtta be cleared out by then for sure.”

“Ben?” Paris queried hopefully.

“IF the weather clears . . . AND if school’s back in session,” Ben replied. “If Miss Ashcroft hasn’t recovered from that bout of cold, I already have a previous commitment.” He punctuated his words with a meaningful, pointed glance at his daughter.

Stacy smiled at her father, and nodded.

“Yes, of course,” Paris said very quietly. “I understand.”

“Miss Paris?”

“Yes, Eric?”

“If Pa can’t take ya on Wednesday, I’d be more than happy to,” Hoss offered.

“Thank you for your generous offer, but I don’t want to put you to a whole lot of trouble.”

“No trouble at all, Miss Paris,” Hoss hastened to reassure her. “Happy t’ do it.”

Roy Coffee sat behind the bank manager’s desk in a small cubbyhole of a room, barely measuring ten feet by ten feet, reading over the bank’s copy of the statement for an account belonging to one George Edwards, better known to the folks in and around Virginia City as Eddie Jones.

“Now this is damned peculiar . . . . ” Roy muttered very softly.

“ . . . uhhh, something . . . wrong, Sheriff Coffee?” Felix Dorsey, a thin, wiry young man with a nervous disposition, inquired. He had been working as a bank teller for the better part of the last couple of years.

“Any reason why the money Mister Jones deposited on a Friday was withdrawn the followin’ Monday mornin’?” Roy asked.

“I . . . GUESS it’d be alright to tell you . . . what with M-Mister Jones, ummm . . . being dead ‘n all . . . . ” Felix murmured, wringing his hands. “He . . . left instruction to wire that money to someone . . . . ”

“Can y’ gimme a NAME, Mister Dorsey?”

“Yes, Sir . . . I can, but I’ve umm . . . gotta check the records.”

“Why don’t you g’won ‘n do that?” Roy blithely suggested. “I’ll be right here waitin’.”

“Y-Yes, Sir . . . I’ll be right back . . . . ” A few moments later, Felix returned with a sheet of paper clasped tightly in hand. “Here it is, Sheriff Coffee. Mister Jones’ instructions to wire his deposits to a Miss Janelle McClelland in care of Miss Kitty Russell, Long Branch Saloon.”

“Long Branch Saloon?” Roy echoed with a puzzled frown. “Where ‘n the heck is THAT?”

“Somewhere out in Kansas, I think . . . . ”

“Dodge City,” George Ellis, the telegraph operator told Roy.

“You got any idea as t’ who this Miss McClelland was t’ Eddie Jones . . . or why he sent her nearly every sent he made?” Roy asked.

George shook his head. “Roy?” he ventured.

“What is it, George?”

“I got a wire here . . . addressed to some fella named George Edwards in care o’ Eddie Jones,” George said. “It’s from the Miss Russell in whose care I wired all money for Miss McClelland. What with Eddie bein’ dead, I s’pose I oughtta give it t’ you.” He reached into the right hand drawer of his desk and withdrew and envelope with Eddie Jones written on its face.

Roy took the proffered envelope and immediately opened it. The message was brief and to the point:

G. Edwards [stop]
c/o E. Jones
Virginia City, Nevada [stop]

Regret to inform you of Lucy’s death last night [stop]
Funeral three days [stop]

My condolences [stop]

K. Russell
Long Branch Saloon
Dodge City Kansas [stop, end of message]

“Now don’t THAT beat all,” Roy sighed as he folded the single sheet of paper and stuffed it back into the envelope. “George . . . . ”

“Yes, Roy?”

“I want ya t’ send a wire t’ Miss Janelle McClelland in care o’ Miss Kitty Russell at t’ Long Branch Saloon . . . Dodge City, Kansas,” Roy said.

George immediately grabbed a scrap piece of paper and a stubby pencil from his desk. “Here y’ are, Roy . . . . ”

The sheriff nodded his thanks and scribbled out the following message in short order:

“Regret to inform you of George Edward’s death three days ago. Burial two days ago. Are you his next of kin? Please let me know. My sincere condolences. Roy Coffee, sheriff, Virginia City.”

Roy quickly read his intended message over, then handed it to George. “Send this as soon as ya can,” he ordered. “If ‘n when ya get a reply, bring it t’ my office.”

George nodded. “That’ll be two dollars, Roy.”

Roy reached into his pants pocket and drew out three coins: two silver dollars and a fifty-cent piece. “This’ll cover the cost o’ sendin’ that wire . . . ‘n there’s a little somethin’ for your trouble, too,” he said as he placed the coins in George’s hand.

Zachary Hilliard turned away from the window, overlooking the narrow, garbage strewn alley between the backs of the buildings facing out toward B and C Streets, and with a yawn, shuffled across the room toward the bed, set against the wall, directly opposite. He strongly suspected it had been made with a child in mind, given its narrowness across and that its length was roughly twelve inches too short for a man of his height. Its straw stuffed mattress was lumpy, and sagged in the middle. Upon reaching the bed, he turned and collapsed with a soft, agonized groan as aching hip and knee joints protested to the abrupt landing with sharp jabs of pain.

Today, Zachary Hilliard felt every bit as old and decrepit as his alter ego, the drifter, Bill Taylor. He had not washed or dressed, despite the lateness of the hour. Every joint in his body ached . . . .

“Arthritis,” his family physician pronounced when he had gone for an examination upon his return home from the war to placate his worried mother more than out of any particular concern for his physical well being.

“Arthritis?!” he exclaimed, incredulous. He had always thought that to be an affliction of the elderly. Granted he was no “young spring chicken,” as his maternal grandmother might have indelicately put it. But, even so, he could hardly be thought of as old.

“ . . . comes of all that time spent outside . . . in all kinds of weather . . . not eating right . . . not taking care o’ yourself proper,” the doctor explained. “Seen it all too much in men comin’ home from the battlefields.”

“What can be done?” he demanded, angry and outraged.

“Can’t be cured, if that’s what you’re askin’,” the doctor said bluntly. “Main thing is ya gotta keep movin’ no matter what. If ya DON’T move, those joints’ll stiffen right up . . . and when they do . . . . ” The doctor’s voice trailed off to an ominous silence. “You might also try settin’ up housekeepin’ out where the climate’s drier,” he had added, as an after thought. “Some folks tend to suffer more when the weather’s damp . . . . ”

Perhaps . . . after the captain’s mission was over and done . . . he would head off to Arizona, New Mexico, or perhaps southern California, put down roots, and settle down. The Lord Above knew there was nothing left for him in New York anymore . . . .

He cast a quick, furtive glance over toward the closed door to his room, then turned to the nightstand beside his bed and, with trembling hands, eased the small drawer under the table top open. Inside, a small Bible lay over top three handkerchiefs, all clean and neatly folded. The small, well-used tome had belonged to his mother and his grandmother before him.

“The captain would have a conniption fit if he knew,” he mused in uneasy silence as he absent-mindedly moved his thumb across the worn leather cover.

Should the tiny book, now resting so tenderly sandwiched between his hands, ever fall into the hands of the Cartwright family or that nosy sheriff, heaven forbid, Bill Taylor’s cover would be blown sky high the minute they opened the book. His parents’ names and the date they married were written on the inside of the front cover in his late grandmother’s neat, precise hand. His mother had also written down his name, and the names of his siblings on the back cover, along with their birth dates. It was the last gift his mother had given him, the night he left home for the military academy in Westpoint, New York . . . .

“May the words that lie between the covers of this tiny book bring you comfort, Son,” his mother said, while trying valiantly to hold back her tears. She placed it in his hands and very gently curled his fingers around it. “Many’s the time your grandmother and I have come to this book for solace during OUR times of trial . . . . ”

He found comfort not so much in the words contained therein, but rather in its connection to his family . . . his mother and father . . . his four sisters and two brothers . . . his nieces and nephews . . . the way they had all been in happier times, before the war set brother against brother, and had the rest of the family choosing sides.

The loud, insistent pounding against the fast closed door to his room drew him from his melancholy reverie. “Yes? Who is it?” Zachary responded warily.

“Private Yates, Sir. Private David Matthews is here with an urgent message from the captain. He told me that he’s been given strict orders to deliver it to you in person.”

“One moment, please,” Zachary replied. He shoved the Bible under his pillow, then rose stiffly to his feet, gritting his teeth against an outcry of pain. “Come in,” he invited after taking a moment to straighten his bathrobe and smooth down his uncombed hair.

Samuel Yates entered, with David Matthews following close behind. After David had quietly closed the door, both young men saluted crisply. Zachary returned the salute, trying hard not to grimace in the face of the pain in his shoulders and his back.

“At ease, Gentlemen,” Zachary ordered. He paused just long enough to allow them to relax before turning his attention to David. “My aide tells me you have a message from the captain?”

“Yes, Sir,” David replied with a curt nod of his head. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a blue-gray envelope, with “Lt. Z. Hilliard” penned on its face in John McKenna’s painfully neat, precise hand. “I was ordered to hand deliver this to you personally, Lieutenant Hilliard.”

“Does the captain expect an immediate reply?”

“No, Sir.”

“That being the case, Private Matthews . . . you’re dismissed,” Zachary said curtly.

“Yes, Sir.” David saluted again, then left.

Samuel Yates waited until the sounds of David’s footfalls in the corridor beyond had faded away to silence. “Lieutenant, are you uhh . . . is, ummm . . . is everything well, Sir?” he queried, noting with concern the dark circles under Lieutenant Hilliard’s eyes, his deathly pale complexion, and that he still wore his nightshirt and robe.

“Yes, Private . . . everything is well,” Zachary replied. “Is there anything else?”

“No, Sir.”

“You may go.”

Samuel saluted, then turned heel and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Zachary opened the envelope in hand, as he turned and made his way back across the room to the bed. Inside was a note, brief and to the point, hand written on a single sheet of stationary that matched the envelope.

“ ‘Lieutenant Hilliard,’ ” Zachary read the note aloud. “ ‘You are hereby ordered to present yourself before your commanding officer for questioning this afternoon at two thirty sharp . . . signed John McKenna, captain, U.S. Army, now retired.’ ”

“Damn!” he swore vehemently. “Damn, damn, damn, DAMN!” This had to be about the loose end Corporal Deveraux had so carelessly left dangling . . . .

“ . . . and bungled so thoroughly in trying to tie it up,” Zachary silently ruminated. An overzealous member of their unit had beat him to the punch after all in reporting the entire incident to the captain. “Jeddidiah Matthews, damn his hide!” he grumbled under his breath. It had to be. He was the only one among them with free and easy access to the sheriff’s office.

His rising anger and resentment toward the corporal and drummer boy, coupled with dread at the prospect of having to answer to the captain for the unfortunate affair within the next couple of hours, set his stomach churning. He opened the nightstand drawer, from which he had taken his mother’s Bible a short time before, and extracted the silver plated flask, etched with his late father’s initials, lying at the very back of the drawer.

“ . . . something ELSE the captain would have a conniption fit over if he knew,” Zachary sardonically ruminated, as he deftly unscrewed the cap, “what with him being the stern, despotic teetotaler he is these days . . . . ” He lifted the opened flask, filled almost to the brim with fine brandy, in mock salute. “Cheers,” he muttered under his breath. He, then, brought the flask to his lips and gulped down a generous dose.

John McKenna sat before the cold fireplace in the largest room on the second floor of a ramshackle dwelling, set along a narrow alleyway between C and D Streets amid a dozen or so other abodes, all in similar states of disrepair. Officially it had no name, though many of the locals referred to it as Blood Alley. He was impeccably attired in a pair of gray wool pants, a freshly laundered white shirt with black string tie, a heavy, quilted smoking jacket of satin, hued a deep, rich burgundy, and a pair of soft leather slippers, stained dark brown.

His bad leg ached terribly, consequence, no doubt, of the torrential downpour outside and the accompanying wet chill in the air that permeated deep down into the very marrow of his bones. For a brief moment, he gave serious thought to asking Private David Matthews to fetch in an armload of wood and lay a fire in the fireplace before him. “No,” he sighed very softly, discarding the idea in very short order. The danger of setting the house on fire was too great, thanks to crumbling bricks and mortar.

The Bible on John’s lap had lain open to the same page for the better part of the last thirty minutes. He turned away from the cold, empty fireplace and tried to focus his attention once again on the open book before him. His eyes dropped down onto the page, but he saw none of the words. His mind, in the words of his stern fourth grade teacher, wasn’t “on cloud nine . . . it’s on cloud NINETY-nine,” racing a mile a minute.

His original plan was to simply kill the girl and be done with it. That had changed, however, upon learning that she had been adopted by Ben Cartwright, irony upon delicious ironies. The revised plan called for abducting the girl and spiriting her away . . . FAR away . . . so far away, her father and brothers wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of ever finding her, no matter how hard they tried. With a little encouragement on his part, the girl would have very quickly abandoned all hope of her family ever finding and rescuing her.

“After that, I’d give her one week . . . TWO, maybe, at the very outside,” John silently mused. A smug, triumphant smile slowly eased its way across his lips, and his eyes glittered with an unholy, malicious delight, as he envisioned the unfolding of the next phase in his plan in vivid detail. “When it dawns on her that her family WON’T be coming to her rescue . . . turning her against them, her father especially, will be easier than taking candy from a baby.” His smile broadened, and he began to chuckle very softly. “What a glorious sight THAT would have been, seeing the look on Ben Cartwright’s face day he finds out the long, lost daughter he and his sons had long ago given up for dead, not only hates his guts, but intends to kill him.”

A few moments later, John McKenna’s grim mirth abruptly evaporated. “Time . . . . ” he murmured, his voice soft and wistful. “I had so much time . . . all the time in the world . . . until Divine Providence saw fit to hand me my dear . . . sweet . . . loving . . . sister . . . . ” Those last words were uttered through clenched teeth and rigid jaw. If only there was a way to find out for certain how long Paris intended to stay with the Cartwrights without raising suspicion . . . .

“If only . . . if only . . . if only . . . . ” he murmured again, as he wracked his brains, desperately seeking an answer.

A knock on the door, discrete yet insistent, drew John from his grim, troubled musings. He deftly slipped the bright cherry red ribbon between the pages to mark his place, then closed his Bible. “Yes?” he queried, as he turned and placed the Bible on the table beside his chair. “Who is it?”

“Private David Matthews, Sir.”

John frowned. “State your business, Private,” he ordered.

“Sir, Lieutenant Hilliard is waiting downstairs, as ordered,” David replied.

John reached into the inside pocket of his smoking jacket and extracted the watch that had belonged to his father. It was one of the few items that had survived the fire that claimed the lives of his parents and two younger sisters. He flipped up the cover, engraved with the initials of his father, Gerald McKenna, and stole a quick glance at the watch face. The time was two-thirty, exactly. “The lieutenant is prompt if nothing else,” he sardonically observed in silence. He set the watch on top of his Bible, then rose stiffly to his feet, trying his best not to wince. “Private Matthews, please escort Lieutenant Hilliard in immediately,” he ordered crisply.

“Yes, Sir.”

A moment later, the door opened. Zachary Hilliard entered the room first, with David Matthews following at a respectful distance. David paused just long enough to noiselessly close the door before taking his place alongside the lieutenant. The two men immediately saluted, their crisp, precise movements in perfect unison.

“Lieutenant Hilliard reporting as ordered, Sir,” Zachary greeted his commanding officer in a wooden monotone.

John returned the salute. “Thank you, Private Matthews,” he said quietly, turning his full attention to the younger of the two men standing at attention in the center of the room. “You may return to your post.”

“Yes, Sir,” David acknowledged the order, then turned heel and strode toward the door moving at a brisk, yet decorous pace.

After the young man had left the room, John turned and began to pace in front of the fireplace very slowly, his limp agonizingly pronounced.

Zachary swallowed nervously. The captain pacing as he did now, with that slow, carefully measured gait, with head bowed and hands loosely clasped behind his back, seemingly oblivious to everything around him, was always a bad sign . . . a VERY bad sign. The churning butterflies in his stomach began to slow and coalesce, forming a cold, heavy lead weight. He shuddered.

John continued to pace, non-stop, for what seemed a dreadful eternity. A heavy, oppressive silence fell over the room, broken only by the occasional soft whisper of halting footfalls.

“ . . . uhhh, Captain?” Zachary finally ventured, with fear and trembling, unable to bear the unsettling quiet any longer. “What---?!”

John abruptly halted his pacing mid-stride. “I DON’T recall giving you permission to speak, Lieutenant,” he reprimanded in a tone of voice insultingly condescending, “and you ARE at attention.”

Zachary immediately straightened his posture, and sucked in his stomach. His face, schooled now into an impassive mask, effectively concealed his ire at having been chastised by his captain just now in the same manner he would have an ignorant bumbling, cadet of limited intelligence.

“It has come to my attention, Lieutenant Hilliard, that the man you and Corporal Deveraux hired to kill the Cartwright girl, was himself found dead a few days ago,” John at length began, speaking in a deathly calm tone of voice. “Is this true?”

“Yes, Sir . . . . ” Zachary replied warily, as wave upon intensifying wave of nausea swept over him. He half feared he was going to lapse into a spasm of dry heaves at any moment.

“How did Private Edwards die, Lieutenant?”

“I, uhhh, what I, ummm, m-mean to say, Sir . . . . ”

John once again ceased his pacing, and glanced up sharply. For a moment, he stood, unmoving, staring balefully at Zachary, through eyes wide open to their full limit, with the unblinking, intense gaze of a cobra about to strike. “Lieutenant. Hilliard.” he said, his calm, mild tone of voice an unsettling contrast against the dreadful inferno raging within, barely contained in his face and rigid body, now beginning to tremble. “I asked you a simple question . . . I expect a simple, straight forward answer. Surely even YOU can manage that.”

Zachary closed his eyes and took a deep, ragged breath. “I don’t know . . . exactly . . . how Private Edwards died, Sir,” he replied, astonished at how calm and even his own voice sounded. “I left the matter entirely to Corporal Deveraux’s discretion.”

John began to pace again, this time moving in a half circle around the man standing at attention in the center of the room, with his eyes glued to Zachary’s face. His gait was slow and awkward. “You . . . left . . . the matter . . . ENTIRELY . . . to Corporal Deveraux’s discretion,” he echoed Zachary’s reply very slowly, enunciating every word, every syllable clearly and precisely.

“Y-Yes, Sir,” Zachary replied, flinching away from the malevolent, reptilian glare on his captain’s face.

“For your information, Sir . . . Private Edwards was executed, in the same manner executions are carried out upon the field of battle. Private JED Matthews learned of this when he last cleaned the sheriff’s office,” John confirmed Zachary’s suspicions in the same bland tone of voice most people might use in speaking of mundane things, like the weather. “I find it interesting . . . most interesting indeed . . . that a mere private was aware of this and YOU, my supposed right hand, were not.”

“Sir, I . . . I, uhhh--- ”

John McKenna silenced him with a curt gesture. “Am I correct in assuming that you ORDERED Corporal Deveraux to kill Private Edwards?”

“I HAD to, Sir! I had no other choice in the matter . . . none at all!” The words tumbled out of Zachary Hilliard’s mouth, one after the other, in a mad, panic stricken rush. “He . . . P-Private Edwards . . . Sir, he told me he was going to--- ”

John again ceased his pacing. “Lieutenant Hilliard, I asked you a question that requires but a SIMPLE reply of yes . . . or no,” he said, his voice dropping slightly in pitch and volume.

“Y-Yes, Sir,” Zachary replied.

“Why?”

“Private Edwards told me if I didn’t abort this mission AND pay him ten thousand dollars, he was going to the sheriff and confess everything, Sir.”

“Abort this mission? That’s very interesting,” John murmured softly, speaking more to himself than to the other man present, still standing at rigid attention. “Very interesting indeed!” He abruptly stopped his pacing and glanced up sharply. “Why?” he snapped.

“He told me th-that . . . while he had no qualms about killing m-men . . . he . . . h-he drew the line at . . . at women and children,” Zachary replied.

“ . . . and the greedy son-of-a-bitch had the gall to demand a payment of ten thousand dollars as well!” John grumbled, contemptuous yet awed, not only by the late private’s sheer audacity, but of the shrewdness and courage he had shown in seizing hold of opportunity when it presented itself.

John resumed his pacing before the fireplace, his bodily movements more fluid and even, his limp less pronounced. “At that juncture, you should have sent Private Edwards to me directly . . . OR, at the very least, apprised me of the situation. Why did you not?”

“Sir, I . . . I, ummm, thought--- ”

“You THOUGHT?!”

“Well, uhh . . . yes, Sir, I--- ”

“Lieutenant Hilliard, the Holy Scriptures state unequivocally that we are to obey those in authority over us in all matters WITHOUT question, do they not?”

“Y-Yes, Sir,” Zachary replied warily. Apart from the Ten Commandments and a handful of Bible stories told him by his mother and maternal grandmother as a child, he was wholly ignorant of what lay between the front and back covers of the Holy Scriptures to which his captain had just referred.

“Then you should know that your job is NOT to think,” John said in a lofty, condescending tone of voice. “THAT is MY job and MY job alone!” He paused to allow Zachary a moment to absorb and perhaps ponder on the import of his words. “YOUR job, Lieutenant Hilliard, is and always has been to obey my lawful orders without pause or question, and to keep me informed on all matters.”

“Y-Yes, Sir,” Zachary murmured, his voice filled with a mixture of guilty regret and abject fear. “I . . . I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Are you aware that Private Edwards’ body was found lying just off the road in a field half way between Virginia City and the Ponderosa . . . by Ben Cartwright, of all people, and one of his men?” John queried.

“I knew that his body was found in that meadow, Sir,” Zachary replied. A deathly calm began to steal over him. His racing heart began to slow, and his body, particularly his hands ceased their trembling. The nebulous cold in the pit of his stomach began to solidify and spread through out his entire being. “Though I had my suspicions that Ben Cartwright had found the body, I did not know for sure . . . until now.”

“ . . . and how, Sir, did you happen to come by THAT information?”

“I knew that the private had been murdered, and that someone had found his body lying in that meadow half way between here and the Ponderosa when the sheriff came to question Bill Taylor--- ”

“He . . . WHAT?!”

“The sheriff questioned Bill Taylor about Private Edwards’ murder, Sir,” Zachary replied, with the fatalistic aplomb of the utterly hopeless, coming to terms with whatever grim destiny The Fates might have in store. “Bill Taylor was in a poker game with Private Edwards a day or two before his demise.”

“Then he’s not a suspect?”

“No, Sir, I’m reasonably sure he’s not.”

“Thank Heaven for small mercies,” John remarked acerbically. “How did you come to SUSPECT that Ben Cartwright was the one who found the private’s body?”

“Certain facts in Sergeant Collier’s report--- ” Zachary replied,

“Sergeant Collier,” John murmured softly. His stride gradually lengthened, and his limp had all but disappeared. “It amazes me no end how Jed Matthews, a lowly private . . . and Jeff Collier, a non-commissioned officer are so knowledgeable, whilst my second in command is wholly ignorant of everything that’s going on around him.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Do you have anything ELSE to report, Lieutenant?”

Zachary opened his mouth with every intention of lying to the man, who, for so many years, had been confidant and friend, as well as his immediate superior officer. “He KNOWS,” every instinct within silently screamed, “Captain McKenna already knows.” If THAT were the case, then deliberately withholding information would make an already horrendous situation infinitely worse.

Zachary closed his eyes, and took a deep, ragged breath. He, then, launched into a full report of the correspondence that the local sheriff and the Cartwrights had almost certainly found among Private Edwards’ personal effects . . . correspondence that directly implicated himself and Corporal Deveraux, in a calm, detached tone of voice.

For a long time after, John McKenna said nothing. He remained where he stood, as if his legs and feet had suddenly taken root, his body rigid, his face flushed, staring over at the man he had so often in the past described as his right hand, through eyes Zachary half feared were going to explode right out of their sockets.

“Soooo-oooooo help me, Lieutenant . . . . ” the captain finally spoke, in a tight voice just above the decibel of the softest whisper. “So . . . HELP . . . me . . . if YOUR bumbling incompetence results in my having to ABORT this mission— ”

“No, Sir,” Zachary replied, his voice wholly devoid of all feelings and emotion. “We will NOT have to abort. On that you have my solemn word, as an officer and a gentleman.”

John abruptly turned and screamed for his eldest daughter to fetch in his riding crop. The girl entered less than a moment later, carrying the crop clutched in both hands, her face as white as the tattered nightgown she always wore. She warily approached her father, and keeping a respectful distance, held out the riding crop in the same manner a supplicant offers up a sacrifice to whatever god or gods he worships.

The captain snatched the crop from the frightened girl’s hands, and dismissed her with a curt nod of his head. She pivoted and fled noiselessly across the floor to the door that opened into this room, and quickly let herself out.

“Lieutenant . . . remove your shirt,” the captain ordered, in that terrible dead pan tone of voice, his entire body now trembling with a rage the like of which Zachary had never, ever seen before . . . .

. . . and, he hoped to God, would never, ever see again.

Wednesday morning dawned with clear skies and bright sunshine. High overhead, the branches of the of the tall, straight ponderosa pines surrounding the Cartwrights’ ranch house, swayed and danced to the rhythm of the gentle breezes, weaving their way amongst them. There was a damp chill in the morning air, consequence of the heavy rains over the last three days coupled with Old Man Winter’s last hurrah before making his final, inevitable surrender to the approaching warmth of spring.

Joe stood before the unshuttered dining room window, gazing out upon the magnificent vista of mountain, sky, and forest beyond. “Yep . . . . ” he murmured softly, his lips curving upward to form a contemplative smile. “No doubt about it . . . this is gonna be a great day for going fishing.”

“It sure is, Grandpa,” Stacy agreed wholeheartedly, as she took her place at the table. “I can’t wait.”

“Little Joe come away from window,” Hop Sing sternly admonished the youngest of Ben Cartwright’s sons. “Little Joe sit down, eat. Eat while food still hot.”

“Coming,” Joe replied with a wry roll of his eyes, grinning from ear-to-ear.

Hop Sing’s eyes moved around the table, from one face to the next, as he set two plates of steaming hot flapjacks down in front of Ben first, then Hoss. “Where Missy Paris?” he demanded.

“I’m right here, Hop Sing,” Paris replied as she made her way from the bottom step to the dining room table. This morning she wore her navy blue suit and a plain white linen blouse.

Hop Sing favored Paris with a broad grin, as she seated herself in the chair at the foot of the table. “Ah . . . good!” he declared with a satisfied nod of his head for emphasis. “Very, very good. Soon Missy Paris fit her clothes.”

“Hmpf! If I keep eating like this for too much longer, I’ll have to go on a diet to make sure I keep right on fitting into my clothes,” Paris retorted with a smile.

“Missy not need worry about that!” Hop Sing immediately returned. “Not now, not for long time yet.” With that, he abruptly turned heel and sauntered back toward the kitchen.

“Eric, I really appreciate you taking me to Mass this morning,” Paris McKenna said, as she turned and favored Hoss with a smile every bit as bright as the sunshine outside.

“I’m glad t’ do it,” Hoss said, returning her smile. Over the course of the past week, he had noticed that the hollows of her cheeks seemed not quite as deep as they had been the night she first arrived. Her face yet remained pale, but the underlying grayness was all but gone, and there was a pale pink glow upon her cheeks, forehead, chin, and the very tip of her nose. She was getting around very well now, without the aid of a cane or a gallant man with a handy arm, and there was a definite spring in her step. “Miss Paris?”

“Yes, Eric?”

“You’re lookin’ good, Ma’am . . . real good.”

“Why . . . thank you, Eric,” she murmured demurely.

“Missy not talk,” Hop Sing sternly admonished Paris, as he returned to the dining room, carefully balancing three more plates, generously stacked with flapjacks. “Missy eat now, while food hot,” he continued, as he set one of the plates before her.

“Oh, Hop Sing,” she groaned as she eyed the stack on her plate through eyes round with horror and dismay. “I’ll NEVER be able to eat all this . . . . ”

“Missy Paris eat,” Hop Sing snapped. “You, too,” he continued, turning his attention toward Ben. He placed the remaining two plates down in front of Joe and Stacy. “No talk, Mister Cartwright. Sooner you and Miss Stacy finish, sooner you leave, go catch a whole lotta big mess of trout. Need whole lotta big mess of trout to feed Mister Hoss.”

“That y’ will,” Hoss readily agreed, his smile broadening, “ ‘cause I’m gonna be hungry as a bear come suppertime.”

“Uh oh,” Joe murmured, favoring the biggest of his two older brothers with an apprehensive frown. “You all right, Hoss?”

“ ‘Course I am,” Hoss replied, bewildered and taken slightly aback by Joe’s question and the look on his face.

“Oh,” Joe exclaimed, exhaling a loud, melodramatic sigh of relief. “For a minute there, I thought you’d come down with something.”

The bewildered frown on Hoss’ face deepened. “Now why in the ever lovin’ world would y’ think that, Li’l Brother?”

Joe grinned. “When you said you were ONLY hungry as a bear just now . . . well . . . what ELSE was I supposed to think?!”

“Very funny, LI’L Joe,” Hoss growled, raising his voice slightly in order to be heard above his younger brother’s raucous laughter.

“Boys, settle down and finish eating,” Ben sternly admonished both of his sons. “Hoss, you need to be leaving sometime within the next twenty minutes or so, if you want to arrive early enough for Paris to make confession before Mass begins.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hoss murmured, as he turned his attention to the remaining food on his plate. “I’m almost finished.”

Ben downed the remaining coffee in his cup, then placed it, along with its saucer back down on the table. “You about finished, Young Woman?” he asked, turning his attention to his daughter.

“I’m ready to go whenever YOU are, Pa,” Stacy eagerly responded.

“Fishing poles out on front porch,” Hop Sing said, upon his return to the dining room, this time with a pot full of steaming hot coffee. “Picnic lunch in kitchen. Hop Sing go get, take outside.”

“Buck and Blaze Face are also saddled and ready to go,” Joe added. “You’ll find ‘em tethered to the post out front.”

“Thank you, Son . . . and thank YOU, Hop Sing,” Ben said gratefully, as he rose to his feet. “Stacy, you and I need to get a move on, if we’re going to catch a whole lotta big mess of trout in time for Hop Sing to cook ‘em up for our supper tonight.”

“Coming, Pa,” Stacy said. She leapt to her feet, and shoved her chair back under the table in the same fluid, graceful move.

“You two enjoy yourselves,” Joe called after his father and sister, as they strode briskly across the great room toward the front door.

“We will, Grandpa,” Stacy called back, as she fell in step behind their father.

As she sipped what remained of her coffee, Paris watched Ben and Stacy remove their hats and jackets from the coat rack. Ben donned his hat, then turned to retrieve his gun belt and revolver from the top of the credenza. Stacy, in the meantime, slipped on her blue denim jacket. That done, she gathered up Ben’s jacket and held it out to him.

“Here you are, Pa . . . . ” she said with a smile.

Ben secured his holster and gun to his right thigh, then reached out to take his jacket from his daughter’s outstretched arms. “Thank you, Young Woman,” he said returning her smile with an affectionate one of his own. He took the proffered jacket from her arms, then picked up her hat and deftly placed it on top of her head. “Don’t forget to button up . . . it’s a mite chilly out this morning, and I don’t want you coming down with a cold, or worse . . . . ”

“Oh, Pa . . . . ” she groaned, even as she obediently drew the ends of her jacket together, and began fastening the buttons.

Paris felt her heart lurch, then constrict within, as she observed the easy camaraderie . . . the light of happy anticipation in their eyes as they contemplated the day ahead.

“From the first moment I laid eyes on Stacy, I knew . . . deep down, I KNEW . . . SHE was the daughter I’d always wanted, but never had . . . . ”

Ben’s words . . . spoken the day following her arrival from Virginia City . . . echoed again through the inward depths of thought, mind, and memory.

“Fifteen,” she ruminated silently, as she turned her gaze to Stacy’s face, with those great, big blue eyes, bright as a summer sky, framed by a halo of long hair, dark brown, almost black . . . .

. . . a face so like her own in many ways, and yet so unlike . . . .

“Fifteen going on sixteen . . . . ” Paris murmured softly. “The same age . . . . ” The exact same age poor Rose Miranda would have been . . . .

Had she lived.

In the terrible moment that followed, a bitter hatred for the child-woman, now striding through the front door that her father gallantly held open, surged up from within her heart with all the sudden violence of a flash flood. Paris despised Stacy for being here . . . in this house . . . for being the daughter and sister Ben Cartwright and his sons respectively had always wanted, but never had . . . .

. . . usurping the place that, in her mind, rightfully belonged to another.

“Miss Paris?!”

A man’s voice, speaking softly, followed by a big, yet gentle hand coming to rest on her shoulder . . . . She started violently, nearly toppling right out of her chair. In the very same instant, a harsh, guttural cry rose up from her throat. For a moment, she remained in place, her eyes darting wildly about the room.

“M-Miss Paris . . . s-sorry I startled ya . . . . ” Hoss barely managed to stammer out his apology. The intensity of her reaction to the sound of his voice, and the touch of his hand, shocked him. “A-Are ya . . . are ya all right?!”

Paris took a deep ragged breath, then slowly lifted her head, and found Eric peering down at her, with an anxious frown. His face was white as a sheet, and the hand, still resting on her shoulder, trembled. “F-Fine, Eric,” she replied, her voice tremulous. “I . . . I’m fine.”

The scowl on Hoss’ face deepened. “You sure?” he queried, dubious and wary.

Paris nodded, as she reached up and covered his hand with her own. “I’m fine now, Eric. Honest.” She gave his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“I’m really sorry I startled ya so,” Hoss apologized again.

“My fault, Eric,” Paris said, placing both hands on the table before her. She, then, rose to her feet slowly, leaning heavily on the dining room table for support. “I . . . seem to have fallen into this awful habit of woolgathering at odd times . . . . ” The intense hatred she had felt for Stacy mere seconds before was gone, evaporated into nothingness, as if it had never been. “Dear God!” she silently, fervently prayed. “Am I . . . h-have I . . . g-gone completely insane?!”

“ . . . uhhh, Ma’am?”

“Y-Yes, Joe?” Paris responded warily.

“I have no idea in the world what you were thinking about just now,” Joe quietly observed, “but whatever it was . . . well, judging from the look on your face, it sure must’ve been something.”

His words left her feeling as if her clothing had just been ripped from her body, exposing all of her scars, warts, and other imperfections, not only the physical ones, but those of soul and spirit, as well. She felt as if very fault, every sin she had ever committed, and worse of all, her deepest, and most shameful secrets had been laid bare to the prying eyes of the world all around her.

“N-Nothing,” Paris stammered. “I . . . it’s nothing. In . . . in f-fact, I d-don’t even remember what I WAS thinking about.”

“Miss Paris, you sure feel up t’ attendin’ church this mornin’?” Hoss asked.

“Yes. Of course I’m sure,” Paris immediately replied. “That . . . and the ride into town and back in all that nice fresh air . . . it’ll do me a world of good.”

“Mitch and Bobby should have that buggy hitched and ready to go, Hoss,” Joe said, as he stabbed the last of what remained of the generous stack of flapjacks Hop Sing had served up for breakfast.

“Thanks, Joe,” Hoss said, as he turned, and gallantly offered his arm to Paris.

“Father Rutherford?”

Father Brendan Rutherford quickly slipped on his long, black cassock, then turned, upon hearing his name. Paul Bartholomew, the young deacon who would be assisting him at the altar for mid-week Mass this morning, stood in the open door to the church sacristy.

“Hoss Cartwright’s out in the sanctuary,” Paul continued. “There’s a woman with him, who wants to make confession before Mass.”

Father Brendan smiled. Aged in his late sixties, his full, ruddy face and circlet of tonsured red hair, easily took twenty years away from his appearance. He was a big man, standing well over six feet tall, with broad, muscular shoulders and barreled chest. Though some of his musculature sagged here and there under the combined pull of age and gravity, he still presented a picture of a man physically fit.

He had met Ben and Marie Cartwright a couple of months after the birth of their son, Joseph Francis. She had been born and raised within the Roman Catholic Church, and upon the birth of her son, sought to return after an absence of more than a decade. Though not Roman Catholic himself, Ben supported his wife’s decision to return to the religion of her childhood and to raise their son in accord with that faith. Marie and young Joseph attended Mass regularly, until her tragic, untimely death, when the boy was barely five years old. Father Brendan and the members of the Cartwright family remained fast friends, even though Ben had opted to raise Joe according to his own faith and beliefs.

“Paul . . . . ”

“Yes, Father?”

“Please tell Hoss that I’ll be with him and his guest directly,” he said as he finished the task of buttoning his cassock.

Paul nodded, then turned to leave the sacristy.

“ . . . and tell him I would be glad to hear his guest’s confession,” the priest called after the young deacon.

“I will, Father.”

A few moments later, upon completing his ritual of robing, Father Brendan strode briskly into the sanctuary, where he found Hoss and a woman, clad in an ill-fitting navy blue suit, sitting in the front pew.

“Good morning, Hoss,” Father Brendan greeted the Ben Cartwright’s middle boy with a warm smile and extended hand. “Good to see you. It’s been awhile . . . . ”

“Yes, Sir . . . it has,” Hoss said, remembering that the last time he had seen Father Brendan was at the family’s annual Christmas party last December. Smiling, he rose to his feet, and took the priest’s hand. “The Ponderosa’s kept the lot of us pretty busy this year . . . . ”

“ . . . and I’VE been very busy myself, despite the fact that I’m supposed to be retired,” Father Brendan said ruefully, as they shook hands.

“Father Brendan, you remember Miss Paris . . . . ”

“I do, indeed,” Father Brendan said, as he turned and smiled warmly at Paris. “Miss McKenna, it’s wonderful seeing you again. Very remiss of Ben not to tell me you were coming for a visit . . . . ”

“I’m afraid Ben didn’t know I would be coming for a visit, either,” Paris quietly explained. “I was on my way out to San Francisco when I suddenly took ill. Ben, bless his heart, graciously invited me to stay with him and his family at the Ponderosa until I regain my health.”

“I’m sorry to hear you’ve been ill,” Father Brendan said, as he seated himself on the pew, on the other side of Paris. He smiled. “Though with Ben, Hoss, Joe, Stacy, and Hop Sing looking after you . . . I’m sure you’ll soon be fully recovered.”

“Yes . . . they’ve been spoiling me rotten, serving me breakfast in bed . . . waiting on me hand and foot . . . and with Hop Sing practically force feeding me every minute of the day, I’m going to turn into a round little butterball before long,” Paris said, returning his smile.

“As I recall, you were one of the rare few who could eat anything and everything without putting on an ounce,” Father Brendan wryly remarked.

“The metabolism slows as one gets older, Father,” Paris said ruefully, then sighed. “I’m afraid the days when I could eat anything and everything without gaining an ounce are long gone.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re doing better, Miss McKenna,” the priest said. “Mister Bartholomew told me that you wish to make confession before Mass?”

“Yes, Father . . . if it’s not an imposition,” Paris replied.

“No imposition at all,” Father Brendan said, as he slowly rose to his feet. “I would be more than happy to hear your confession. Hoss, if you would excuse us?”

“Sure thing,” Hoss agreed . . . .

With trembling hand, Paris McKenna crossed herself, then took a deep ragged breath. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned greatly,” she murmured softly, “and it has been many years since my last confession.”

“May the Lord be in your heart and upon your lips, that you may worthily confess all your sins,” Father Brendan gave response in a kindly tone of voice. “In the name of the Father . . . and of the Son . . . and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen,” Paris murmured softly, her voice barely audible. “I . . . I confess to God Almighty . . . to all the Saints . . . and to you, Father . . . that I have sinned much in thought, word, deed, and omission by my own great fault. Since my last confession . . . which was . . . was . . . . ” She swallowed nervously. “Father, it has been so long since I last confessed and received absolution, I . . . I can no longer remember time and place.”

“My Child, God knows your heart,” Father Brendan said gently. “Speak now of the things that burden you the most.”

Paris nodded. “Since the time I last made confession and . . . and received absolution, Father, I . . . I have committed these sins . . . . ”

For a time, Father Brendan Rutherford sat mulling over Paris McKenna’s disturbing confession in silence. “Miss McKenna . . . . ” he ventured hesitantly, “if I may be so bold . . . what . . . exactly . . . ARE your intentions concerning Ben Cartwright?”

“Are you asking me if I . . . if I intend to . . . to m-marry him?”

“Do you?”

“No. I don’t know . . . . ” Paris replied, miserable and uncertain. “I hadn’t even thought— ”

“Are you in love with him?”

“I never STOPPED loving him, Father. I didn’t know that myself until . . . until recently . . . . ”

“Is Ben in love with you?”

“He hasn’t said so . . . not in so many words, but I . . . I think it’s a very real possibility.”

“You have to tell him, Miss McKenna.”

“About?” she queried, dreading that she already knew what his answer was going to be.

“Rose Miranda,” Father Brendan replied in a very quiet, very firm tone of voice. “You must tell Ben about Rose Miranda.”

“No,” Paris immediately protested. “No, Father, I can’t. I CAN’T tell Ben about Rose Miranda . . . not now . . . not ever. He would despise me.”

“He would despise you less if he heard about Rose Miranda from YOU.”

“Ben couldn’t possibly hear about Rose Miranda from anyone else,” Paris argued. “My parents . . . my sisters, and my brother . . . they were the only ones who knew about Rose Miranda, and . . . they’re dead. All of them.”

“You told me before that you weren’t sure whether your brother is alive or dead,” Father Brendan reminded her.

“Father, I already told you . . . I’ve not seen or heard from John since we last met in Saint Jo,” Paris said with a touch of asperity.

“You CAN’T rule out the possibility that your brother survived the injury you inflicted upon him when you met in Saint Jo,” Father Brendan pointed out.

“All right, Father . . . all right! It’s possible John IS still alive. I can’t deny it,” Paris reluctantly admitted. “But he has no more way of reaching ME, than I do of reaching him.”

“Did he have a way of reaching you when he turned up in Saint Jo?” Father Brendan asked.

“Of course not,” Paris replied. “His showing up in Saint Jo the way he did was pure and simple happenstance. I told you that.”

“What makes you so sure pure and simple happenstance can’t happen again?” Father Brendan asked.

“ . . . and what makes YOU so damned sure it WILL?” Paris demanded, taking no pains to conceal her swift rising ire and frustration.

“I DON’T know that it will happen, Miss McKenna,” the priest replied. “That being said, I have to admit that the odds are probably in your favor that your brother will never come here, that you’ll never see or hear from him again. If you and Ben decide to marry, you’ll both, like as not, spend many years together without him ever finding out about Rose Miranda from John.”

“But?” Paris prompted, her eyes narrowing.

“Ah, yes . . . the caveat,” Father Brendan said softly. “First, over the many years I’ve served Mother Church as a priest, it has been MY experience that somehow, one way or another, the truth will out, odds, chances, and statistics be damned . . . usually from a source wholly unexpected. Second, even if the truth never emerges, YOU will know about Rose Miranda, Miss McKenna . . . and BECAUSE you know, her ghost will always stand between you and Ben.”

“It doesn’t HAVE to be that way . . . . ” Paris argued.

“You’re absolutely right,” Father Brendan agreed, “it DOESN’T have to be that way . . . and I dare say that if you were a hardened woman, without love or conscience, it WOULDN’T be that way. You’d marry Ben and maybe even live happily ever after, without sparing Rose Miranda so much as a single thought.”

“Are you saying that I AM such a woman?”

“No, I’m saying quite the opposite, Miss McKenna,” the priest replied. “You are NOT a hardened woman, a miracle in and of itself, perhaps, given the hard life you’ve lead. You’re also a woman of conscience, or else you wouldn’t be so troubled about the kind of relationships you had with your parents and your sisters, nor would you have told your confessor about Rose Miranda. Last, and perhaps most important, only a woman with love in her heart would remain in love with a man she had left more than fifteen years ago . . . and still be grieving the tragic death of the— ”

“Father,” Paris wearily cut him off, “are you going to give me absolution or not?”

Father Brendan shook his head. “I can not,” he said quietly, his voice filled with sadness and deep regret, “not until you tell Ben about Rose Miranda.”

“I see,” she said stiffly, in a voice stone cold. “Is THAT to be my penance?”

“No,” Father Brendan replied. “That is to be the ENDING of the penance to which you’ve sentenced yourself ever since the night you left the Ponderosa . . . what? Fifteen? Sixteen years ago?”

“Almost SEVENteen years ago now,” Paris said bitterly. “Father?”

“Yes, Miss McKenna?”

“Is there . . . is there no OTHER way in which you might give me absolution?” she begged.

Father Brendan sadly shook his head.

“Even though . . . even though, according to YOU, I’ve BEEN doing penance for the better part of the past seventeen years?!”

“Miss McKenna, absolution requires more than simply acknowledging our sins through confession and doing penance,” Father Brendan said gently. “Yes, those acts ARE important steps toward receiving absolution, but the MOST important step, in my humble opinion, is coming to the place of freeing oneself of the burden of guilt that comes as a consequence of having committed the sin.”

“ . . . and the only way for me to find absolution . . . to free myself of the burden of guilt I’ve supposedly carried around for the last seventeen years and end my penance is to . . . to . . . shift that burden of pain . . . of grief . . . and guilt from MY shoulders onto Ben Cartwright’s?!” Paris demanded, thoroughly outraged. “No, Father. I can’t . . . I WON’T do that. I’M the one, for worse rather than better, who made the decisions . . . therefore, I’M the one who should suffer the consequences and bear the burdens.”

“Ben has a right to know.”

“I’m not denying that,” Paris said, “but, all the same, he’s better off NOT knowing. If that means I go to hell because I can’t ever get absolution, then so be it. Better . . . FAR better all the way around that I spend eternity in hell than Ben spend the rest of his life in hell over decisions in which he was given no part . . . and that not even he can change now. I . . . regret having taken up so much of your time, only to . . . to have wasted it.”

“Miss McKenna, I— ”

The words lying at the very tip of Father Brendan’s tongue died without utterance, as Paris McKenna, with back ramrod straight, her head held high, strode briskly out of the room, without sparing so much as a backward glance.

End of Part 4

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